by Clare Harvey
‘I can leave?’ Hope lifted her voice. Was it finally over, this never-ending queue of days?
Every day here had been the same, since the night they’d brought her from Liverpool. Every day tepid and unremarkable as the food, and the weather, in this place. Every day there had been breakfast of toast and margarine, an obligatory walk (three times round the perimeter fence), then to the kitchen to help to prepare the midday meal, and floor polishing or laundry duty in the afternoon. Except four times – five if you included this one – she’d been sent up to the top floor interview room straight after breakfast for questioning. There had been three men in different coloured military uniforms, the French intelligence officer and now this man, in his baggy brown suit. Surely she’d done enough, at last, to be released?
‘You are letting me go?’ she said, to be certain she’d heard correctly.
The man looked up, catching her tone. ‘You can leave, yes.’
‘So, am I to leave this place today?’ She clung to the hope. She shifted in her seat, and the sealed letter she’d written to Tom made a faint crumpling sound in her pocket – she wrote every day, although she still hadn’t heard back from him.
‘Oh dear me, no, Fräulein. That was just a figure of speech. You need to remain within the boundaries of the centre, of course.’
‘And what about my fiancé, Warrant Officer Tom Jenkins from the RAF. Hasn’t he been in touch?’ She thought about all those letters. They must have questioned him, too, she supposed. Why hadn’t he written back?
‘Fiancé?’ The man looked pointedly at the empty ring finger on her left hand. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He looked up again. ‘So, as I said. The interview is concluded. You may leave.’
‘But, can I ask, how long will I have to stay here?’
He cleared his throat, rifled through the papers in the folder in front of him. ‘Let me see.’ He frowned, then got up and went over to the filing cabinet next to the window. He opened the top drawer, and his fingers picked through the files.
Detta looked down at the open folder on the desk. There was the man’s scrawled notes from the interview they’d just had, black ink still wet on the paper. But, poking out from underneath was something else, another sheet of paper, handwriting she recognized. Detta let her fingers steal across the desk towards the open file, pushed the top sheet sideways to get a better look at what was underneath.
‘Someone must have mislaid your registration document, or filed it incorrectly . . . maybe it’s been put in the wrong place . . .’ The man was still searching the filing cabinet.
Detta looked down at the open file again. No, she wasn’t wrong. There, under the top sheet, was her own handwriting: the last letter she’d written to Tom. She nudged it with the tip of her finger, and under that, the one she’d written the day before. She looked at the wedge of paperwork on the desk. Had they stolen all her letters? Had he even received one of her daily letters to him? The wardress collected the post every day after breakfast, claiming she would stamp each one and put it in the box to catch the first post. But she’d lied. They’d all lied. Her letters were here. Tom would never have heard from her, never even known where she was, all these long weeks.
‘Ah, yes, here it is.’
Detta withdrew her hand quickly as if she’d touched a hot iron. The man came and sat back down. His reptilian lids blinked slowly before he continued. ‘You’re quite correct, Fräulein. You’ve been here almost a month now, and you’ve been seen by each of the agencies, so, yes, it probably is time to move you on. I’ll have a word, and we’ll see how soon we can get things in motion for you.’ He smiled, revealing uneven, yellow teeth.
‘Moving on? Where will I be moved to?’
He tapped the sheets of paper together again and closed the cardboard folder. ‘Back home, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Fräulein.’ He spoke very slowly, like a teacher to the dunce of the class. ‘Back home to Germany.’
Detta closed the door slowly behind her on her way out, and managed to make it across the corridor to the windowsill next to the fire door. She leant against it, finding it hard to breathe, as if there were a heavy weight on her chest. She rested her cheek against the cool pane, the rumble of a nearby train station faintly audible.
They were sending her back to Germany.
What about Tom? What about their life together, the one they’d planned? Her thoughts tumbled in chaos as she looked out over the morning street. Had nobody read any of her statements? Hadn’t they corroborated her story with Tom? Did nobody believe her?
