by Clare Harvey
But then – cloud-cradled, buoyed up, somehow, the icy sucking vortex gone. Something caught him. There were hands around him, holding him. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe,’ said a voice close to his ear. It was her. He didn’t open his eyes at first, kept them closed, smelled the scent of her, felt the warmth of her, holding him. ‘You had a nightmare.’
His eyes sprang open. Fully awake: appalled at himself. ‘What must you think of me? What a sad sack!’ He jerked out of her grasp.
‘It was just a nightmare.’
She had seen the worst of him, the scared boy screaming into the night. He put his face in his hands: the shame of it.
‘Was it your plane?’ she asked.
He nodded, pulled his hands away. He could barely make out her face in the dark. ‘I have the same dream every night. Every fucking night since it happened. Even when we were on the march.’ He couldn’t see her expression, but he felt her hands reach out, pulling him back towards her. He gave in, buried his head in the space on her shoulder between her long hair and the collar of her fur coat, smelling mothballs and musk and a faint flowery scent. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘You shouldn’t have to see me like this.’ Because men, especially airmen, are strong and cope with it all. It wasn’t on. You weren’t supposed to be the kind who whinged about bad dreams, because after all you were one of the lucky few, the ones who were still alive. But with this German girl, in the strange house, in the dark, the stiff upper lip somehow mattered less. He may as well tell her how he felt. ‘It shouldn’t have been me who escaped. There were so many others who were braver, better men.’
‘But your friend, Gordon, wasn’t he in the plane, too?’
‘Yes, but he landed badly, smashed his head, got amnesia, couldn’t remember a bloody thing, not even his rank and number.’
‘You must be jealous, in a way? Did you wish you’d been able to forget, too?’
How could she know? How could she guess and how could he admit it, the combination of love and resentment he bore to his skipper. ‘I sometimes wish he could remember something, so then there would be someone to share it with,’ he said. He felt two spots of water on his hair, like the first fat drops that presage a summer storm. He’d upset her with his stupid sob story. What a heel. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Crying’s for girls.’
‘But I am a girl.’
‘So you are.’
He lifted his head and his lips found hers. They kissed as if the night would last forever. But in the lull between gunfire he heard a rooster crow, and then the bark of a dog in the street outside.
They pulled apart, and looked out through the shutter slats. The darkness was beginning to lift, leaving behind a pale veil of freezing fog. And there, coming out of the front door of the Deutches Haus Inn were dark figures, moving silhouettes, tethered to the straining shadows of huge black Alsatian dogs. They came out between the grey chunks of vehicles in the inn car park and paused, looking up and down the main road, as if making a decision.
The SS had dogs, and they were heading this way.
Chapter 18
November 1989, East Germany
Miranda
Three elderly men sit opposite: two in fur hats, one with a bandaged hand. They hold briefcases on their knees, like stage props. They look too old to still be employed and I wonder what they do for a living – something to do with State bureaucracy, perhaps? The hatless man sinks into his double chin and stares at me, so I look away, at the window, blinking into the blackness as the train rattles on. Streetlights in the East give off different coloured light, I notice, gold, instead of silver. My face is superimposed over the flashing lights, suspended in the moving night. I look at her, the woman in the glass: Miranda Wade is a third-year photography student. She fell for a handsome journalist and ended up running off mid-term to Berlin with him, only to discover he’s manipulating her to cover up his drug-running operation. Surely she’s not me? My reflection looks back: the pale face with the Leica slung like an oversized necklace round my neck. No, I realize, she’s not me. Not anymore.
I bought a map of East Germany at the station kiosk. I have it stretched out over my knees. I have searched, but I cannot seem to find the village of Lossen. Gran said it was between Breslau and Oppeln, and I can’t find those towns on the map, either. But the light in the train is a dim sickly yellow, and the map slides around as the train sways, and I think that perhaps the place names will reveal themselves better in daylight tomorrow. I remember Gran talking about the river Oder, and that is very clear on this map, ribboning down the border between East Germany and Poland. That’s why I have taken this train to Frankfurt an der Oder, the border town on the banks of the river. I will spend the night there and begin my search again in the morning.
