Way the Crow Flies (53 page)

Jack is stung. He feels himself flush and he takes a quiet breath. He would like to come away from this mission with more than a sour taste and a lot of unanswered questions. Fried’s profile looks imperturbable in the light and shadow of the television. A woman’s voice stutters, “Because I—I’m … the other woman,” and she breaks down weeping.

This is Jack’s last chance. The next time he sees Fried, it will be with Blair McCarroll, and after that he will likely never see the man again. So he says, “Too bad von Braun didn’t pick you to come to America with him in ’45, you’d be at NASA by now.”

Fried turns his head and glares. Bingo. He forms his words with unexpected precision and fluency. “You know where is Kazakhstan?
You know what is Baikonur? You know who is Helmut Gröttrup?” He raises his voice above the tears and recriminations on the screen. “We are years ahead, we launch, we orbit, we beat you and do you know why?” He gestures with disgust toward the television. “Because you care more for this than you care for that,” and he points at the ceiling. Jack assumes he is referring to the moon, and the cosmos in general. “The Soviets come when the war ends. With guns we are ordered to them and we work—” Thin cords stand out in Fried’s neck.

Jack sits down, carefully, as though trying to avoid waking someone—

“They take me and many others.”

Jack has guessed right: Fried didn’t make the first cut. At the end of the war, Wernher von Braun had the good sense to flee the Russian advance and surrender to the Americans, who had the good sense to recruit him. Von Braun had hand-picked his team from among those he had worked with on the German rocket program—including his brother, along with his managerial right hand, Arthur Rudolph—the brightest and the best, who now form the core of NASA. But he didn’t pick Fried, and Fried fell into the hands of the Russians. Fried must have had a lot to prove in the Soviet Union.

Fried continues. “Gröttrup also is a scientist from Dora. He is of high rank. Not only von Braun knows how to make V-2, Gröttrup knows, I know. We work in the Soviet Union, many of us, and no luxury. Not like America.” He mutters at the man and woman on the screen, entangled in an illicit embrace. “I have been the only German left now in the Soviet Union program. They dispose—how do you say …?”

“Kill?”

“Nein,”
says Fried impatiently, displaying more animation in one moment than Jack has witnessed in months, “throw away. Like garbage. They say, ‘We have Russians now to do your job.’”

“Ah,” says Jack, “Struck Off Strength.”

“Wie?”

“Like obsolete—worn out—aircraft. Tossed aside.”

“Just so. Tossed aside.”

“Except for you.”

“Ja.”
Fried nods, his lower lip rising to displace the upper in a show of determination or self-satisfaction.

“Why, Oskar?”

Fried jabs his own narrow chest, where grey hairs stray from the open neck of his shirt. “I work. I watch the others. I see when there is sabotage, I know who is a traitor.” His face is taut.

“But you’re a traitor now.”

Fried takes a deep breath but makes no move. Finally he says, “I don’t care for money. If you have made something for your whole life, you wish only to continue. To work with the best. I do not care who wins this race to the moon. I care to participate. Russians will not allow me to go farther. By them I am always a foreigner.”

Jack nods, somewhat touched by Fried’s honesty. He says gently, “You must have made a major contribution to the Soviet space program.” Fried betrays no emotion, but Jack can tell that, like a child, he has heard and is savouring. “No wonder the Soviets leapt ahead,” Jack adds deliberately, “what with scientists of your calibre working for them.” Fried leans forward and switches off the TV. Reaches for his pipe. Jack hands him the fresh pouch of tobacco. “You fellas were launching Sputnik while we were still blowing up on the test stand.”

Fried shrugs—expressionless, delighted—and lights his pipe, passing the flame back and forth across the bowl, puffing.

“I guess you’re looking forward to seeing some of your old friends down there, eh? There’s bound to be some familiar faces at Wright-Patterson Air Base … over in the R and D facility?”

Fried says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t know where he’s going any more than Jack does.

Jack says, “Not to mention Houston.”

Fried smokes, calm once more.

“Did you know von Braun?”

“Natürlich.”

“At Peenemünde?”

“And after, at Dora. He would come to inspect.”

Jack recalls reading somewhere that von Braun always made a point of visiting the shop floor at the U.S. Army Ballistic Missile Agency. A visionary with a feel for hardware. “So you worked right in the factory. What did you do?”

“I am the superior to make certain the rocket is properly builded,” says Fried.

