The Escape

by Clare Harvey

  ‘I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m in Berlin.’

  ‘What?’ My insides contract. So that was what the message from Helen was about this morning.

  ‘We went over on the ferry on Sunday. Quill said he had a hunch about the situation, and he’s got friends out here, so—’

  ‘So you just ran away to Germany without telling anyone?’

  ‘We left a note at Mum’s when I picked up my passport. I thought she might have mentioned it. Anyway, Quill was right – you’ve seen the news?’ I nod, forgetting she can’t see me. ‘Gran, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, yes I saw on the news, about the Wall.’

  ‘I got some really good shots last night. Quill thinks the Sunday Correspondent will definitely use at least one of them to accompany his piece.’ Her voice is dull and reedy, like a child who has been forced to recite a poem.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I say, thinking that her course tutor might forgive a mid-term absence in her final year if she gets one of her photos in a newspaper.

  ‘Yes, and it will look great in my portfolio.’ Her voice has dropped almost to a whisper. I strain to hear. ‘He says he wants Quill and I to do more stuff together. Quill . . .’ I hear a muffled sob at the other end of the line.

  ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Has he done something?’ She doesn’t answer, but I hear her uneven breath. ‘Miranda?’

  I have only met him once, this boyfriend of hers, but once was enough. When you’ve been widowed at forty, you understand something of men with charming smiles, predatory eyes, and open-topped sports cars. All I wanted was for Miranda to take care of herself, realize not all men were to be trusted. ‘Don’t give away the goods too soon,’ was all I actually said. But by that stage she was already under his spell.

  ‘Has he hurt you?’ I say, expecting a tawdry tale of nightclub infidelity.

  ‘Yes. He . . .’ I hear the effort it takes to choke out the words. ‘He headbutted me.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ I pause, collecting myself. I had expected petty philandering, not assault. I want to scream interrogations, but I’m wary of overreacting. I do not want to send Miranda spinning back into this man’s arms simply because I cannot keep my cool. ‘Is it bad – have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘No. It’s just a bruise. I probably shouldn’t have wound him up. It’s just that I found out something about him and—’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I interrupt. ‘Whatever was said, whatever the situation was – and you don’t need to tell me anything about it if you don’t want to – you need to know that his violence is not your fault. Is that clear?’ I hear her sniff. The line between us crackles. ‘Miranda, you are not to blame. Are we clear?’

  ‘Sonnen klar,’ she says. Clear as sunlight. She has reverted to German, as if she’s a little girl again.

  ‘You’re not with him now?’

  ‘No, he’s back at the apartment with the others, celebrating; they are having a party.’

  My mind works quickly. ‘Okay, go to the airport and call me when you get there. We’ll see when the next flight to Heathrow is and book you on it. I’m sure they’ll be able to take my credit card details over the phone. I’ll drive to Heathrow and pick you up.’

  ‘I can’t, Gran. Quill’s destroyed my passport.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He burnt it. We’ve not been getting on, since we got here, but when I said I wanted to go home, he insisted I stay. We had a row, and . . . I don’t really want to go into all of it now, but anyway, he burnt my passport. I’ve been to the British Embassy, but they’ve said they can’t get me emergency travel documents until the middle of next week, so I’m stuck. I’m sorry. It’s kind of you to offer to get me home, but there’s nothing you can do. I can’t face going back, not yet, at least. Maybe later on when the party’s over, later on tonight. I’m sorry, I just wanted someone to talk to.’ She sighs.

  ‘But you can’t!’ I cannot bear the thought of her returning to that man.

  ‘I don’t know where else to go. I’m stuck here till Wednesday at the earliest.’

  My brain panic-whirs. There must be something I can do to keep her safe from him. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘At the Embassy in East Berlin.’

  East Berlin, not West. I have a sudden surge of hope. ‘I know someone in East Berlin,’ I say. ‘She’ll look after you.’ I know the address off by heart, from all those years of secretly-posted Christmas cards. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll call her once you’re off the phone. She might still be at work, so give it an hour or two, so she’ll be home when you get there. Now, write this down . . .’

