The Escape

by Clare Harvey

‘No, she was a bi-lingual secretary with the railway. Part of her job was translation for the French forced workers.’

  ‘That’s odd. Your skipper said she was the priest’s housekeeper.’

  ‘Well, he was mistaken. He – he didn’t get to know her as well as I did.’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

  Tom felt anger rising hot in his chest at the inference. But losing his rag would do no good. He took a deep breath of the musty air and gazed out of the window, where the grey rain lashed in an impenetrable torrent, blocking whatever view there might have been.

  ‘Why do you suppose she told him she was a housekeeper, but confided in you that she was a secretary?’

  ‘Why? I don’t know why. It’s just a misunderstanding. Flight Sergeant Harper must’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’ He met the man’s impassive gaze. ‘She’s not a liar, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘I’m not getting at anything, old chap.’ The man’s suit made a swishing sound against the leather seat as he shifted in his chair. ‘What we’re doing is trying to establish the facts. Which are somewhat in doubt. Was she a housekeeper or a secretary, for example. Anyway.’ He paused and gestured with the pen. ‘Let’s move on, shall we? Is it true that she brought the SS directly to your hiding place, with the priest?’

  ‘Yes, she did. But she had no choice. She was protecting us.’

  ‘Protecting you?’

  ‘She knew the SS would search the manse in any case, and she thought that by showing willing, by pre-empting them, she could bluff them into thinking she was a loyal citizen, and then they wouldn’t bother undertaking a full search. Which is exactly what happened.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The man turned over a sheet of paper and looked down at the typed document. Something was underlined in red. ‘It says here that she gave you some Wehrmacht jackets to wear?’

  ‘Yes, when we escaped to the French barracks, to disguise us when we walked up the public road.’

  ‘How do you suppose she came by those jackets?’

  ‘She told me some deserting soldiers left them behind.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying anything, merely clarifying a few points from your earlier deposition. There are some inconsistencies between your account and your pilot’s, you see. We just need to clear a few things up, old chap.’ He made a note in green ink on the sheet in front of him and turned to the next page.

  Tom realized that his hands had bunched into fists. He opened them slowly and clasped them together on his lap instead. Aggression would get him nowhere – months in POW camps had taught him that.

  ‘So, there’s something here about how Fräulein Bruncel had the opportunity to escape the approaching Red Army in an ambulance, together with her mother and some family friends. However, she chose to join you in the barracks with the French workers and their Polish girlfriends.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you suppose she did that? Why did she not leave when she had the chance?’

  ‘She came to see me.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘She came to tell me she loved me.’

  ‘She hadn’t told you before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how long had you two known each other, at this point?’

  ‘I don’t know. Two, maybe three days.’

  ‘Two or three days.’ There was a pause. ‘After two or three days she was already so in love that she would risk everything to be with you?’

  ‘Of course she was. So was I. I would have done the same in her shoes. It was—’ Tom shook his head. How could he explain the intense emotions of those times to this lizard of a man?

  ‘Warrant Officer Jenkins, you were a prisoner of war for rather a long time, weren’t you?’

  ‘Two years, eleven months and one day.’

  ‘And, I suppose, you were utterly starved of female companionship throughout your incarceration?’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘I do put it like that. I put it that seeing a pretty young girl like Fräulein Bruncel may well have had quite an impact on a man in your situation. A pretty young girl who, moreover, spoke English and seemed to want to help you, to find you attractive, even.’

  ‘Detta is a very special woman.’

  ‘I can see how you’d think that.’

  ‘With all due respect, you’re twisting my words. It wasn’t like that at all. She wasn’t after anything. We fell in love. I love her. You must understand that?’

  ‘Love can mean different things to different people.’

  ‘She’s not some kind of honey-trap. She’s not a German spy, if that’s what you think?’

