by Terry Deary
The next day saw the wind change to the south-west and the snow begin to thaw. Manfred was trudging home through slush when he heard his name called. Irena was standing at the corner of the alley by the side of the grocery store.
‘You didn’t come last night.’
‘I was being punished,’ he said and quickly told her about the visit of Gauführer Linz. ‘Maybe next month.’
‘My last day. On tenth December, they will send me to another camp.’
‘A better camp?’
‘The workers say it is a death camp,’ she said quietly.
‘No!’ Manfred gasped. ‘The German people would never kill a harmless girl – not even an under-human! It’s a lie.’
Irena shrugged her thin shoulders, said, ‘So it’s a lie,’ and turned away.
‘No. Wait!’ Manfred called. ‘I have a plan. On tenth December, I’ll get you away. Trust me. I won’t let you down.’
She looked at him with empty eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ she said and walked away.
December
Chapter 26
Dachau, Germany 10 December 1940
Manfred stepped out into the hazy moonlight. This time there had been no need for him to sneak out through his window. His brother Ernst had written a letter to their mother, telling her Manfred was invited to visit him at the airfield. His mother had fretted and complained, but Grandpa told her Manfred was a growing boy and the trip would do him good. He’d learn far more than he ever would in school.
Mrs Weiss gave in and made sure Manfred had a couple of meals packed for the trip. ‘Shall I come with you to the factory and see you safe onto the truck?’ she asked.
But Grandpa cut in. ‘For goodness’ sake, no! You’ll show the boy up – having his mummy holding his hand and waving him off. He’s a young man. My mother didn’t wave me off when I marched away to the trenches in 1916. No, no. Say goodbye at the front door, then let him make his own way there.’
Manfred nodded. ‘Hansl’s coming, too. I’ll be fine.’
The wind was dry but icy as Manfred and Hansl hurried through the streets of Dachau after the curfew. The moon was almost full and, on the road to the munitions factory, they felt as if it was lighting them like a searchlight.
‘This is great, Manfred,’ Hansl whispered. ‘A real adventure.’
But Manfred felt nothing but fear. If his plan didn’t work, Irena would be sent off to another camp to die. He had planned this as carefully as he could, but he knew there were a dozen things that could go wrong – and most of those would end up in death for himself as well as Irena. He never told Hansl what the real plan was.
The old man stood at the gate, but tonight it was busier than ever. Not only were the lorries arriving and leaving loaded with crates of bombs, but trucks with canvas hoods on the back arrived with fresh workers from distant camps. Manfred saw bleak faces look out from the back of one lorry; sunken eyes full of wonder, empty of hope. Then, moments later, another lorry crackled through the iced puddles full of the old workers who were being sent away. This time the eyes were empty of life. They were the eyes of men who were so far down the road to death they looked as if they were already there.
‘Hurry, Hansl,’ Manfred moaned.
‘What’s happening?’
‘They’re changing the workers and bringing in new ones. Irena will be sent off before we get there.’
Manfred handed the note from his brother to the old guard at Gate C. ‘Haven’t I seen this note before?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Manfred said nervously. ‘We need to return to finish our school report.’
‘I can’t let you in,’ the guard said.
‘Why not? You have a note,’ Hansl argued.
‘I have a note, but I don’t have the magic password,’ the guard said and smiled a toothless smile. ‘Last time, I had something else…’ He raised his hand to his mouth and gave a mime of sucking food between his gums.
‘I have sausage,’ Hansl said.
‘Sausage!’ the guard cackled. ‘The magic password.’
Hansl reached inside the pocket of his coat and pulled out two packets. He unwrapped one and took out a piece of dry bread with a thick slice of sausage in the middle. He passed the sausage to the guard, who quickly pushed it into the pocket of his greatcoat.
‘Pass, friend,’ the old man chuckled and raised the barrier to let them through.
As they walked on the frozen grass at the side of the road, Hansl asked, ‘Why do we have two packets of food with us, Manfred?’
