When We Fall Page 6

  Near the top of the street, Beck puts out an arm to shield Ewa from any oncoming vehicles as they cross. But the traffic in all directions is light. Up on the boulevard, two empty trams pass each other and ring their bells. One of them has a misspelt sign in the window, hier wurde nur Deutsch gesprochen. This is amusing, almost. Whoever wrote the sign clearly isn’t proficient in German, despite the words declaring that no other language must be spoken on board. Ewa used to make the same error herself but it is a long while since she got her German tenses mixed up.

  ‘It is considerate of you, Fräulein Hartman, to help an old lady.’

  ‘Oh please call me Eva.’

  Perhaps she might like him less if he does.

  ‘Thank you, Eva. I will.’

  Beside the blackened portico of the museum, the pavement is wide but a man in a baggy suit steps off it and cowers out of their way as they pass. The man does not look at Ewa but she knows what he is thinking about her friendliness to an occupying soldier, and what the man might like to do to her in revenge. She wants suddenly to punch him, that Pole standing there in the gutter, clutching his trilby to his chest. What do you know? she wants to yell. How much are you risking for your dead country?

  Instead, she swaps the empty basket to her other arm and moves ostentatiously closer to Beck, touching her hand to his grey-green sleeve.

  ‘And perhaps, if we are alone Obersturmführer, I may call you Heinrich.’

  Is it her irritation with the Pole that has freed her to be quite this forward with Beck? Or is her irritation a convenient excuse?

  Beck’s face flushes. ‘Gladly.’ He comes to a stop by the kerb. ‘I am going across the Platz. Which way is your coal man?’

  ‘On Friedrich Strasse. I will cross with you.’

  Even though the nearest vehicle, a wagon pulled by a thin horse, is some distance away, Beck again puts his hand out to shield her across the wide boulevard. Ewa realises how much she likes walking beside him. Not just because of the imposing figure he cuts on the grand street but also, ridiculous though it is, because his presence makes her feel safe.

  Around the edge of the square, the long red and black banners mounted on flagpoles stir in the faint breeze. Sunlight illuminates the library’s pale columns. Perhaps the weather actually is turning fine. Ewa might make her cover story real by changing the coal order when she gets to the yard.

  Beck comes to a stop by one of the benches on the square and takes out a cigarette packet.

  He taps the open end against the black leather of his glove. ‘I will take a five-minute smoke before I return to the reading room. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘Yes, certainly.’

  It is not a lie. In the past week or so that he has been a lodger, Ewa has come to savour time spent alone with Beck, admiring his handsome face and listening to his flow of melodious German.

  She crosses her legs as they sit on the bench with the basket between their feet. Beck pulls off his gloves to offer his cigarette packet and Ewa leans in towards him as he strikes a match. Across the square, the bell tinkles at the tobacconist’s door. The shop sign is so thinly painted that a y and a Polish ń ghost through the German word Tabak.

  Beck blows out a plume of smoke then smiles. ‘Are they natives of the city, those old people that you help?’

  Ewa knows he does not mean Polish natives of the city, but she nods. ‘We Germans have always helped each other. But I do not do much for them, really. Some leftover soup, a bottle of stout, that is all.’

  ‘Would you like to do more?’

  She feels a stab of warning. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘To help other German people, those new to the city perhaps.’

  ‘Settlers?’

  He nods. ‘It can be hard for them to adjust to life in the town. Most of those from the east have been farmers. And I think that there will be many more coming this year. The Ethnic German Resettlement Office is always in need of local women to be settlement advisers.’

  ‘It’s a good idea, Heinrich. I should have thought of this before.’ His face brightens as she says his name. ‘It is just that I must give first priority to the guest house.’

  ‘Of course, I know how busy you are already.’

  ‘But perhaps I could talk to the Office about what I might do for them in the future.’

