Perfect Payback, page 2
Then I remembered the lecture from Max Haup, one of our boxing coaches and a Nazi- party fanatic.
He’d stood tall in front of us, as if he had been strapped to a 1x12 board. “You represent the German people, and you are to act accordingly. Do not associate with Jews or people of color. These people are inferior. Der Fuhrer makes this request.”
Before I could say anything, we’d been dismissed.
I turned to Runge now, contemplating the coach’s remarks. The men and women from other countries were part of the human race, just like us. “Why does Coach Haup believe one ethnic group is inferior to another?”
Herbert rubbed his hand over his mouth as if to get rid of a bad taste. “Some of the black athletes are phenomenal, I agree, but as far as associating with the Jews, that shouldn’t happen.”
I snapped my head in his direction. “Why would you say that?”
His drawn face and furrowed eyebrows caught me off guard. “You know the Jews withdrew all of their money from the German economy during World War I. Those traitors were the reason we lost.”
The Jews had appeared to be against the German cause, and they had hurt the country economically, but…
“Meine damen und herren, willkommnen, to the Games of the XI Olympiad.” The president of the Olympic committee interrupted our conversation.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about what Herbert had said. Had the Jews sabotaged a German victory?
The opening ceremony ended in spectacular fashion with the crowd cheering and another round of cannon fire. A formation of BF 109 fighter planes flew over the stadium—the squadron low enough to drown out the cheers.
Pride swelled through my body. Proud to be a German was an understatement. As I marched out of the stadium with the athletes, the German military band played, heavy on the drums and trumpets. As we paraded by the band section, the powerful beat exploded, sending waves of excitement through me.
I headed toward the Olympiastadion’s main entrance, near the clock tower, where I planned to meet my family. I’d never seen so many vendors in one place selling pretzels, beer, bratwurst, pickled cucumbers, and scho-ka-kola, a sport confectionery launched at the Olympics. The dark chocolate had a heavy dose of caffeine, and I liked it.
Mama and Papa would go home today, but Uncle Wilhelm and his son had come all the way from America and would stay to watch this year’s games. My relatives from America had stayed with Mama and Papa after their ship had docked in Hamburg. Then they had all ridden the train to Anhalter Bahnhof in Berlin.
Spotting Uncle Wilhelm was easy. He looked the same as an old photograph I’d seen—a big man with huge legs, a thick neck, and broad shoulders. We were about the same height, but he had at least twenty pounds on me.
Arms open wide, he pulled me close, slapping my back with heavy hands. “Guten tag, Hans. This is my son, Patrick.” His bass voice rang loud for all to hear.
“Sorry you can’t box.” The boy lowered his head and pawed the ground with his right foot, obviously disappointed for me. “You could have won the goldmedaille.”
He mixed in some oddly pronounced German with his English, but I understood the message. The boy was no doubt a Pepperman, large-boned and big for his age. His short blond hair, blue eyes, and chiseled jawline were trademarks of the Pepperman gruppe.
“I like to fight too. Papa showed me how to jab twice with my left hand and throw a right cross.” He took the last bite of his sausage. Mustard spread from one side of his face to the other, and the condiment glistened off his two front teeth. “You want me to show you?” The fire in his tone said I’d better get ready.
“Sure.” I got down on one knee and raised my left palm.
Patrick pulled tight fists next to his face, squinted, and took aim. Pow. Pow. Pow.
The young man’s punch had a sting and left my palm covered in a mix of mustard and sausage grease.
My handkerchief came in handy.
Patrick looked up at me, big blue eyes almost popping out of his skull. “Hans, we came on this big, big, boat. It was the Man… Man…” He looked at his father.
Wilhelm said, “The Manhattan.”
“Yes, the Manhattan, the biggest ship in the whole world,” Patrick continued. “And do you know what else?”
“What?” I asked.
“The American Olympic team was on the same boat with us. And do you know who I saw?”
“Who?” I asked, loving every minute of the little guy’s story.
