by Mary Nichols
‘Of course. I’ll see John and tell him what’s happened. I’m sure he’ll stand in for you.’
Louise was unsure of her welcome but as soon as her mother opened the door, she knew it would be all right. They hugged each other and then Faith made some Camp coffee and they sat on the sofa in the drawing room to drink it and talk. ‘And this is Angela,’ Faith said, drawing the child onto her lap, but she wriggled so much Faith let her go and she climbed onto Louise’s lap, sucking her thumb.
‘How do you know her name?’ Louise asked. ‘Did you get my letters after all? Why didn’t you write?’
‘I did, lots of times. I found the letters two days ago when I was going through your father’s desk, every single one of them, and all yours to me.’
‘He kept them from you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘You know your father, Louise, better than most.’
‘Yes. So tell me about this attack. I read about it in the paper.’
‘As usual the paper got it wrong. He did have an altercation in the street and was pushed over, but he wasn’t hurt. I don’t know how the paper got hold of it, but there were a lot of people about at the time so I suppose it’s not surprising. The truth is he had a stroke after he got home and hit his head on the corner of his desk when he fell. It cut his head open.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’s alive, though it is too early to say whether he will recover fully.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum. Is there anything I can do? Should I go and see him?’
‘No, I shouldn’t. He looks dreadful and he won’t know you. Let’s have some scrambled egg. I’ve got some dried egg and some bread I can toast. You can tell me all about Angela while I get it ready.’ It was obvious that her mother did not want to talk about what had happened. ‘She is like you, don’t you think?’
‘She’s more like Jan. Her hair is fair like his.’
‘Is that her father?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a funny name.’
‘It’s Polish.’
‘Polish! Oh, Louise, how could you?’
‘He is the most wonderful man you could ever wish to meet,’ Louise said. ‘He is kind, considerate and generous and he adores his daughter.’
‘But you have not married him?’
‘No, he has a wife in Poland.’
‘Oh.’ She paused to absorb this. ‘But he will divorce her and marry you?’
‘He can’t. For one thing he is Catholic and for another he loves his wife.’
‘I don’t think I want to meet this Jan, if that’s the way he goes on.’
‘You couldn’t anyway. He’s been posted missing.’
Faith stopped buttering toast to look at her daughter who met her gaze unflinchingly. ‘Judge not lest you be judged,’ she said.
Louise managed a laugh. ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’
‘It was something I thought of when I read your letters. I was not there to help and guide you when you needed me. I am to blame that you went off the rails and I am truly sorry for that.’
‘Mum, I make my own decisions. You don’t have to blame yourself. I know how it was with Father but I hoped you would defy him and come and see us.’
‘I dare not, Louise. I was brought up to believe in the sanctity of marriage and the marriage vows I made: love, honour and obey. The love and honour were eroded years ago but I could not break myself of the habit of obeying.’
‘And when Father recovers and comes home, will you still obey him?’
‘No. I am stronger now.’ She put scrambled eggs and toast on two plates and put them on the kitchen table. ‘Come on, let’s eat this while it’s hot.’
Louise stayed two days and during the whole time she felt that there was something her mother was not telling her, but however much she hinted she learned no more. She needed to get back to school; John couldn’t stand in for her indefinitely.
‘I’ll come again soon,’ she said as she hugged her mother goodbye.
Faith stood at the garden gate and watched until Louise had turned the corner, then she went back inside. There was joy in her heart. Henry’s stroke had had one happy result.
It was a lovely day, the sun was shining and, though it was still cold, people were out on the streets, going about their business, visiting the parks with their children and trying to pretend all was right with the world. Everything was far from all right. Looking out of his attic window, Jan could see the grey of German uniforms and the black muzzles of rifles interspersed with the civilian suits and colourful frocks of the inhabitants and it was the presence of those uniforms that kept him incarcerated in the attic.
He was lucky to be alive and he knew it. If half his tail fin had been shot off after crossing the coast, he would have had to come down in the sea and that would almost certainly have been the end of him. He had watched the other aircraft disappear out of sight, knowing the Spitfire was going to crash. But there were houses below him, a church and a busy market square. If he bailed out, the aeroplane would dive into the town, causing untold damage and loss of life and he couldn’t let that happen. He had deliberately turned away from it, not easy with only half a tail, looking for a way to bring his Spitfire down without it costing anyone’s life, his own included, if he could manage it.
He had been losing height rapidly and by the time he had left the town behind he was too low to bail out safely. He just missed the top of some trees and then there was a strip of farmland in front of him. It rushed up to meet him. The Spitfire buried its nose in the ground and juddered to a stop. He was thrown violently forward over the control panel and hit his head on the Perspex of the canopy.
He had regained consciousness to find himself in a bed with his leg encased in plaster and a nurse bending over him. ‘Where am I?’
‘In hospital,’ she answered in English. She was a pretty girl, very young with soft grey-green eyes that reminded him of Louise.
‘A prisoner of war?’
‘No.’ She laughed. ‘The Germans don’t know you are here. This room is right up under the rafters. They don’t search up here.’
