by Paula Wynne
He hadn’t seen Willy’s friend for a long time, but even that night with the spy had made him cautious and wary of Friedrich’s casual cruelty. What Willy had told him of his so-called experiments had come as no real surprise, but he had been disgusted by them. And by the man.
‘I saw Willy before he fled. He told me that you would come here. He said one of your English friends would probably help you escape. Is that correct?’
Steffan still reeled from shock and couldn’t think what to say. He had heard such terrible things about Friedrich. Anything he did or said would have to be with caution.
Like Wilhelm, Friedrich had also turned into a monster.
Friedrich said, ‘I have come to escape with you.’
Now a thought entered Steffan’s mind. ‘Why only you? Are you leaving Sonnet behind?’ He feared the true answer to that, and suspected that Friedrich was here to take his escape route. And even kill him if necessary. Despite his fear of the man, he insisted again on being told the whereabouts of his cousin, Friedrich’s wife. ‘Where is she?’
Friedrich shrugged, ‘She didn’t make it.’
Steffan stared at him, hating him. ‘You left her behind, but you came here to escape without her?’
‘She is happier where she is now.’ Friedrich, not looking at him, lifted a backpack that lay at his feet and shouldered it.
Steffan persisted, ‘Your name is well known. I believe you are already on the wanted list. They will throw her in prison. She will be tortured until she gives you up.’
‘She will never give me up,’ Friedrich shrugged, took one last drag of his cigarette and tossed it to the ground. He made a show of grinding it deeply under his boot. ‘She can’t. She is no longer with us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Steffan rocked slightly as a cold fingernail of fear scraped down his spine.
‘I told you she didn’t make it. Is that not clear enough for you?’ Friedrich stepped closer to him, his face hard and his eyes unblinking.
Steffan whispered, ‘What have you done to her?’
Friedrich’s long arm swung out, slapping him in what seemed a friendly gesture on the back, but he did it so hard it jolted Steffan forward. ‘You worry too much, Steffan. You were always too soft-hearted. Even something of a coward. I don’t know how you survived the war. Did you not see things that made you pee your pants? Or even shit them?’
The little plane, a Cessna, circled above. Steffan darted out and waved a red scarf in the air. He had been told that this was the signal to show it was safe to land, and hoped he had got it right and that it would not scare off the pilot.
‘That doesn’t look big enough for both of us,’ Friedrich spoke behind him.
‘It’s a two-seater,’ Steffan headed into the building to pick up his bag.
‘I will hide in the cargo.’
‘He is already full,’ Steffan lied. ‘His plane has been making stops.’
‘What for?’
‘There are still rations in England, so he flies to France and Spain to pick up food and other supplies.’
‘He is also helping Nazis escape, ja?’
‘No. Only me.’
‘Why only you? What do you have that is so special?’
Steffan stiffened, recognising the violence bubbling just below the surface in Friedrich. ‘His wife is Rita’s aunt. That is the only reason he will help me.’
‘I think maybe you will betray the Reich and tell him of the secret places for treasures.’
Steffan stared at him, suddenly regretting that one night when he’d had too much to drink and revealed some of what he’d been doing during the war.
Friedrich spat a globule of saliva onto the ground. ‘This pilot I think only knows you by name, ja? Either one of us could pass as you.’ Steffan backed into the building and Friedrich followed him, blocking the doorway.
Steffan grabbed the only luggage that he’d brought with him.
Silhouetted in the only exit, Friedrich suddenly looked like the beast he was known to be. His long nose held high to the wind, like his namesake. He moved slowly forwards into the light. Although his yellow-green eyes were wide, his smirking grin revealed teeth, sharp and jagged. Steffan imagined they had blood on them. His soul would be forever stained by the blood of the thousands of Jews he had killed.
Friedrich’s voice was like the snarl of a demon. ‘If the plane has only one seat available; I shall be the one to get on,’ he lunged towards Steffan.
Steffan dodged him, swaying back out of his reach.
Friedrich’s tongue flicked out and licked over his lips. ‘It is a pity I had to leave my pistol behind so that any searches did not reveal my true identity. It would have come in handy right now.’
Steffan ignored his remark and hissed, ‘Find your own ride out of here, Friedrich.’
Friedrich sneered. ‘Don’t bother to follow her.’