“You oversaw production standards.”

“You can say this.”

“So you helped manufacture the actual rocket. The V-2.”

Fried nods. Jack gets a chill. “Wow.”

“This is a beautiful machine.”

Jack nods. “Hitler’s ‘secret weapon.’” He wants to smile broadly—he has waited so long for this.

“Guidance and control,” says Fried, “this is like the brain of the machine. Delicate. It is taken years. The rocket is fifteen point two metres long, perfect mixture for fuel, this also is taken years. We produce three hundred each month, but they are not all perfect. The SS does not know what is needed properly to produce this rocket.”

“The SS?”

“This rocket could have winned the war.”

Jack knows enough not to argue—the V-2 could never have won the war for Hitler, regardless of how efficiently they were produced. The world’s first ballistic missile was an effective instrument of terror, but in terms of destructive power it was conventional ordnance. A glorified artillery shell. Hitler would have had to have a parallel track of atomic research going, then married the nuclear bomb to the V-2 rocket. Jack recalls what Froelich said—that Hitler rejected atomic research on the grounds that it was “Jewish science.”

But Fried is probably like Wernher von Braun, whose passion for rockets was born of the dream of space travel. He couldn’t have cared less about weapons. “Do you think we’ll do it, Oskar? Will Americans get to the moon and back within the decade?”

Fried taps his pipe. “Is possible. If Soviets do not arrive first.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got you now.” Jack grins and sees Oskar Fried smile for the first time. “Maybe that’s who spotted you at the marketplace?” He can see Fried clam up again but he presses on. “An old colleague? Maybe an engineer who worked for you?”

Fried shakes his head, no.

“I thought you said you didn’t know who he was?”

Fried takes the bait. “I do not know who, I know what.”

“Oh,” says Jack innocently. “Well, Simon says this fella doesn’t know your name so what’s the problem? Maybe he just wanted to say hello—”

“He wants to put a rope about my neck.” Fried has gone pale. He taps out his pipe.

Jack says gently, “Why, Oskar? What did you do?”

“My job.” Fried gets up, takes a spray bottle from the windowsill and begins spritzing his flowers.

Jack was unable to get more out of him. Now, as he walks down the stairwell, he runs his finger along the serrated edge of Fried’s car key in his pocket. “Simon asked me to move it,” he lied. He heads out the side door of the building and squints against the blaze of afternoon, wondering, why should Fried be afraid that he will be hanged for the job he did? He was a scientist. He worked on the V-2, so did Wernher von Braun and half of NASA. Fried has laboured under the pitiless scrutiny of GRU—the Soviet secret police—for the past seventeen years. If he’s paranoid, perhaps it’s because he is like a bird that has been caged for too long—the door is open, but he has no idea he can fly out. Freedom takes getting used to. Like daylight for a miner. Fried would know, having worked underground at the rocket factory, and now Jack understands the orchids; they thrive in darkness. As he rounds the building, he feels a twinge of compassion. He finds the Ford Galaxy parked in back between two Dumpsters, gets in and checks his watch. It’s just after four.

Earlier, at three-fifteen, Colleen and Madeleine are in the schoolyard along with several other children and adults.

“What do you want to do now?” asks Madeleine. Colleen is leaning against the bike rack. Madeleine is sharpening a Popsicle stick on the ground.

“I don’t know,” says Colleen, “what do you wanna do?”

“I dunno. Wanna go to Rock Bass?”

“Maybe.”

Across the schoolyard, Cathy Baxter and a number of other girls are busily helping Miss Lang prepare for the flying-up ceremony
that will take place after supper. Glancing over at Colleen, Madeleine tries to quell her excitement.

She intended to be one of the helpers, but she lost the inclination when Colleen showed up. It’s not that she is ashamed of being a Brownie, it’s just that she would rather not be one in front of Colleen.

“I might quit after I fly up,” she says, testing the point of her new Popsicle knife. The day is soft and the sun sits lightly on her bare arms and legs. “Unseasonably warm,” said the weather man—in other words, perfect.

Through the open windows of the gymnasium, the sound of the band practising reaches them in fractured phrases. Madeleine recognizes the melody, and the lyrics run through her head involuntarily,
It’s a small world after all, It’s a small world after all
…. If she had been forced to join the band, she would be trapped in there right now.