She remembered how the woman in the car had spoken to her, on the journey down from Liverpool, with derision and fear. She recalled a phrase she’d heard the wardress use in conversation with the cook: ‘All fur coat and no knickers,’ wrinkling her nose in outrage. She thought about the way the man had looked down at her missing engagement ring just now. No, nobody believed her. They thought her a fantasist, an opportunist, a whore. She was the enemy. They hated her and they wanted her gone.
She looked out of the sash window, waiting for her breath to slow, her thoughts to still. The black-painted fire escape zigzagged down the brickwork. Oak trees, lush with new spring leaves, spilled over the barbed wire that spooled the top of the high fence. Beyond that was what she supposed was a typical suburban British street: red-brick houses with shiny brass doorknobs, hopscotch paving slabs, and the postbox just below. As she watched she saw the familiar figure of a little girl skipping towards the gates, ahead of a woman pushing a pram. She’d seen them before at this time of day, when she’d been up here for interviews. The girl had a navy blue coat with a fur collar, and a shock of blonde curls. She looked, Detta thought, with a tug of grief, just like one of Frau Moll’s daughters.
It came to her almost as a reflex, bypassing conscious thought. She pushed the release bar on the fire escape and was outside, feet sliding a little on the metal step. The building hugged the perimeter on this side. She could see right down onto the red circle of the postbox, the dandelion-headed girl. She took the letter she’d written for Tom out of her pocket and hurled it, hard as she could. The faint spring breeze lifted it, so it whirled over the barbed wire, falling like a giant snowflake, just at the girl’s feet. Detta held her breath.
The girl stopped skipping, picked up the white envelope, waved it at the woman with the pram, who nodded at her. As Detta watched, the girl posted it through the mouth of the postbox.
‘Fräulein! What are you doing out there?’ A voice from inside.
She span round. ‘I’m so sorry, I felt faint, I needed some air,’ she said, hearing his approaching footsteps.
‘If you are feeling faint, then I suggest you go to your room and lie down, instead of standing out here in the cold.’ He was there in the doorway, nudging her inside, pulling the fire door to.
Detta’s letter to Tom was in the post. It had no stamp, but it was the best she could do, to trust her future to the British postal system, and hope.
Tom
‘Perhaps it’s for the best, T,’ Gwen said, flicking ash into the kitchen sink. Since when had his little sister started smoking? So much had changed in his absence, Tom thought.
‘How so?’ He couldn’t keep the irritation from his voice.
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Colonel Carruth says they’ll just repatriate her, in the end, once they’ve established she’s not a spy.’
‘Well of course she’s not a spy!’
‘But how do they know that?’
‘Because I’ve signed a statement saying exactly how she saved my life, and so has Flight Sergeant Harper. And what the hell makes your Colonel Carruth an expert in all this, anyway?’
‘I don’t know. Old school chum in the Home Office or something. Anyway, maybe you should be prepared to let this one go . . .’
‘If they’ve sent her back, then I’ll just have to go out to Germany and find her, marry her,
and bring her back as my wife,’ he said.
‘Oh, Tom.’
‘What?’
‘You know what it would be like, if you did do that. She’d barely be able to show her face in the village. So many people lost everything in the Plymouth Blitz.’
‘Which had nothing to do with her. She was still a schoolgirl in 1941, for Christ’s sake.’
‘But people won’t see it like that, will they? Not round here, at least. Nobody will be able to get beyond the fact . . .’ she trailed off, taking another drag of her cigarette, her eyes like marbles, glassy and hard.
‘The fact that she’s German?’ he said. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, looked out of the window at the bluebells by the hedge, ran a hand through her blonde curls. ‘What about you, Gwennie? What do you think? I mean really. Do you think I’m on a hiding to nothing?’
A wood pigeon began its uncertain coo-coo from the monkey puzzle tree, in the pause before she answered. ‘It’s not about what I think. It’s about you, and your happiness. You’ve been miserable since you got home, and we all think it might be better if you just, well, you know, move on. After all, your leave’s up next week, isn’t it?’
