After years of poverty and uncertainty, at the beginning of 1938 Germany was, in Hanna’s words, a ‘dynamic and prosperous nation’, at last ‘seeing bread and making progress’.1 Five years into Nazi rule, the country was flourishing. Unemployment was down, exports were up, national pride had been restored, and Hitler was enjoying the adulation of the majority of the German people – as well as some rather more apprehensive admiration from overseas. Although presenting the German Führer as a ‘grim figure’ in his biographical volume Great Contemporaries, Winston Churchill, then a backbench MP, conceded that Hitler had ‘succeeded in restoring Germany to the most powerful position in Europe’.2 At the same time, the young John F. Kennedy, then motoring through Germany, jotted in his diary that ‘the new autostradas … are the finest roads in the world’, although rather wasted outside America, he felt. Kennedy went on to visit a ‘terribly interesting’ exhibition on the development of aviation at the Deutsche Museum in Munich, before exploring the local nightclubs, which were, he recorded cautiously, ‘a bit different’.3 Nightlife in the big German cities was no longer as politically uninhibited as it had been during the Weimar cabaret years, but was still impressive, with live music, troupes of dancing girls and an earnest sense of optimism that reflected the mood of the country as a whole.
Hitler claimed that his country’s economic problems had been solved by motorization. Germany had not only invested in the autobahns, it was now a world leader in aircraft and general motor technology. Melitta and her colleagues had been showcasing German engine-powered aeroplanes overseas for several years. Now German auto-engineering had also gained a world-class reputation, and in 1938 the country’s car exports, on their own, would exceed its entire car production levels for 1932. These were the years when Germany dominated the European Grands Prix with superstar drivers like Bernd Rosemeyer and Rudolf Caracciola. At the end of January 1938, however, a tragedy on the autobahn seemed to some like a bad portent. It was also an incident that would bring Hanna and Melitta together once more.
Three years earlier, Bernd Rosemeyer had met Melitta and Hanna’s mutual friend, the acclaimed pilot Elly Beinhorn, at the Czechoslovakian Grand Prix. Elly had congratulated the new world champion, garlanded with a huge wreath of oak leaves, on his victory. They danced together that night, and were married the following year. Footage shows them laughing and kissing, him in pale overalls, her in a polka-dot dress, headscarf and sunglasses. A true celebrity couple, both handsome and talented, although ‘not interested in glamour’ they were the toast of Nazi Germany, and a reluctant Rosemeyer soon found himself ordered to join the SS.4 ‘He had to be in the Party to get a licence to race,’ his son Bernd later claimed.5 Ten weeks after young Bernd was born, Rosemeyer achieved a new world land speed record on the autobahn between Frankfurt and Darmstadt. Moments later he lost control of his beautiful custom-made Auto Union Type C car, which skidded and became airborne before crashing into a bridge embankment. Thrown from the car, Rosemeyer died at the roadside. Hanna and Melitta rallied around Elly as condolences from prominent Nazis, including Hitler himself, poured in. But Elly struggled to grieve for her husband in private, as Rosemeyer was not granted the simple, non-political funeral that she had requested. Instead, SS troopers carried his coffin and several Party members ‘came to be seen’, even giving public speeches at the graveside.6 According to the accounts of some of the mourners, Elly walked away in protest.
A week after Rosemeyer’s funeral, Hanna was required to perform another public relations exercise. That February, Germany was showcasing a range of Mercedes-Benz sports cars as well as revealing plans for the forthcoming ‘Volkswagen’ to an international audience at the prestigious Berlin Motor Show. ‘The story of the Berlin exhibition since National Socialism came to power,’ the national press fawned, ‘has been an uninterrupted triumph.’7 Hitler wanted to use the 1938 show as more than a trade fair. It was to be a demonstration of German engineering excellence for unprecedented numbers of visitors. For this he needed a star attraction. Hanna was booked to head the programme: she was to be the first person in the world to fly a helicopter inside a building.
The theme of the motor show was Germany’s lost colonies: ‘at that time a much ventilated grievance’, Hanna noted. In preparation, the great Deutschlandhalle sports stadium, then the world’s largest arena, had been furnished with palm trees, flamingos, a carpet of sand and, in Hanna’s words, ‘a Negro village and other exotic paraphernalia’.8 This was the scene she was to rise above in the Focke-Wulf Fw 61 helicopter: a symbol of German power and control.
