Before Amelia (11 page)

Georg von Tschudi had taken over the management of the airfield. His encouragement brought enthusiasts from Denmark, Norway, Austria, and France to take part in the exciting projects under way. It was an eclectic group—all male—that spent countless hours talking technical shop at the Café Senftleben. Melli, like the other students, soon had a special table where, gradually, a group of young men joined her. The coffees, beers, and schnapps were many, the air thick with smoke, as dedicated young people—“crazy” was the townspeople's description— talked the night away.

During that year several aeroplane builders offered instruction at Johannisthal on their particular type of machine, monoplane or biplane. The cost of lessons was about three thousand marks, plus another thousand for breakage, a sum that most would–be pilots did not have. Consequently, they built their own machines, cadging parts and advice wherever they could, and as soon as a machine was judged finished, it was tested by the builder with varied results. Hopping over the ground and touching down without crashing was considered success. This was repeated for a certain length, then the machine was turned around by hand—the pilot had yet to master the turn—and the hopping return was begun. A crash on the first hop meant more months of work.

The cost of machines was prohibitive for most students. A Wright biplane cost thirty thousand marks; an Albatros, twenty–five thousand marks; a Grade monoplane, twelve thousand marks. Melli did not have that kind of money. Her father's check allowed for training, and monthly payments covered living expenses. She resolved to build her own aeroplane as soon as she earned a pilot's license.

Preoccupied with her own plans, she had forgotten one thing. There were no women in the flying world of Johannisthal. Käthchen Paulus had earned a reputation as a balloon pilot and parachute jumper some years before. Dressed in boots and bloomers, she and her fiancé performed dangerous leaps that thrilled the crowds. Then one day her fiancé was killed when his parachute failed to open. Reportedly, Paulus continued to jump. She also trained to fly for a time with Paul Engelhard, the chief pilot for the Wright Company, but did not try for a pilot's license, which prejudiced Engelhard against women flying.

Melli quickly discovered that women were not welcome, an attitude fostered by the Wright Company and Engelhard, who considered women unsuited for flying. (Later the Wrights agreed to instruct women in Dayton, Ohio, but that was two years in the future—and in America.) However, women as passengers was acceptable; Orville Wright signaled approval when he took Frau Hauptmann Hildebrandt as a passenger at Tempelhof airport. The Wright establishment set the tone at Johannisthal, and Melli's attempts to sign a training contract with first Albatros, then the Wright Company, failed. Both establishments had the same answer:
nein.
An invisible wall seemed to shield the male world of aviation from assertive women.

Fortunately for Melli, a group of aviation pioneers had pooled talents to form a company—Ad Astra (“To the Stars”), financed by Rudolf Kiepert, a wealthy businessman—to build aeroplanes. The group included two Frenchmen— Gabriel Poulain, famous as a bicyclist, and Charles Boutard—and a Norwegian, Robert Thelen, who was chief of construction, as well as a pilot and teacher. Thelen agreed to take Melli on as a student when he found time. In the meantime, she could make herself useful around the shop; there would be no special treatment, which was fine with Melli. She was used to working with her hands, but her dream of flying had a rude comedown in grease and oil.

Melli described Thelen years later as a dark, very reserved man, famous for opening his mouth only to smoke a cigarette. He tested his own aeroplanes with optimism and unfailing courage. Like most of the pioneers, he sacrificed his health and his belongings to advance aviation knowledge. Writing about the early years of aviation, Melli described him as the foremost promoter of German aviation in its infancy.

While Melli waited impatiently for training to begin, she learned a thing or two about aeroplanes in the shop by observing and by helping when asked. Adolf Ludwig, who would become her trusted mechanic, took a shine to Melli the moment she demonstrated she was used to handling tools. He assured her that Thelen was a great pilot; he would teach her to fly. When was another matter.

One December day Thelen gestured to a machine—was it ready?— and with a wave of his hand to Melli, the door of the hangar was opened, and the Wright model biplane rolled out to the takeoff site. Pilot and student climbed up, Melli seated beside Thelen, where she could observe his handling of the levers that operated the machine. The moment she had waited for had come.

