Aces (43 page)

Gold was worried for Campbell; it looked as if the government was going to force Campbell’s exile from his beloved Skyworld.
It turned out that Gold needn’t have been concerned about his old friend, who was a master of manipulating technicalities.
Campbell merely resigned his position as president, put Hull Stiles in charge, and stayed on, taking no salary, as chairman
emeritus. Campbell was already a very rich man, so the lack of a salary did not hurt him. Technically, he was no longer employed
by the airline, he was merely an “investor”; nevertheless, no decision concerning Skyworld was made without the prior approval
of the “retired president.”

Gold and Campbell had become better friends now that they no longer had to argue about business. They got together once a
month or so, for cocktails and dinner. They’d talk about recent happenings in the aviation industry, and reminisce about their
old times. The one thing they never talked about was what Campbell’s reaction had been when he’d found out how Gold had unloaded
his Skyworld stock on the sly. That entire episode seemed to be closed, and Gold was content to leave well enough alone.

In 1936 the firm of Rogers and Simpson perfected a more powerful radial engine, which GAT utilized to make possible the Monarch
GC-3, a deluxe, larger version of the GC-2. The “3” could sleep fourteen or seat twenty-one, in addition to a three-man crew.
It was faster, sturdier, more comfortable than its predecessor, and even easier to fly. It came equipped with the latest radio
aids, an autopilot, and a hydraulic system for raising and lowering the landing gear. Its large seating capacity meant that
for the first time an airline could run profitably just hauling passengers and not worry about supplementing income with cargo
shipments. The GC-3 sold for one hundred thousand dollars, and Gold couldn’t build them fast enough. The influx of orders
enabled Gold to complete phase-two construction at the Burbank complex, effectively doubling his production output. Gold also
established a training school to which the airlines could send their mechanics tuition-free in order to learn how to maintain
the Monarch GC series. Pretty soon, the GC was the only airplane that most airline mechanics knew how to fix, and that suited
GAT just fine.

When virtually every airline in America was either flying or waiting delivery of his airplane, and the United States Army
and Navy had put in their orders for modified cargo carrier versions, Gold decided it was time to widen GAT’s territory. That
was when he and Erica made their grand tour of Europe, mixing business with pleasure as Gold sold the GC-3 to foreign airlines.

“I’m ready, Pop,” Steven said, poking his head through the doorway of the bedroom.

“I’ll be right out,” Gold called, as his son disappeared back into the parlor. He patted the pockets of his silk tweed sports
jacket to make sure he had everything he needed. He grabbed his white linen fedora and went out into the sitting room. Steven
was out on the terrace, leaning over the balcony, his silky blond hair lifting in the breeze. Gold’s son was wearing chino
slacks and an open-necked white shirt like his own, and a dark-blue, summer-weight wool blazer with gold buttons. As Steven
came back inside, Gold noticed that the blazer looked tight across his son’s shoulders, and short in the sleeves. The blazer
was only a few months old, but Steven, who was already big for his age, was growing like a weed.

They went downstairs, and had breakfast in the hotel dining room. Steven chattered madly throughout the meal, excited about
the races. Gold shared his enthusiasm. The Moden Seaplane Trophy International Competition, like the Schneider Race, was a
series of closed-circuit elimination races over water, restricted to flying boats or airplanes equipped with pontoons. The
competition was open to any government organization or private individual. There were more than two dozen airplanes entered,
but by the time the final race took place, a few days from now, weather permitting, the field would have been narrowed to
the top five airplanes. The races would be taking place off the Lido’s wide, flat, seaside bathing beach. It was going to
be lovely in the family’s private viewing box, high atop the official grandstand, enjoying the sun and the ocean breeze, looking
down at the lollypop-colored beach umbrellas and sipping lemonade as the sleek race planes went buzzing like gaudy bees around
and around the pylons erected offshore…

Gold and his son left the restaurant, and were cutting through the hotel’s ornate lobby, a baroque fantasy of pink marble,
silk-flocked walls, and stained glass, when they were intercepted by a bellhop who led them over to the concierge’s desk.

The concierge handed Gold a sealed envelope. Gold tore it open, then checked his pockets for his reading glasses. He realized
that he’d left them upstairs. Hell, he always forgot something. By squinting, and holding the note at arm’s length, he managed
to read it. He was surprised to see that it was in German.

