The Cure is Murder – Chapter 10

We roamed the islands staring at a single-seat German fokkers- fighter plane from the first world war, you could smell the burning trail as it must have plummeted to the ground. Or was that the new smell-a-vision effect they had been working on in the laboratory adjoining the hangar.

A ww2 Junkers Ju 87 Stuka. Plane Type: Dive Bomber. You could her the whine as it spiraled downwards.  

Were the broken German planes the only concession to defeat?

A jeep – American WW2 uniforms straight out of A Bridge Too Far. One of the dummies even winked. Sabrina moved closer. 

“He´s not alive,” the man whispered. “He just looks it. Good, eh?”

Men and women in uniform leapt out from behind plastic palm trees showing that the war had extended far beyond Hitler´s navel. And everywhere, the swastika.

Sabrina saw the dummies, soldiers from both sides of the war planted in islands and took in the musty smell of a museum long not visited. The gravel underfoot gave away her presence. She was not the spy. The spy was elsewhere. The air was now damp with the scent of betrayal. The man stood close. Breathed by her neck. Ignore him. 

“We found this plane,” the man said. “In the field.” The killing field was her immediate association. She shivered. It was summer and she shivered. The air was moist as his hand touched her shoulder. She froze. The flag hung before her.

“In some cultures it brings luck,” the man said.

She tasted something metallic.

“Did you bite your lip? It´s bleeding,” he said.

She did not answer. She had bitten her tongue. It throbbed. She had to run, get away.

“A holy symbol,” said the man. “It was auspicious.” 

“Until it was hi-jacked,” Sabrina said.

“We can document that our cause is purely historical,” the man said. “It is a symbol of peace in many cultures,” he added.

But not here, Sabrina thought. 

The man frowned at her. 

My God, he can read my mind. Was this what Oskar meant by the next village beyond McLuhan?