Manfred sighed. ‘I won’t be going back with you tonight, Hansl – I’m going with the bombs to Cambrai to visit my brother.’
‘Can I come, too?’ Hansl clapped his small hands.
‘No. I’m sorry. I never promised you that. Remember, your reward will be a flight in my brother’s plane after the war.’
‘Awwww, Manfred!’
‘But you can do a very, very brave thing,’ Manfred said. They were close to the factory now and Manfred headed for the side door where the clothes-sorting room stood.
The factory was not as noisy as it had been. Many machines were turned off so the old workers could show the new workers how they were operated. The clothes room stank of sour sweat and worse.
Irena was waiting inside. When the boys entered the room, she jumped to her feet. First, she handed a pair of scissors to Manfred. ‘Cut off my hair so I look like a boy,’ she said quietly.
Hansl watched, open-mouthed, as Manfred obeyed. Her dark hair fell to the floor and she placed it in the bin with the rags.
‘Now give me your cap and coat, Hansl,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I am going to become Hansl. Are your identity papers in the pocket?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘Just do as she says, Hansl, and hurry.’
Hansl took off his overcoat and cap and handed them to Irena. ‘What will I do if the police ask for my papers?’ he moaned.
‘When do the police ever stop schoolboys, Hansl?’ Manfred snapped.
‘But I’ll be cold –’
‘There are plenty of old clothes here to choose from,’ Irena said, and handed him a brown leather jacket.
‘It’s horrible,’ Hansl sniffed, close to tears.
‘Not as horrible as what happened to its owner,’ Irena said, slipping into Hansl’s coat and cap. She was already wearing grey trousers like the ones Hansl wore to school.
Hansl stuck out his bottom lip and glared at Manfred. ‘You promised I could be with you when you write on a bomb.’
Irena nodded. ‘You shall. Follow me,’ she said and led the way across to the loading shed. ‘The crates nearest the loading door are the ones going off to Cambrai,’ she said.
The wooden crates were not solid but simply a few planks nailed together to stop the bombs rolling off the lorry. ‘Cambrai’ was stamped in white letters on the nearest one. Irena pointed. ‘Here. Reach between the planks and write whatever you like.’
Hansl cheered up and his eyes glittered. ‘Can I help, Manfred?’
Manfred felt inside his trouser pocket and pulled out a piece of chalk. He passed it to his friend. ‘There you go, Hansl.’
Hansl held the chalk as if it were a precious jewel. He spoke the words as he wrote: ‘This one is for you, Tommy.’
‘Now go,’ Irena said.
‘Go where?’ Hansl asked.
‘Back through the factory the way you came – and out Gate C,’ she said as a crane creaked over their heads and began to lift the crate of bombs up and swing it towards the lorry.
Hansl turned. ‘When will you be back?’ he asked.
‘Two days,’ Manfred told him. ‘We’ll be in Cambrai tomorrow, I’ll see Ernst and his Heinkel, then I’ll come back on the empty lorry. I’ll see to it your bomb goes on board Ernst’s plane.’
‘See you then,’ Hansl said and ran off through the crates.
The last crate was loaded onto the lorry and the driver began to pull a sheet
of green canvas over the top. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Manfred said. ‘We are riding with the bombs to Cambrai. My brother is a pilot there and he invited me and my friend Hansl. Can we climb in the back?’
The driver was a large, red-faced man with huge, hairy hands like a gorilla. ‘You could, but you’d freeze. Come into the cab with me.’
‘Thank you!’ Manfred said and winked at Irena. He helped her into the cab and they settled down for the long journey to the airfield in conquered France.
They dozed most of the way. At a truck stop, the driver made sure they were fed, so Manfred didn’t have to use his packets of food.
Irena stayed silent so her Polish accent didn’t give her away. ‘He’s lost his voice,’ Manfred lied.
Irena’s head fell sideways and rested on the boy’s shoulder. She was asleep again in moments. Manfred smiled and wrapped an arm around her thin shoulders before nodding off himself.
