Annemarie Nikolaus - Silenced

Nina, look, those are the colours of the Italian flag! Their pilots are the best. Manni helped his little sister to kneel up on the windowsill. When I grow up, Im going to be Italian!

From the window in their high-rise building, they had a clear view of the air force base where the air show was taking place.

Theyre coloring the sky! Nina clapped her hands together enthusiastically. Its so pretty. Mommy, come and look!

Laura went over to her children, who were following the stunt pilots maneuvers with beaming faces. Thats the Frecce Tricolori squadron.

A plane left the formation, spiraled upwards, turned and flew against the others in a wide loop. Suddenly, the sky exploded in a fireball that eclipsed the sun.

Get down! Laura dragged Nina off the windowsill.

Then the solo pilot collided with one of the oncoming fighter jets; shards of metal flew through the air. The windows rattled.

Laura pushed the children to the floor. Nina screamed.

In the next instant, both aircraft went up in flames. Burning, smoking wreckage plunged from the sky.

Dont cry, darling. She wiped away Ninas tears mechanically with the sleeve of her jumper.

The windows were intact; slowly, Laura straightened up and peered over the ledge. Thick, black smoke was rising outside.

She rushed to the phone. Its Laura Schreiner. Michael, a stunt plane just exploded in mid-air. Clear a page Ill be in the editorial office in an hour.

The children sat on the carpet. Manni swallowed hard and clutched his sister protectively.

Laura hesitated for a moment, but she had no choice. Youll look after Nina, okay? Neither of you leaves the house! Mommy has to go to work for a bit.

Nina began to cry. Im scared.

Laura kneeled down next to her. Im going to get Mrs Breiner. And Daddy will be back soon. Hopefully, she thought, grabbing her camera equipment and rushing downstairs. Who knows whats going on out there?

Acrid smoke drifted into Lauras face. Soon, she had to abandon her car. There was a stench of burning, and she had a coughing fit. Passing burning buildings and weaving between fire engines and ambulances, she reached the airfield. Soldiers had already sealed off a wide perimeter. She hung her press ID card around her neck.

Stop, Maam. A military police officer blocked her way.

Laura pointed to her press ID. Newspaper.

The officer shook his head. No media, Maam. Military area.

The tail of an airplane protruded from the wreckage of a spectator stand. Several injured people lay on the ground opposite. The smoke brought tears to Lauras eyes. Im a journalist!

No media, the soldier insisted.

From the corner of her eye, she saw military police officers stopping a mobile medical unit, so she decided to give in, and moved towards the vehicle.

Before Laura reached it, the doctor and paramedics got out, but the soldiers wouldnt let them pass. The doctor protested loudly, swinging his medical kit, and tried to force his way past them. It was futile; they held him firmly.

Laura looked on for a moment in disbelief; then she looked back at the injured people on the airfield. The distance was only a hundred yards, and they wouldnt let the doctor go to them. She took a few steps back and began to take pictures.

Shortly afterwards, she sat at her desk in the office, hammering into the keys. Military Police Blocks Rescue Efforts.

Lauras husband didnt get home until the next morning. There were so many that were beyond our help. I was in the operating theater until just now.

Despite his exhaustion, Wilfried had remembered to bring the newspapers from the kiosk home with him. Laura stared at her newspaper. Catastrophe! screamed the front page in large letters. Crash involving three Italian stunt pilots. Below were pictures she had taken of the destruction to the affected district. But none of her photos from the air field, not a word about the military police hindering the work of the emergency services.

She flicked through all the pages twice, and then called her editor at home. Michael, what did you do with my article? Why have you only used the news agencies reports in the story?

Michael cleared his throat, but said nothing.

Whats the matter? Whats going on here?

Finally, Michael answered. We received a visit yesterday evening. So did all the newspapers around here. Weve been asked for confidentiality.

Confidentiality? Laura exploded. Whats confidential about an incident that caused dozens of deaths?

Michael didnt answer directly. It seems theyd like to avoid speculation about the cause of the crash.

Who are they? Who visited you yesterday?

There were two of them, in uniform. Secret service. They took your article with them. He sighed audibly.

I see. A wave of heat rose through Lauras body. She stared at the telephone receiver with a deep frown before answering. Well, thats interesting! Ill have to write a new one, then.

Laura! What are you planning?

Ill help them to avoid speculation. Once learnt, never forgotten.

As Wilfried and the children ate breakfast, Laura left her coffee untouched and doodled pictures of planes on a paper napkin.

Why did they crash? she murmured. I saw one of them explode. But was it really just one? Or did they collide first? She closed her eyes to try to visualize the scene, but couldnt do it. Why else would they have exploded?

These air shows themselves are the problem. Wilfried pursed his lips and reached for a bread roll. Sooner or later, something like this was bound to happen.

Laura shook her head. Theres something else behind this.

Manni lifted his gaze from his jam sandwich. Why did they crash, then, Daddy?

Maybe something broke. Or they were tired. Accidents happen. Just like with driving, only much worse.

But you always say that only Sunday drivers cause accidents. The Italians arent Sunday fliers!

Nobody knows why, yet, Laura interjected. But Im going to find out.

Laura drove to the hotel where the Italian squadron was staying.

A casually-dressed man was having a loud discussion with the hotel clerk at the porters desk. He was very pale, and wore a black mourning symbol on his denim jacket. Fragments of Italian sentences peppered his English; he was obviously having trouble making himself understood.

Laura sauntered up to the kiosk next to the reception. In passing, she heard that the clerk was talking about one of the dead pilots. But once she began flicking through the magazines, she didnt understand any more of the conversation; she was too far away.

Eventually, the clerk left her desk and came back with a chef. The two men had a lengthy conversation in Italian, the gist of which the chef then quietly translated.

Laura went up to the bar and ordered a red wine. She sat at the end of the bar, so that the chef would have to pass her to return to the kitchen. As he approached, she slid rapidly off the bar stool, glass in hand. She bumped into him, and the wine spilled onto her suit.

Laura swore.

The chef stared at her for a moment. Scusi, Signora. Please, come with me to the kitchen. Ill take care of the stain.

She made an effort to look annoyed at first. Then she smiled. Thank you, lets give it a try. She sighed loudly. Red wine, of all things!

The stain will come out with salt. Youll see.

In the kitchen, she sat down on a folding stool. The chef dug around in a cupboard and pulled out a clean tea towel.

My names Laura Schreiner, by the way, she said, as he squatted in front of her. Since he didnt immediately introduce himself, she continued: I couldnt help seeing how you came to a compatriots rescue as a translator.