Fatherland

Lufthansa.
    Berlin has two airports. The old Tempelhof aerodrome near the city center handles short-haul, internal flights. International traffic passes through Hermann Göring in the northwestern suburbs. The new terminal buildings are long, tow 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 toward 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 and hissed shut behind him, and suddenly he was in the soundproofed 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 check-in, where his passport was scrutinized carefully by a blonde with "Gina" pinned to her left breast, a swastika badge on 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're 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 farthest from the washbasins, locked the door, opened the suitcase, took out the leather holdall. 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 holdall, 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 gray 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 holdall 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. Barrier two: rechecking of the visas themselves. Three members of the Zollgrenzschutz , the border protection police, were stationed on either side of the entrance, carrying submachine guns. The elderly man in front of March was scrutinized with particular care, the customs officer speaking to someone on the telephone before waving him through. They were still looking for Luther.
    When March's turn came, he saw how his passport baffled the customs man. An SS-Sturmbannführer with only a twenty-four-hour visa? The normal signals of rank and privilege, usually so clear, were too confused to read. Curiosity and servility warred in the customs man's face. Servility, as usual, won.
    "Enjoy your journey, Herr Sturmbannführer."
    On the other side of the barrier, March resumed his study of airport security. All luggage was scanned by X ray. He was frisked, then asked to open his case. Each item was inspected—the sponge bag unzipped, the shaving foam uncapped and sniffed. The guards worked with the care of men who knew that if an aircraft were lost to hijackers or a terrorist bomb during their watch, they would spend the next five years in a KZ.
    Finally he was clear of the checks. He patted his inside pocket to make sure Stuckart's letter was still there, turned the little brass key over in his other hand. Then he went to the bar and had a large whisky and a cigarette.
    He boarded the Junkers ten minutes before takeoff. It was the day's last flight from Berlin to Zürich and the
    cabin was full of businessmen and bankers in dark three-piece