At first Hanna was scheduled to make only the inaugural flight, after which the chief Focke-Wulf pilot, Karl Bode, was to take over. During a demonstration for Luftwaffe generals, however, knowing that the helicopter’s sensitivity meant any slight miscalculation could take him sweeping into the audience, Bode refused to risk rising more than a few feet above the ground. It was safe, but hardly impressive enough for the crowds who would be looking down from the galleries of steeply tiered seating. Then, through no fault of Bode’s, one of the propellers broke. ‘It was dreadful,’ Hanna told Elly. ‘There were splinters from the rotor blade flying around and the flamingos were all creating.’9 Once the blades had been replaced, Hanna took her turn. With typical insouciance, she lifted the helicopter well above the recommended height and hovered in the gods. Göring quickly ordered that she was to make all the motor show flights. Bode never forgave her.
Hanna’s delight at winning another promotion quickly turned to dismay, however, when she saw the publicity for the show. Huge, garishly coloured posters presented the list of attractions as Dancing Girls, Fakirs, Clowns, Blackamoors and – last item – Hanna Reitsch will fly the helicopter.10 Hanna had no issue with the cultural agenda – even after she discovered, to her evident surprise, that the ‘negroes’ who sat around the helicopter reading newspapers between rehearsals spoke perfect German. ‘Most of them had been born in a circus troupe,’ she commented on this apparent absurdity, ‘and knew less, even, about the jungle than I!’11 However, although she could never be described as publicity-shy, Hanna resented the way that such ‘variety hall’-style billing, as she saw it, presented her as part of some socially dubious sideshow rather than rightly affiliating her with the main act: the triumphant rise of National Socialism. Hanna felt that both she and the serious business of flying had been debased. The prospect of the show now ‘appalled’ her, she told friends bitterly, but with Göring watching and the reputation of German technology at stake, there was nothing for it but to give the performance of her life.12
Everything went well during rehearsals. Hanna circled the banks of empty seating closely enough to give the audience a good view of her sitting at the controls in her puffy white shirtsleeves, her fair curls tucked into her leather flying cap. Then, picking up on the ‘atmosphere of almost solemn tension’ as she stepped up to the helicopter on the opening night, she was struck by the name painted on its silver fuselage, the Deutschland, and her heart ‘lifted in greeting to my country’.13 But when Hanna revved up the rotors she was horrified to discover that the machine refused to lift. The reputation of the Reich, her own career and, Hanna must have realized, possibly even her liberty, hung stuttering in the spotlights just a few inches above the floor. Surrounding her, watching every manoeuvre of both machine and pilot through a growing cloud of dirt and sand, were some 8,000 spectators, including many representatives of the international press.
Hanna was certain that the problem was caused by the helicopter’s normally aspirated engine being starved of air by the breathing of the vast audience. Painful minutes passed while the technicians debated, but then the great hall’s doors were opened. Hanna and the Deutschland immediately ‘shot up to about twenty feet’ and slowly rotated on the spot.14 At first ‘the audience followed the flight intently’, but such a controlled display held little drama and the applause grew desultory.15 At the end of the demonstration Hanna neatly lowered the machine with her head held high, executed a perfectly timed, stiff-armed Nazi salute, and landed safely on her mark. She had practised this countless times for Udet while he sat comfortably ensconced in an armchair, puffing at a cigar.
Hanna was vindicated, but the helicopter performance was still not the outstanding success that Udet had promised, and that both Göring and Hitler had expected. Hanna herself felt that the audience had grown bored. Among the seated crowd was Eric Brown, the son of the British Great War pilot who had first met Hanna at the 1936 Olympics. Since then, the two of them had exchanged a few letters. Now the young Scotsman was studying in Germany and was one of Udet’s guests at the motor show. Eric felt that Hanna ‘did extraordinarily well’ and claimed that her ‘very mediocre reception’ was chiefly ‘because she had blown all the ladies’ hats off and disturbed everyone’s hair’.16 Whatever the cause, Hanna was quick to distance herself from the event, claiming that Udet had ‘grossly overestimated the capacity of the general public to appreciate a purely technical achievement’.17 For a pilot and showman of Udet’s experience it was damning criticism from his rather nontechnical young starlet.