“Jesse Owens… and… and… Glenn Cunningham… and Louis Zamparini.”
I was afraid his eyes were going to pop out onto the concrete.
Patrick tugged on my trousers. “And something else, Hans.”
I grinned. “What else, Patrick?”
“The runners ran around the ship every morning, and I got to run with them, but I couldn’t beat ’em. Their legs were too long.”
What kind of man would Patrick grow up to be? He reminded me of someone. I chuckled—it was me.
Chapter 4
der 19. August 1936
Berlin, Germany
After the Olympic events each day, Uncle Wilhelm, Patrick, and I have visited and toured Berlin—the Brandenburg Gate, the Pergamon Museum, and the Berlin Zoological Garden. The museums were not a focal point for Patrick but with plenty of ice cream, he managed…
Walking next to me at the zoo, Patrick shadow boxed, then shoved his hands high into the air just as Runge had done when he’d won the gold medal. “Let’s go back to the gorilla area. I want to see that big silverback again.” He smiled, not just a happy smile, but one of admiration.
The smile I returned was no different. Young cousin Patrick and I had become friends. And I wished for more time with Wilhelm. His mannerisms reminded me of my dad’s. His warm, friendly smile and soft-spoken words were characteristics of a kind giant. That being said, I wouldn’t want to push the man beyond his limits.
The Olympics would be remembered differently by each person, but for me, I would never forget the time I spent with my family, Germany winning the most medals with eighty-nine, the torch ceremony, and the pigeon mess on Runge’s face.
Two days after the Olympics ended, I took Uncle Wilhelm and Patrick to Anhalter Bahnhof where they boarded a train to Hamburg. From there, they would take a ship back to America.
Patrick lowered the window, leaned out, and waved. “I’ll write you.”
In the short time we’d been together, our bond had become strong. Sadness swirled in my heart as I wondered if I would ever see them again.
Chapter 5
der 12. Oktober 1936
Braunschweig, Germany
I have been too busy to write in my journal. For the last two months, my masters’ thesis in mechanical engineering has occupied all my time. The professors at Braunschweig Institute of Technology are pushing me to prove my theory on increasing the power output in existing aircraft engines, and I believe I am close…
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. A loud commotion outside broke my concentration.
I opened the window and set both of my hands on the frame.
Twenty or so students outside my first-story room gathered around a guy who looked like one of his drumsticks as he pounded on his snare. Some clapped with the rhythm or jumped up and down shaking their bodies while others shouted, “Lob Deutschland, Lob Deutschland” Praise Germany.
A few carried signs that read, “Blut und Boden.” Blood and Soil. Others held torches. The people and the creepy, sinister shadows reflecting off the building reminded me of a tribal ritual leading up to an animal sacrifice.
A beautiful girl flipped her long, honey hair, pointed her sign at me, and smiled. “Herrenvolk… Herrenvolk.” Master Race.
Her red skirt and white sweater pulled so tight I envisioned Aphrodite, the Greek goddess, and all I could think was—Zowie—an American expression I’d picked up at the Olympics.
Gold and orange leaves flew inside my window along with a cold wind that slapped me in the face. Still making eye contact with the shapely blonde, I cupped my hands and exhaled into my palms to warm my cheeks.
A crackling voice over a loudspeaker invited everyone to a political rally at Schadts Brewery and Gasthaus on Oelschaegern Street at 9 p.m. to support the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. Nazi.
Ever since Adolph Hitler had become Chancellor in 1933, Germany had been promoting an extreme nationalistic attitude. There’d been nothing but talk of uniting the German people—even annexing all German-speaking areas such as the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia.
The rumors of war made no sense. A great depression was finally over, and people were happy and enjoyed plenty of food.
Shaking my head, I closed the window, wrapped a tan scarf around my neck, and buttoned my brown wool sweater. The savory beef and bier plate Schadts served pulled me to leave my cluttered room more than the propaganda meeting, and I had just enough time to eat before the muster started.