  ‘I’m not paid to think.’ The man put down the pen, folded his arms and sat back in his chair. ‘I’m only paid to ask questions. And the question I keep returning to with this little scenario is why? Why would Fräulein Bruncel throw her whole life away for a man she’d only just met? We cannot rule out espionage. But this may also just be a case of sheer survival. Perhaps she thought the odds were more in her favour with an allied airman than on the run in a stolen ambulance? Perhaps, hearing what the Ivans were doing to German girls, she knew which side her bread was buttered? And one can hardly blame her for that. In any case—’

  ‘I’m going to marry her,’ Tom said, unable to hold his rage any longer. ‘I don’t care what you bastards think. We love each other and we’re going to be together.’ His clenched hands jerked apart as he spoke.

  ‘I don’t doubt the intensity of your feelings, but you may start to see things differently once you’ve had your leave and returned to the RAF. In the meantime, we’ll talk to Fräulein Bruncel and come to our own conclusions.’

  Tom jolted out of his seat. ‘But I need to see her. When can I see her?’

  The man remained seated, unfolded his arms and made a vague gesture at the papers on the desk in front of him. ‘The process needs to run its course. Thank you for your time, Warrant Officer. You may go.’

  ‘I’m not going without answers.’

  ‘Then you will be here a very long time. There is such a thing as national security, you know, and bringing an enemy alien into the country in wartime is a very serious matter. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I . . .’ He wanted to argue, but what was there to say in retort to that? He closed his mouth and gave the smallest of nods. An image of Detta as they marched her off the ship came into his head. She’d looked round for him, but she hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard him yelling his love from the upper deck.

  Where had they taken her? And how the hell was he ever going to find her?

  Detta

  They could barely fit into the cubicle together, she and the bony, uniformed woman, who refused to make eye contact. Detta’s bladder felt as if it would burst.

  ‘Well, get on with it, then,’ the woman said, looking up at the bare electric bulb that swung above them. ‘What’s wrong? Too shy to drop your knickers? You weren’t so shy when you dropped them for your RAF fella were you? But that was different, I s’pose. He was your meal ticket, wasn’t he?’ For the first time since the journey began, back in Liverpool, the woman looked directly at her. There was hatred in her deep-set eyes.

  There was no point responding to the insults, Detta thought, turning away to look at the handcuffs that dangled from the woman’s hand. But surely she wasn’t expected to – to perform – in front of this stranger? ‘Are you staying in here?’ Detta said, face hot with embarrassment.

  ‘Can’t leave you in here alone. Who knows what you’d get up to,’ came the reply. Detta pulled down her knickers and sat on the cold toilet seat. She stared at her shoes, the funny cork-soled things that Tom managed to find for her when he was off the boat in Naples (she hadn’t been allowed off herself, of course – nobody would risk letting an ‘enemy alien’ out of sight). At first she thought she couldn’t, not here, in this tiny box, with this
horrible woman watching. But she was desperate, and it came, at last. She’d been holding it in for so long, that it stung, and she bit her lip with the sudden pain. It made a gushing sound as it hit the bowl. A faint smell rose. There was nothing she could do. The woman tutted. ‘Do all German girls piss like horses, or is it just you?’ she said. Detta did not answer. She reached for the toilet roll. It was shiny and hard. When she pulled her knickers back up, her gusset still felt damp. She reached for the chain and flushed.

  The woman clicked the handcuffs back on her before unlocking the cubicle door. ‘But my hands,’ Detta said. ‘I need to wash my hands.’

  ‘I think pissy fingers are the least of your worries, duckie.’ The woman jerked her back towards the waiting van. The driver was leaning up against it, having a smoke. ‘And do get a move on, we’ll be late getting to London as it is, without having to stop for your so-called comfort break.’ Detta saw the driver frown at the last remark. ‘Oh, give over, Alf,’ the woman said, opening the van door next to him. ‘It’s not like I told her the centre’s address. Does it really matter?’ She shoved Detta into the gloomy interior. ‘No, don’t answer that. Just do your job and drive.’ The woman threw herself inside and slammed the door after them.

