“I know, I know, and I don’t want to let you down! But we’ve never been away from Charlie for more than two weeks before—and now you’re talking about six months!”
“Anne, this is our life—flying. It’s what we do. It’s why I married you, because I knew you were meant to be my copilot. I thought it was what you wanted, too. I thought you liked flying with me.”
“Oh, I do! Of course I do—I love it!” As I met his genuinely confused gaze, I remembered the trip to Mexico, when we photographed the ruins; the intimacy, the purity of our love, too fine for words. How could I ever give that up?
“I suppose I could fly with someone else.” Charles said it thoughtfully, as if puzzling out a complicated problem. “Of course, any number of pilots would leap at the chance to accompany me. Wiley Post wired me this morning, in fact.”
“No!” It was as if he’d suggested taking a lover; that’s how betrayed I felt. “No, no, of course, you can’t fly with anyone else except me! But Charlie—he needs me, too!”
My husband grabbed my hand and said the one thing that made sense only when he said it. “I need you,” he murmured. “Anne, I need you. You’re my crew. You’ll always be my crew.” Then he let go of me and settled back in his seat, waiting.
That was it, was all; Charles Lindbergh wouldn’t beg, he wouldn’t plead. He had said all he would on the matter, and it was up to me. Bending my head down to caress my baby’s hair, as golden and silky as corn tassel, with my cheek, I felt my heart begin to form a fault line, and I knew that it would forever be split in this way. Charlie needed me—of course he did. He was my child. He didn’t even know how much.
Charles needed me—and, oh, it was a miracle that he did! Once more I felt that giddy disbelief that he had chosen me, of all the people on earth. He’d given me the world and all the sky above it; he was also capable of taking it all away from me with a single gesture. Who on earth would I be without him?
I knew, with a weary resignation, that whenever he asked, wherever he went, I would follow. Charles was the wind that blew me hither and yon, that lifted me off this earth, kept me aloft, pulled me along like a helpless kite, but also gave me wings with which I could touch the sun.
What chance did a baby have against him?
“Of course,” I said, still resting my cheek against my son’s downy head. “Of course, you’re right. We should go as far as possible, and it will be tremendous. You simply took me by surprise, that’s all.”
To my astonishment, Charles kissed me on the cheek. He never did that in front of anyone—not even my parents. “Good girl,” he said softly, and I looked into his approving eyes, and felt everyone else—even the child in my arms—fade away.
Everyone, except for him. I smiled and reached out to touch the cleft in his chin that so enchanted me; the happiest moment of my life had been when I realized our baby had one just like it.
“Excuse me? Mr. Charles?” The head gardener, Johnson, came running around the corner of the house. All the help deferred to Charles now, instead of Daddy; it had happened slowly, but inevitably, and Daddy didn’t even seem aware of it.
“Yes, Johnson?”
“It’s—it’s—” The older man stopped to mop the sweat from his brow with a large, dirt-streaked handkerchief.
“What is it?” Charles’s voice sharpened.
“There’s an intruder, sir. Some poor woman demanding to see little Charlie. Said she has something she has to tell him on his birthday.”
“Oh, not again.” I tightened my grip around the baby even as Betty Gow ran up, as if to do the same. I smiled, touched by the concern in her eyes. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” I assured us both.
Betty nodded, unable to prevent herself from holding on to the baby’s chubby leg.
“I’ll deal with it,” Charles said grimly. He patted his breast pocket—I knew there was a pistol in a holder. There was always a pistol in a holder.
The shadows had fully encroached on us now; I shivered, and not entirely from the chill in the air. Without the bright, transporting sun to trick us, it was all too evident that this was no idyllic fairy tale after all.
For we were under siege, pure and simple—and we had been since our son’s birth. Since before, even; I’d given birth here at Next Day Hill, my bedroom fitted as an operating theater, because we couldn’t risk a hospital; there were too many reports of staff being bribed to allow reporters and photographers into the delivery room.