  Afterwards I hang up the phone and stand still in the middle of the room, arms out, embracing the dead air, giving my mind a chance to process it all. Debussy has come to an end on the LP, and the speakers hiss an empty groove. I lift the needle and switch it off.

  For most of my adult life – the last forty years or more – I have managed to forget. But today, memories have come jostling to the fore, no matter how many times I turn off radios or televisions or stride quickly past news-stands. Even the hairdressers were talking about Germany today.

  I look round the flat: my dead husband’s watercolours dot the walls, and his pipe sits in a drawer in the antique davenport. This is where I belong. This is home. This is my life now. For forty-four years I have not even looked at a map of my homeland. I lift my hands to my face and cover my eyes. My husband was adamant, after what we’d been through, and I agreed: Germany was to be left in the past. The day I married him, I became British, end of story.

  End of story.

  I drop my hands and go back to the table, picking up my glass. I take a sip of bitter coffee, and light a fresh cigarette. I pull aside my net curtain and look out through the sash window across the cathedral green. There is a couple walking along next to the row of shops, under the portico. They are holding hands, and walk up the steps of the Clarence Hotel. The door opens, and for a moment the pair are a tiny conjoined silhouette, before being swallowed up inside. I remember being that couple. I remember that night so well. That’s why I chose to move here, when he passed. So I could sit at the window and replay the memory every day. I let the curtain drop and turn inside.

  I go over to the mantlepiece, taking a deep drag from my cigarette. My husband looks out of the silver-framed photograph, teeth gripping his pipe stem. I tap my cigarette ash into the crystal ashtray, and pick up the phone. I dial zero and ask to be put through to international directory enquiries. I give the operator the same name and address I gave Miranda. There are strange crackles on the line, but eventually I hear the telephone ringing at the other end. I take a nervous drag and count the rings: one, two, three . . . I am about to give up when a voice finally answers.

  ‘Hallo? Wer ist das, bitte?’

  I start at the sound of her, after all these years, speaking German, and I almost drop the receiver. ‘Gwen? Is that you?’

  Chapter 11

  January 1945, Nazi Germany

  Detta

  ‘Don’t say yes unless you’re certain.’ The priest’s face was all lines and shadows in the candlelight. He took Detta’s hand; his fingers were dry as twigs. The air smelled of wax polish and the dried roses in the vase next to the candelabra. Frau Hecketier had kept the manse spotless until she left, just last week, spirited away by grandchildren in Dresden. Father Richter was without a housekeeper, and Detta assumed this was what he was asking, although he’d seemed so anxious and cryptic about it.

  ‘I’m happy to help out, if that’s what you need,’ Detta said. She no longer had her Reichsbahn job, after all, there weren’t any guests in the inn, and the odd hour reading French fairy tales to the Moll girls barely counted as a prior commitment.

  Father Richter cleared his throat, and squeezed her hand. ‘You see, Detta, what I’m asking from you is more than just help with housework. I didn’t want to say over the phone . . .’ He cleared his throat again, opened his mouth as
if to speak, but stayed silent. Detta lifted her mouth in an uncertain smile. Father Richter had always been so kind, almost a replacement for her real father, in some ways. But had the stress – all these war years of having to hide his true feelings about the Nazi party, preach against his convictions – had it finally got to him?

  ‘Thank you again for hiding our silver,’ she said, to fill the awkward silence.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I . . .’ he began, but there was a sound from upstairs, then a creaking floorboard above their heads. Detta’s eyes flicked up to where the unlit light bulb swung slightly in its flowered shade. She shivered, remembering the shadows she’d seen in the churchyard last night. The priest dropped her hand. ‘Shall we go through to the kitchen to talk?’ he said, and without waiting for an answer, turned to walk down the dark corridor.

  His kitchen felt warm: the range must have been on for some time, and there was a salty smell in the air, as if someone had been cooking soup. There were dirty dishes in the sink, too: bowls and spoons. But the shutters were still closed, even though it would be fully light outside by now.