‘What, I should just go back to work and forget about her?’
‘Well, the authorities clearly aren’t going to tell you anything. You’ve had no joy from any of the letters to the Home Office, have you?’ Gwen sighed, a pained look on her pretty face. ‘And, T, how well did you know the girl? I mean, really?’
‘She saved my life, you know.’
‘Sorry, I know. It’s just we’ve all been so worried about you, these past few weeks.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and threw it into the dustbin under the sink. As she straightened up, the church bells started ringing. ‘Well I suppose we’d better get a move on. Don’t want to get Pa late starting the sermon and upsetting old Mrs Riddaway again. Last week she claimed her stew was burnt because the service went fifteen minutes over time, the old battle-axe.’ She plucked her handbag off the back of a chair.
He forgave her. He would always forgive Gwennie, his curly-haired little sister. She meant well. He could imagine Ma and Pa with their anxious expressions exhorting her to talk some sense into him – You try, Gwendolyn dear, he listens to you. Tom sighed and picked up his cap from the kitchen table.
‘Oh blast, I’ve got nothing for the collection,’ Gwen said, shaking out her purse. All that fell out was an old bus ticket, a tightly rolled-up pair of nylons, and a gold lipstick case. ‘I used up the last of my change on the excess postage on that letter of yours yesterday; you’ll have to sub me. Or, better still, pay me back what you owe, you rotter.’
‘What letter?’
‘The one that came whilst you were out collecting your new uniform yesterday. I told Ma to pass it onto you.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘Her mind is all over the place these days, poor thing, it’s her “time of life”,’ Gwen said the last phrase under her breath, as if it were some kind of secret. ‘They’re probably in the Davenport. Everything seems to get shoved there.’
He followed her out of the kitchen and into the hallway. It was dark and cool, with the tiles underfoot, and the morning sunshine streaming in through the stained glass panel above the front door. She lifted the rosewood lid of the old desk, next to the umbrella stand. ‘Here. Thruppence you owe me, T, and don’t say you can’t afford it because I know what a warrant officer earns these days, and that’s without the three years back pay you have owing.’
She held out the envelope. It was dirty, crumpled, and his name and address was written in curly black ink letters on the front. But there was no stamp. Postage due – 3d was scrawled in red ink across the front. He tore it open:
Home Office Repatriation Centre, Nightingale Lane, London.
3rd May 1945
Dearest Tom,
I’ve lost count of the number of letters I’ve written, but I still haven’t heard back from you.
Tom, if you’ve had second thoughts about us, I’ll understand. I’m sure that coming home has put things in a new perspective, and if you feel differently about me, then that’s just how it is. But if this letter reaches you and you do still feel the same way as you did in Germany, in Russia, on the ship and in Liverpool, then know that I feel that way too, and I always will.
If you still love me, please come and find me.
Yours forever, Detta x
He passed the letter to Gwen, watched her face as her furrowed brow smoothed as she read. Tom’s mind worked. They were keeping her prisoner. He had to get her out, because if Gwen’s colonel was right, she could be sent back to Germany any day. He needed to get to London, but trains were a nightmare on Sundays, and anyway, how the hell was he even going to get to Totnes station at this time on a Sunday morning?
Gwen handed back the letter. She didn’t say anything immediately but instead reached back into the davenport. She held out a key fob. ‘It’s got a full tank and the spare coupons are in the glove compartment,’ she said.
‘But what about your colonel?’
‘I’ll think of something. The old boy’s taken a bit of a shine to me, so I doubt he’ll have me court-martialled just for lending out his staff car on a mercy mission.’
‘Gwen, I can’t drop you in it.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake take the damn thing before I change my mind!’