And now people showed up at our door—they simply showed up, as if we had invited them! As if we would welcome them into our home and say, “Thank you so much for coming!” I hadn’t answered the door myself in so long, I wasn’t sure I remembered how. We paid private detectives to do so now, and there were police camped out at the end of the drive. Even so, people sometimes got past by climbing over neighbors’ fences, or hanging from trees. There were the usual reporters and photographers with no assignment other than to capture a shot of Charles Junior. But there were others; people who, as the Depression wore on and on, had nothing else to do. And no one else to turn to.
One man said that he had to touch the baby in order to be cured of cancer. One woman swore that her own child had been stolen from her at birth, and that she was sure we had done it, and that the baby was hers. Countless clairvoyants insisted on looking at Charlie’s palm, touching his head, or reading his chart. Most were simply confused people looking to my child for help in some way, although there were others who were less confused.
For mixed in with the thousands of cards and letters congratulating us on Charlie’s birth were requests for money; letters that told of deprivation, desperation, punctuated with tears. And requests were sometimes followed by threats; threats to kidnap my child and hold him for ransom. Although Charles tried to shield me from this knowledge, I was aware that more than one person with a weapon had been apprehended at the end of the drive. As the mood of the country grew darker, the resentment I had first glimpsed in Elisabeth’s waiting room had turned on the First Couple of the Air. We were blessed, we were successful; what had been celebrated two years ago was now a source of anger and resentment. The qualities that had brought Charles such acclaim—his stoicism, his dogged pursuit of perfectionism, his ability to float above the ordinary details of mere mortals’ lives—were ridiculed and debated now. “What more do they want of me?” Charles had grumbled recently, showing me a headline that asked the sour question, “What Has Lindbergh Done for Us Lately?”
It appeared now they wanted his happiness. Or, barring that—his child.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, but take the baby inside, just in case.” Charles spoke to me soothingly—exactly as he had when we were in the plane, so long ago, and we lost the wheel on takeoff.
I must have looked more worried than I intended to show, for his features softened. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he smiled gently, warmly, down at the two of us—his son and his wife. “It will be all right, Anne. Don’t worry. You know I will protect you and the baby, always. I’ll reason with whoever is here—if we can only keep reasoning with them, surely they’ll leave us alone eventually. But you see, now, that this flight couldn’t be timed any better? You see how important it is? It will divert attention from the baby, and back to us. We can withstand it. He can’t.”
“Yes, but—oh, Charles! This is why I’m so afraid to leave him! What if something happens while we’re gone? While I’m—you’re—not here to protect him?” I nodded at the gun in his pocket.
“We’ll hire additional detectives, and the police will step things up. I’ve already planned it all. We can’t live our lives in fear, Anne. You do know that?” He searched my face anxiously, testing me, as always. And for a moment I faltered; my child in my arms, I knew only that he would be safe as long as he remained there.
Then I nodded, even as I couldn’t quite stifle a sob, and so I had to lean into Charles’s chest to muffle it. I felt his strong arms reach awkwardly around and
hug me to him until I dried my eyes and pushed myself away. With a bright, understanding smile—that same carefree grin that I always flashed to the photographers—I shifted the baby in my arms.
My son waved at Charles and said “Bye” so happily that I thought my heart would shatter right then. I followed Mother, Daddy, and Con through the French doors into Daddy’s study. Charles strode off, his hand still inside his vest, around the side of the house; Johnson followed a few paces behind. I had to smile at the sight of the gardener wielding a small spade, as if that could help.
Some of the servants crowded into the study with us; Violet Sharpe, one of the housemaids, cried out, “Oh, the poor little thing,” and began to weep. Con rolled her eyes and went to comfort her; Violet was always rather excitable.
“Shhh,” I whispered to Charlie, still so blissfully unaware in my arms, babbling happy baby nonsense. “It’s all right. Daddy will take care of you. Daddy will always take care of you.” But I couldn’t prevent myself from imagining what might happen when Charles would not be there to take care of him, even with the policemen at the gate.
