My wounds had almost healed by the time of the Christmas party at the German Embassy. Ana looked radiant. She positively shimmered in her evening gown. I had managed, at the last minute, to rent a tuxedo, which was badly pressed and had a faded stain on the cummerbund. The swelling in my face had gone down somewhat but the scars, while fading also, were still visible. It occurred to me that I was beginning to look more like my World War II Luftwaffe colleagues than a college boy from Cornell.
“Aah, you must be Ana’s American friend,” said the director of Ana’s section. “How do you Americans say it?” He hesitated as though in thought. “What does the other fellow look like?” At this he burst into restrained laughter, sloshing his drink around as he did so.
“I wish it were something that interesting, but unfortunately, it’s the result of a slight mishap in an aircraft,” I said.
“Well, I’m so glad that you are not worse off. Although, I must say, German women,” he glanced over at Ana, “do tend to like a man with a scar on his face.” He laughed again. “You must excuse me,” he said, nodding to Ana. “Do enjoy yourself Mr.—” He paused, trying to remember my name.
“Mr. Verrier,” I said.
“Yes, yes of course, and help yourself, Mr. Verrier, to the American bourbon. We have it straight from your state of Kentucky.”
It was an immense house, possibly one of the largest houses in Monrovia, with heavy stuffed chairs and sofas all around. A crystal chandelier hung in the center of the great room. A tall Christmas tree, flown in from Germany, almost touched the ceiling in one corner of the room. A quartet, playing Christmas music from the German Baroque period, was stationed on a second-floor landing. We were the youngest couple there. Everyone else looked middle aged, very prosperous, and familiar with one another.
“Who is here?” I asked.
“Invitations were sent to most of the embassies and legations. A few did not respond—the Russians, the Cubans, the Chinese—pretty much anyone with an ideological ax to grind against the Western world. The Israelis came. You can see them over there.” She pointed to a well-dressed man and woman. “I don’t know what his job is at the Israeli Mission. He’s probably here to check on all of the bugs his spies have planted. They’re still searching for war criminals, you know. I think the woman is his wife, but then that might be a cover.”
“Is that why I haven’t seen any of my pilot friends here?”
“I think so. I think the Israelis secretly regard them all as war criminals. Maybe they are too small to fry, but I suspect that when they run out of big fish, they’ll go after the little ones. We also have some representatives of industry here. Over there.” Ana pointed to a group of elegant, well-groomed people standing near the punch bowl. “European steel, and rubber, mostly.”
“Any chance of modernish dance music? I want to ask you to dance.”
She smiled. “I might be able to do something about that, but only after enough schnapps has been served.”
We chatted for a while with various couples then Ana excused herself to go to the “powder room.” I watched her easily make her way through the crowd of guests.
“She is certainly a beautiful young woman,” a male voice said near my right ear. I turned to face an impeccably attired man enveloped in an essence of expensive cologne.
“I am Major Ahud,” he said. “And this is my wife Nouga.” Nouga smiled. “I am attached to the Israeli Mission here and you must be the new, young American pilot working for African Air Services?” I was startled and must have shown it. The major continued, “Please, don’t be concerned. It’s my job to know who the newcomers are.”
“Then you must be a busy man.”
“Yes, yes I am. Monrovia is, as you Americans say, a happening place—lots of foreigners, lots of money, and lots of things valuable to the West.” The major had a military bearing—square shoulders, direct eye contact, and a firm jaw. His wife looked European and watched me carefully as the major probed. “You know,” he continued, “there is a lot of traffic going through Monrovia in the way of escaped criminals and others wanted by your government and mine. There is a pipeline, so to speak, from Europe to South America directly through Monrovia.”
“Why here? Why Monrovia?” I asked.
“Just look at the map,” he said. “This part of West Africa is the closest geographical point in this hemisphere to South America. It’s a relatively short flight and, as you probably know, Liberia is, shall we say, very liberal in its treatment of—”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” I interrupted. “I do contract flights to the mines and missions, but I haven’t seen any German war criminals on my airplane.”
“Yes, but your colleagues—some of them have very interesting histories.”
“I didn’t know that it was a war crime to fight for one’s country.”
“Oh, but it is if you murder innocent civilians or unarmed prisoners of war.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Major, but the former Luftwaffe pilots that I work with here were just very young men fighting in the air for their lives. And, really, do you think it’s appropriate to talk about such things here?”
“As you wish, my friend,” the major said. “But I would like to meet with you later, at your convenience.”
“I don’t think I can help you, Major. If you’ll excuse me.” I looked at his wife. “Nice to have met you, ma’am,” I said. She smiled without parting her lips.
I made my way to the bar, hoping to get as far away from the major as I could. The bartender was a local who spoke German and English very well. I asked for a gin and tonic and in a few moments he had it sitting in front of me—an excellent job. From my position at the bar I scanned the room for Ana. I saw her chatting with an older couple. I made my way toward her through the growing crowd of guests.
She smiled at my approach and introduced me to Sir Reginald Hooper and his wife, Alice. Sir Reginald was an executive with British Petroleum.
“Well young man,” he said, extending his hand, “Ana tells us that you’re a pilot.”
“Yes sir, I am,” I answered giving his hand a couple of light pumps.
“Did you fly during the war?”
“No sir, I was only six months old when Pearl Harbor was bombed.”
“Yes, yes,” he said laughing with just a little bit of embarrassment. Alice laughed too—a very restrained, controlled laugh. “All you flyers look so young. Some of our RAF chaps from the war look like they haven’t aged a day.”
“That’s from flying Spitfires, sir. They fly very fast you see and, as you know from Einstein’s special relativity theory, the faster you go the slower you age.”
“Really!” Sir Reginald said looking genuinely astonished. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, without a doubt,” I said. “Take jet pilots for example. Their airplanes fly much faster than Spitfires, so they age much slower. Surly you’ve noticed how young those guys look.”
“I never thought of it that way, young man, but you may have a point. Yes, indeed you may have. I’ll have to see about taking flying lessons.” Sir Reginald waited politely for the laughter to die down. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, young man, but we must be moving along—lots of people to see. Cheerio.” Mrs. Hooper smiled at me and blew a slight kiss at Ana.
“Did I scare them off?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. I doubt that Sir Reginald knows much about relativity, but he is a specialist in public relations and schmoozing politicians. I think this party is an opportunity for him.”
“Ana, I’m sure there are a lot of interesting people here, but this will be our last night together.”
“Let me say hello to a few more and then we can go.” She touched her index finger to her lips then touched mine.
The next morning, after breakfast at the hotel, I took Ana to Robertsfield and watched her get on an old DC-4 bound for Cairo. She had said that I could meet her in Germany any time I wished. I didn’t answer. There was, of course, Jenny, and my behavior with Ana had not been exemplary. I had convinced myself that I would never see Ana again—that is, until I saw her climb up the stairway and disappear into the aircraft cabin. I found myself clutching the paper on which she had written her address with great care.