Chapter 38
November 1989, Poland
Miranda
‘I’ll just drop Silke off at the airport and you can give me directions.’ At the sound of his voice I’m awake. I open my eyes and things swim into focus, but still make no sense. I am on the back seat of a car. I push myself to sit up. Through the windscreen I see a wide road with coloured cars strung like beads, and in the distance the scribble of a cityscape horizon. I remember then how I hitched a lift with the Lufthansa pilots to Wroclaw from the roadside cafe. I must have fallen asleep almost as soon as the journey began, lulled by the warmth and the gentle throb of the car engine. I blink into full consciousness.
‘You wanted to be dropped off near Wroclaw?’ The woman in the passenger seat turns, her tip-tilted nose in profile against the gunmetal skies beyond the glass. ‘I’ve got to be at the airport for flight checks but Michael should have time to take you to your grandmother’s.’
The road snakes on between featureless fields, but the buildings on the horizon are looming larger. A few minutes later the car pulls into a space in front of the cargo bay of a small airport. The woman – Silke – gets out of the passenger seat, smiles at me through the car window and waves. ‘Good luck with your search,’ she mouths through the glass, and walks off in the direction of the hangar.
Michael invites me into the front. I feel the blast of cold air as I get out, and then I’m back inside in the warmth again, slamming the passenger door. I thank him for taking the trouble to help me. ‘Not at all. Just tell me where we need to go,’ he says, pulling out into the road.
‘The thing is, I’m not sure. It’s a little village called Lossen, somewhere between Breslau and Oppeln. You can just drop me off somewhere in Wroclaw if you want. I can find a taxi or something, I’m sure.’
‘I don’t mind driving to the village. There’s plenty of time.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘I’m sure. Look for signs to Opole – that’s what Oppeln’s called, these days.’
We drive on in silence for a while. The Silesian skies above us are thick grey-purple, the vast fields stubbled brown and beige. A line of roadside trees seem to topple towards us as the car rushes forward. I point out the Opole road and we head south. He gestures at the tape deck on the dash: ‘You can put something on, if you want?’
I rifle through the cassettes in the space below the stereo: Suzanne Vega; The Smiths; U2. Quill’s MG only had a radio. Quill – by now he will have realized I’ve gone, along with his passport. A cocktail of guilt and relief makes my stomach churn. ‘You okay with Suzan
ne Vega?’ I say.
‘I was hoping you’d choose that one.’ He turns to me and smiles, then fixes his gaze back on the road. Suzanne’s voice comes through the stereo. ‘So, I have to ask, how did you end up in a roadside cafe near Slubice, hitching a lift to your grandmother’s home village?’ he says.
‘I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me rattling on all day. Anyway, there’s not much to tell.’
‘Please, tell it anyway. There’s time, and it’s good for me to practice my English.’
So I do. From the moment I decided to come to Berlin, photographing the night the Wall was breached, Quill making me believe he’d burnt my passport, the realization that the journalism was just a cover for setting up a cocaine-smuggling network. I even tell him about Quill headbutting me, feeling oddly ashamed, as if I somehow invited his violence.
Tears come, unbidden, but I wipe them away and carry on talking. It’s cathartic, letting it all out. And it doesn’t matter – I’m hardly likely to see this stranger again, am I? So I tell Michael about slipping through the hole in the Berlin Wall, about finding Aunt Gwen, the torn postcard, Gran sending me off to find her hidden locket, and being picked up by the Stasi for questioning. I tell him about Quill’s ‘rescue’, hearing about my grandmother’s stroke, my pre-dawn escape to Poland, dropping Quill’s passport in the Oder and using his signet ring to pay for my breakfast at the cafe. ‘And that’s when I asked you for the lift,’ I say, wiping my wet face with my palms.
‘Not much to tell?’ Michael says. He turns to look at me again, one eyebrow raised. His eyes crinkle kindly at the corners. They are the same shade of blue as his scarf, I notice. I smile through my tears, then look away, out to where the clouds bruise the winter horizon, piling up over the Opole road. Although it’s the middle of the day, the light has become thick and low. He flicks on the headlights.
‘I feel guilty,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have thrown his passport in the Oder, or given away his ring.’