The three men get off at the next station and the carriage is empty. My eyelids are getting heavy, gaze sleepily unfocussed. I haven’t had much rest in the last twenty-four hours.
With a jerk, I am awake. The train has come to a halt. I sit up, wipe condensation from the inside of the window. The platform sign says Frankfurt an der Oder, in stark black gothic script. I am here. I push up out of my seat, pull my rucksack onto my back and pick up the map.
Doors slam, shadowy figures scurry across the platform ahead of me, but within moments the train is gone, the platform empty, and there’s nobody to ask for help, nobody to ask for the way to the nearest guesthouse. The night is still and empty, the moonlight blocked by a cloud. I can’t even see where the station exit is. I blow on my hands and start to walk along the platform. The platform edge slopes down onto the sidings and the half-moon makes an appearance: a shaft of silver lighting up the station. I look round for an exit sign, and that’s when I see him.
The soldier is leaning up against a train in the sidings, smoking. It’s the picture he makes that captures me. The moonlight highlights the curl of his smoke, and there is a loop of barbed wire at the station fencing in the foreground. He is leant at an angle against some kind of freight trailer – a huge grey silo, with a dark star painted on the side. Moonbeams catch the dull gleam of his weapon, the pale rose-gold tip of his cigarette. It is so reminiscent of my grandfather’s painting, the one in Gran’s hall: the colours, almost monochrome, with just a hint of lapis. As I look through the lens, a bird, disturbed from its roost, rises up towards the moon.
‘Perfect,’ I whisper, flicking off the lens cap and lifting the Leica to my face. I turn on the flash, not waiting to ask for permission, catching the moment before it is lost. There is a fluorescent blink as I click the shutter.
Stupid.
The soldier turns, shouts. From nowhere shadows solidify, I am grabbed from behind, Alsatian dogs snarl and bark: pink-mouthed, jagged white teeth. I feel the prod of a gun in my ribs. My arms wrenched up behind my back.
A shout and sour breath in my face: Du Stuck Scheisse! (You piece of shit!)
Uniformed men shoving, and patrol dogs snapping at my legs, frog-marched through a side gate and away to where a black van waits, doors howling open.
I am shoved into the bruising darkness: trapped.
Chapter 19
January 1945, Nazi Germany
Detta
‘Ils nous tueront tous – they will kill us all!’ Mother flung out her arms, and her whisper sounded like a shout in the dead air.
Luckily the SS had started their house-to-house search at the far end of the village, which gave them some time. But if the escapees hid in their usual places then the dogs would sniff them out. The men had to leave but where could they go?
It came to Detta with sudden clarity, as Father Richter wrung his hands and the men pulled on their boots, ready to run. ‘Follow me,’ she said in English.
In the priest’s bedroom her little suitcase lay unopened on the floor by the bed. She knelt down and struggled with the catch, then tossed her spare clothes and things on the bed. Underneath were the hidden Wehrmacht deserter’s jackets. She held them out. ‘Put these on.’ The men began to unb
utton their air force jackets. ‘No, over the top. You’ll need your British uniforms later.’
‘Are you mad?’ Her mother stood in the doorway watching. The two airmen struggled to get the German army jackets over their own.
Detta shook her head and sat on the bed next to the disgorged contents of her case. ‘I’m taking them to the French barracks, but they’ll need to wear these for the walk there, in case someone sees.’
‘But if you’re caught?’ Father Richter stood behind her mother, blocking the candlelight from the doorway.
‘It’s foggy outside. Hardly anyone is up yet. And even if they are, people are used to me popping into the French workers’ barracks with orders from the Reichsbahn. And if two injured Wehrmacht soldiers are also walking up the path towards the field hospital, so what?’ She pulled on her boots.
‘But, cheri . . .’ her mother began.
‘Oh Mother, what choice do we have?’ Detta said, standing up. She plucked her blue scarf up from the mess of clothes on the bed covers and pulled her gloves from her coat pockets. Her mother stood aside to let her lead the airmen out of the room.
