“Have you never told them, Mama?”
Her hands shook for a moment as she flipped the sandwiches, then she stepped back from the stove. “Why would I burden them with this? What does it matter who their grandfather was? He died before they were born. They’re safer not knowing.”
“What if the truth comes out?” I asked. “I’ve had to dance around it often enough at work. They don’t want non-Aryans working in technology. They’d be better off knowing so they can be prepared.”
“If questions come, I’d rather their lies be those of ignorance instead of fear. It’s more believable that way.”
“I don’t think these Nazis will much care which sort of lie it is if they uncover the truth.”
“Then we must pray they never find out. Trust me, my dear. They’re children. They shouldn’t be burdened with such things.”
Mama and I took the afternoon snack into the parlor. Oskar’s chest puffed with pride as he told Harald of his accomplishments with his local cell and showed off the gleaming silver pocketknife he’d earned for his efforts. There wasn’t much childlike in his demeanor as he addressed Harald, and from the look on my husband’s face, I knew he felt as I did: that there was nothing childlike about the threat Oskar and the other youths poisoned by Hitler’s ideology posed to all of us.
I’d hoped my family would be spared the fervor for this man, but it seemed his reach extended into the deepest corners of my childhood home. I’d been able to take solace in my work for so long, I’d given myself permission to ignore the politics I served. With each revelation of the Nazi methods, I was less and less able to quiet my uneasy conscience. Creating deadlier planes to protect Germany was one thing. Creating them to serve Hitler was another.
The quartet was in tune, the champagne was chilled to perfection, and the crystal it was served in sparkled more brightly than the sequins on the evening gowns that swished over the dance floor. The event was flawless. Not even the dowager countess could find fault, not that she attended these things anymore. Because of our work, we didn’t live on the family’s estate, which suited Harald’s mother perfectly. She was free to live in the home where she’d once arrived as a bride, and run the house without my interference, but was happy to cede the bother of entertaining to Harald and me on the weekends we could be spared. On these weekends, I traded in my navy-blue pantsuit for an evening gown and played the part of Countess Johanna. It certainly felt like playacting in an age where counts and dukes seemed as relevant as the horse and cart. But all the same, the part had to be played. That night I wore a dress of claret-red crepe and even indulged in wearing ruby earrings and a matching bracelet from the family vault. At least if I had to play a part, I had the chance to look it.
Only a few years before, the men would have been in tailcoats with white ties, but those had given way to the uniforms of the Wehrmacht and the SS. Harald was one of the few men still wearing civilian formal wear, and he looked like a gem among pebbles, but so he always did to me. I watched as he worked the room effortlessly, having been schooled in the art of parlor chat since he could speak.
“How quaint to see you in your element,” a voice said from behind me.
Louisa Mueller, a darling of the Luftwaffe and even Hitler himself, wore a pretty little spring-green frock, light as meringue and the perfect shade to bring out the green flecks in her blue eyes. The effect would have been charming if she hadn’t paired the ensemble with the expression of a little boy sitting through an overlong sermon at church in a stiffly starched shirt.
“How nice to see you, Louisa,” I said, offering her a hand and ignoring her slight. To her, I was the countess playacting as a pilot instead of the other way around. She shook my hand more firmly than was fashionable, but that was a failing of mine as well.
“How can you dress like this all the time? I feel ridiculous.” Her declaration was unnecessary, as her opinion of her finery was all but written across her forehead. Attending such a soiree had to be excruciating for her, but she was savvy enough to know that hers was as much a political career as anything else.
“I don’t,” I replied. She’d seen me in trousers more often than skirts, but to ask her, you’d think I showed up to the office in taffeta ball gowns.
“You know what I mean. If I had to dress like this every weekend, I’d run mad.”
“It’s nice to have a break from the flight suit sometimes,” I said, though I didn’t fully mean it. In that respect, she and I were alike. Given my choice, I’d spend all my time behind the throttle, taking planes to their limits, or else at the drafting table creating plans to make the planes as efficient as they could be.
I was like most pilots, enamored of the sheer power of flight and the freedom that came with a pair of wings. But I was even more fascinated by the systems within the aircraft. How they all functioned together to defy gravity and take us to the heavens. It wasn’t just flight that called to me, but the magic that made it possible. It had been Papa who had enrolled me in a glider course on a lark when I was in my late teens. He had no idea the monster he was going to create, but I always sensed he was proud of it.
“I heard you set another record,” I said, knowing that stroking her formidable ego would make the encounter pass more pleasantly.
“Another altitude record,” she said, waving her hand airily, though pride laced her smile.
“You deserve to feel proud,” I said. And I meant it. The more she accomplished, the more funding and public support we got.
“The Führer was pleased,” she admitted, standing a little taller. “He’s grateful for the good publicity for the Reich.”
“Of course,” I said, forcing the corners of my mouth upward. She had the Führer’s ear, and her opinions could easily become policy.
“I see your husband has not joined the party,” she said, glancing at where he stood chatting with some very old friends of his family. She made no attempt to hide a disapproving glare at his lack of uniform.
I worried my face would betray my unease. “Oh, you know academics. They usually aren’t all that keen on getting into politics.”
“I don’t really know anything about academics. My family worked for a living.”
“Of course,” I said, resuming my plastic smile.
Just then, Harald crossed the room to us, as though he’d heard my subliminal screams to rescue me from her clutches.
“How lovely to see you, Miss Mueller. I do hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to claim my wife for a few moments.”
Louisa said nothing, but offered him a nod and turned to scan the crowd for a familiar face.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Harald.
“I know when someone needs rescuing,” he said with a wink.
“She’s positively insufferable,” I said. “She’s perfectly content to be a poster girl for the new regime.”
“Shhh,” he said. “Too many ears.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s still nauseating.”
“It’s just politics, Liebling. Ignore it all and focus on your work. What you’re doing is bigger than some regime that’s doomed to fail.”