‘How did I get here?’
‘A farmer saw the plane come down and dragged you out. He carried you to his barn and sent word to us. We fetched you in an ambulance.’
‘The Germans must be looking for me.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not. The farmer who found you set fire to the aeroplane. He said it burnt fiercely and the petrol tanks blew up and scattered debris everywhere. With luck it will be assumed the pilot died inside it. Let us hope they don’t examine it too closely.’
‘You speak English very well.’
‘Most Dutch children learn English at school, or they did before the occupation.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘You may call me Yaan. Where are you from?’
‘Poland, but I have been in England since 1940. Can you help me get back there?’
‘When the doctor says you are fit to move we will start you on your way. You have a broken leg and the plaster will need to stay on at least six weeks …’
‘Six weeks!’ He struggled to sit up but fell back again.
She smiled. ‘Apart from the broken leg and many bruises, you have suffered serious concussion which will make you dizzy if you try to get up. You are lucky you were not killed. You are safe here, as long as you do not walk about or make a noise.’
He smiled. ‘I will be good.’
She left him to lie there and think. He castigated himself for not seeing that Messerschmitt until it was too late and now he was paying the penalty for his inattention. He would be reported missing, they might even assume he was dead, especially if the Dutch had a way of communicating news to London of downed aircraft that had apparently exploded on impact. Tad would tell Louise as he had asked him to because she would not have been informed officially. He could imagine what that would do to her. And there was his beautiful little daughter.
Somehow he was going to have to get back to them.
Three months on and he was still in the same place. His wounds had healed, the muscles in the mended leg had been built up by exercise, so that it was once again the same size as the other one, and his brain seemed to have recovered from its jolting without permanent damage; it was not Dr Van Stoek or Yaan who held up his move, but the Dutch underground. Gerard, whose surname he was not to know, was a bicycle salesman by day and a saboteur by night. He was a thickset middle-aged man with a decided limp from polio as a child, which was the reason he had not been conscripted to work in Germany like so many others.
‘These things take time to arrange,’ he had said when he had first come to interrogate Jan, something Jan had expected and even welcomed. Once the Dutch underground were satisfied he was who he said he was, they might be more forthcoming about helping him on his way. ‘It is like a chain: we need each link firmly in place or the chain gets broken. And broken chains are not safe.’
And so he endured his cramped conditions where the roof was so low he could not stand upright, and tried to stretch his legs without making a noise. The hospital was in the centre of the town and by standing on a chair he could see out of the skylight to the street below him. He became familiar with its pattern of movement: the time when the workers entered and left the nearby factory; the time when the shops opened; the time the Germans patrolled the street opposite the hospital; the time on Sundays when the townsfolk went to church. What he could not see, however much he craned his neck, was the entrance to the hospital immediately below him.
At last, towards the end of June, plans were afoot to take him to a safe house outside the town, which would be the start of his long journey to freedom. Civilian clothes, identity card and travel documents had been assembled and he had begun to learn his cover story. His nerves were keyed up for the journey, which he knew would be perilous, but his hopes were dashed when Gerard came to him with the news that the Germans had captured one of their number and would almost certainly try to make him talk. ‘Everyone is lying low until we are sure it is safe to resume operations,’ he told Jan. ‘The great fear is that one of our number is an enemy agent. Until we are sure, no one moves.’
‘I could try going on my own.’
‘No. It’s too risky. If the Boche have been told we have an evader in hiding and they know the name we have given you, they will be looking for you. The documents we have given you must be destroyed and new ones prepared when it is safe.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll take them now, if you please.’
Jan handed them over reluctantly. ‘Will they also know where this evader is hiding?’
Gerard gave him a crooked smile. ‘There are only three people who know exactly where you are, that is Dr Van Stoek, Yaan and me. We intend to keep it that way. I will send you some more books to help you while away the time.’
He left and Jan flung himself on the bed and swore.
Several days passed and Gerard did not return and Dr Van Stoek and Yaan were even more careful than usual. Consumed by frustration, Jan would lie on his bed, staring at the roof timbers and recite poetry to himself and when that palled his thoughts would go to Rulka and his home in Warsaw, then to Louise and his little daughter. She would be walking by now, perhaps saying her first words. It was then he pummelled his pillow and muffled his groans of anger in it. Was anyone doing anything to get him out of here?
He was woken a few nights later by a hand on his shoulder. Still half asleep, he sprang up, ready to fight or run. ‘It’s me,’ the doctor whispered. ‘Get dressed quickly and follow me.’ He put a bundle of clothes on the bed as he spoke.
He had a torch in his hand and by its light Jan scrambled into the garments: a flannelette shirt, a well-worn suit and down-at heel shoes. ‘Who am I supposed to be?’ he asked.
‘Nobody. There’s no time. Follow me and don’t speak.’
He led the way out of the tiny room. In front of them the roof space stretched the whole length of the building. Unless someone compared the external measurements with the internal, no one would know about the hidden room. The wooden partition did not appear to have a door. Anyone venturing up there to search would have seen nothing but an empty space.