“I don’t believe it!” Gold exclaimed. “It’s from Heiner Froehlig, of all people!”

“Who’s that?” Steven asked.

“A friend… At least, he was, once.” Gold shrugged. “I told you about him… Froehlig was my chief mechanic back during the war.
Remember? I told you how he and I used to work together on my Fokker tri-plane?”

“Oh yeah,” Steven said.

Gold smiled, lost in memories. “God, Heiner and I were the best of friends in those days…”

“You never told me what happened between you,” Steven said. “Why aren’t you friends now?”

“Well, the fact that I’m a Jew complicated things…”

“Why?”

Gold smiled. “I’m glad you don’t know. I’ll tell you about it, someday.”

Steven nodded. “Pop, we’ve got to get to the races!”

Gold hesitated. “I haven’t seen this man in almost twenty years. Now he’s here in Venice, and wants to see me.”

“You mean right now?”

Gold nodded. “He’s invited me for coffee at a cafe in Saint Mark’s Square.”

“And I guess you want to see him?”

“I’m very curious about all this, Steven.”

“What about the races?” his son asked, looking crestfallen.

“Saint Mark’s Square is right on the way to where we catch the motor launch to the Lido,” Gold promised. “Don’t worry, I’ll
just have a quick cup of coffee. We won’t be delayed long.”

They left the hotel, walking up to the Calle Larga 22 Marzo, where they turned left. They passed the midmorning shoppers frequenting
the stalls as they walked toward the Piazza di San Marco.

Thankfully, Venice seemed relatively untouched by the political turmoil in Rome, and in the rest of Europe. During Gold’s
first visit, back in ‘36, Mussolini had just been embarking on his Ethiopian campaign, and loudly pledging to keep Austria
independent. The Italian dictator’s successes in Africa, coupled with his defiance of Hitler’s intended
Anschluss
—the union of Germany with Austria—had made Mussolini a hero among his people. The cafes of Venice had rung with laughter
and joyous talk about how Rome would once again take its place as a great power.

Since then the future had darkened, beginning when the Italians and Germans had joined together to aid Franco’s revolution
in Spain. The Spanish Civil War had begun to wind down, but in March of this year, Hitler, despite his assurances to the Italians,
had sent his troops into Austria. The Germans had advanced as far as the Brenner Pass, the Alpine gateway to Italy. Mussolini
had been humiliated in the eyes of the world by Hitler’s action, but if the Italian dictator had been upset by Hitler’s breach
of faith, he was doing a good job of hiding it. Gold had followed with regret and anger Germany’s persecution of its Jews.
Now, Mussolini, emulating Hitler, had begun issuing anti-Semitic proclamations.

The powder-keg international situation, along with the Italian government’s officially sanctioned hostility toward Jews, had
originally made Gold reluctantly decide to not come to the races, but then a number of factors led him to change his mind.
He did adore Venice, and now that his two kids were old enough to travel abroad, Gold wanted them to experience the city’s
magic. There were also sound business reasons to make the visit. While GAT did not have an official entry in the races, Gold’s
company did have an interest in the competition’s outcome. GAT had lent its technical expertise, and substantial financial
sponsorship, to the race team fielded by an English firm, the Stoat-Black Aircraft Company. Gold had met the executives of
Stoat-Black in 1936, while trying to sell the British on the GC-3, with little initial success. The British Airline executives,
to their discomfort but out of national pride, were wedded to their home-built, lumbering, De Havilland and Handley Page airliners,
despite the fact that they were far slower and more expensive to operate than GAT’s GC series. The British had
wanted
to buy, they just didn’t know how to climb down off of their jingoistic high horse in order to do so. Gold solved the problem
by subcontracting to Stoat-Black the assembly of his airliners destined for England and the Continent. The solution worked
out well for everyone: Gold was able to make a profitable sale, and take some of the pressure off of his overtaxed Burbank
facility; the English were able to keep a stiff upper lip, and still buy the airplanes they wanted. Since then, GAT and Stoat-Black
had worked together on a seaplane project for the RAF’s Coastal Command, in addition to the prototype fighter/race plane entered
in the Moden Competition.

