Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

Jack recalls reading somewhere that von Braun always made a point of visiting the shop floor at the U.S. Army Ballistic Missile Agency. A visionary with a feel for hardware. “So you worked right in the factory. What did you do?”

“I am the superior to make certain the rocket is properly builded,” says Fried.

“You oversaw production standards.”

“You can say this.”

“So you helped manufacture the actual rocket. The V-2.”

Fried nods. Jack gets a chill. “Wow.”

“This is a beautiful machine.”

Jack nods. “Hitler’s ‘secret weapon.’” He wants to smile broadly — he has waited so long for this.

“Guidance and control,” says Fried, “this is like the brain of the machine. Delicate. It is taken years. The rocket is fifteen point two metres long, perfect mixture for fuel, this also is taken years. We produce three hundred each month, but they are not all perfect. The SS does not know what is needed properly to produce this rocket.”

“The SS?”

“This rocket could have winned the war.”

Jack knows enough not to argue — the V-2 could never have won the war for Hitler, regardless of how efficiently they were produced. The world’s first ballistic missile was an effective instrument of terror, but in terms of destructive power it was conventional ordnance. A glorified artillery shell. Hitler would have had to have a parallel track of atomic research going, then married the nuclear bomb to the V-2 rocket. Jack recalls what Froelich said — that Hitler rejected atomic research on the grounds that it was “Jewish science.”

But Fried is probably like Wernher von Braun, whose passion for rockets was born of the dream of space travel. He couldn’t have cared less about weapons. “Do you think we’ll do it, Oskar? Will Americans get to the moon and back within the decade?”

Fried taps his pipe. “Is possible. If Soviets do not arrive first.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got you now.” Jack grins and sees Oskar Fried smile for the first time. “Maybe that’s who spotted you at the marketplace?” He can see Fried clam up again but he presses on. “An old colleague? Maybe an engineer who worked for you?”

Fried shakes his head, no.

“I thought you said you didn’t know who he was?”

Fried takes the bait. “I do not know who, I know what.”

“Oh,” says Jack innocently. “Well, Simon says this fella doesn’t know your name so what’s the problem? Maybe he just wanted to say hello—”

“He wants to put a rope about my neck.” Fried has gone pale. He taps out his pipe.

Jack says gently, “Why, Oskar? What did you do?”

“My job.” Fried gets up, takes a spray bottle from the windowsill and begins spritzing his flowers.

Jack was unable to get more out of him. Now, as he walks down the stairwell, he runs his finger along the serrated edge of Fried’s car key in his pocket. “Simon asked me to move it,” he lied. He heads out the side door of the building and squints against the blaze of afternoon, wondering, why should Fried be afraid that he will be hanged for the job he did? He was a scientist. He worked on the V-2, so did Wernher von Braun and half of NASA. Fried has laboured under the pitiless scrutiny of GRU — the Soviet secret police — for the past seventeen years. If he’s paranoid, perhaps it’s because he is like a bird that has been caged for too long — the door is open, but he has no idea he can fly out. Freedom takes getting used to. Like daylight for a miner. Fried would know, having worked underground at the rocket factory, and now Jack understands the orchids; they thrive in darkness. As he rounds the building, he feels a twinge of compassion. He finds the Ford Galaxy parked in back between two Dumpsters, gets in and checks his watch. It’s just after four.

Earlier, at three-fifteen, Colleen and Madeleine are in the schoolyard along with several other children and adults.

“What do you want to do now?” asks Madeleine. Colleen is leaning against the bike rack. Madeleine is sharpening a Popsicle stick on the ground.

“I don’t know,” says Colleen, “what do you wanna do?”

“I dunno. Wanna go to Rock Bass?”

“Maybe.”

Across the schoolyard, Cathy Baxter and a number of other girls are busily helping Miss Lang prepare for the flying-up ceremony that will take place after supper. Glancing over at Colleen, Madeleine tries to quell her excitement.

She intended to be one of the helpers, but she lost the inclination when Colleen showed up. It’s not that she is ashamed of being a Brownie, it’s just that she would rather not be one in front of Colleen.

“I might quit after I fly up,” she says, testing the point of her new Popsicle knife. The day is soft and the sun sits lightly on her bare arms and legs. “Unseasonably warm,” said the weather man — in other words, perfect.

Through the open windows of the gymnasium, the sound of the band practising reaches them in fractured phrases. Madeleine recognizes the melody, and the lyrics run through her head involuntarily, It’s a small world after all, It’s a small world after all …. If she had been forced to join the band, she would be trapped in there right now.

Colleen chews a piece of long grass and narrows her eyes at the giant toadstool being set up in front of rows of benches on the baseball field. Like an altar, thinks Madeleine. The Brown Owl’s altar. Tonight the Brownies will receive the sacrament of their wings and fly up to Guides. Except for Grace Novotny, who will walk, escorted by a Sixer, up along the roll of yellow paper. And except for Claire McCarroll, who, having just joined as a Tweenie this year, will be pinned as a full-fledged Brownie. Too-wit, too-wit, too-woo!

“Are you coming tonight?”

“No, I got other plans,” says Colleen.

Good.

Here comes Claire McCarroll on her bike with the glorious pink streamers. She is still in her light blue dress that she wore to school.

“Do you like butter?” she asks, plucking one of the tiny yellow flowers that have so recently sprouted up like magic amid the grass.

Claire is very frisky for Claire. It’s a big day for her — being the Easter bunny in school, and about to get her Brownie pin this evening. She holds the buttercup under Colleen’s chin and says, “Yup, you like butter.” It’s impossible to imagine anyone else doing that to Colleen and getting away with it. Then Claire does the same thing to Madeleine, giggling, “You love butter, Madeleine.”

“He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me—” Oh no. It’s Marjorie Nolan, loudly plucking the petals from a daisy, with Grace Novotny in tow. Marjorie overheard Claire with the buttercup and just had to do something with a flower of her own.

Claire says to Madeleine and Colleen, “Want to come for a picnic?”

Madeleine watches Marjorie cheat, counting the final two petals as one, tearing them off. “Ricky loves me!” She is standing a little too close and speaking a little too loudly while pretending to ignore them.

“Where’re you going?” asks Colleen.

Claire replies, “For a picnic at Rock Bass with Ricky.”

Madeleine hums “Beautiful Dreamer” under her breath and catches Colleen’s eye. Colleen grins ever so slightly. Neither wants to be mean, but they both know it’s wishful thinking on Claire’s part. No big deal. I can dream, can’t I, doc?

“Want to come too?” says Claire. “We can look for a nest.”

Colleen and Madeleine decline politely so Claire lifts her Frankie and Annette lunchbox from the basket of her bike and opens it. She shares her picnic with them then and there. A red wax-covered disc of Babybel cheese, a chocolate cupcake with blue icing, and some apple slices. She is careful to save some “for the animals.” Madeleine makes a pair of red lady-lips with the Babybel wax, and Claire laughs.