Jan was led down three sets of stairs until they arrived on the ground floor. Because it was the middle of the night, the lighting was minimal. He was hustled into a small office where a man in a white coat waited with a stretcher. He was asked to lie on it and was covered with a blanket. ‘You are extremely ill with smallpox,’ Doctor Van Stoek murmured. ‘We are taking you to a fever hospital for quarantine. If we are stopped, it should be enough to prevent anyone coming too close.’
They carried him out to a waiting ambulance; Doctor Van Stoek took a seat beside Jan’s stretcher and the white-coated attendant climbed into the driver’s seat, and they set off at speed through the deserted streets. Jan, taken aback by the pace of what had happened, was silent for some time, but he wanted his curiosity satisfied. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To a safe house just outside Brussels. They will take charge of you and send you on.’
‘What happened to Gerard?’
‘He has been arrested.’
‘Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. Will he talk?’
‘Not he. Unfortunately there was a traitor in our midst and he has been busy telling the Boche all about us. The whole network has been blown. You are the last one we will be able to help until a new circuit has been built up.’
‘You are all very brave people and I am grateful for the care and help I have received, but I hope my presence has not made matters worse for you.’
The doctor smiled. ‘It is our way of continuing the struggle. We do not submit to tyranny.’
‘Do they know in London what’s happened?’
‘We don’t know. The wireless operator was the first to be arrested. They tortured him and shot him. If they got his call sign out of him they might be using it. When you get back to Britain, we want you to tell them that. Tell them the Dutch circuit is not safe. They will know what to do.’
‘I will. Is there anything else I can do?’
‘Just get safely back.’
Jan knew there was a long and dangerous journey ahead of him before that happened, but at least he was on his way.
It was dawn when they pulled up in a farmyard on the outskirts of Brussels. Their arrival set up a frenzied barking. Jan waited with some trepidation while the doctor went to the door to make sure it was safe for him to leave the ambulance. The barking stopped and two minutes later he came back. ‘All is well. Come with me.’
Jan scrambled off the stretcher and followed the doctor into the house, where he was met by a man with an untidy ginger beard and watery green eyes. ‘I am Philippe,’ he said, as they shook hands.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ Dr Van Stoek said, holding out his hand. ‘Good luck.’
Jan shook the hand vigorously. ‘Thank you for everything,’ he said. ‘I will not forget you. Perhaps after the war we may meet again, who knows.’
‘Who knows,’ the doctor repeated, then turned on his heel and left.
‘Come,’ Philippe said, beckoning Jan to follow. The big mongrel padded after them.
They went through the hall to a kitchen where a woman was stirring something on the stove. ‘This is my wife, Hortense,’ Philippe said. ‘Sit down and eat. You are safe here. The dog will warn us if anyone comes and we will have time to hide you. In a few days, my son, André, will take you to France.’
It was a week before André arrived. Thin as a rake and businesslike, he had little to say except to give Jan his instructions and his identity card and travel documents, which was apparently why he had had to wait so long. It took time to produce the forged paperwork to fit individual circumstances. There were a great many foreign workers in France, from many occupied countries, and Jan’s papers stated he was one of those. They would not appear to be travelling together, but Jan was to take his cue f
rom his guide and follow at a safe distance.
Philippe took them to the railway station in a farm cart where they boarded a train for Paris. The first time a German guard came along demanding to see their papers, Jan’s heart was in his mouth, but they passed muster and he breathed again. They changed trains in Paris and once again his documents passed scrutiny. His next stop was Toulouse, once in the so-called free zone but now under German occupation like the rest of France. Here, they left the train and took a bus to a small village. His guide took him to a cafe, where the owner provided them with ersatz coffee and a lump of bread and cheese. After that was consumed André left to return home, leaving Jan sitting on his own, wondering what would happen next. He watched the customers coming and going, ready to bolt if necessary. No one paid him any attention. When at last the cafe was closed for the night, its owner beckoned Jan to follow him. ‘Do not follow too closely,’ he said. ‘But do not lose me. I shall not look back.’
They left the village behind and began climbing a steep hill at the top of which was a picture book chateau. It was his next stopping point. His hostess was a comtesse, though he was never given her name. She was in her forties, he guessed, very elegant and self-assured. She provided him with the best meal he had eaten since leaving England, and a sumptuous bedroom which had its own bathroom. ‘Please use the bathroom,’ she told him. ‘There is plenty of hot water. And then go to bed, I am sure you are tired after your journey. If you should hear noises downstairs, do not be alarmed. My unwelcome guests will not come up here. They think I am a collaborator and do not search my house.’
On the way back from the bathroom, feeling civilised once more, he heard the sound of laughter and music and crept onto the landing to listen. The voices were German. So that was what she meant. He went back into his room but took the precaution of locking his door and sleeping on the bed fully clothed. He need not have worried. The comtesse knocked on his door next morning. ‘It is quite safe for you to come downstairs,’ she called.
He opened the door and she laughed at the sight of him. ‘Oh, dear, you did not go to bed. I told you there was no need to worry. Have a shave and come down.’