That evening Hanna renewed her acquaintance with Eric at a lavish party in Udet’s small but well-appointed apartment in the most fashionable part of Berlin. Since the Olympics, the Great War ace had taken Eric under his wing, often inviting him over for a glass of wine and to meet some of the Luftwaffe people who constantly seemed to drift through in a fug of tobacco smoke. Udet was a ‘cigar-smoking, champagne-drinking sort of chap’, Eric noted with evident admiration. He ‘had many lady friends’, and indeed, ‘regarded the whole world as his friend’.18 But watching the German hero with his petite young protégée, Eric saw that Udet was ‘quite overcome’ by Hanna.19 To Eric, Hanna was ‘pretty, but not beautiful’.20 He decided that Udet was not so much romantically struck by her, more that he simply admired a kindred spirit, ‘someone like himself, who was born to fly’.21 Hanna, however, Eric increasingly came to believe, was very ambitious, calculating, even pushy, deliberately manipulating Udet, and ‘wrapping him round her little finger’ to further her own career.22
Eric later admitted that he had been superficially drawn to the Nazi Party. He admired Udet and found Nazi Germany exciting, with its passion for aviation, dynamic leaders and mass rallies.23 Picking up on his apparent sympathy, when Hanna talked with Eric it was constantly about her support for National Socialism. ‘She felt strongly that the Treaty of Versailles had stripped Germany of pride as a nation,’ Eric recalled, ‘and that the only way to get this back was to support Hitler.’24 While Eric greatly respected Hanna’s skills and courage, he began to realize that he ‘did not care for her particularly as a personality, and certainly not for her politics’.25 As he steered their conversations round to safer subjects, he noticed that Hanna never spoke about other women, and ‘only cared for men as a tool to achieve her objectives’.26 Although they would stay in touch, Eric would later coolly characterize his relationship with Hanna as ‘a semi-professional friendship’.27
That night, however, Eric and Hanna shared sympathetic glances at the after-show party, when Udet announced his favourite party game: inviting guests to fire a small .22 calibre pistol over their shoulders at a round target fixed to the wall behind them, seen only through a mirror. According to Eric, ‘Hanna regarded it all as a superfluous sideshow,’ but she went along with it anyhow.28 They both did; there was little else to be done with good grace. To add to the challenge, neither Eric nor Hanna was tall enough to make use of the mirror on the wall, so they had to take their turns using a hand-held shaving mirror. Udet, naturally, was a ‘terribly good’ shot, but both Hanna and Eric also managed to hit the fringes of the target. Several of the other guests were not so fortunate, plugging their bullets into the wall, laughing as if they were simply playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. It was turning into a ‘riotous evening’ but there would be no complaints from the neighbours of a leading – and very popular – Nazi general.29 ‘Heady stuff’, Eric remembered, but ‘typical of the mood pervading Nazi Berlin’.30
That mood was no respecter of boundaries. On 12 March, Hitler announced the Anschluss: the unification of Austria and Germany, or the German annexation of its neighbour. Austria’s chancellor, Kurt Schuschnigg, had been planning a referendum, expecting the people to support Austrian independence, but before this could take place the Austrian Nazi Party orchestrated a coup d’état. Wehrmacht troops entered the country as power was officially transferred to Germany.
The German public response was mainly positive, encouraged by press reports of ‘rapturous’ Austrians greeting the German troops with flowers, and of a people hoping that the Führer would bring his economic ‘miracle’ to Austria. This was also the picture painted by Hanna’s Austrian uncle, Richard Heuberger, in his letters to his sister Emy. Richard had joined the Nazi Party in 1934 and supported the annexation. His son, Helmut, was a keen member of the Hitler Youth and had spent the day among the cheering crowds. A plebiscite held the following month officially ratified the Anschluss, with an incredible 99.7 per cent of voters declared to be in favour. ‘Although not achieved by those methods in which I believe, the Anschluss is now complete,’ the first Austrian Federal President, Karl Renner, announced. It was, he added, ‘true redress for the humiliations of 1918 and 1919’, and as such to be greeted with ‘a joyful heart’.31 The unification of Germany and Austria had been specifically prohibited under the Treaty of Versailles, and yet Hitler’s first step towards the creation of a greater German Reich was accepted with only mild statements of protest from foreign governments.