The motor coughed, throbbed unevenly, then steadied as the number of explosions per minute increased until its rhythm was smooth and regular as a heartbeat. The mechanics released the wings, and the biplane dashed across the field for takeoff. It was bumpier than Melli expected. Then she was caught up in wonder as the machine lifted into the air and raced toward the horizon.

Below to the side was the hangar, ahead was the widening gray sky, as Thelen maneuvered the levers without speaking. Train tracks appeared below, making small designs on the earth; the wind was strong and cold. Melli shivered in her leather jacket, but her spirits soared. She wished the flight would never end. The long waiting was forgotten; soon she would fly completely alone.

Thelen circled the field twice, his hands working the levers expertly on the turns that brought the ground closer before the wings straightened. As Melli watched his sure, skillful maneuvering, it seemed to her that man and machine had fused. The air, pushing against their bodies, held them in place on the small wooden seats— seat belts were yet to come. Then Thelen nodded toward the ground, and the giant bird started down. The motor was cut as the machine glided toward the ground, before leveling itself to hop again along the surface before coming to a stop.

Ludwig, waiting near the Ad Astra hangar, hurried to the plane as pilot and student climbed down. Melli's face beamed as she told him, “It was fantastically beautiful.” On slightly unsteady feet, she turned to speak to Thelen, but he was already on his way to the hangar. Still floating from the experience, Melli helped Ludwig push the aeroplane into the hangar.

The days were routine: Melli arrived at the field before sunrise, warmed by a cup of coffee at the café, to wait for a free hour with Thelen. His lessons, a series of explanations by doing, took Melli through the steps of flying an aeroplane, making turns and landing, insisting that she feel the movements with him, until she did them instinctively. On the ground, Ludwig showed Melli the mechanical side of keeping a machine running. Gasoline and oil became perfume to Melli as her small, capable hands learned to dismantle and reassemble a motor.

On December 12, Thelen and Melli prepared to fly, watched by Melli's curious sister, Hertha von Grienberger, who had come expressly to watch her sister fly. The big bird rose in the sky; the flight seemed routine. Suddenly there was a loud bang. Thelen's hands moved automatically on the control levers as he shouted to Melli to hold fast, a chain was loose. The aeroplane lost power and slid sideways, dropped toward earth, and hit the ground. Melli's leg was pushed into her stomach; the sound of splintering wood filled the air. Thelen got out first and assured Melli that things were okay; their heads were still in place. Field hands arrived quickly with a wagon, and Melli realized a throbbing foot made walking impossible. Leaning on the shoulders of two men, she hobbled into the hangar, where her anxious sister waited.

Hertha spoke out immediately: Flying was much more dangerous than she was led to believe; Melli must give it up. In need of a doctor (Johannisthal had no doctor on duty at that time), Hertha bundled her sister into a taxi for the trip to Charlottenburg, in the western part of Berlin. As they left, the Ad Astra group waved good–bye, reminding Melli that if she returned, she belonged to them.

The doctor, when he saw Melli that night, was adamant:The foot must wear a plaster cast for four or five weeks; rest was essential—there were five broken bones, sore ribs, and a bruised nose. Realizing she couldn't keep the accident a secret from her parents, she wrote that night to tell them and keep them from worrying.

At this juncture, Richard Beese died suddenly of a heart attack. Melli was devastated. Filled with guilt, she blamed herself for distressing her father, for not bringing him more happiness. Against doctor's orders, she traveled to Dresden to gaze once more on his face, and, as the shovels of dirt fell on his casket, the door closed on her youth.

Melli tried to be a dutiful daughter to her mother, to content herself with life in Dresden, but it was no use. The foot was feeling better, and Melli, despite her mother's and sister's efforts to keep her there, argued to pursue her goal. Frau Beese agreed reluctantly; every person must follow his or her own path. Hardly thrilled by her daughter's choice of profession, she nevertheless was a sympathetic listener to Melli's plans and expectations.

In the middle of January of the new year, Melli returned to Johannisthal, limping with two canes, more determined than ever to learn to fly. Her father's inheritance allowed her to pursue flying without worry. But this time things were different.

Although Thelen never mentioned the crash, he went out of his way to avoid her. Melli wondered whether superstition or fear of her falling again prompted his behavior. She tried to wait patiently, her pride turning to obstinacy, but she was unable to find the right words to correct the situation. Unburdening herself to Ludwig, she insisted she would fly. That's why she came back.

