Joseph Poyer: Vengeance 10

Memling knew then they were Gestapo and had come for him.

Jan Memling had arrived in the Ruhr town of Amsberg two days earlier to keep an appointment with the manager of the manufacturing concern of Zemwalt GmbH. This was his first trip abroad and the first time he had been entrusted with dealings of such importance. In spite of his nervousness, the initial meeting had gone well enough, he thought, and the following day, to his immense surprise, agreement had been reached. A contract was drawn up with delivery of the required washing-machine parts promised for mid-May.

Memling was in a euphoric mood, and despite the icy rain which had persisted for days, he strolled the three miles back to the Hotel Husemann, whistling happily and peering into shops along the way. Depending on continental insouciance, he had even dared a ladies’-wear establishment where a pretty young clerk, under the maternal eye of an older woman, embarrassed him mightily. Even so, he left with a frothy lace blouse for his fiancée. Not even the outrageous price could dampen his mood.

Back at the hotel, he hurried to his room to change into dry shoes and trousers, brushed up, and went down to the lounge for a celebratory drink. He had been sitting at the bar practising his German on the bored waiter when a hand descended on his shoulder with a thud that almost knocked him from his seat. ‘Jan Memling!’ The words exploded in his ear, and he was spun around to see a square face topped with a shock of unruly long blond hair grinning at him.

‘I thought it was you!’

‘Wernher!’ Memling gaped. ‘Wernher von Braun! I don’t believe it.’ He stumbled to his feet and wrung his friend’s hand. ‘My God, it is you. How long has it been?’

‘Four years. Paris, 1934, remember? Ah, did we get drunk that last night.’ Von Braun stepped back to take a good look at Memling. ‘Are you never going to add some weight? Do the English never eat? You all look half-starved.’ Then, remembering his manners, von Braun turned to the man with him. ‘But allow me to introduce my good friend and associate, Herr Doktor Franz Bethwig.’

Bethwig was as tall and blond as von Braun, Memling noted as he extended his hand. A lock of hair slipped over his forehead, and he brushed it back with a quick, nervous gesture, then shook Memling’s hand once and contrived to bob forward from the waist at the same time. His expression was noncommittal as he said, ‘So pleased to meet you, Herr Memling.’

Von Braun signalled the waiter who hurried over with two more chairs. Bethwig sat down, his posture suggesting quite plainly that he hoped they would be staying no more than a moment or two.

‘This is amazing,’ Jan Memling said, struggling in his excitement for the correct words. ‘Do you work in Arnsberg?’ Von Braun chuckled. ‘In a way. Franz and I have been here for three weeks.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned across the table. ‘And we are heartily sick of it. There is nothing to do but walk in the hills and drink. As it has been raining so much…’ He shrugged. ‘Why, there is not even a decent cinema in the entire town. Thank God we leave tomorrow. But enough of us. Why are you here, of all places?’

Memling also shrugged, striving to appear nonchalant. ‘Nothing much. A few days on business. To settle a manufacturing contract for my company.’

‘Then you have taken your engineering degree,’ von Braun exclaimed. ‘I recall that you were studying when you came to Paris. Let me see’ – he tapped his forehead – ‘the Imperial College of Science and Technology, was it not?’

Memling looked uncomfortable for a moment. ‘No, I did not finish. The depression ruined my father’s business… I was lucky enough to find a position with a manufacturing firm in their quality control department. I have since been moved to production engineering. But I do plan to finish my degree when I am able.’

Bethwig’s expression was sceptical, and to break the sudden silence, von Braun leaned back and called to the barman for three steins of beer.

‘But you, Wernher, I heard that you not only earned your doctorate but are employed by the army as well. That’s wonderful!’

Von Braun looked at him with a quizzical expression. ‘Where did you hear that, Jan?’

Memling’s cheeks flamed a sudden red. ‘Isn’t… isn’t it true? I mean… I… Arthur Clarke did have a letter from Willy Ley. He mentioned it.’

At the mention of Ley’s name, the two Germans exchanged glances. The barman arrived at that moment, and Memling looked from one to the other as the beer was served, his cheeks still red with embarrassment.

‘Willy, my God, I haven’t heard from him in years, not since he left Germany,’ von Braun exclaimed a shade too heartily. ‘I was just surprised that you knew. One is always amazed at how word gets about.’

‘How do you know Arthur Clarke and Willy Ley?’ Franz Bethwig asked Memling. His expression was guarded, and there was something a bit disturbed, or disturbing, in his eyes, Jan could not tell which.

‘I am a member of the British Interplanetary Society. Memling began, but von Braun whooped suddenly.

‘Franz, didn’t I tell you? Jan is one of us! He has been a rocket experimenter as long as you and I.’

Bethwig’s expression relaxed immediately, and he grinned. ‘Well, then, that is different.’ He raised his stein in toast. ‘To us, everywhere!’

‘After the VfR failed in 1932,’ von Braun went on, ‘as I think I told you before, the army offered to pay my university expenses if I would work for them. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity.’

‘I should think so.’ In spite of himself, Memling could not keep the envy from his voice. ‘Arthur was correct, then. You are working full-time with rockets. I think that’s wonderful. Our people refuse to pay attention to us. They consider us nothing more than cranks. We have so little money, we can barely afford to buy petrol for fuel.’

‘I had heard that the British Interplanetary Society had fallen on hard times,’ Bethwig remarked in his precise English. ‘It is unfortunate, but then we ourselves have discovered that a private venture is simply not practical. Rocket development is an expensive undertaking, and only the government has sufficient resources to fund such work. It was not until the National Socialists took power that we were provided for. Perhaps if you too had a National Socialist government…’ Bethwig smiled and let the sentence trail off.

‘Perhaps,’ Memling replied somewhat uncomfortably, ‘but in—’

Von Braun interrupted, banging his empty stein on the table and shouting for the barman. ‘Please, please. No politics. Politics give me a headache. I do not care where the money comes from so long as I am allowed to build bigger and better rockets. Then one day soon, God willing, we will travel to the moon and beyond.’ Memling instantly forgot his uneasiness. A warm sense of companionship sped through him, and when the barman had departed, he drank off the second stein in one long gulp. They were three young men who shared a dream, and that was all they needed to understand one another.

‘Wernher and I were about to celebrate a very successful day,’ Bethwig told him. ‘We are intent upon the finest supper and the best bottle of hock this hotel can supply. Will you join us?’ Memling did not think to hesitate.

‘…And so, after we poured the liquid oxygen into the tank through a funnel, just as we used to in the old days at the Raketenflugplatz, we ducked behind the logs that formed our shelter and waited three minutes for the vapour pressure to build. Franz ran out and opened the fuel mix valve. You should have seen him trying to scramble back up the slope in that rain.’ Von Braun was roaring with laughter and had to wipe his streaming eye’s. Bethwig was laughing even harder, and Memling could not remember having such a good time since the Paris congress.