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plantations, vineyards and mansions . A hundred and seventy thousand people lived here—a small number compared to the half million of Frankfurt, nearby. But Wiesbaden was still far from village status.
    This had been home for Ernst during the first years of his life. Then his father had gotten the good position that took the family all around the world, and Ernst had been here only irregularly. His Uncle Karl had taken over the estate, though he was only a shopkeeper. Theoretically he maintained it for his brother; in practice it seemed to have become Karl’s. But if Herr Best—to Ernst, his father would always be Herr Best,
the
important figure of the family—if he remained in Germany this time, that would change. Ernst hoped that would be the case. He was tired of getting uprooted.
    Uncle Karl met them at the station and chauffeured them to the estate in the big 1936 convertible Mercedes Limousine. New cars, Ernst realized, were hard to come by these days; too much of the country’s industrial capacity was going to war machines. In fact the possession of a new car might almost be considered unpatriotic, since the materials and effort squandered in its manufacture might better have been contributed to the nation’s effort of improvement. But Herr Best was not an ordinary citizen, and this car would last for decades; it had been built with German pride.
    â€œThis time you must stay,” Uncle Karl said genially to Herr Best. “It is no longer safe in foreign lands.”
    â€œBut there is money to be made there, and there are services to be rendered there, for the good of the Fatherland,” Herr Best replied with the cheerful resignation of his nature. They were speaking in German, of course; it still seemed slightly strange to Ernst, after two solid years of English. Uncle Karl knew English, but normally declined to speak it. However, Ernst knew that German, like a long disused shoe of good quality, would soon become fully natural to him again.
    â€œMoney to be made here too!” Uncle Karl exclaimed. “Since Hitler came to power, the economy is booming. My shop caters to the affluent factory workers, and business is good, very good.” He turned his face to Ernst. “Do you miss the Hitler Youth, lad? There’s an excellent outfit.”
    â€œI miss Germany,” Ernst said. Which was true—but at the moment, the memory of his friends in America was more poignant. He had been a little afraid to make new friends after the loss of Hans Bremen, especially among flyers. But Lane Dowling, who in certain respects resembled Hans, had not been one to be denied. It was as though such people forged ahead as rapidly in social contacts as they did in the airplanes they so loved, and the targets of their attention could not be unmoved. He sincerely hoped Lane would not crash also. But Uncle Karl would never understand that sentiment, so it wasn’t worth discussing.
    Karl went on to other subjects, ensuring that there would be no gap in conversation. Karl was not much for silences, in contrast to Herr Best’s more introspective side of the family. Perhaps it was a survival trait for shopkeepers to be loquacious, and for diplomats to be silent. “Have you kept up with current events?” he inquired meaningfully.
    â€œYou are referring to Austria?” Herr Best replied.
    â€œWasn’t that something! This man Hitler is a marvel! Remember the terrible, degrading terms forced on Germany after the war? The bruising reparations, the occupation of Frankfurt? Right here, those misbegotten French troops passed, pillaging—”
    â€œThat is the nature of armies,” Herr Best agreed grimly. “The French occupied the Saar until the end of 1930, as I recall.”
    â€œAs you recall!” Karl snorted. “As if you weren’t cursing the French the whole time, since the Saarland is hardly a stone’s throw from here. German territory, stolen