Aces (44 page)

“
Bitte, sitzen Sie
!” Froehlig said, taking his seat. “We will have a coffee, and a fine chat, yes?”

“
Sehr gut, danke schön
,” Gold said, lapsing back into German as his son ran off. Gold pulled out the spindly, wrought-iron chair opposite Froehlig’s
at the round, marble-topped table, and sat down.

“Hermann, how have you stayed so young when I have gotten so old?” Froehlig sighed.

“You have a poor memory, Heiner. I’m older, fatter, and balder, but you
really
don’t look so different.”

“
Danke, gut. Ich bin einverstanden.”
Froehlig laughed. “Yes, I do agree that I haven’t changed, but then, I was already bald and old when you knew me…” A waiter
came by. “
Gefällt Ihnen
espresso?” Froehlig asked Gold. When he nodded, Froehlig ordered espresso for both of them. “I hope you don’t mind that I
chose the Quadri, as opposed to the Cafe Florian, across the way,” Froehlig said. “You see, back in the mid-1800s when Austria
occupied Venice, this was the cafe that the Austrian officers frequented. I thought it would be an appropriate rendezvous
for us, seeing as how our führer has at long last reunited Austria and Germany.”

“Your führer, maybe, but not mine,” Gold said, but Froehlig seemed to wave his objection aside. “What are you doing in Venice,
Heiner?” Gold asked in order to change the subject. “And how did you know that I was here?”

“I am here for the same reason as you,” Froehlig explained. “To enjoy the fruits of my labor. Germany has several entries
in the Moden races, you know, and I am Air Minister Goering’s deputy in charge of aviation research and development.”

Gold nodded. “I’d read in the papers that you were a high-up in the Nazi party.”

The waiter served them their espresso. Gold rubbed a curl of lemon peel around the rim of his cup and took a sip of the black,
bitter brew. “So you and our old Oberleutnant from Richthofen’s Jadgeschwader are now working together… You’d better not let
Goering know you’re having a coffee with me. He probably still holds a grudge concerning that little tussle we had…”

“Not in the least, Hermann,” Froehlig said. “As a matter of fact, the Herr Reich Marshal specifically asked me to look you
up.”

“Really?” Gold asked, surprised. “Why?”

Froehlig leaned back in his chair. “We at the Air Ministry have been following the career of our native son Hermann Goldstein
for quite some time. We commend you on the development of the GC series, and we are especially impressed by the GAT/Stoat-Black
Sea Dragon. We think the Sea Dragon will be quite an asset to RAF Coastal Command.”

“Yes… I suppose it will,” Gold said evasively. He looked around, then remembered that they were speaking German, and, as such,
unlikely to be eavesdropped upon by the surrounding tables. Gold didn’t like the idea of talking to Froehlig about the GAT-SB
Sea Dragon, a combination long-range flying boat/rescue craft and torpedo bomber U-boat killer. The Sea Dragon was huge: she
had four engines and carried a crew of thirteen. Her extra-capacity fuel tanks made it possible for her to patrol for hundreds
of miles while armed to the teeth with turret machine guns and a ton of bombs. If need be, even fully loaded with weapons,
she could land in almost any sea, to airlift up to eighty people.

“I see it upsets you to talk about the Sea Dragon,” Froehlig said approvingly. “That is good. We respect a man who knows how
to get things done while keeping his business to himself.” He paused. “Not only do we respect that sort of man, we would also
welcome him in our great endeavor…”

Gold stared. “What are you talking about, Heiner?”

Froehlig took a vellum envelope embossed with a red wax seal from the breast pocket of his suitcoat. “Inside is a handwritten
note from the Herr Reich Marshal himself.” Froehlig reverently handed the envelope to Gold. “It is Goering’s heartfelt invitation
to you and your family to come home to Germany.”

“I don’t believe this conversation,” Gold said, setting aside the envelope without opening it.

“You would enjoy the rank of general in the Reichsluftwaffe,” Froehlig persisted. “It is a secret air force as of now, but
soon, the world will know that name.”

“You want me as a military commander?” Gold asked, perplexed.

“Oh, no, Hermann.” Froehlig laughed. “You are much too valuable a talent to risk in combat. You would do exactly what you
do now, use your genius to design and oversee the production of aircraft, but in German factories. You would report directly
to Goering at the Air Ministry.”