‘At least let me accompany you,’ Father Richter said, catching her sleeve as she reached the top of the stairs.
She ushered the men on ahead and turned to reply to him. ‘No. There’s no reason for you to be visiting the barracks. It would only arouse suspicion. Shouldn’t you be in church this morning, anyway?’ Detta pushed past and followed the men downstairs, hurrying away before she had second thoughts. She didn’t want Father Richter or her mother giving her chance to pause or reconsider.
She led the men to the side door. ‘You go out this way, and I’ll go out the front. Cut behind the church, through the churchyard, and keep going until you reach the barracks,’ she pointed up to where the track wound round through the trees. ‘You’ll need to re-join the track to catch up with me as I reach the entrance. But we can’t be seen together. Is that clear?’ She spoke in German and Tom hastily translated to English for Gordon, who nodded. ‘Good. Ready?’ She unlocked the door, letting them into the priest’s rose garden. Gordon was still too weak to walk unaided. Tom had to shoulder his weight, and they staggered through the snow as one, just as she’d seen them that first day on the path. There was no time to kiss, or whisper goodbye. She locked the door behind them.
As she walked back through the dark corridor to the front door she sensed her mother and the priest watching from the stairwell, but they did nothing to stop her. She slid the bolt and turned the heavy key in the lock.
It was lighter now, the sun up, but hidden behind an icy blanket of fog. A line of trucks sped past on the main road: the needle-cold air suffused with petrol fumes. Detta pulled her blue scarf up over her head, slammed the manse door shut behind her, put her hands in her pockets and turned right, past the old beech tree, and along the path that wound in front of the church. The guns pounded on.
She kept thinking that at any time she’d hear the shout of the SS field police, demanding to know where she was going in such a hurry, at this time on a Sunday morning? But there was no shout, only the roar of the angry skies, and the distant barking of the search dogs. Were Tom and Gordon following?
She bent over, fiddling with the lace on her right boot, as if it had come loose and she were re-tying it. Upside down, beyond the wavering black curtain of her wool skirt, she glimpsed the men, propped against each other, staggering like drunkards between the gravestones of the foggy churchyard. They looked dishevelled, exhausted. If anyone saw, they’d think they were walking wounded, tottering towards the field hospital. They disappeared, then, out of sight behind the church.
Detta straightened up and carried on walking in the direction of the French barracks. A bird flew past, a sudden black flash against the grey-white of the morning mist, like torchlight in negative. What was it? A starling? She blinked and hurried on, head down, looking at her black boots scurrying on the snowy mud. Not much further, now, soon she’d have the men to safety.
‘Good morning, Fräulein! Not at church today?’ She looked up, stifling a gasp. It was the same SS officer from yesterday. He must have been walking down the track from the Schloss. She hadn’t noticed his tall grey figure stalking through the shadowy trees towards her.
‘Oh, you startled me! I wasn’t looking. Church? No, not today, officer.’
He drew near, coming to a halt beside her. ‘But it is Sunday today. I had you down as a religious girl, not so?’
‘Yes, yes, I am. What I meant was I’m not going there right now, but naturally I’ll be at Mass later on.’
‘Naturally.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘And where are you off to now? It’s hardly the weather for a country stroll.’
‘I’m . . .’ She gestured vaguely up the hill, through the trees. ‘I’m friends with Frau Moll. I often go to Mass with her and her daughters on Sundays.’ As the SS officer turned to look in the direction she pointed, she glimpsed the two disguised airmen appearing from behind the church. ‘How have your men found their accommodation at the Deutches Haus?’ She rushed into the question, hoping to distract him.
He turned back to look at her. ‘Very comfortable, thank you.’ His breath billowed like smoke across her face. It smelled of brandy and cigars. ‘You didn’t have to leave, you know,’ he said. ‘Running away in the middle of the night like that, as if we were the enemy!’ He chuckled a little at his own joke, showing uneven, overlapping teeth.