“Anne, dear?”
I turned; Mother was watching me, her eyes soft with concern.
“I’ll stay home with the baby and Betty,” she said firmly. “I’ll cancel my plans. Will that help, my daughter? Will that make you less fearful?”
I nodded, so grateful I wanted to sing for her, dance for her, do something unexpected and charming and grand. But I had to content myself with a soggy smile over my son’s head.
And I thought back to my childhood, to all the times I had missed her, all the times I had wondered why she had to rush out the door, late for an appointment. Nothing to compare to how long I was going to leave my own son, of course. But I had missed my mother, anyway, as all children do.
Now I wondered—had she missed me as well? All those years; had she missed her children, had she been forced into all those activities by her husband, too? Was she now trying to make up for it?
I smiled at my mother with new understanding, grateful to be old enough, finally, to have a second chance, to forgive, to reconnect as women, mothers. I kissed my son on the top of his soft, fragrant head; he smelled like Ivory soap and warm flannel. And I whispered a plea for his forgiveness, too.
For now, I could only look forward to the day when he would be old enough, wise enough, to grant it.
CHAPTER 8
“ANNE, ANNE—JUMP!”
The water, muddy and churning, vicious, rushed up at me. We were inside the plane, our trusty steed; one minute we were hovering over the Yangtze River on a rope, ready to be lowered onto the water so we could take off. The next we were listing dangerously to one side, water rushing up to entrap us in the plane, like a tomb. And I thought, more curious than terrified, Death by drowning. Of all the ways I thought I might die, this was not one of them.
Then my husband’s voice, commanding although not panicked, pierced through my drowsy rumination, and I jumped as he told me to. I jumped, just as I had the day the plane overturned. Survival instinct, my compliant nature; maybe a combination of the two. But I leaped, sprawling, out of the plane and hit the flood-swollen waters of the Yangtze, terrified I would be pulled down by the weight of the parachute on my back, my heavy flying clothes. Already praying because I knew that this time I would not survive. I would never see my baby again.
I swallowed filthy water, retching it up as I somehow, miraculously, bobbed up to the surface. Only to feel myself tugged helplessly down again by my parachute. The water closed over my face and I couldn’t breathe. Writhing in panic like an eel, twisting, I managed to shed the parachute and bob back up again, gasping. I thought of all the times I’d been so careful to boil the water before I brushed my teeth or washed my face.
Amid shouts from the men on the boat nearby, I heard Charles call my name.
“Over here!” I waved an arm, and paddled toward him.
Charles was treading water, his hair plastered down, his face splotched with mud. When he saw me, his eyes widened with relief, and he waved back.
“Get away from the plane,” he called over the wind, the shouting, the engine of the boat. I nodded and swam away, threading my way through swirling sticks and logs and other debris carried along on this raging river.
Our ship, our beautiful Lockheed Sirius, was on its side, one great pontoon rising up from the water, the other just below. Water was pouring into the cockpit, and I winced at the thought of my radio and transmitter shorting out, ruined forever. This plane had been our home for the last two months, since July 27, 1931.
That was the day the “Flying Lindberghs” were driven to an airfield on the East River just outside of Queens, New York. On a platform that ramped down to the river, our great black-and-orange Sirius perched precariously on two huge pontoons, waiting for us to board. In the pontoons themselves, each item scrupulously weighed, was everything we could possibly need for several months’ journey to the Arctic, the Orient, and beyond. Our few items of clothing, extra trousers, shirts, and a flying suit for each of us, as well as warm parkas. There were also tins of food; pots for boiling water; a first-aid kit personally packed for us by the chief of staff at Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center; letters of introduction signed by President Hoover himself; an anchor, oars, an inflatable boat, extra parachutes, firearms, ammunition, fishing equipment, an extra radio, and blankets. Almost as an afterthought, we both carried brand-new passports.