“This is all very flattering, but quite impossible—” Gold began.

“But why?” Froehlig asked. “Don’t you miss the Fatherland, Hermann? Can you deny that the Fatherland is your home, that Germany
is in your blood? Think about your children’s futures. I know that you have a daughter as well as a son. How old is she?”

“Suzy is seventeen.”

“Ach, a young woman!” Froehlig smiled. “Surely now is the time for her to begin socializing with fine young German boys, not
the riffraff you have loitering on every streetcorner in America! And both of your children would benefit from an unparalleled
education in Germany’s finest schools,” Froehlig added. “And what about your wife? She is from fine Aryan stock. You must
be very proud! Your wife would thrive in the Fatherland, Hermann. Germany has cultivated and encouraged the careers of the
finest female pilots. Your wife could be one of them, flying into the annals of history alongside Thea Rasche and Hannah Reitsch.”

Gold laughed. “Heiner, you’re forgetting something. I’m a Jew.”

Froehlig shrugged. “These things can be managed, Hermann. Consider the case of Erhard Milch. He was an executive at Junkers
before becoming a director at Luft Hansa, the predominant German commercial airline. Now he holds the military rank of general
and the title of state-secretary in the Air Ministry, conferred upon him for the work he has done in airplane production for
the Fatherland. And shall I tell you something else?” Froehlig chuckled, a gleam in his eye. “Milch is also a Jew…”

“A Jew holding the rank of general?” Gold asked in disbelief. “How can Hitler reconcile that in view of his well-known anti-Semitic
stance?”

“As I said, Hermann, these things can be arranged,” Froehlig said. “In Milch’s case, it was his father who was Jewish. When
Milch’s value to the Reich became evident, certain new evidence was suddenly found, revealing that Milch’s mother had long
ago had an illicit affair with an Aryan. It turned out that this man was actually Milch’s father, not the Jew…”

“I see,” Gold said wryly. “And in my case new papers could also be found to miraculously cleanse me of the stain of my Jewish
blood, is that it? I, too, could be an honorary Aryan?”

Froehlig shrugged philosophically. “You are an orphan, Hermann. In your case the transformation could take place even more
easily. For instance, could there not have been a mistake made in your paperwork at the orphanage? Perhaps your unfortunate
designation as a Jew was the result of some hideous clerical error?”

Gold shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks, Heiner.”

“There
is
something else,” Froehlig said. He reached into his side pocket and came out with a small, rectangular, black leather box.

Gold stared as Froehlig opened the leather case and set it on the table. Nestled in crimson velvet was a blue and gold Maltese
Cross strung on a black ribbon.

“The Blue Max,” Gold breathed, unable to take his eyes off the lovely thing.

“The
Pour le Mérite;
Germany’s highest military aviation award during the First World War,” Froehlig quietly agreed. “This one is yours.”

Gold glanced up at Froehlig. “What are you saying?”

“Take your medal, Hermann. Hang it around your neck right now. See how it feels to at long last wear the Blue Max. You earned
it years ago, Hermann, but it was unjustly kept from you on account of that foolish clerical error back at the orphange. Goering
recognizes the error now; the führer recognizes it as well. The error will be set right. The German people—your people—are
eager to welcome you with open arms. Come home and be the hero you were destined to be.”

Gold’s fingers were itching to touch the medal as Steven returned to the table. His son glanced at the Blue Max. “What’s that,
Pop?”

“A medal,” Froehlig said in English. “A medal for your father. It is the highest commendation from his homeland. The medal
has belonged to him for all these years.”

“That’s my dad,” Steven said proudly. “Did you know he shook President Roosevelt’s hand?”

Gold looked at his son, and smiled. He turned to Froehlig and shook his head. “You can tell Goering that the recognition has
come far too late. I’m an American now.”

“
Ich verstehe
,” Froehlig said stiffly. He snapped shut the lid on the Blue Max and put the box back into his pocket.

“Pop, can we go to the races, now?”

“Right now.” Gold nodded.

“You’re making the wrong choice,” Froehlig warned in German. “One that you will live to regret.”

“Thank you for the coffee, Heiner,” Gold said in English, standing up.

“At least take the letter from Goering,” Froehlig said.

Gold shook his head. “There’s no point.”