Colleen chews a piece of long grass and narrows her eyes at the giant toadstool being set up in front of rows of benches on the baseball field. Like an altar, thinks Madeleine. The Brown Owl’s altar. Tonight the Brownies will receive the sacrament of their wings and fly up to Guides. Except for Grace Novotny, who will walk, escorted by a Sixer, up along the roll of yellow paper. And except for Claire McCarroll, who, having just joined as a Tweenie this year, will be pinned as a full-fledged Brownie.
Too-wit, too-wit, too-woo!

“Are you coming tonight?”

“No, I got other plans,” says Colleen.

Good.

Here comes Claire McCarroll on her bike with the glorious pink streamers. She is still in her light blue dress that she wore to school.

“Do you like butter?” she asks, plucking one of the tiny yellow flowers that have so recently sprouted up like magic amid the grass.

Claire is very frisky for Claire. It’s a big day for her—being the Easter bunny in school, and about to get her Brownie pin this evening. She holds the buttercup under Colleen’s chin and says, “Yup, you like butter.” It’s impossible to imagine anyone else doing that to Colleen and getting away with it. Then Claire does the same thing to Madeleine, giggling, “You
love
butter, Madeleine.”

“He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me—” Oh no. It’s Marjorie Nolan, loudly plucking the petals from a daisy, with Grace
Novotny in tow. Marjorie overheard Claire with the buttercup and just had to do something with a flower of her own.

Claire says to Madeleine and Colleen, “Want to come for a picnic?”

Madeleine watches Marjorie cheat, counting the final two petals as one, tearing them off. “Ricky loves me!” She is standing a little too close and speaking a little too loudly while pretending to ignore them.

“Where’re you going?” asks Colleen.

Claire replies, “For a picnic at Rock Bass with Ricky.”

Madeleine hums “Beautiful Dreamer” under her breath and catches Colleen’s eye. Colleen grins ever so slightly. Neither wants to be mean, but they both know it’s wishful thinking on Claire’s part. No big deal.
I can dream, can’t I, doc?

“Want to come too?” says Claire. “We can look for a nest.”

Colleen and Madeleine decline politely so Claire lifts her Frankie and Annette lunchbox from the basket of her bike and opens it. She shares her picnic with them then and there. A red wax-covered disc of Babybel cheese, a chocolate cupcake with blue icing, and some apple slices. She is careful to save some “for the animals.” Madeleine makes a pair of red lady-lips with the Babybel wax, and Claire laughs.

“I seen some baby rabbits at Rock Bass,” says Colleen, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “They got a den right under the maple tree.”

“Thanks Colleen.”

Claire rides off.

“‘Thanks Colleen.’” Madeleine teases. Colleen headlocks Madeleine and scrubs the top of her scalp fiercely with her knuckles. “Ow!”

Colleen always decides when Madeleine has had enough and stops, in this case calmly walking away.

“Hey Colleen, wait up!”

The final strains of the song straggle out the windows of the gym, but Madeleine outruns them.
It’s a small world after all, It’s a small, small world
.

Ricky is washing the station wagon when Claire rides by. Elizabeth is beside him in her wheelchair and Rex trots to the foot of the lawn to greet her.

“Hi Ricky.”

“Hi pal.”

“Hi Elizabeth,” says Claire.

“Ay.” Elizabeth is nestled in a light yellow blanket. She has a plastic cup wedged between her hands, the kind babies use, with a lid and a spout.

“What have you got?” asks Claire.

“Ehhhm-oway,” says Elizabeth with her weightless voice and big loose smile.

“Lemonade,” says Ricky to Claire.

“Is it good?” asks Claire.

Elizabeth nods in all directions.

Ricky is wearing his red jeans, a white T-shirt and sneakers.

“You look nice, Ricky.”

“Oh yeah? Thanks.”

“What are you doing?”

“Washing the car.”

“Want to come for a picnic?”

“I can’t, pal, I promised Lizzie we’d go for a run.”

“Oh.”

“Want a drink?” he asks.

“Yes please.”

Ricky gives her a drink from the hose. The best drink of all, rubbery water, it tastes like summer. Then he has some. Claire watches him drink. Then she rides off. “Bye.”

Rex flops to the ground at Elizabeth’s feet, in the shade of the wheelchair, grinning up at her, panting. Her hand slips down and wavers over him, finding his fur, giving him a knuckly graze on the head.