Surrounded by reporters, photographers, and Movietone men with their whirring cameras, we waited as two mechanics made a final check of the Sirius. Charles was asked by male reporters about the technical difficulties of the challenging flight. I was asked by female reporters how I intended to set up housekeeping in a plane, even as my fingers nervously tapped out practice messages in the Morse code I had been studying for weeks—Engine failure. Send help. Location unknown. Not once was I queried about my technical skills, even though I was to be the radio operator on this trip. Waiting for me in my rear compartment was my radio and all its coils and tubes, the receiver perched on a shelf to my right, the transmitter a cold, hard presence at my feet next to the antenna I would slowly crank out of a compartment on the floor whenever I needed to transmit. The huge, noisy dynamotor was behind my seat, where it would occasionally give me a kick, literally, in the pants.
“Mrs. Lindbergh, what clothes are you taking on the trip?” “Are you going to show the new spring fashions to the Japanese?” “Do you think you’ll miss your son very much?”
“Yes,” I replied, in answer to them all—thanking God that it was time to leave. I waved goodbye with that jaunty grin that I could never recognize when I saw it in photographs. Charles had built a little ladder that enabled me to ascend the enormous pontoons; from there I could then hop up onto the wing, and then into the plane itself. We settled into our respective cockpits, Charles in front, me in back, and then Charles started up the plane. Nosing awkwardly down the ramps, we hit the water with a wallop that splashed waves all over the Movietone men, to my great delight.
Our first attempt to take off was cut short by a boat full of newsreel cameras that veered too close. Our second was successful, although I held my breath as Charles maneuvered our way through a flock of airplanes full of more newsreel cameras, some so close I could see the stripes on the bow ties of the photographers. (Newsreel cameramen, I had discovered, always wore bow ties, for reasons I could never fathom.)
Soon enough, we shook them, and we said goodbye with a jaunty little wiggle of the wings that was Charles’s signature. Only then did I see my husband’s shoulders relax; he turned to me with a jubilant grin that made me laugh out loud. We were on our way, just the two of us; on our greatest adventure yet, one for the history books. Charles hadn’t looked so free, so joyous, in months; since long before our son was born.
We would navigate across Canada, up through Alaska, over the Bering Strait, skirt Siberia, and hip-hop down the islands of Japan to China. Al
ong the way, we would eat raw fish with Eskimos in huts, file into a mess tent with prospectors in Anchorage, sit on the bamboo floors of palaces in Japan to partake of ancient tea ceremonies. Everywhere we landed we were mobbed by the population, even if the population was only ten hardy soldiers on a remote island outpost. In the air, we were partners; I took over flying when Charles was tired, or when he needed to map out our routes. But on land, we were always separated; I was shuttled off to be with the women, where I was expected to be interested only in domestic duties. I lost count of the number of times I was asked how I kept the cockpit tidied.
Charles smarted at these questions on my behalf; I would catch his sympathetic head shake. Yet the only time he ever came to my defense was early in the trip, in Ottawa. Waiting for a banquet in our honor to begin, I found my husband seated on the floor of an anteroom, surrounded by fellow pilots.
Charles was a different person around pilots and mechanics; I had learned this early in our marriage, on our first barnstorming trip west. Suddenly the great aviator I had married became “Slim” to all his old colleagues and mechanics; the ones who had remained where they were, content to fly the mail and do tricks for air shows, when he had set his relentless gaze across an ocean, to Paris. They played jokes on one another, told dirty stories, and allowed me to watch, amused and touched. My husband had been a boy, after all; this was my real glimpse into who he was before.
So I smiled when I saw them all huddled on the ground, looking like a gaggle of small boys shooting marbles. They were studying maps, nodding intently as they discussed routes over the Arctic, joshing and teasing one another. But then one pilot suddenly looked up and saw me; he sniffed and grumbled to Charles, “I’d never take my own wife on such a trip.”
Charles didn’t get angry; instead, he merely shrugged and answered, with a proud glance my way, “You must remember that she is crew.”