I walked my bicycle down the hall and onto the sidewalk. The downtown area was a mile from my student dormitory. Streetlights and the bicycle path made the trip easy as I rode by students going to the gathering. I looked for the blonde whose beauty spiked my interest but had no luck and gave up, racking my bicycle outside Schadts.
Loud singing of Deutschland, Deutschland über alles came from across the street.
Two middle-aged bier-bellied imbeciles wearing Nazi armbands bumped into an elderly Jewish man as he locked up Rosheim’s Clothing Store.
I held my breath, wondering if they were harmless drunks or if this would turn into something more.
One of the morons flipped the kippah off the Jew’s head and kicked the hat into the busy street. Then they walked off, arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing.
I let out a deep breath. I’d seen this pitiful, repulsive behavior before in Munich, but it hadn’t ended so quickly. Who cared if the man was Jewish? Why couldn’t people accept others for who they were?
The Jewish man recovered his cap. He pointed his fingers toward his own neck and forcefully flicked his fingers toward the men in disgust.
The old gentleman had spunk.
Good for him. Smiling, I pushed through the heavy oak door of Schadts to a crowd jammed around the huge, round wooden bar in deep discussions about how Germany was once again a strong, united country.
Nazi flags and posters of Hitler papered every wall. The rank odor of stale tobacco made me cough and almost spoiled my appetite.
I asked for a table near the back of the building.
A middle-aged woman dressed in a dirndl—a white apron and a dark blue skirt—with the forearms of a heavyweight boxer walked toward me. “Would you like a menu?” Her baritone voice matched her physique.
I shook my head. “Nein. I want the beef and bier and a mug of Erdinger Kristall.”
She turned her head to one side and gave me what I think she meant as a flirty smile. “Anything else?” Her eyebrows arched.
Sure she’d practiced that move many times in front of a mirror, I grinned. “Nein.” Her attempted seduction was nice, even if she wasn’t my type.
The roast beef and potatoes in a dark bier sauce were better than Mama’s, but I would never tell her that. Once my table was cleared, I slouched in my chair, ordered another Erdinger, and waited for the speaker.
A man who appeared to be in his thirties wearing a black suit and a Nazi armband climbed on top of the bar. “The Nazi Party has pledged to work for the common people. The party provides much needed jobs to get Germany’s economy moving again. The unemployment rate is the lowest in thirty years.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his stern, sweaty forehead.
He was right about the low unemployment rate. Many jobs were available, especially in the construction business.
The man loosened his tie. “Germany is taking its place among the great nations of the world. We are superior workers. No nation can out-produce the German people. Der Fuhrer has promised the Das Dritte Reich will last a thousand years. Join Nationalsozialistische deutsche Arbeiterpartei. Be part of the greatest nation the world has ever seen.” He doubled one fist and pounded it into his open palm, over and over.
His “Third Reich, join the National Socialist German Workers’ Party” speech lasted an hour and was peppered with grandiose hyperboles. By the time he finished, the fever-pitched crowd clanked glasses of bier and more of the golden liquid spilled on the floor than was consumed.
Could Hitler be our savior? Could I be mistaken about the Nazi Party? There was nothing wrong with taking pride in one’s nation. Except… something in my gut wondered if Hitler’s motives were more personal than political.
Chapter 6
der 4. Januar 1937
Stuttgart, Germany
I am still struggling with the principles of the Nazi Party. The nationalism I have no problem with, but how the party views other ethnic groups is an issue. It just does not feel right. Growing up, some of my best friends were Jews. Germany cannot go through another war. The people have no stomach for it. On to other news—the Daimler-Benz aircraft engine company has offered me a position. Boring out the cylinders to make the diameter larger did increase the power output from 1,332 to 1,455 horsepower in the Daimler-Benz 601 engine being used in the BF 109 fighter planes. I proved my theory…
I had been at the Daimler-Benz office in Stuttgart only a few days when my boss, Philip Baron, stopped by my door. His average build and thick gray hair reminded me of one of my university professors. Mr. Baron’s PhDs in mathematics and mechanical engineering impressed me.