  Now her mind is whirring. She can well imagine the shitty mess that is left by soldiers after they do the evictions. Why on earth would she want to clean up after them and then have to be civil to some swaddled-up Moldavian peasants who hardly speak German and have no idea how to live in a modern apartment? On the other hand, there would, now she thinks of it, be an advantage in knowing which Polish households were about to be evicted next…

  Beck does not seem to notice that she is distracted. ‘You are so efficient with your housekeeping, Eva. I feel privileged to be your guest.’

  Ewa laughs and shakes her head. ‘I am used to it. I have been in charge of the bedrooms and the kitchen since I was thirteen.’

  ‘When your mother died?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  For no good reason, tears well into Ewa’s eyes. Beck lifts the basket out of the way and moves closer to her, their legs almost touching, and covers her bare hand with his. Ewa nods as his fingers squeeze hers. Stefan’s ring presses into her skin and she finds that she cannot quite speak.

  Beck’s voice becomes jaunty. ‘So, come. It is time for your daily guess.’

  ‘My guess?’

  ‘About my home town.’

  Ewa laughs and rubs her nose. ‘All right.’

  She studies his angular jaw line and light grey eyes, as if they might give a clue to his origins. For no good reasons she says, Leipzig, and his brows knit in theatrical surprise.

  Ewa grins. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘It is not my home town but I studied at the university there, so you are getting close.’

  ‘I will be right very soon. I know it!’

  They smile at each other and then their mouths relax into silent awkwardness. Ewa starts to ask some empty question about Leipzig as Beck also begins to speak.

  ‘Sorry, Eva. You first.’

  ‘No, Heinrich, tell me what you were about to say.’

  ‘I just wondered about the ring I see you wear.’

  ‘Oh, this. It’s not real, just a piece of costume jewellery.’

  ‘Was it your mother’s?’

  In a flicker of indecision Ewa wonders whether to be truthful, to say no, it was given to me by a Polish officer I once loved. But even if she were to justify the relationship by explaining more about Stefan’s background, she would still be opening a box of nasty and perhaps incriminating complications. It is so much better that they all think she is an innocent girl, and as German as one from Hamburg or Leipzig.

  ‘Oh, no. It’s just something I like. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought it may have a special meaning. And I wouldn’t like to feel that I was intruding into any existing understanding you might have by sitting here with you now.’

  ‘Oh no, no.’ Ewa laughs too loud. ‘Look, it is on my right hand.’

  ‘I know, but the tradition about these things is different…’

  He is about to say ‘in Poland’ but she saves him the embarrassment of having to mention the word.

  ‘No, Heinrich, I assure you, there’s nothing like that to worry about!’

  She wonders if she is protesting too much but Beck nods and seems reassured. He points his cigarette in the air towards the wedding-cake white theatre at the head of the square.

  ‘Do you like the theatre?’

  Ewa’s heart drops a beat as she feels the weight of a choice, which she knows is coming, press down from above. ‘Not much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Or the c
inema? I hear that the Apollo is showing The Great Love this weekend.’

  ‘Really? That’s a super movie.’

  ‘You have seen it already?’

  Here it is; the moment when she must decide. Ewa senses that all of the future paths in her life are about to compress into this one reply. Will she choose the ghost of Stefan Bergel over Heinrich Beck, who is here beside her and pulsing with life? Will she choose loyalty to the AK and loneliness, or love? Her decision hangs in the air.

  Yet Beck’s interest in her seems so genuine, as does his gentleness. And Ewa imagines, in that instant, the tip of his forefinger drawing a figure of eight on the inside of her thigh.

  ‘I saw The Great Love when it first came out.’ She smiles. ‘But I would love to see it again.’

  ‘Would you? Then please, let us go together. On Friday, yes?’

  ‘That would be delightful. Thank you.’

  Beck’s smile reveals his flawless teeth. ‘I shall look forward to it very much.’

  ‘Good.’

  Her decision can be justified, she immediately tells herself, as intelligence-gathering. She might glean some useful information from Beck whilst he is relaxed and enjoying himself. But as Ewa picks up her basket and stands, she feels sick. Swaying slightly, she turns her face to the sun, looking for strength. No, she will not let a ghost control her life. Stefan must be banished from her heart, and there is only one way to evict him cleanly and forever.

