Harris, Robert by Fatherland

Author:Fatherland
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Historical Fiction
Published: 2011-11-24T01:42:10+00:00

SIX

Drawn up on the runways of the Flughafen Hermann Goring, shimmering through the haze of fuel, was the new generation of passenger jets: the blue and white Boeings of Pan-American, the red, white and black swastika-decked Junkers of Lufthansa.

Berlin has two airports. The old Tempelhof aerodrome near the city centre handles short-haul, internal flights. International traffic passes through Hermann Goring in the north-western suburbs. The new terminal buildings are long, low edifices of marble and glass, designed - of course - by Speer. Outside the arrivals hall stands a statue of Hanna Reitsch, Germany's leading aviatrix, made of melted-down Spitfires and Lancasters. She scans the sky for intruders. A sign behind her says WELCOME TO BERLIN, CAPITAL OF THE GREATER GERMAN REICH, in five languages.

March paid the taxi driver, tipped him, and walked up the ramp towards the automatic doors. The air here was cold and man-made: drenched with aviation fuel, torn by the screams of throttling engines. Then the doors opened, hissed shut behind him, and suddenly he was in the sound-proofed bubble of the departure terminal.

'Lufthansa flight 401 to New York. Passengers are requested to make their way to gate number eight for boarding...'

'Final call for Lufthansa flight 014 to Theoderichshafen. Passengers...'

March went first to the Lufthansa sales desk to pick up his ticket, then to the checkin where his passport was scrutinised carefully by a blonde with 'Gina' pinned to her left breast, a swastika badge in her lapel.

'Does the Herr Sturmbannführer wish to check in any luggage?'

'No thank you. I have only this.' He patted his small suitcase.

She returned his passport with his boarding card folded inside it. Accompanying this act was a smile as bright and cheerless as neon.

'Boarding in thirty minutes. Have a good flight, Herr Sturmbannführer.'

Thank you, Gina.'

'You are welcome.'

'Thank you.'

They were bowing like a pair of Japanese businessmen. Air travel was a new world to March, a strange land with its own impenetrable rituals.

He followed the signs to the lavatory, selected the cubicle furthest from the wash-basins, locked the door, opened the suitcase, took out the leather hold-all. Then he sat down and tugged off his boots. White light gleamed on chrome and tile.

When he had stripped to his shorts, he put the boots and his uniform into the hold-all, stuffed his Luger into the middle of the bag, zipped it up and locked it.

Five minutes later he emerged from the cubicle transformed. In a light grey suit, white shirt, pale blue tie and soft brown shoes, the Aryan Superman had turned back into a normal citizen. He could see the transformation reflected in people's eyes. No more frightened glances. The attendant at the left-luggage area where he deposited the hold-all was surly. He handed March the ticket.

'Don't lose it. If you do, don't bother coming back.' He jerked his head to the sign behind him: 'Warning! Items returned on production of ticket only!'

At the passport control zone March lingered, noting the security. Barrier one: checking of boarding cards, unobtainable without the proper visa.

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