Tunguska.
How naïve we were.
Chapter 11
Journal of Henry Armitage
July 24, 1933
Rachel and I arrived in Berlin’s Tempelhof airport late on the night of July 23, 1933. A storm came with us. The howling wind cut through us, and torrential rain rode on it. By the time we hailed a cab, we were soaked to the bone. We had not much dried when we arrived at the Hotel Esplanade at the Pottsdamer Platz. I would have preferred to go straight to our room and straight to bed, but alas, fate was not to be so kind.
We entered the hotel and came upon an explosion of sound and light. The roar of a live band poured through the open double doors of what I could see—even with a mere glance—was an ornate ballroom.
“Looks like we came to the right place,” Rachel said to me with a sly grin and playful eyes.
“Maybe for you, young lady. I think my dancing days are done.”
“My dear Henry,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I dare say there’s more to you than you let on.”
I wouldn’t have expected an opportunity to test that hypothesis, but one came sooner than I imagined. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, a young man in a black military uniform appeared. He clicked his heels, bowed, and said, “Dr. Armitage, Mrs. Jones, welcome to Berlin. Please, forgive my intrusion.”
“No,” Rachel said with no small amount of hesitation, “not at all.” She looked at me for direction, but I had none to offer. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“It is not important, ma’am,” the young man said, his smile never wavering. “It is my privilege to invite you to a small gathering.” We waved his hand towards the ballroom where raucous laughter did much to undercut his assertion about the size of the party.
“Well, we thank you for that,” Rachel said, “but how did you know who we are?”
The smile remained, but the corners of the soldier’s mouth seemed to tick up ever so slightly as he said, “Oh, Mrs. Jones, we in Germany are most interested in our visitors, particularly those with such a fine pedigree. Now, if you please, I know you must want to change out of these wet clothes. I’ll be waiting.”
“So much for a discreet entrance,” Rachel said as we made our way to our room.
“Yes, it would seem as though we were expected.”
“Nothing for it now, though.”
“Should we go to this party?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the man in a suit standing at the end of the hallway trying—a little too hard, it would seem—to appear inconspicuous.
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Right. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Maybe I’ll get to see you in those dancing shoes after all,” she said with a grin as she opened the door of her room, located next to mine.
I frowned, and she laughed.
* * *
Ten minutes later I emerged in a suit identical to the one I had been wearing, sans the soaking rain. I waited on Rachel in the lobby, and when she appeared, with her dress trailing down the grand staircase as she walked, the golden-globed necklace Carter had given her more than a decade before catching the light, I was struck speechless. It is a strange thing, one that so many a father or uncle has experienced—for I considered Rachel to be my own kin as strongly as if it were true—to watch a child grow into adulthood. Where had the little girl with skinned knees and pigtails gone? I suppose she had vanished many, many years before.
“Another thing my father taught me,” she said upon seeing my expression, “was to always have at least one nice thing to wear. You never know when you’ll be invited to a party.”
“Quite,” I mumbled. “And you still wear that necklace.”
Her hand went to the globe that hung around her neck on a golden chain. Her fingers ran over the indentations of the Arabic script, as I knew they had done unnumbered times before.
“Always.”
She glanced over my shoulder, and I didn’t have to
How naïve we were.
Chapter 11
Journal of Henry Armitage
July 24, 1933
Rachel and I arrived in Berlin’s Tempelhof airport late on the night of July 23, 1933. A storm came with us. The howling wind cut through us, and torrential rain rode on it. By the time we hailed a cab, we were soaked to the bone. We had not much dried when we arrived at the Hotel Esplanade at the Pottsdamer Platz. I would have preferred to go straight to our room and straight to bed, but alas, fate was not to be so kind.
We entered the hotel and came upon an explosion of sound and light. The roar of a live band poured through the open double doors of what I could see—even with a mere glance—was an ornate ballroom.
“Looks like we came to the right place,” Rachel said to me with a sly grin and playful eyes.
“Maybe for you, young lady. I think my dancing days are done.”
“My dear Henry,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I dare say there’s more to you than you let on.”
I wouldn’t have expected an opportunity to test that hypothesis, but one came sooner than I imagined. Before I could even open my mouth to respond, a young man in a black military uniform appeared. He clicked his heels, bowed, and said, “Dr. Armitage, Mrs. Jones, welcome to Berlin. Please, forgive my intrusion.”
“No,” Rachel said with no small amount of hesitation, “not at all.” She looked at me for direction, but I had none to offer. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“It is not important, ma’am,” the young man said, his smile never wavering. “It is my privilege to invite you to a small gathering.” We waved his hand towards the ballroom where raucous laughter did much to undercut his assertion about the size of the party.
“Well, we thank you for that,” Rachel said, “but how did you know who we are?”
The smile remained, but the corners of the soldier’s mouth seemed to tick up ever so slightly as he said, “Oh, Mrs. Jones, we in Germany are most interested in our visitors, particularly those with such a fine pedigree. Now, if you please, I know you must want to change out of these wet clothes. I’ll be waiting.”
“So much for a discreet entrance,” Rachel said as we made our way to our room.
“Yes, it would seem as though we were expected.”
“Nothing for it now, though.”
“Should we go to this party?”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder at the man in a suit standing at the end of the hallway trying—a little too hard, it would seem—to appear inconspicuous.
“I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Right. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“Maybe I’ll get to see you in those dancing shoes after all,” she said with a grin as she opened the door of her room, located next to mine.
I frowned, and she laughed.
* * *
Ten minutes later I emerged in a suit identical to the one I had been wearing, sans the soaking rain. I waited on Rachel in the lobby, and when she appeared, with her dress trailing down the grand staircase as she walked, the golden-globed necklace Carter had given her more than a decade before catching the light, I was struck speechless. It is a strange thing, one that so many a father or uncle has experienced—for I considered Rachel to be my own kin as strongly as if it were true—to watch a child grow into adulthood. Where had the little girl with skinned knees and pigtails gone? I suppose she had vanished many, many years before.
“Another thing my father taught me,” she said upon seeing my expression, “was to always have at least one nice thing to wear. You never know when you’ll be invited to a party.”
“Quite,” I mumbled. “And you still wear that necklace.”
Her hand went to the globe that hung around her neck on a golden chain. Her fingers ran over the indentations of the Arabic script, as I knew they had done unnumbered times before.
“Always.”
She glanced over my shoulder, and I didn’t have to
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