“Hermann, for old times’ sake,” Froehlig implored. “Consider it a favor for your old comrade-in-arms. Take the letter. Read
it at your leisure. If you should change your mind concerning our offer I can be reached, worldwide, through our embassies.”

Gold hesitated. “For old times’ sake, then.” He slipped the envelope into his coat pocket. “Perhaps I’ll see you on the Lido.”

“Perhaps, Hermann,” Froehlig nodded. “
Auf Weidersehen
.”

They left the cafe and hurried past the Doge’s Palace, anxious to catch the next vaporetto leaving the landing stage on the
Riva degli Schiavoni for the fifteen-minute ride across the lagoon to the Lido. The motor launch was crowded with other latecomers
to the races, but Gold and his son managed to find seats in the stern, near the engines. Once they were out on open water,
with the wind in their faces carrying away the stink of the clattering diesels, Gold took the sealed envelope out of his pocket
to stare at it.

“What’s that, Pop?” Steven asked.

“That’s a good question,” Gold muttered, more to himself than his son, his words lost in the diesels’ rattle. There was a
lump in his throat. Gold’s eyes felt wet, and not from the salty breeze. Home was home, and they wanted him back, and his
feelings about it were all mixed up, as murky and roiled as the windswept lagoon.

“Pop? You okay?”

Gold put his arm around Steven’s shoulders and hugged him close. “I’m fine,” he said loudly. “And this—” he held the envelope
so that it fluttered in his hand in the breeze, “—is nothing worth talking about. It’s trash. Just trash is what it is.”

Gold scrunched up his face, as if the envelope smelled bad. As Steven laughed, Gold opened his hand. The wind snatched away
the envelope, wafting it aloft.

“Whatever it was hit the water and sank!” Steven exclaimed.

Gold nodded, but he never looked back.

Erica was in the family’s private viewing box, high atop the grandstand, when Herman and Steven finally arrived.

“Where have you two been?” Erica scolded. “You’ve missed the best part of the race—”

“You hear that, Pop?” Steven complained. “Mom, can I go down to the beach to watch?”

“Yes, but be back here at one o’clock.”

“Look at that kid move,” Herman sighed, watching Steven dash down the stairs. “Coming up, he wasn’t even breathing hard. I
used to be able to take stairs like that.”

Erica didn’t reply, but she
had
noticed that her husband was huffing and puffing. Granted that it was a steep climb up to the grandstand’s top tier, but
she was still going to have to do something to get him to lose some weight.

“How have today’s eliminations been going?” Herman asked, thumbing back his fedora to mop his brow with a white silk handkerchief.

“The Italian, and one of the French machines, were flying neck and neck for three circuits,” Erica explained. “But then the
French plane had to drop out. I heard there was an engine malfunction.”

“How is the Supershark doing?” Herman asked.

“It’s running smoothly,” Erica said. The Supershark sea racer was the GAT/Stoat-Black entry into the race. The airplane had
combined Herman’s concept for a prototype single-engine military fighter with Stoat-Black’s expertise in seaplane technology.
“The problem with the Supershark is that it’s relatively slow—”

She paused as the massed snarl of high-powered engines filled the air. The flock of rainbow-colored, mono-wing seaplane racers,
their pontoons jutting out from their undercarriages, streaked past, a few hundred feet above the cheering spectators crowding
the beach. The noise died away as the race planes headed south, flying parallel to the shore, toward their turning point at
the island town of Chioggia, a few kilometers away.

“I thought I saw the Supershark about in the middle of the pack,” Herman said as the race planes swiftly dwindled to dots.

Erica nodded, lowering a set of binoculars. “That’s where we’ve been from the start of the race, I’d say. I suspect we’ll
be eliminated eventually. If not during today’s race, or tomorrow’s, the day after.”

Herman shrugged. “I did warn Stoat-Black that my prototype design was nowhere near as fast as the purebred racing machines
the French and Italians were expected to held.”

“Are you disappointed?” Erica asked.

“Not really,” Herman said. “Stoat-Black accepts and agrees that our ultimate goal is to refine the Supershark into a fighter
plane, and a fighter needs to be more than fast. It needs to be sturdy, and reliable. I happen to know that one of the top
Italian teams expects to fully replace their airplane’s engine after every race. Can you imagine doing that with a fighter
plane after every sortie?”