After the Anschluss, the situation for German and Austrian Jews, and others out of political favour, became increasingly difficult. It was now clear that Jews were no longer welcome in their country, but international borders were already closing against them. ‘By the thousands, citizens of the civilized world … voiced sincere indignation at the persecution,’ one Jewish resident of Berlin later wrote. ‘But with few honourable exceptions, they fell silent when it came to rescuing the victims.’32 In Germany itself there was a deeper silence still. Hitler had always faced some dissent, but after his leading opponents were arrested or killed, such voices had been largely hushed. That March, Fey von Hassell, the aristocratic daughter of the German ambassador to Rome, was struck by how visiting German friends would now always look over their shoulder before saying anything critical about the Nazis. It had become an automatic gesture, and even had a nickname, der deutsche Blick: the German glance. ‘Only the people arrested are considered decent these days,’ Fey learned.33 Quietly, however, some members of the conservative opposition to the Nazi regime were already beginning to organize, and Fey’s father, Ulrich von Hassell, was among them.
Hanna shut her eyes to what was happening to her neighbours who were Jewish or communist, or otherwise inferior Untermenschen. Brought up to accept both anti-Semitism and political disengagement as the norm, she felt that politics had nothing to do with her. Instead, she focused on her gliding, setting several records for altitude, speed and flight duration during May and June, which added to her international reputation.34
Melitta could not afford to be so cavalier, but neither did she wish to raise her public profile. Like thousands of others, Alexander was now enrolled in the volunteer reserves. Although honoured as a flight captain and working again for her country, Melitta’s legal status was still uncertain. It is little wonder that fellow female pilots now referred to her ‘excessive modesty’. Given her aviation skills, ‘she is far too little known to the public’, one friend wrote, ‘as she likes to remain in the background as far as possible’.35
But Melitta could not stay out of the headlines altogether. In early July 1938, while Alexander was taking part in military exercises as a reserve, Melitta was nominated to participate in the German coastal reliability engine-powered flight competition, designed to test a pilot’s ability to fly along coastal routes and deal with challenging wind conditions. It was the first time women had been allowed to compete in this event, albeit in a separate category from the men. Melitta was to fly a Klemm 25, a type of light leisure and training aircraft that Udet thought ‘looked like a seabird’ against the cliffs.36 It was fun to fly but not very sturdy. Unlike many pilots Melitta was not superstitious, and she ‘laughed heartily’ when she saw her given competition number, 13, marked out on the nose of her plane, and even more at its call sign, E-HIN, which in the Austrian dialect means ‘kaput’.37
When poor visibility delayed take-off, Melitta and her fellow competitors took refuge in black humour as they sat chatting around a half-empty coffee pot in the clubhouse. As it was humid as well as overcast, they even managed a quick swim in the lake beyond the airfield. When they were finally given clearance, Melitta and her navigator were the last to start, and saw the ‘whole flight of pretty yellow aircraft swarming in front of us’.38 Nevertheless, fuelled largely on coffee, cake and acid drops, the crew of 13 came in first at every stage. ‘Victory was ours!’ Melitta wrote triumphantly for the Askania magazine.39
Like Hanna’s, Melitta’s heart was more in flying than politics, and in the event she could not resist the chance to shine. After dinner that evening the leader of the National Socialist Flying Corps ‘spoke about the higher purpose of this type of national competition’, but Melitta admitted only to being ‘very proud’ as she received her roses and the winner’s silver plaque.40 Flying was her raison d’être, but she still had no wish to draw any more attention to herself than was necessary.