  ‘Shall I make a start on these while we talk?’ Detta said, moving over to the sink. She didn’t mind helping. It would give her something to do. It was just strange that the priest should be making such a song and dance about asking.

  ‘No, please sit. I’ll do us some herb tea.’ He went over to the range to move the kettle onto the hob.

  ‘I’ll just open the shutters then, shall I?’ Why was he wasting candle wax when it was already daylight?

  ‘Why not?’ He made a casual gesture with his hand. Detta’s necklace swung like a pendulum as she reached to pull open the shutters. There was no frost on the windows – she was right, the kitchen fire must have been going for quite a while already to melt it. Outside, the sky was fuscia beyond the Schloss, birch trees jerking their mistletoe baubles, and scratchy grey clouds scudding across a livid sunrise. It had stopped snowing, but all you could see of the priest’s rose garden were stubbled tops of thorns, poking up through the pink-tinged drifts. The gate through to the churchyard was unlatched, swinging dizzily in the wind.

  She sat at the table and blew out the candle. Father Richter placed a cup of mint tea in front of her and sat down opposite. He took a sip of his own before speaking. ‘I’ve known you since you were a little girl, and I know you to be competent, loyal and trustworthy,’ he said, looking at her from under his bushy brows. He put his mug down, then pushed his hands together into a prayer position and tapped the joined hands against his lips. ‘You have a little medical knowledge?’

  ‘Well, I was the first-aider for our office, but that hardly means—’

  ‘And you speak English,’ he said, cutting her off. ‘But what I’m asking is very dangerous. We could both be shot.’ He rested his chin on his prayer hands, and looked into her eyes. And that was when she began to comprehend his cryptic words.

  ‘I saw some prisoners being force marched through the village yesterday,’ she said. ‘Were they British?’

  The priest nodded.

  ‘And did one of them escape?’ She thought madly, stupidly, of the prisoner in the long coat, with the blue eyes. But it couldn’t have been him, could it?

  ‘Two. Airmen.’

  ‘And they’re here?’

  He nodded again.

  Detta’s mind worked. Two terrorfliegers, here in the village? The SS would surely be on their way.

  ‘One of them is in quite a bad state. They need medicine, food and rest. And it’s impossible for me to change my routine. It’s too obvious: the whole village knows my whereabouts at any time of day, but you . . .’

  Detta knew what he was asking. She was out and about all the time, to the Schloss, to the bakery for bread, to the Muller farm for milk, always running some errand or another, especially since she was no longer going to work every day. Father Richter wanted her to help him with the British escapees. Could she?

  ‘Is the church still unlocked, Father?’ It was her turn to interrupt. He nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a second opinion,’ she said, gesturing with her head in the direction of the church.

  ‘Of course.’

  She left her un-drunk tea and Father Richter let her out of the side door. As she turned right towards the church, she looked up at the upstairs window – the floor with the creaking floorboard would be in that room – but the shutters were closed and she couldn’t see anything up there. She heard the door close behind her and she pushed out into the windy morning.

  Inside the church air was still as a mill pond, cold as a tomb. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. Dear Father, I need your help . . .

  What to do? A good, patriotic citizen would rush to tell the authorities that the local priest was harbouring escaped enemy prisoners. Of course, she’d never betray Father Richter. But Mother had always taught her not to take sides, to keep her head below the parapet. The way to survive is to work hard, smile, and keep your opinions to yourself, she used to say. Politics is bad for business. (When, at the start of the war, Father Richter had once implied in a sermon that some of the Nazi party policies were unchristian, Mother had simply stopped attending church for a while, claiming to be too busy with the guesthouse to attend – avoiding all the furore and the questioning from party officials.) Dear Lord, give me guidance, I pray . . .

  The wooden pew was hard beneath her buttocks, and a blue circle pulsed behind her closed lids. She could smell the faint smoky-sweet waft of incense left from the last Mass. She flexed her fingers against each other. God would want her to do the right thing. But what was the right thing? To risk her life as a traitor to the state? And for what? The war was almost over. The Russians, the British and the Americans would all snap up the Reich and Germany would cease to exist.

