The Highway Kind(46)

“You knew Bernd,” I said softly. “He was your friend.” I felt safe in saying so; Bernd was everyone’s friend. I squeezed his arm lightly. “He was my friend too. I only want to know, because you know, if it was something I did wrong in the design, something I should have foreseen...don’t you see? I worry that it was my fault.”

There was enough truth in this to touch him. He stared at me for a long moment, then swallowed convulsively and nodded once, then twice.

“I understand, Herr Doktor,” he said, and took a deep breath, then looked furtively around the room.

“I signed an affidavit,” he said, leaning close to me and speaking low and fast. “They made me say there were no problems, the new body had better stability, that it drove like it was on rails. But—” His lower lip was red and moist from being bitten, but he bit it again. “It was true, what I said—but the only time I drove it was a shakedown, a few days before the accident, an easy run; my orders were not to go above four thousand revs in fourth gear—and there was hardly any wind at all.” He stopped to breathe, making up his mind whether to go on.

“Please,” I whispered, looking into his eyes. They were pale blue, and full of tears.

“The wind-tunnel measurements—” he blurted. “I wasn’t there, but I heard them talking, Herr Eberan and Herr Weber, two days later, on the track before the shakedown. They were arguing—they said the rear lift was lower than the earlier Streamliner’s, much lower.”

That jolted me. A lower rear lift was good for drag reduction, but with a center of pressure too close to the center of gravity—and that’s just what they had, with the ice tank’s positioning—low rear lift is a recipe for longitudinal instability.

I forced myself to let go of Hasse’s arm and sat back a little, nodding and trying to look only grave and concerned, but I could feel my pulse beating in my ears.

“I see. Did they check for sidewind?” They must have...

Hasse nodded, feeling a little better now.

“It wasn’t good, but Weber was telling Herr Eberan that because of the time pressure and it being Christmas, they hadn’t been able to be very thorough. They were checking the wind at the track before I started—there really wasn’t any, and I was glad about that, having heard them talk. I could tell they were—maybe not worried, exactly, but very cautious.”

So they knew. They knew before the record run that the car was unstable—and they didn’t test it in real racing conditions. Wind-tunnel data will tell you only so much, and a shakedown cruise will tell you only that the wheels don’t fall off and the wiring is good.

They knew. And they went ahead and took the chance, because there wasn’t time, and they didn’t want to risk looking unready. Didn’t want to lose face in front of the Mercedes. Didn’t want to risk the chancellor’s birthday gift.

“I see,” I repeated mechanically. I took a deep breath of my own, and took my hand off his arm.

“I see,” I said again. “Danke.”

DESIGN NOTE 33: Stromlinienwagen 6.5 L

Radiator

The radiator is inactive, as it is supplanted by ice cooling. It should be equal in weight to the ice tank, however, so may be partially filled with water in order to achieve this. Hoses must therefore be detached and sealed.

It was late afternoon when I left the bierstube, and dark was already rising in the streets. Too late to visit Elly, I thought, making the excuse to myself. In fact, I needed some time alone before I spoke with her.

So now I knew why Eberan wouldn’t talk to me. I could have taken a taxi—it was a long way home and it was beginning to rain—but I needed to walk, needed something physical to keep the rising anger in my belly under control.

“Schweine,” I muttered under my breath, “bastards,” the words coming out in spurts of white, torn away by the wind. Wind. Unstable in a sidewind. The air vents, the ice tank, the shifted center of gravity, the downdraft, the sealed air intake...and they knew. They cut corners, they ignored all the testing protocols, they rushed things—and they killed Bernd Rosemeyer. For the sake of their pride.

I was trembling with rage, the handle of my cane slippery in my fist. I kept seeing the warped side panel, the air-vent plate, the torn-off fairings. A car caroming off the bridge, somersaulting twice, shedding pieces...and the smell of spilled fuel, the car’s blood sharp in the wind. And Bernie, lying dead in the grass.

After a time, my blood cooled—it had to; I was soaked to the skin and shivering, my shoes squashing with every step and the cold water welling between my toes. My thoughts began to drift back to Elly. Should I tell her? And—perhaps more important—what might she do if I did?

Go to Eberan and demand an admission of carelessness, insist on his guilt and demand reparation for herself and little Bernd? What reparation was possible for the loss of her husband, of a man like Bernd? I felt the loss of him myself like a salted wound, a slow agony. For her...

More likely, I thought, she would go to the newspapers and denounce Auto Union and Eberan in public. I was already shivering, but that thought made me tremble. It would be a huge scandal—and it was clear to me that this was exactly what Auto Union feared, the reason why they had concealed their tests (and the lack of them), why they’d had poor little Hasse sign his affidavit.

Exposure might destroy Auto Union—and while I was furious at them for what they’d done, I didn’t want that. There were too many people employed there, too many wonderful things that had been done; I couldn’t bear the thought of it all being discredited, lost in a furor of accusation and scandal.