The following month, the Nazis announced that residency permits for all foreign nationals in Germany, including German Jews of foreign origin, were being cancelled, subject to reissue. More than 250,000 German Jews had already left Germany and Austria, and a further 300,000 were actively seeking asylum, causing an immigration crisis across Europe. The Nazi state, meanwhile, was profiting from the seizure of Jewish property and businesses. Hitler had helped millions of Germans back into work, but while miraculous economic growth was being celebrated, German Jews were struggling to survive. ‘What everybody is striving for, in despair and often beyond that …’ a typical letter stated starkly in one of the last issues of the German-Jewish journal Der Morgen, was just ‘to be able to continue living’.41
As 1938 progressed, international opinion turned further against Germany. Peter Riedel found a tense atmosphere when he represented his country at the Elmira gliding championships in New York that July. He had been the darling of the USA the year before when, sponsored by the International Soaring Society of America, he became the world gliding champion. But in 1938 he was sponsored by the German Aero Club and his glider sported the ‘national markings’, a red and black swastika, on either side of its vertical tail stabilizer.42 It was rather a shock for Peter, now serving as assistant air attaché in Washington, to discover that he was regarded by many as ‘a dedicated Nazi’.43
Peter had joined the Party in 1933, arguing that he could see no alternative. ‘The Republic seemed so weak and helpless,’ he contended. ‘It was obvious that the democratic government had failed … the country was going to hell, people were starving.’44 Despite his conversations with Melitta, when what he perceived as national duty had gone hand in hand with personal promotion it had been enough to win his backing for the Nazis, regardless of their less than palatable policies.
Hanna had also found duty and career conveniently aligned, and was keen to see the best in the regime that was rewarding her so well. ‘Never before had the welfare of the masses been so effectively catered for, nor the working man made to feel such a vital part of his country,’ she wrote, apparently unaware or unconcerned that working German Jews, Roma and others were specifically excluded from such care.45 The 1938 Nuremberg Rally showed how many of her compatriots had reached a similar conclusion; a powerful mixture of enthusiasm and fear seemed to coexist in the Fatherland. ‘I saw the spirit of Nazi Germany flowing through the ancient streets of Nuremberg like a river that had burst its dams,’ the American journalist Virginia Cowles reported. ‘A million red, white and black swastikas fluttered from the window ledges, and the town, swollen to three times its normal size, resounded to the ring of leather boots and blazed with a bewildering array of uniforms.’ In a stadium packed with 200,000 spectators, Cowles watched as the crowd responded to their Führer, ‘swaying back and forth, chanting “Sieg Heil” in a frenzy of delirium … tears streaming down people’s cheeks’. It was only when she heard the ‘sudden whine of a silver-winged fighter’ that she found herself ‘jerked back to the grim reality of 1938’.46
Like Peter before her, Hanna soon found that overseas perspectives on National Socialism were very different. It was September when she travelled to the USA, to give an aerobatics demonstration at the famous Cleveland Air Races in the new German Habicht, or Hawk: a glider designed by Hans Jacobs. If the name of her glider seemed ominous, Hanna refused to see it, claiming it was more ‘like the true dove of peace, rather than the hawk after which it was named’.47 Representing Germany at this event some years earlier, Udet had been photographed shaking hands with Colonel Rickenbacker, the most successful American pilot of the Great War, showing the world that ‘honourable opponents can be honourable friends’.48 Now, Hanna was disconcerted to find what she called ‘strong anti-German feeling’ in the United States.49