  Warmth swills through the breeze and a green haze seems to coat the bare branches of the trees. Yes, the weather has definitely turned. She will certainly be able to wear her double-breasted jacket on Friday night and it will go well with her new hat with the blackcock feathers.

  ‘Are you all right, Eva?’

  ‘Oh yes. Just running a little late now. I must dash.’

  She raises her hand as she says goodbye, then scans the square to check if anyone is watching. But if any of Haller’s people have seen her they should be pleased. Haller, after all, is a fully paid-up member of the Nazi Party which, he argues, is the perfect cover for a komendant of the AK. And there must be all sorts of things that he might want Ewa to find out from Beck. How big a step is it anyway from hosting and feeding the occupiers, to going for an evening out with one of them?

  A truck and some bicycles turn into the side street that leads down to Friedrich Strasse. The new street name seems so much more dignified than the old Polish name, Pocztowa, Mailbox Street. Just before she turns into it too, Ewa glances over her shoulder at Beck’s impressive silhouette striding towards the library. She takes a short breath. Nothing is final, yet. If she thinks better of their night out, she can always change her mind before Friday. A headache might perhaps arrive, which everyone knows is a woman’s code for you’re not really my type. Except that Beck is so much Ewa’s type that she finds herself smiling stupidly at the thought of sitting beside him on the cinema’s plush red seats as the lights dim.

  A cloud has crossed the sun and the air is suddenly biting. Winter might not be finished yet. Ewa rearranges her face and decides that the coal order should stay as it is. But when she gets to the merchant’s yard, she will make a point of going inside and then simply pretend that she has forgotten the date of the next delivery.

  She pulls up the collar of her coat. An approaching cloud looks so low and so yellow that there may even be sleet on the way. But whatever the weather on Friday, Ewa will wear her double-breasted jacket and her new hat to go to the pictures with Heinrich Beck. She will pin her hair in braids too, and be sure to top up her blonde rinse.

  Gosport, England

  Monday 12 April

  No one else gets off the Anson taxi plane at Gosport and it hardly comes to a stop as Vee clambers out. She hurries to the edge of the concrete strip then turns to wave but the Anson is already rising into the squally sky. It hangs apparently motionless until one wing tips down and the plane banks landward. Soon the Anson is buffeting up into the ragged clouds, its outline indistinguishable from the seagulls.

  Vee scans the wind-blasted aerodrome; factory hangars inside a barbed-wire perimeter fence; airborne barrage balloons shimmering above grounded fighters. At least one of the distant Spitfires has the four propeller blades of a Mark Nine. Vee squints at the planes, straining for a clearer view. Then with a start, she realises what she is doing. She is looking, pathetically, for any sign on a fuselage of a painted raven and a cartoon duck.

  Head down, she sets off towards the dilapidated caravan that must be Watch office. Really, it is worse than pathetic to become so distracted on her first ferry job in an aircraft type she has never even seen before. The conditions are poor, too. She must keep herself focused entirely on flying the Swordfish as competently as she possibly can. And on staying alive.

  Vee tries to recall the flying particulars printed on the card headed Fairey Swordfish that is in her overnight bag tied to the other Ferry Pilots Notes with a shoelace. She mutters into the wind the numbers that she has tried to commit to memory during the short flight in the Anson.

  ‘Final approach speed – 65 knots, revs per minute – not to exceed 2200, stall speed – 53 knots.’

  Or was it sixty-three knots? But now she is at the caravan and there is no time to double-check.

  A fug of cigarette smoke hits her as she opens the door. Behind the crooked desk, the Watch sergeant looks up.

  ‘Oh. I see.’ He winces, which is as good as saying out loud that he was expecting Vee to be a man. ‘Here for the Swordfish, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She pulls the chit from her pocket and hands it out but the sergeant leans back and nods at a deck chair in the corner.