The people at Stoat-Black wanted Gold to come to Venice for the Moden races in order for him to witness the performance of
their joint venture. Since Stoat-Black was also currently representing GAT in talks with the RAF concerning a large purchase
of modified G-3 military cargo transports, and since the negotiations were at a critical stage, Gold wanted to oblige his
British counterparts. He’d talked it over with their European sales representatives, who’d assured Gold that Italy was safe,
but it was only when Gold received an invitation from the Italian government, inviting him and his family to Venice for the
races as official guests of honor, that he’d felt secure with the notion of bringing over his family.

Gold and his son entered Saint Mark’s Square, passing between the Campanile and the Clock Tower crowned with its winged lion.
The sun-drenched Piazza was crowded. Almost every outdoor table was occupied at the cafes ringing the square. Gold and his
son headed for the Cafe Quadri, where Froehlig had written that he would be waiting.

Gold scanned the Quadri’s rows of al fresco tables, wondering if he would recognize Froehlig after so many years. As he searched
he noticed a couple of Mussolini’s Fascist militiamen strutting in the direction of the magnificent, golden domes of the Basilica.
The dour Fascists, self-important in their modernistic uniforms complete with berets and neckerchiefs, looked very out of
place amidst the flamboyant, Old World, stage-set scenery of the Piazza: the flocks of pigeons and passersby; the amiable
citizenry at the cafes, reading their newspapers or chatting as they sipped their expresso; and the
carabinieri
, wearing their goofy cocked hats and gleaming swords, leisurely strolling on police patrol.

Gold watched as the uniformed Fascists crossed the path of an old woman dressed in black, lugging a pair of string-net shopping
bags loaded with groceries. The old woman carefully studied the marble pavement as the soldiers passed, but then turned, to
scowl at their backs.

When Gold finally spotted Froehlig, at a table toward the back of the crowded Quadri’s patio, he recognized him instantly.
Gold would have known Froehlig’s bottle-brush moustache anywhere, even if it had gone salt-and-pepper gray. Froehlig saw him,
and stood up and waved. Gold guided his son toward Froehlig’s table.

Froehlig was a little over sixty now, Gold guessed. He was wearing a monocle, and dressed in a dark blue, linen suit. Froehlig
had a black derby beside him on the table, which he should have been wearing. The morning sun had already painted a blush
of sunburn onto his scalp. Gold was surprised to see that Froehlig was now totally bald. As Gold got closer to Froehlig he
realized that the German had taken to shaving clean in the Prussian manner what little hair he had left.

“
Hermann! Wie geht est Ihnen?
” Froehlig smiled, letting his monocle drop from his eye. It swung, suspended by a black ribbon, across his broad chest. “Thank
you for coming!” he continued in German.

“
Gleichfalls
,” Gold said. He shook hands with Froehlig, and then proudly put his arm around Steven’s shoulder. “
Darf ich Ihnen mien Sohn vorstellen?
”

“This young man belongs to you?” Froehlig exclaimed in German. “Such fine blond hair! A splendid lad! How old is he?”

“Fourteen,” Gold said, continuing in his native tongue. “But he’s big for his age, yes?”

“Ach! I would say.” Froehlig laughed. “He seems scarcely younger than were you when first we met!” He extended his hand to
Steven. “How are you, young Herr Gold?” he asked in German.

Steven shook hands with Froehlig, but stared blankly in response to the question.

“He doesn’t speak German, Heiner,” Gold explained, and thought he caught a spark of something—amused contempt? —in Froehlig’s
eyes.

“Well, time enough to teach him the language of his Fatherland.” Froehlig laughed.

Gold smiled uneasily. He himself was feeling oddly uncomfortable speaking German with Froehlig.

“So tell me, young man,” Froehlig addressed Steven in English. “Are you going to be an aviator, like your father?”

“I can already fly a single-engine,” Steven boasted. “When I’m older I’m going to be Pop’s chief test pilot.”

Gold laughed, patting his son’s shoulder.

Steven was pointing at a gelatiere pushing his cart through the square. “Pop, there’s an ice cream man over there. Can I go
get one?”

“Sure,” Gold said. He gave his son some money. “Then take a look around the square. Just don’t wander too far.”