‘Easier for your men, give you all more space, and Father Richter has a spare room for Mother and I, so really it was no bother.’ Stop gabbling, she thought. Stop it. It makes you look nervous, and he’ll start to suspect something. She drew breath. ‘Any luck finding the escapees?’ She tried to keep her voice bright.
‘Not yet, but now we’ve got the dogs out . . .’ He made an expansive gesture.
‘Yes, I’ve heard how thorough you are with your search methods.’
He smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘You should come back to the inn – and your mother, of course. It would be good for the men to have some female company.’ His thin lips were grey-pink and mobile, like an earthworm. He leaned in a little closer to her, and she realized he was awaiting her response. Just then there was the thud of something falling, a muffled voice crying out, and Detta saw, with horror, just twenty metres or so behind the officer’s back, that Gordon had slipped and fallen as the two airmen joined the icy path, pulling Tom down with him. The SS man turned his head to look. He tutted. ‘Bloody Wehrmacht . . .’ He watched as the men rolled and righted themselves in the snow. Would he choose to impress her with his chivalry, and go over to offer help to the two fallen soldiers? How could she stop him?
Detta reached over and touched his sleeve. ‘Yes,’ she said. She had to raise her voice a little, to counter a sudden boom of ordnance. ‘Yes, of course we’ll come to visit you all, Mother and I. We’ll need to check up on the pig and the chickens anyway. I hope there were enough eggs for your breakfast this morning?’
He swivelled his head back and fixed her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Ah, about the chickens, Fräulein . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘There was an unfortunate incident. I’m afraid someone left the coop door open, and then someone else let the dogs out.’ He shrugged. ‘So you see . . .’
She saw, in her mind’s eye: bloody feathers on the snow, and imagined the sound of the dogs’ salivating jaws crunching through bones. Don’t show your feelings, Detta. Just don’t. There was movement on the path behind the SS man, but she wouldn’t let herself look. She swallowed. ‘These things happen, I quite understand. But you and your men had eggs for breakfast today, at least?’
‘Yes, thank you. Eggs and rye bread. What a pity there was no good coffee in your establishment, though.’
‘But who has real coffee, in these times, officer?’
‘Who indeed, Fräulein? At least there is still the pig. When the manhunt is concluded we can have it butchered – the men will d
eserve a decent meal after all their hard work. You do have a butcher in the village?’
‘Not anymore.’ She thought of Herr Lipp and what happened last year. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘Shame. We shall just have to shoot it and do our best with your kitchen knives. Perhaps you could help us?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Detta said, her voice rising in desperation. How to get rid of him? She made a show of rubbing her arms. ‘It’s very cold, isn’t it? I think I should probably—’
Just then there was the sound of shouting from halfway along the village street. ‘Looks like I’m needed,’ the SS man said, giving a slight bow. ‘It was a pleasure to bump into you again, Fräulein, and, as I said, don’t be a stranger. Consider the Deutches Haus still your home, please.’
Detta forced her lips up at the corners. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you, sir.’
He smiled again, showing his jostling teeth. ‘Not at all. See you later, Fräulein.’
She waited on the track, watching him stride off, past the manse and into the village. Had he suspected her of something, or was all that just some kind of clumsy flirtation? She released a breath. At least he was gone.
But where were Tom and Gordon? The morning fog would soon begin to lift, and villagers would be making their way to church for Mass. They were running out of time. Detta looked round, but they were nowhere to be seen. She just had to hope they could see her, and that there was still time. She half ran the last fifty metres to the barracks, feet sliding on the frozen mud beneath the impacted snow.
She banged on the door. ‘Open up, it’s Fräulein Bruncel here!’ The French would be asleep, she thought, and shouted again, pounding with her fists. But the door opened almost immediately. Henri and Jean-Paul were up and dressed, already in coats and hats.
‘Fräulein!’ Jean-Paul bent to kiss her gloved hand in that half-mocking way he had.
‘There’s no time for games. I need your help.’ It all came in such a rush that her fluency suffered. She stammered and stumbled over the French words, blurting out about the British escapees and the SS manhunt.