  ‘Well, make yourself comfortable. You can wait in here till the wind drops.’

  ‘Is that really necessary? The Anson got away all right.’

  He stubs his cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray. ‘We’d have to lower the balloons again to let you out.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And I’m not going to bother if you can’t manage to take off.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘It’s not up to you to decide.’

  ‘Actually, it is.’

  Vee fishes for the Flight Authorisation Card in her bag and lays it on the desk. The sergeant glances down at Vee’s self-satisfied face in the photo and puts a sarcastic finger under the words as he reads.

  ‘“Third Officer V Katchee… Katchee… something… Miss, is hereby empowered to authorise his own cross-country flights…”’ He puts another cigarette between his teeth, ‘… and your own funeral.’

  Anger flares in Vee’s chest. ‘I hardly think so. It’s no more than force five.’

  ‘Gusting to six.’

  Vee shrugs. ‘The sea looks flat.’

  ‘It always does from the air.’

  ‘I am, as it says, empowered to authorise…’

  ‘Fiery one, aren’t you? Where do you come from?’

  ‘Teddington.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I mean originally?’

  ‘Originally? I was born there.’

  ‘But, you know, before that.’

  ‘Before that?’ Vee is always wrong-footed by questions like this, although she usually finds some sort of reply that shuts people up. ‘I think I was conceived on a family holiday in Eastbourne.’

  The sergeant shakes his head and grabs the chit from under Vee’s fingers. ‘Like I say, it’s your funeral.’ His pen scratches an unreadable signature before he rips the typed sheets apart. Then he points his thumb backwards over his shoulder. ‘The plane’s over there.’

  Turning his back to Vee, he starts to pull at the dial on the big black telephone. Vee is out of the caravan before he speaks.

  She strides towards the grid of planes at the far end of the strip. Indignation has made her bolder, but when she sees t
he Swordfish her gut tightens. The wingspan is at least forty feet. The three open cockpits in the fuselage sit high above an empty torpedo cradle between the wheels. And the wind, if anything, is stiffening. A yellow windsock points, rigid, away from the sea. As she does the walk-around checks, gusts tug her hair out of the leather helmet and into her eyes. Perhaps the Watch sergeant was right.

  A mechanic holds the ladder to the cockpit but it is too windy to ask him much about the plane. He seems impatient and so there is no time, either, to double-check the card from her Ferry Pilots Notes. Vee glances at the seaward runway. The strip is edged by vertical black cables like the bars of a cage. Hovering at the top of each cable is a whale-like silver balloon. Some of these balloons are wobbling towards the ground. Along the perimeter fence, poplar trees lean and flicker in the wind.

  Vee pulls the straps over her shoulders as tight as they will go. Fuel Mix – RICH, Flaps – UP. But even now she finds herself staring at the paintwork on a single-engine fighter that has just come in to land. It is a Defiant, though, not even a Spitfire. She must, damn it, get a grip.

  From the front of the plane, the mechanic shouts through the wind. Contact! And the propeller-engine roars black smoke into the cockpit. Vee tries to breathe steadily as she waits for the engine to warm. But she finds herself panting as she signals for the chocks to be pulled from the wheels.

  And then she is turning the bulk of the Swordfish into the wind. She edges the stick forward and almost as soon as she feels the bump on to concrete, the plane begins to run away from her, fighting for control. The thrust behind the throttle is as terrifying as it is thrilling.

  ‘Whoa there!’

  She is actually shouting, like an idiot, at the Swordfish. Breathe, she tells herself, stay calm. Again, she eases the throttle gently forward. But the Swordfish is already leaping into the air.

  Wingtips flex and creak, and Vee’s head swims with the howl of wind and engine, and then the floating sensation of flight. Lifted by the headwind, the ascent is achingly slow and almost vertical. She glances down at the barrage balloons twitching on the ground and a huddle of overalled figures standing between the balloons and the fighter planes. Her eyes stay on the men a moment longer than they should and she realises that she is looking, insanely, for one that might be Stefan.