Amerika Read online

  I held out my well-worn pilot’s license to the official. ‘Will this do?’

  Ritter examined it, jotted something on a piece of paper with his gold- tipped ink pen, and handed it back.

  He glared at Orlando. ‘And you?’

  ‘Like I said, mister.’ Orlando spread open his huge hands, palms up, like pink catchers’ mitts. ‘I’m an American.’

  He frowned. ‘You are a Negro.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I want proof of your identity!’

  He shrugged. ‘I got me a birth certificate floating around back home somewhere, if that’s what you mean.’

  Ritter’s eyes tightened. ‘Don’t play the fool with me.’

  ‘Oh, surely I ain’t, sir.’ Orlando rummaged in his pants pockets and proceeded to play it even more stupid. ‘Lemme, see if I gots anythin’ else that might hep you out.’

  He pulled out a penknife and a handful of change and placed them on the desk. Then a tightly-rolled wad of fifty-dollar bills.

  ‘Couldja’ hold this please? Almost a thousand dollars. My life savings.’

  Without blinking his cold gray eyes, Ritter took the money and hefted it. ‘Why don’t you keep this in a bank?’

  Orlando laughed. ‘Ever hear of the Depression?’

  Ritter brightened. ‘Ah, yes. The Jews and their banks. They nearly did America in.’

  ‘And you’re doing us in instead,’ I said without thinking.

  He shot me a look. I kept my face neutral and said, ‘Deutschland über Alles’, isn’t that the song you guys sing all the time?’

  ‘Germany truly is over all.’

  Ritter smoothly slipped Orlando’s roll of bills into his pocket. ‘I think you gentlemen have learned that lesson firsthand today. Haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes sir, Mr. Ritter,’ Orlando said. ‘We surely have, haven’t we, Sam?’

  His face was impassive, but still waters run deep with that man.

  Ritter returned to his desk, sat down and pressed a button on a small speaker. ‘Escort the prisoners out.’

  ‘Jawohl, Kapitan.’

  ‘Prisoners?’ I said. ‘Now, wait just a second.’

  Ritter smiled. ‘Don’t worry Mr. Carter. It’s just a formality while you are under our jurisdiction.’ He patted the bulge of money in his pocket.

  ‘The moment you lift off from the runway, you will be free of that term.’

  Two tough-looking, bullet-headed men entered the office wearing civilian clothes just like Ritter, but if they weren’t SS troopers I’ll eat my hat. To their credit they didn’t handcuff us, but I felt them on my wrists just the same. As much as I hated it, I shook hands with Ritter.

  ‘Sorry about what happened. I promise it will never happen again.’

  Ritter took it. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Even Nazis?’

  He laughed at my little joke and waved us out.

  I expected to leave the building and head over to the apron where our S-38 sat waiting for us to continue our journey south. Instead they marched us down a set of stairs, then along a darkened corridor, and brought us to a halt in front of a holding cell.

  ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

  The first thug said, ‘We need to get your release papers.’

  ‘Then get them. We’ll wait out by the plane.’

  The second thug said softly, ‘Sorry, sir. Regulations. It won’t be long, I assure you.’

  Even though his face was kind and reassuring, I didn’t like the smell of this. From the look on Orlando’s face, neither did he. But we had no choice in the matter. When in Nazi-land, you do as the Nazis do. So in we went.

  The door clanged shut and sure as hell, ‘a few minutes’ turned into an hour, then two, and then four. Repeated shouting and banging on the bars brought no response. Even Orlando bellowing his demands in his preacher- sized voice made no difference. Sometime around midnight a man brought food to our cell. He refused to answer any questions. Just shoved the metal trays through the slot provided. Two sausages swam in some kind of tan-colored cream sauce, surrounded by boiled potatoes and pale green peas. Orlando picked up a potato, examined it, and dropped it. ‘I bribed that son of a bitch for nothing.’

  ‘Eat up,’ I said. ‘We need our energy to figure out how we’re going to get out of this mess.’