Chapter 27
Cambrai Luftwaffe aerodrome, France 11 December 1940
It was noon the following day when they arrived at Cambrai aerodrome. The guards on the entrance were puzzled when they saw two children in the cab of a bomb lorry. They telephoned to the pilot quarters and Ernst arrived in a car. ‘Yes, this is my brother,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But who is this?’ he asked looking at Irena.
‘It’s my best friend, Hansl,’ Manfred said and his eyes pleaded with his brother not to give him away.
‘Of course!’ the pilot laughed. ‘Good to see you again … Hansl.’ But on the trip across the airfield to Ernst’s hut, he demanded, ‘What’s going on, Manfred? Who is this?’
As they walked from the car to the officer’s room, Manfred explained. Ernst’s face was pale with rage.
‘So, you see, we have to save her,’ Manfred finished.
‘She is an under-human, Manfred. Her life is worthless. The Poles would not lift one finger to save you if you were in danger. But if the Gestapo ever found out about your idiot plan then your life really would be in danger. So would mine. Not to mention Mother, Father and Grandpa. That is the way the Gestapo thinks – if they find one rotten fish in the pond, they net the whole lot.’
Manfred sat quietly and waited for his brother’s rage to die down. ‘There is no risk, Ernst. You put her into your plane. You fly over to England. After you have dropped your last bomb, you let Irena jump out with a parachute.’
Ernst blew out his cheeks, ‘You think this is a passenger service? An airline trip to the white cliffs of Dover? We can’t just stick an extra passenger on board with no one noticing. What do I tell the crew? The gunners? The navigator? The engineer?’
‘Do you never take passengers?’ Manfred asked quietly.
‘Never … well …’
‘Yes?’
‘We once took a spy. I dropped a man with a radio to report on the damage after the air raid on Biggin Hill.’
‘Who sent the spy?’
‘The Gestapo, of course.’
‘And did the crew ask questions?’
‘No, but the spy wasn’t a dwarf – your underhuman friend hardly looks like a Gestapo agent!’
Manfred stayed calm. ‘No one ever asks questions when the Gestapo give an order. Next time you have a bombing raid, you load the bombs and tell the crew that an agent is joining them but they’re not allowed to see him. The Gestapo insist.’
Ernst rubbed his eyes. ‘Manfred, I have flown on raids every night for the last week. Tonight I have a rest because there is fog over the east coast of England. But I am very tired. Too tired to argue.’
‘So you will try my plan? Take Irena with you?’
The pilot looked at his brother. He looked at the frail and dark-eyed under-human. ‘She has never jumped from a parachute before. The jump will probably kill her.’
‘If I don’t get to England, the Gestapo will certainly kill me,’ the girl said quietly. ‘What do I have to lose?’ A parachute lay in the corner of Ernst’s room. ‘Show me what to do.’
Ernst Weiss spread his hands in defeat. ‘Very well.’
Chapter 28
Sheffield, England 11 December 1940
The policeman who came to the house after our blackout adventure was more scary than any villain Sherlock Holmes ever met. First, he told us that someone had reported we’d been sneaking around when we should have been in the shelter. We tried to explain we were Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson on the trail of the Blackout Burglar, but he didn’t seem to believe us. He said boys like me usually ended up going to something he called a reform school – a place like a prison for young criminals. He said the only reason he wasn’t taking us to the police station was that he was a good friend of our dad. Our dad would be ashamed of us, he said, if he knew what we’d been up to.
‘But he does know,’ Sally argued. ‘We telephoned him and asked him to tell us how he catches criminals.’
‘The criminal needs motive, opportunity and knowledge,’ I said, counting them off. ‘And we need evidence. That’s what we were doing out of the shelters. Gathering evidence!’
‘You told me you were helping Warden Crane,’ Mum said, and I could tell she was raging.
‘We were,’ I said. ‘But –’
‘And you told me you’d go straight to the nearest shelter when the siren went,’ she said.
‘We knew there wasn’t going to be a raid!’ I said. ‘We telephoned Firbeck air base and they told us there was no raid!’