In the long hours of waiting for something to happen, the Café Senftleben was a refuge for the students and workers who waited on the weather or an available machine. Days, sometimes a week, were spent waiting for the colored ball that signaled flying weather: Black meant no flying; white, maybe; red was go! At Melli's table, a group of other young aviators, Bruno Hanuschke, Hans Bockemüller, Benno Konig, and Georg Schendel, all from different aeroplane hangars, talked shop seriously, and continuously. Schendel, in particular, had a thorough knowledge of technical matters, which he explained to Melli in terms she could understand, with drawings to illustrate a point. The smoke–filled café was a warm haven in the lingering German winter, but an impatient Melli began to think she must break with Thelen completely. He flew to demonstrate technical and flying knowledge, yet never with her. It was as if she didn't exist.

On the field one day, a new aeroplane was rolled out—a monoplane, light and sleek, the creation of the Frenchman Poulain. The talk was lively as the crowd questioned the machine's ability to fly. Rumor was, the Argus motor had one hundred horsepower. Unheard of! The pilot was Charles Boutard, who had helped build the new machine but was not yet a licensed pilot. Melli had seen him coming and going on the field, always intent on his work. Seated in the pilot's seat, he removed his cap to signal the two mechanics for takeoff. Boutard went up quickly, steadied over the field, and headed toward an area where road repairs were being made. Would he make the turn? The spectators below waited expectantly, as the speedy machine shot over the fence and headed for the stand of pines beyond. “Kindling” was the laconic comment when, in the next instant, sounds of a crash reached the onlookers.

Boutard was lucky. Writing years later, Melli described how the machine splintered trees before it came to a halt; it was a “miracle” that Boutard survived. The motor hung suspended above him, which prevented him from being crushed to death. He was bruised, a leg was broken, and his nerves were severely shaken, but he would be back at work in a matter of weeks. Melli spoke to the unhappy pilot in French—she spoke it better than his German. She praised Boutard for his courage, and in the next weeks she didn't forget him while he recuperated in the clinic.

By May, tired of waiting for lessons, Melli decided to cancel her contract with the Ad Astra company, knowing that Robert Thelen was not sorry to see her leave. Thanks to the intercession of Ellery von Gorrissen, an Aero Club observer, she was directed to Robert von Mossner; an old Africa hand and a student of Engelhard, he was working in Weimar. Melli would get lessons, and Ludwig would be going along to work on Mossner's machine. It seemed a good solution.

Melli went to Weimar with high hopes, but Mossner was primarily interested in finding experienced workers with mechanical talent. He did not own his machine, a Wright biplane, but he hoped to compete in the Sachsenflug, which was about to begin in Saxony, and improve his shaky financial status. Melli's fee would help, and she would serve as passenger for the flight. Unlike Thelen, Mossner was a friendly person, and pilot and student got on well.

Their first flight together was hardly auspicious. As Melli described it years later, the two were lost in thick rain clouds on the way to Dresden for the Sachsenflug, which made reading a map impossible as darkness approached. Seated on the lower wing, exposed to the rain, both fliers were thoroughly drenched by the time they landed—and discovered, to their dismay, that they were back where they had started. They gave up any idea of the competition and made their way to Weimar.

Melli had several lessons on Mossner's aging Wright. On her third flight, she took over working the control levers and experienced the thrill of the machine's quick response to her movements. For the first time, she held life and death in her hands, something no other sport could offer. To her delight, the merest touch on the levers brought a response. Recalling that flight years later, she wrote:
Die Wright Machine folgt ja so herrlich leight auf den kleinsten Steuerdruck.
(“The Wright machine flies so gloriously light with the slightest touch of the steering lever.”)

However, as the weeks passed, Melli realized her hopes had led her down the wrong path. Too many days were spent with Ludwig trying to make rusted valves useful again on a worn–out motor. Mossner did not own his machine and had to relinquish two motors to the owner for use in a competition, leaving the two mechanics with a discouraging repair task. In the meantime, Mossner departed to the south, leaving Melli and Ludwig alone for three long weeks.