“Hans, I have an assignment for you. We got a call from the Bavarian Aircraft Works in Augsburg. Willy Messerschmitt, the chief designer of the BF 109 fighter, is having problems with the fuel injection. The plane flies well at altitudes under six thousand feet. But at six thousand feet and above, the engine sputters and cuts out during tight turns. He thinks this could be caused by a flaw in the system, not a maintenance issue. Bavarian Aircraft will send a plane for you.”
I tapped my fingers on the desk. “Can I take a train instead?” Flying… in an airplane… not good. Not good at all.
He gave me a look, probably thinking not just no but hell no.
I never thought getting on a plane would be part of my job description, but I had only been here a few days and needed to be a team player. I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yes, sir. When do I leave?”
“Seven in the morning.” He slapped the door frame. “Be prepared to stay a while. Mr. Messerschmitt wants you to get a real feel for the BF 109. This is your chance to shine. Do not disappoint.” Barron hesitated. He stepped into my office, shut the door, and sat in front of me. “Hans, no country has the technology to challenge the airframe of the BF 109, and the 601 engine has no equal. The fuel injection system is what makes the engine unique. Russia, in particular, has been trying to steal our secrets. Be watchful and suspicious of everyone.” He shook my hand and left.
I didn’t know how Barron knew about the spying, and I didn’t ask. Another world war seemed imminent.
The alarm was set for 5:30 a.m., but I didn’t need the reminder. I was already awake and had packed my suitcase the night before.
The Bosch Bakery around the corner from my apartment was handy for a cup of coffee, but I really stopped there for a slice of Black Forest cake. Three chocolate layers stuffed with cherry filling and topped with whipped cream, the delight was a bit rich for this early in the morning, but I didn’t care.
A taxi met me at the bakery and drove me to the factory.
Januar meant fog and drizzle in Stuttgart. The sun tried to peek through the gray, low-hanging clouds, and the strange orangish glow added to my anxiety. Could this be an omen?
Shaking off the thought, I stepped out of the taxi, paid the driver, and entered the foyer carrying my suitcase. The reflection in the glass door showed off my new gray tweed suit and classy black tie. The pinch-crown gray wool fedora, cocked to one side, was stylish as well.
A small-framed, black-haired Luftwaffe officer approached me. “Are you Mither Pepperman?”
I tried not to react to his slight lisp. “Yes.” I extended my right hand.
“Erich Hartmann, the pilot for your flight to Augthburg.”
Was he old enough to be a German military pilot? He didn’t even look old enough to be in the German Youth. “How long have you been flying?” I asked, even though I really didn’t want to know.
“I graduated from pilot training last week. This is my second cross-country flight.” He turned and headed to the exit door toward the landing strip, his steps as cocky as Joe Lewis, the American boxer.
Second cross-country flight? I froze. I was supposed to get on a plane and fly in the rain to Augsburg with a kid just out of flight school. “Hold up.”
He did a sharp military about-face.
“You are the copilot, right?” I hoped my inquiry was accurate.
He angled his head with a puzzled look. “No, sir. Just me.”
I supposed he could see the heavy dose of fear etched on my face as I felt the blood drain from my head so fast it made me dizzy.
“You don’t have to worry, sir. I graduated first in my class and have been assigned to fighter pilot training. You’re in capable hands.” His confident, upturned smile and teenage voice gave me no security.
My feet scraped the concrete as we approached the two-seater scout plane parked next to the dull metal hanger. Shreds of mist hovered over the building, the entire scene ghostly.
Oh scheisse.
I lodged the suitcase behind the seat and twisted my body to get into the cramped cockpit.
Young Hartmann started the engine. The high-pitched kling, kling, kling was not a confidence builder. I’d heard more power generated by washing machines.