  ‘All because you... because...’ Orlando stumbled to a stop.

  ‘Because I wanted to see their graves?’

  Like a light switch, his angry face softened into sadness, he closed his eyes and nodded.

  ‘Sweet Estelle and baby Eddie. May they rest in everlasting peace, Amen.’

  ‘Amen.’

  ‘And while you’re at it Lord, grant us the wisdom to figure out how to get out of this pickle Brother Sam got us into.’

  I dreamed Estelle was running ahead of me, but no matter how loud I shouted, she wouldn’t stop. My daughter Abby held baby Eddie in her arms and cried, ‘Hurry, Daddy, hurry, she’s getting away!’ But the faster I ran the softer the ground became and I kept falling to my knees. I tried shouting again, but nothing came out.

  ‘Mr. Carter.’

  The deep male voice was soft, yet insistent and I awoke to see a weary- looking, round face of a balding, middle-aged man with friendly blue eyes behind glittering glasses bending over me, and it all came back in a rush: getting jumped by the Nazis, forced to land in Washington D.C. and now stuck in jail.

  The cell door was open behind him. But he read my mind and pressed down on my shoulder. ‘You are free to go. Mr. Diaz, too. There’s been a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Max Bauer.’

  He nudged Orlando, who woke with a jump and Bauer leaped back as if shot. For an overweight middle-aged man he had the grace of a bull fighter dodging Orlando’s horns. Bauer re-adjusted the fit of his full-length grey leather jacket, smoothed his lapels, and then beamed at my partner.

  ‘Good morning Mr. Diaz. I won’t ask if you slept well. These cells are notorious in that department.’

  ‘I repeat, who are you?’

  ‘My official title is Sturmbahnfüher der Polizei fur Geheime Staatspolize. But I much prefer Max.’

  ‘What’s that mean in English?’

  ‘I’m what you Americans call a ‘cop.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have just finished arresting Herr Ritter for placing personal greed before the needs of the Third Reich, ‘Heil Hitler,’ and all the attendant praise therein for our brave leader in Berlin.’ His face grew hard. ‘Ritter will get ten years at hard labor if I have anything to say about it. And I most certainly do.’

  He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out Orlando’s wad of fifty-dollar bills. ‘It’s taken me six months to catch that snake in the grass with his hand in the till, and today was the day, thanks to you.’

  He handed Orlando the money. ‘My apologies to you, sir. This should never have happened.’

  Still half-asleep, ‘The Bull of Key West’ pocketed it without saying a word.

  Undaunted, Bauer continued ‘Your plane has been fueled and serviced at our expense, including adjusting a faulty fuel connection on your number two engine, and an issue you had with your landing gear. I also had your flight plan modified and extended to reflect your unfortunate detention here. And finally, as a courtesy, we have breakfast waiting for you in our cafeteria. American bacon and eggs I’m told, plus a box lunch for you to take with you on your trip to Key West where your daughter and mother, I’m most certain, nervously await.’

  ‘How do you know all this stuff?’

  ‘Once the Gestapo intelligence machine gets up and running, it’s a marvel to behold. And run it did late last night when your name came across the wires and onto my desk.’

  He referred to a small index card. ‘You have very detailed employment records with Pan American Airways, including your untimely dismissal. That event, coupled with records of your bereavement in losing famil
y members on the December 8th attack on Washington D.C. makes for a very clear picture of one Samuel J. Carter, except I don’t know what your middle initial stands for.’

  ‘Why the hell should I tell you?’

  He grinned. ‘My guess is that it’s ‘John’ because that was your father’s name. An engineer on the Florida Coast Railroad, it says here.’

  ‘What else does it say? Like how many times I take a crap?’

  ‘Nothing more actually, other than the name of your daughter, Abigail, and her age.’ He tucked the card away. His smooth face softened slightly. ‘I have a family too.’

  He hesitated and I stared at him, wondering where this fat German cop in a grey leather trench coat was going with all this chatter.