  But Father Richter had asked her. He had put his faith in her. Could she do it, this treachery? Dear God . . .

  She heard the sound of the church door being pushed open behind her. It would be Father Richter, coming to ask her decision. Detta opened her eyes and turned her head, still not knowing how to answer him. But what she saw wasn’t the black splash of the priest’s cassock against the whitewashed walls. What she saw were two men dressed in grey uniforms – ‘grey dogs’ – the SS. They strode down the aisle like an impatient groom and best man, boots echoing on the marble floor.

  ‘Check the sacristy, Weber,’ the taller one said to the squat one, who nodded and headed off to the side of the altar. Detta dropped her head again, as if intent on her prayers. But she kept her eyes open. Her interlocked fingers were clammy with sweat. ‘I’m very sorry to interrupt your prayers, Fräulein,’ the tall one said, not sounding sorry at all. Detta lifted her head to look at him: pale, elongated features like dripping candlewax.

  Detta unclasped her hands. ‘It’s fine, officer. I was just leaving anyway.’ She stood up.

  ‘Before you go, have you noticed anything unusual here?’

  ‘No. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Two British terrorfliegers escaped yesterday. We’ve just had word.’ He inclined his head to one side, looking down at her, blocking the exit from the pew. There were scuffling sounds from the sacristy.

  ‘You think they might be here?’

  ‘They often try the churches first. Those British seem to think the priests are a soft touch. Problem is, they often are. You’d think that someone whose job it is to explain the difference between right and wrong to our children would know better than to harbour an enemy of the state, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You would, officer.’

  There was an awkward pause. The taller SS officer still blocked her exit. The squat one came tramping back across the nave. ‘Nothing doing. Where else, boss?’ He joined the tall one at the exit to the pew. His bull neck bulged red above his too-tight collar.

  The tall man cast his eyes round. ‘Have a good look, under the altar and so forth, but this girl says she’s seen and heard nothing, isn
’t that right, Fräulein?’ Detta nodded. He shook his head, turned away, leaving a little space at the pew’s end, but not enough for her to get through without having to brush past him. Was she free to leave? The shorter man was using his pistol barrel to lift up the tapestries that hung from the altar and peer behind them. ‘I think we need to talk to the priest, Weber, don’t you?’ the tall man called over to his colleague.

  ‘Yes boss.’

  ‘Would you know where I can find your priest, Fräulein?’

  ‘Father Richter?’

  ‘Oh, that’s his name is it? Father Richter – where would he usually be at this time in the morning?’

  Detta swallowed. It felt as if her upper teeth had been magnetized and the lower row replaced by an iron strip. There was tremendous effort in opening her mouth and forming the words, but somehow she did it.

  She was certain, now, what God wanted her to do: ‘Father Richter will be at home in the manse. I can take you there, I’m going that way myself. If you’d like to follow me, gentlemen?’

  Tom

  He’d been dozing in the chair when the knock came. There was no time to do anything except open his eyes and wipe the trail of saliva from the side of his mouth, where it had slid from his lips as he slept. Gordon sat up in bed, but Tom motioned for him to lie back down. There was a plan, in case the manse was searched. The priest had loosened the floorboards under the bed, and they were supposed to slide underneath. Tom glanced through the shutters, craning his neck to look down on whoever was below.

  As he looked, hope and despair assaulted him at once. He could see the sky-blue scarf of the girl from the path, but just behind her, on her right and left shoulders, were the grey-green tops of field police caps. Damn. He held out a thumbs-down to Gordon, who immediately slid out from under the covers and began wedging himself into the floor space. Tom ran across the room to the bed, but there was only room for them to get in one at a time. Tom pushed at Gordon’s struggling limbs. ‘Fucking splinter,’ Gordon hissed, as he wrestled himself into the too-small gap. Tom lay down, ready to follow him.