Steffan stiffened, but kept his knees bent ready to move.
‘She, also, didn’t make it.’
Thrown off guard, Steffan spluttered, ‘What?’
‘Rita didn’t get to England.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Spittle flew out of Steffan’s mouth.
A sardonic grin pulled up one corner of Friedrich’s mouth. ‘Didn’t you know?’
Steffan’s hackles rose, but he forced himself to stay calm. In his position, posing as a local, he had never carried a gun, but right now he wished he had one. He wouldn’t have had any hesitation in killing Friedrich on the spot.
‘She was captured. It seems she had false papers.’
Friedrich’s words were like knives firing at him. His body tensed as, through clenched teeth, he tried to speak evenly. ‘What are you talking about.’
Over Friedrich’s shoulder Steffan watched the Cessna’s wheels touch down. It rumbled down the runway, spitting and coughing. For a moment, it disappeared as it slowed down behind the border of trees.
‘Sorry, Steffan, I thought someone must have told you.’
‘When?’ His mind went into a whirlwind. ‘What happened?’
‘She’s dead. I don’t know more than that.’
‘No!’ Steffan cried out. Folding his arms over his stomach, he staggered as the world around him reeled and spun.
His Rita. His beautiful Rivka. Images of her in his mind had kept him going through all the war years. He had imagined her safe in England. They had agreed that even if they could not get letters to each other, they would always know the other was waiting.
‘It’s not true! It can’t be true!’ Although his lungs burned, his body felt cold. A heaviness weighed down on his chest, closing it and restricting his breathing. His heart ached as it slowly broke.
His beautiful Rita flying gracefully on her angelic wings. How could she be dead?
‘Someone knew she had false papers and―’
‘Sonnet!’ Steffan’s hackles rose. ‘She was the only one who knew.’
Friedrich stood before him with a wide smirk on his face, and in that moment Steffan knew. ‘You! You bastard! You pried it out of Sonnet and then betrayed my wife.’ Even though he believed Friedrich was evil, never had he thought that the Nazi would denounce someone in his own family.
For a moment, his vision blurred as a growl erupted out of his throat, then Steffan lunged.
Friedrich ducked.
A moment ago, Steffan had been facing a fight to the death to get on that plane. Now he cared nothing about his life, his only thought was to kill the man who had murdered his wife.
His mind grappled for reasons to reject what Friedrich had told him. ‘The information about this plane and its pilot was sent to me after Rita left. If she never made it out, then why would her family help me escape?’
‘Of that I have no idea, but I can assure you that your Jew mongrel wife did not escape Germany!’ Friedrich dipped into his pocket and held out a letter. ‘See,’ he held up the letter to the light and then snatched it back. ‘Ah but let me explain it to you.
Your Rita wrote a letter to her aunt asking her to promise to help Steffan if she didn't make it out. She really got all soppy.’
Steffan made a grab for the letter but Friedrich whipped it out of his reach.
He pointed at the letter. ‘See here,’ Friedrich read the letter in a pantomime woman’s tone, ‘”Oh, aunt, Steffan is the love of my life and a man who I believe will grow to do wonderful things on this earth. I ask you to make me one promise, aunt, and that is to do all in your power to help him if this evil regime one day collapses and he needs to escape. He was never one of them at heart, and Germany will need his like to rebuild itself.” Is that true, Steffan, were you never one of us? Did you not have the stomach to fulfil your duties? I always suspected you were not man enough to be a soldier. I often told Willy that you were a coward. Is that why he got you that position away from all the action? So you could hide, while the real men waged the war?’
Steffan felt horror washing through him. He kicked Friedrich in the ankle and lunged again for the letter, this time managing to snatch it out of Friedrich’s hand. As Friedrich went down, Steffan followed, clawing at his face.
They scuffled on the floor, punching and kicking each other, hands grasping for throats in a mad desire to strangle the life out of the other.
The plane’s drone grew closer as it taxied towards the building.
Friedrich broke free. As he ran towards the rotting doorframe, he slipped on a puddle of grease.
Steffan dived after him but a rod of rusting metal caught his leg. He reached down to free himself, but Friedrich was already grabbing at him, seizing his advantage.
Glass splintered under his boots as Steffan scrambled backwards, trying to evade the attack.