Peter came to meet Hanna when her ship docked at New York. ‘She was like a sister to me,’ he wrote, and he wanted to be there to discuss the changing political atmosphere and lend his support.50 Used to being fêted, Hanna did not like her cool reception, but she was now an experienced ambassador, friendly, enthusiastic and ‘full of sparkling energy’.51 Her wonderful gliding performances and warm impromptu speeches soon won her American audience round. ‘Tiny, blonde, blue-eyed and addicted to tea at breakfast’, the New York Times reported, Hanna had gesticulated towards a skyscraper with a piece of toast as she promised, in her best English, ‘I am come over here next year with a machine and land on a building.’52 Hanna was impressed by American directness and good humour, their appreciation of effort rather than just results, the elegance of the women and the chivalry of the men, as well as the general level of gender equality she found. Nevertheless, although she favourably compared the USA to a Europe ‘intellectually overburdened with centuries-old cultural legacy’, she still had some reservations.53 ‘The American’s uncomplicated acceptance of life-as-it-comes,’ she decided, ‘exposes him to the dangers of absorbing uncritically the opinions served up to him by press and radio.’54 Her own thoughts, she claimed, without apparent irony, belonged to ‘the wind, the clouds and the stars, where the game of political intrigue is unknown’.55 Hanna may have believed herself above politics, but the Cleveland Air Races ended ‘amid disturbing news from Czechoslovakia’, as she put it, when a telegram ordered the gliding team to return without delay.56
While Hanna was competing in the USA, Neville Chamberlain was flying to the Bavarian Alps to hear Hitler’s concerns about the security of the German minority in the Czech Sudetenland. Although Chamberlain considered Hitler’s attitude ‘unreasonable’, the British prime minister was still hoping to prevent conflict in Europe.57 ‘It might be possible … to write up Hitler as an apostle of Peace,’ Britain’s ambassador Nevile Henderson had written the week before, cautioning that ‘We make a great mistake when our press persists in abusing him.’58 Despite some hostility in the papers, there were many more appeasing editorials, however, and the Führer was not unaware of potential British sympathy. Even among those opposed to fascism, many people could not bear to contemplate the possibility of another conflict just twenty years after the horror of the Great War, in which nearly every family had lost a husband, a brother or a son. A week later Chamberlain and his entourage returned for a second meeting. On arrival at Cologne aerodrome, a band greeted them with ‘God Save the King’, and at their beautiful hotel on the banks of the Rhine the bedrooms and bathrooms had been filled with the products of Cologne: ‘scent and soap, bath salts and shaving requisites’.59 But although Hitler came to meet Chamberlain personally, it quickly became clear that he was in ‘an uncompromising mood’.60 Once the British leader had confirmed that he would negotiate the peaceful transfer of Sudetenland to Germany, Hitler extended his claim to Hungarian and Polish territory and ‘declined flatly’ to consider alternative proposals.61
While Chamberlain was soaking in a cologne-scented bath, Melitta was facing her own small diplomatic crisis. Some days earlier, at next to no notice, the National Socialist Flying Corps had suddenly nominated Melitta and Elly to be the two German representatives at the ‘grand opening’ of Chigwell aerodrome, in Essex. They packed that evening and prepared to fly out. Melitta would later sardonically call her report on the event ‘Flight to England, with Incidents’.62
Chigwell airfield was being placed at the disposal of the British Women’s Air Reserve. That July the British air minister, Sir Kingsley Wood, had invited the country’s thousands of amateur flying clubs to join the newly created Civil Air Guard, and so form Britain’s third line of air defence in the event of war. Within a month over 20,000 would-be pilots had enrolled for courses, and women were encouraged to sign up on equal terms with men. ‘The menace is the woman who thinks she ought to be flying a high-speed bomber, when she really has not the intelligence to scrub the floor of a hospital,’ one critic wrote indignantly in the Aeroplane magazine.63 Even when the publicity was positive, it was still steeped in the casual sexism of the day. ‘Beauty Queen joins Civil Air Guard’ was the headline that followed the sign-up of Veronica Volkersz, who admittedly always flew with her powder compact to hand but was also a highly skilled pilot and became the first British woman to ferry a jet.64 The following year these women would be among the first female pilots of Britain’s Air Transport Auxiliary, or ATA, delivering RAF and Fleet Air Arm aircraft between factories and airfields.