The policeman made a note. ‘If Firbeck say they got a call, then you’re off the hook … this time. But if I ever catch you out on the streets alone again, I’ll lock you both away till it’s time for you to collect your old-age pension.’
‘And their dad will give them such a clip around the ear they’ll be glad to get there,’ Mum boiled. After she’d seen the policeman out, we were sent to bed with no supper, and no hot-water bottles, either.
The weeks after that were miserable. Mum didn’t tell Dad, but she stopped us going out at all at night-time. I had to get straight home from school and wasn’t even allowed to stop off at the shunting yards to do a bit of trainspotting with my mates. Sally had to peel potatoes and scrub the kitchen floor every night. When the siren sounded, we picked up our gas masks and followed Mum down to the public shelter like two lambs after their mother sheep. Someone once said ‘War is hell’. For six weeks, I knew what they meant.
Then Dad came home on leave at the beginning of December. I ran home every night after school to play football in the back yard till it got too dark to see the heavy, brown ball – or until Mum got sick of hearing it bang against the wall and rattle off the dustbin. Sally wasn’t happy because she was stuck in the kitchen with Mum, peeling potatoes and making the tea for when we came in.
‘Girls don’t play football,’ Mum said and that was final.
Mind you, Sally liked having Dad in the house. Dad had stories about the pilots and the way they fought in the skies over the north. ‘They are mad,’ he said. ‘They sit around on the grass, playing cards or writing letters or reading books. Then the alarm goes off and they drop everything, jump into their Hurricanes and Spitfires and they’re off the ground in less than two minutes. They call it a “scramble”, and it is. Some days they do that maybe five times.’
‘Will we win?’ Sally wanted to know.
‘Probably,’ Dad said. ‘We shoot down more German bombers than they shoot down our fighters. In the end, they’ll run out of bombs and bombers.’
Mum shook her head. ‘They’ll just keep making more,’ she argued.
‘Aha!’ Dad said, wagging his finger. ‘That’s why our bombers have to fly over Germany and flatten their factories.’
‘And they flatten ours. Though they haven’t hit Sheffield yet,’ Mum said and put her fingertips on the table. ‘Touch wood.’
Dad supped his tea noisily. ‘Of course, it’s not just the planes that both sides lose – it’s the pilots, too. We see a dozen planes take off, but we don’t always see a dozen return. It’s worst
for the new pilots. Until they get a bit of experience, it’s deadly. Train them all you like, but nothing prepares them for their first real battle. There was one lad arrived on Monday morning and he was scrambled before lunch. He never came back. When they went to his room, they found the poor lad hadn’t even had time to unpack his case.’
‘We’ll run out of pilots before we run out of planes,’ Mum sighed.
Dad shrugged. ‘That’s where we’re a bit luckier than the Germans, I suppose. We have young men from all over the world – New Zealand, Canada, Australia. But the best pilots are the ones that escaped from Poland before the Nazis invaded. They don’t speak much English, but by God they’re brave – and they’re good, too. All they want to do is get up there and shoot down Germans. As long as we have them at Firbeck, then Sheffield should be safe.’
‘It’s a bomber’s moon this week,’ I said.
‘It is, son. Your mum and me used to like the moonlight. We went out for walks over Attercliffe Common, didn’t we, Betty?’
Mum seemed to be blushing and made herself busy gathering plates to wash up. ‘That was a long time ago,’ she muttered as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Dad leaned forward so I could smell the Brylcreem in his hair. ‘I quite fancy walking your mum down to the Tivoli tonight and seeing a film. She needs a break.’
‘Good idea, Dad,’ Sally said.
‘Will you two be all right on your own for the evening?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes!’ Sally cried and her eyes sparkled. ‘We were always all right playing out until –’
She stopped. Mum hadn’t told Dad about the Blackout Burglar or me and Sally being suspects.
‘Until what?’
‘Erm … well …’ Sally stammered.
‘We were always all right playing out until … it got too dark,’ I said. ‘But you take Mum to the pictures and we’ll be fine, won’t we, Sal?’
‘Fine,’ she agreed.