  London, then, Detta thought, as the driver got in and turned on the engine. They are taking me to a reception centre in London. She slid to one side as the van swerved away from the kerb.

  Later – much later – the woman fell asleep, head bumping against the blacked-out window, lips mumbling something incomprehensible and barely audible above the engine’s growl. Although the side windows were blackened, she could see out through the front windscreen to where bridges and houses, hedges and ditches tumbled past as they sped on into the twilight. There were no road signs on the main roads, but Detta could guess when they’d arrived in London: curling through a maze of streets, van wheels jolting over potholes. There were rows of large houses, and sudden gaps of flattened rubble. They turned into a small side street, slowing down as they passed a sign next to a pillar box: Nightingale Lane, it said in thick black letters against a white background. The car ground to a halt in front of large metal gates. The woman suddenly sat up straight, eyes wide open. ‘Not asleep, just resting my eyes,’ she said, her voice slurred as a drunk. The driver left the engine running and went out to a side entrance. When he got back in the van, the gates had already begun to swing open to reveal a huge old house, with two gables like arrows, pointing up at the London sky. The car slid inside, wheels crunching on gravel. The driver killed the engine, and got out to open the door next to her, as if he were a chauffeur, not a gaoler.

  The woman shunted her up the steps. The double wooden doors opened inside to a yellow-beige hallway that smelled of boiled vegetables and disinfectant, where another woman was waiting. This one wasn’t wearing a military uniform, but instead had on a dark-grey dress with a white pinafore apron over the top, and steel-grey hair rolled away from a crumpled face.

  Detta’s handcuffs were taken off and the military woman left. The door thudded shut behind her, and the new woman – her wardress, Detta supposed – locked it immediately from a set of keys she wore on a chain round her waist. She was ushered upstairs and along a featureless corridor to a door at the far end.

  ‘You’ll be sleeping in here with the others. The bathroom’s just across the way. Quick now, it’s past lights out.’

  ‘And tomorrow?’

  ‘You’ll be interviewed.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Well, Miss, I’m not at liberty to say.’ The crumple-faced woman wore an expression of habitual worry.

  ‘And then will I be free to go?’

  ‘The process can take time.’

  ‘But I will leave here?’

  ‘Oh yes, this is a repatriation centre, Miss. You will be moved on from here, no question.’

  Detta hesitated. On the boat they’d said she’d be taken to a ‘reception centre’, but this woman had said ‘repatriation centre’. The British had so many words that meant the same thing. Perhaps ‘reception’ and ‘repatriation’ were just different versions of the same word. It probably wasn’t anything to worry about, was it?

  ‘Good.’ Detta allowed herself a half-smile. So this incarceration was merely temporary. Once they’d heard her story – and Tom’s corroboration – they’d let her go, wouldn’t they?

  Chapter 36

  November, 1989, Poland

  Miranda

  The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving me stale and exhausted.

  I take another sip of the gritty coffee and glance round the roadside cafe. A dejected-looking red-headed waitress wipes the countertop. Apart from me, the only other customer is a fat man, tucking into scrambled eggs. He sits beneath an improbable print of a little girl holding a sunflower. The sunflower is the same colour as the daubs of scrambled egg smeared on his plate. Outside, the rain is easing, bleeding away with the night outside. Beams of early sunlight flash rainbows through the spray from the speeding wheels of passing trucks. I check the clock above the till: Mum will probably be up by now. I go over to the payphone by the door.

  The receiver presses against my hoop earring. I prod the metal buttons with a forefinger. ‘Hello? Yes I’ll accept reverse charges.’ The voice at the other end is muzzy and high pitched.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Miranda. I thought it was the hospital.’

  ‘How is Gran? I spoke to Keith, but he didn’t tell me how it happened.’

  ‘She was visiting your father and collapsed in the car park. She was lucky she was there, not at home, because someone found her and called an ambulance. They took her to Derriford because it was closer.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘It’s a stroke, Miranda. Of course it’s serious.’