Keen to show off both German planes and German female pilots, Göring selected Melitta and Elly for their skills as aviators as well as their evident attractiveness, to take part in the celebratory Chigwell aerial displays. Melitta was to fly over in a Klemm 35 open sports monoplane, which she considered a ‘nice little touring aircraft’, and Elly in her Messerschmitt 108 Taifun, both emblazoned with a swastika on the tail. Their mission was officially to extend the hand of friendship among the international community of aviators and, unofficially, to show British women how it was done.65 Tired of her latest studies, Melitta was pleased to exchange her exams at the ministry for an opportunity to fly overseas but, fully aware of what she described as ‘the highly charged political situation’, she also steeled herself for ‘unpleasant surprises’.66
Things started badly when Melitta’s plane was reported overdue. She had left Berlin punctually, ‘like a shot out of a gun’, she claimed, stopping at Düsseldorf and Brussels, and by noon the next day she had landed in Romford. Unfortunately she had failed to complete the required customs formalities at Croydon or Heston en route. ‘One only gets to understand a foreign country gradually,’ she later wrote, ‘especially if everything goes wrong at first.’67 It took five hours to sort out the necessary papers, by which time the press had had a field day with facetious reports that Melitta might be swimming the Channel, and of signals sent to passing shipping to search for ‘a small German plane with swastika markings’ and fish her out.68 ‘There must be some people who like to read about themselves in the newspapers. Yet others feel particularly at ease in the company of reporters,’ Melitta continued drily, perhaps thinking of Hanna. ‘Both these pleasures had been prepared for me this afternoon. It is an effort to smile in spite of this.’69
Later Melitta considered how selflessly event organizer Gabrielle Patterson had waited all afternoon for her arrival, despite not being able to contact her husband. Did this show her ‘remarkable spirit’, Melitta mused, or, thinking of Alexander, ‘are English husbands so much more patient than others?’70 She was relieved when she finally found Elly, who helped her to see the funny side of things. But Elly had caught sight of Chamberlain at Heston airport, on his way to Germany, and had noticed how restrained the public applause for him had been. Both women knew that good relations between their country and Britain were crucial at this moment, and Melitta, with her mind on the noble Junker ideals and traditions, was determined to bring honour to a Germany she still saw as greater than the Nazi Reich.
The next day the crowds and press alike were hugely impressed by the German performances. Melitta included several loops in her routine, despite the fact that her plane was not designed for aerobatics, and Elly gave ‘an excellent display’, particularly impressing the British female pilots, who ‘had never seen a woman fly such a powerful aircraft before’.71 On landing, both women answered questions about ‘every detail’ of their planes, and then posed for photographs, carefully leaning against the flank of the Taifun, where the huge ‘D’ for Deutsche was painted, rather than beside the swastika on the tail. ‘It is no exaggeration to say that the world is awaiting with anxiety the message which Hitler has to deliver,’ ambassador Henderson had written earlier that month.72 In the absence of any news from the British PM’s latest meeting with the German Führer, however, what better photo opportunity could there be than Mrs Gabrielle Patterson in a floral dress, founder of the British Women’s National Air Reserve, chatting away to two pretty young German pilots in cotton skirts and light woollen cardigans, Melitta still wearing her trademark leather flying cap.
What followed next was ‘an interesting example of how rumours get about’, the British press later reported.73 Stories were circulating that Melitta and Elly had been ordered to call their embassy and, should they not be able to get through, to report there in person immediately. The telephone having been cut off since that morning, the two German aviatrixes quickly prepared to leave for London, giving rise to enormous press speculation about the international situation. Might the women’s recall be symptomatic of degenerating relations between the two nations, and the disconnected telephone line symbolic of a wider breakdown in communications? Nervous excitement grew around the possibility of being the first to hear the news, and break the story, that the whole country was dreading. Reporters rang their offices ahead in anticipation of further updates.
In fact, it was Alexander’s eagerness to arrange a date with his wife before she flew home that had inadvertently almost caused an international incident. He had been temporarily seconded to London on academic work and had been surprised to read about Melitta’s unexpected visit to Chigwell in the British papers, whose subsequent reports wryly concluded, ‘We trust that the dinner went off satisfactorily.’74 Melitta bit her tongue and spent a long day with Alexander touring London architecture and art galleries. He ‘spares me nothing’, she wrote, betraying her desperation to satisfy what she called her ‘natural need for tranquillity’ after the press storm surrounding her visit.75 It was with some relief that she left Britain for what she called ‘the borderless sea of the air’ the following day.76
Less than a week after Melitta flew back to Germany, the British, Italian and French heads of government formally agreed to Nazi Germany’s annexation of the Czech Sudetenland, under what became known as the Munich Agreement. Chamberlain famously declared that the arrangement guaranteed ‘peace for our time’. The following day, 1 October 1938, German troops marched into their new territory. Claus von Stauffenberg was among them. An imminent war seemed to have been averted, but at the cost of Czechoslovakian national security, Soviet faith in the Western powers, and the potential overthrow of Hitler by rebellious senior German army officers who had been relying on a broader European show of strength. Five days later Winston Churchill told the House of Commons that the settlement was ‘a total and unmitigated defeat’. ‘You were given the choice between war and dishonour,’ he continued prophetically. ‘You chose dishonour, and you will have war.’