  ‘Two boys. They’re grown and in the service of their country; one in the Wehrmacht, the other the Luftwaffe, and I fear for their safety every minute of every day. But you have already suffered what I only fear. The loss of your wife and son, and I am deeply sorry that happened.’

  I wanted to punch him in his prissy little mouth, but the sincerity in his voice stopped me cold. I know the ring of truth when I hear it, so I muttered, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘May this war end soon,’ he said.

  ‘It never even started here.’

  ‘True.’ He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his short nose.

  ‘But it rages everywhere else. If only Russia would fall, I do believe that der

  Führer would end things once and for all.’

  ‘England will keep on fighting.’

  He smiled as though I were a two-year-old. ‘You know that cartoon where the big man places his hand on the little man’s head who’s trying to punch him? That’s Germany and England at the moment. Churchill can plot and plan all he wants to up in Canada while the King and Queen drink their afternoon tea with him and listen to him go on and on about fighting on the beaches when they return. But the truth is, England is no longer a nation, it is an idea.’

  ‘Don’t tell them that.’

  He replaced his glasses. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. The Gestapo has enough criminals for me to chase that will keep me busy for years.’

  ‘Minus Herr Ritter, of course.’

  He laughed, his teeth were slightly pointed. ‘Why is it that people never think other people might be watching them? Especially when they’re breaking the law.’

  ‘Were you always a policeman?’

  ‘You mean before...’

  ’Yes.’

  ‘A police inspector in Heilbronn, Germany. South of Heidelberg. Do you know of it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No matter. It is a small, sleepy town with sleepy citizens and I loved working there. But when Hitler came to power the nation woke up, and so did Heilbronn. Because of my experience and my knowledge of English I was made a Gestapo officer in their International Division. That, more or less, brings me to our present moment.’

  ‘Could you have stayed on in Heilbronn?’

  ‘I would have preferred to, but as der Führer commands, so must his citizens obey.’ He clicked his heels slightly and smiled. ‘Now then, just this final detail.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘If you two gentlemen would sign here, you can be rid of me at long last.’

  ‘This is the catch, right?’ I said.

  ‘I’m not familiar with that idiom.’

  ‘The part in your little fairy tale where we sign the papers but then end up in prison for the rest of our lives for some obscure reason.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a Form 40-78, Personal Property Release form. It’s quite standard.’

  I looked at it. ‘It’s all in German.’

  ‘Natürlich.’

  ‘It could be something completely different for all I know.’

  ‘Yes it could be, but it’s not. You can trust me on that.’

  ‘Can I?’

  He drew himself up and frowned fiercely. ‘Mr. Carter you are pissing up the wrong tree.’

  I smiled. ‘Where did you hear that one?’

  He looked flustered. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You mean ‘barking up the wrong tree.’’

  ‘Ja, das is richtiger!’

  I exchanged looks with Orlando. He smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Okay I’ll sign.’

  When I finished, I handed Orlando the pen and he did the same. When he finished he said softly, ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’

  Bauer tucked the signed form into his jacket. ‘And we shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’

  ‘You know scripture?’

  He winked. ‘Don’t tell the Gestapo.’

  The box lunch the Nazis packed for our flight home was even worse than the meal we got in jail. And their bacon and egg breakfast? If you like your eggs cooked about twenty minutes and your bacon warm, slippery and half raw, right up your alley. Still, the cook who made it for us beamed at her accomplishment, and who was I to fault her for trying to make American food? I mean, she didn’t start the war, she was just a German civilian who’d came over with the troops and was doing her humble job.

  I keyed the microphone. ‘Key West tower, Carter Air four-five is with you, requesting runway and wind.’

  Orlando beamed. ‘Home sweet home at last.’

  At last was right. Twelve hours overdue, but if my calculations were right, Mike Beamer’s lobsters were just arriving at the airport. With luck, Carter Aviation was going to pull a rabbit out of the hat and start earning some money. It had better. Our first loan payment was due in less than two weeks.

  ‘Carter Air four-five, be advised compliance aircraft landing naval air station. Report visual.’