  ‘I mean, will she be okay? What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘Too soon to say. She’s not fully conscious yet, very confused. So they’re keeping her in to assess the extent of the, well, the damage, I suppose. But the important thing is that she’s going to pull through, so there’s no need for you to rush back.’

  ‘Mum, I—’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go, darling. I was just on my way out, and it’s a hell of a drive to Plymouth from here. You’re alright, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine.’

  ‘You know your gran was trying to sort something out for your father, when it happened. It made me think. It’s good to talk to you again, Miranda, even though it’s under such difficult circumstances. Love you.’ There is a click and a hiss as she hangs up, grabbing the last word, as usual. I cling on to the receiver for a moment, then I go back to my table.

  I take the torn postcard from my rucksack and put it down on the cream Formica. I look at the postcard: the inn, the cars, and the trees. It seems more important than ever to get there now. But where is Lossen? All I know is that it lies somewhere between Oppeln and Breslau, but they’d have different names now, since becoming part of Poland.

  The waitress has disappeared into the kitchen. The fat man dabs clots of scrambled egg from his moustache and lights a cigarette. I get up and cross the empty cafe towards him. I put the postcard down near his plate. ‘Lossen?’ I point at it, and he squints down, eyes almost lost in the fleshy foothills of his face. His pungent cigarette smoke catches in my nostrils. ‘Near Breslau?’ I say. He grunts, pulls a map from his coat pocket and spreads it out on the counter. ‘Breslau,’ he says, shaking his head and pointing a pudgy finger at a town on the map. The letters spell Wroclaw, but he says ‘Rots-lav! Rots-Lav!’ jabbing a pudgy index finger at the map.

  ‘Oh.’ I smile and nod. So Breslau is now Wroclaw. ‘Are you going there? Are you going to Wroclaw?’ He smiles and shakes his head, and I don’t need to understand Polish to know that it means ‘sorry, but no’. I smile my thanks and go to stand near the till.

  There is a draught of chill air as the cafe door opens and closes. I see a couple with matchi
ng long grey coats come in. They sit at a table nearby. She’s quite young – mousey hair in a neat bob. He has fair hair, thinning at the temples, although he can’t be more than thirty. His coat is undone and I see a sky-blue scarf at his neck and some kind of uniform underneath: white shirt, tie, navy trousers and jacket. I wonder what they are doing here?

  I can’t help hearing their conversation as they wait for the waitress to reappear – they speak German, and my ears are still attuned. I find out that they are pilots for Lufthansa. Their plane is in Wroclaw, but it’s been grounded overnight for repairs. The woman decided to take the opportunity to visit a cousin in Slubice, and the man has just driven over to pick her up so she’ll be back at the airport in time.

  They are at ease with each other, but not intimate. I think they must be colleagues, not a couple. The man seems to sense my eavesdropping and looks my way. I feel as if I’ve seen him before. It is like bumping into an old classmate at a crowded station – familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. But he can’t possibly be anyone I know, can he?

  The waitress reappears and I point at the till to show I am ready to pay for my coffee. When I hold out a handful of Ostmarks, she frowns and shakes her head. We exchange sign language: open palms and shrugs and pointing at empty coffee cups. Not knowing how else to pay for my breakfast, I pull Quill’s signet ring from my left hand and hold it out. The waitress looks confused. ‘Take it,’ I say. ‘For my coffees.’ I put it into her palm and close her hands over it. She opens her fist and looks down at the ring, then she shrugs, smiles, and our exchange is complete. She puts the ring on her own finger and begins to come out from behind the counter to see to the waiting couple.

  I have to be quick. Before the waitress gets to them, and before I lose my nerve, I take the two steps to their table: ‘Entschuldigen Sie, bitte. I need to get to my grandmother’s house. Can I get a lift to Wroclaw with you?’

  Chapter 37

  May 1945, England

  Detta

  ‘That will be all, then. You’re free to go.’ The man with the sagging eyelids tapped the papers into a pile and clicked the lid back on his fountain pen.