“Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Major von Wachtstein. Have a nice flight,” the tower replied in German. In good German.
He picked up the microphone again. “Dankeschön.”
Another ethnic German, obviously, is working in the control tower. The German was perfect. A little soft, so probably a Bavarian, or maybe a Swabian. And another Argentino-German who thinks Hitler is a splendid all-around fellow. An anti-Nazi Argentino-German would not have offered the cordial farewell to a Luftwaffe officer.
He felt life come into the controls, raised the tail wheel, and then let the plane take itself off. He flew to the Río Plate, then headed south.
Thirty minutes later, he was over Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. He dropped to 500 meters, cranked in some flaps, and dropped to 250.
On his first pass over the radio station, he thought he saw someone in the open; but he wasn’t sure, and he wanted to be sure. He stood the Storch on its left wing, turned, and made another pass. This time two men were in the open, looking up at him.
He flew level for a moment, while he pushed the upper half of the left-side window upward until it engaged the catches on the lower side of the wing. The slipstream caught the roll of tape in his lap and started to suck it out the window, but the seat belt held the purse in place.
He stood the airplane on its wing again and flew back toward the radio station. He pulled the throttle back so he was just above stall speed, and when he came very close to the men on the ground, he freed the purse from the seat belt and threw it out the window.
He applied throttle, dumped the flaps, and turned a final time to fly over the radio station to make sure they had the purse. One of the men on the ground was waving at him to show that they did.
He turned toward Estancia Santo Catalina. “Now comes the tough part,” he said aloud.
He remembered reading in a book about the American Civil War what the Southern general Lee had said before going out to surrender to the United States general, the one who later became president, Grant: “I would rather die a thousand deaths…”
“I know just how you felt, General Lee,” he said aloud.
Alicia Carzino-Cormano was waiting for him—out of breath, as if she had run to the airstrip when she heard the sound of his engine.
Even before he climbed out of the airplane, she knew there was bad news; and by the time he shut it down, she had decided what it was. “When do they want you to go to Germany?” she asked.
“Very soon. In three or four days.”
“If you loved me, you would go to Brazil.”
“If I went to Brazil, my father would be shot.”
“And they’re not going to shoot you?”
He managed a smile and a light tone in his voice. “I don’t think anytime soon,” he said. “I should be back in a month or six weeks. Maybe even sooner.”
She looked into his eyes. “You believe that?”
I wish I did. He nodded his head.
“If you believe that, I will believe that,” she said. She threw herself into his arms.
“We’ll be OK, my precious,” he said.
“Can you spend the night?” she asked against his chest.
“I have to leave right now for Montevideo.”
“And when will you be back from Montevideo?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll go to Buenos Aires tonight, or in the morning,” she said.
“Your mother may—”
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, almost violently, indicating that he should know that what her mother thought or wanted was not important. “When you get back, call me at the house.”