  Two familiar white airplanes, toy-sized at our altitude of two thousand feet, were on final approach for the Key West Naval Air station, two miles off our starboard wing. Key West’s smaller civilian airport lay three miles dead ahead.

  ‘Have visual, will comply.’

  Orlando said, ‘Those Luftwaffe boys are everywhere ain’t they?’

  Like National Airport in Washington, the Key West Naval Station had been designated a ‘Compliance Base of Operations,’ which meant regular patrols of German fighters zoomed in and out, while our U.S. Navy fighters sat on the tarmac, lashed to their tie downs like so many doomed butterflies.

  This particular military ‘no-fly zone’ extended in a two-hundred mile radius to encompass the Florida Straits and Cuba, and up north well past Miami. With the airspace neutralized by fighter planes, Nazi U-Boats completed the compliance choke hold by patrolling the coastal waters.

  If a submarine captain suspected an American vessel of violating the Neutrality Act, he’d send over a boarding party to check its manifest. If they found anything illegal, a spread of well-aimed torpedoes would send the ship to the bottom. They sank five ships early on, but nothing for the past four months. No surprise there. Torpedoes have a funny way of convincing skippers not to go where they don’t belong.

  I felt a flash of panic. ‘Key West Tower, do you have my flight plan on file? They were supposed to send you an updated version.’

  ‘Roger, we got it a couple of hours ago, and you’re cleared to land runway one eight, wind two-four-zero at ten.’

  The airport came into view and I smiled like seeing an old friend. I had grown up in Key West and had watched it grow from a small, sleepy grass strip to the long, paved runway that it is today.

  ‘Carter Air four-five on final.’

  The crosswind nudged me sideways and I crabbed slightly to keep the runway numbers planted on my windscreen. Any minute now the S-38’s long snout would block my forward vision, an annoyance that grated on my nerves every time I landed or took off.

  ‘I don’t know how ducks do it,’ I said. ‘Flying with their damn bills stuck out there in front.’

  ‘They ways of the Lord are past knowing.’

  ‘Thanks for clearing that up for me. Gear down.’

  ‘Nazi-repaired
gear coming down.’

  That cop Bauer was right; from the smooth clicking coming from either side, the mechanism was working perfectly. The Nazi mechanics really had fixed the gear.

  Two hundred feet...the small blue and white shack attached to hangar number two, housing Carter Aviation, flashed past and the blur of a small figure running toward the taxiway. No time to wave, just time enough to feel my heart lift in warm happiness at seeing my daughter Abby again. One hundred feet...fifty...cut the throttles. Get ready to swing the nose out of the sideways crab and flare for landing.

  ‘Lord you are the wind beneath our wings,’ Orlando droned.

  ‘Please shut up.’

  Just above stall speed now, needed to make my control movements big and bold as she flirted with the idea of not flying anymore. Her right wing began lifting into the wind, and I corrected, bringing her level just as she broke into a stall a few feet above the runway and stopped flying. The tires squeaked and spun into life, and at the same instant her steel tail skid touched the concrete and began screeching like a thousand banshees. I swung quickly off the runway onto the grass and the noise dropped off to a muffled rumble. The S-38, an amphibian, had been built in a time when dirt runways were common. Not anymore.

  ‘We’ve got to retrofit a tail wheel. That skid won’t last the week.’

  ‘I’ll get on it the minute you get back from your run,’ Orlando said.

  I taxied alongside the deserted runway. This time last year, Key West Airport and Key West Naval Air Station had been two competing bee hives with civilian and military aircraft filling the skies day and night. Today a ghost town.

  Orlando pointed out the side window. ‘Ground crew at your ten o’clock.’

  Ten-year old Abby stood there, face dead serious, hair tucked beneath a Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap, outstretched arms holding two red flags as she gave me the ‘Continue approach’ signal. I applied a touch of power. The closer I got, the higher she raised the flags, until, just as my wheels reached the exact spot, she expertly snapped the flags into an ‘X’ over her head. I hit the brakes, and killed the engines.