Friedrich thrust him back against the wall. Thinking he would plummet through the empty window, Steffan splayed out his hands behind him.
A triangular shard of glass in the frame, like a lone animal tooth, tore across his palm. He yelped and staggered to try and keep his balance as he pulled his hand back towards him. Friedrich grabbed a plank of wood and swung it like a bat to hammer against Steffan’s temple. As he fell, Steffan grabbed Friedrich’s collar and managed to pull him to the ground. Both men grappled and punched. One was giving vent to his violence and greed, the other had let himself be consumed by a lust for vengeance. Neither would give in.
Outside, the Cessna’s wheels squealed as it pulled up alongside the bombed building.
Just then a shot rang out.
* * *
One of the men stood slowly and stared through the doorway at the young farm boy of no more than eleven or twelve. There was a handcart behind him and a rifle in his hands.
The boy’s voice was unsteady with puberty and the adrenaline of what he had just done, ‘I am here to fetch supplies from the plane.’
The man straightened and stood, glancing hesitantly between the dead body at his feet and the boy.
The boy was struggling not to stammer now. ‘I heard every word. Traitors don’t deserve to live. Go, before I shoot you too!’
The man looked down at the corpse at his feet. He stooped to grab both bags and then ran out of the building towards the plane.
32
July 1985, The Fairground, Little Hollow
After a day spent trailing behind Allan, with people all crowding around, Matt helped Mum clear up before she locked up The Cinnamon Stick.
On the drive home, he couldn’t stop thinking about Cami. At first he had been jealous of how confident and grown up she looked. She’d just boldly said hello again after all the years she’d been gone.
He couldn’t do that. He hardly spoke to anyone in the local village, except the butcher. And the postie, he felt sorry for the guy, always being ripped up by vicious dogs and barked at when he only wanted to drop off the mail.
Cami seemed so sure of herself. Maybe too confident. Never mind how she dressed, which was cool, but something about her, that he couldn’t put his finger on, made him want to know more.
And then of course the most amazing thing, that she could be all of this despite having a limp like him. It really made him start to see past his.
At first he’d been shy, and now when he saw her again he was going to be embarrassed at the zits suddenly rising on his forehead. He was old enough for those kind of skin problems to have stopped, and he couldn’t understand why they had suddenly appeared. Maybe the stress of meeting Cami and then Allan.
Why did he get them and not Luke, whose skin was clear? Maybe it was all those peas he ate.
He quizzed Mum, ‘I can’t seem to remember Cami’s family?’
She rolled her eyes at him and then focused on the road ahead. ‘They lived here in the village. Her father didn’t work around here though, and he wasn’t one of those who went each day on the train to London, either. Whatever he did used to take him off for days or weeks at a time.’
‘Did Cami walk to school? ’
Mum shrugged. ‘No. They lived outside the village. Emily…err, that’s her mother. She picked Cami up every day, so I don’t think she worked. You went to the same primary school, but then they took her off somewhere else for secondary and college.’
‘And what then?’
Mum threw him one of her looks that showed her silent annoyance. ‘You’re pretty keen to know all about her.’
He flapped his hand as if he wasn’t really interested. ‘I’m only trying to remember, that’s all.’
‘You often bumped into each other at swimming. And we’d be just parking for extra maths lessons when Cami left with her mum.’
‘So how come she doesn’t live here anymore?’
‘Like I said, one day they left.’
‘Just like that?’
Mum gave him an “I told you so” look, but didn’t say it. Instead, she mused, ‘I seem to recall that her family was caught up in some scandal, something about her father’s work that was linked with the war. You know I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows about this Nazi stuff.’
‘What?!’ Matt glared at her. ‘How could she? Allan’s only just turned up with this story.’
‘There’s always more to a story than meets the eye,’ Mum said in a sombre tone, a knowing look on her face that Matt found irritating.
He studied her as she drove, but now found himself noticing the tiredness and worry lines. He wondered if the whole thing with Bomber still pained her. He almost asked her, but instead kept up his former line of questioning. ‘So come on, then. What’s the story?’
Mum shrugged and kept her eyes on the road. ‘Only that Cami’s father is a German.
‘So what?’ Matt exclaimed. ‘That means nothing. You always taught me to not go around judging people. Now look at you!’
Mum sighed and muttered, ‘Hmm.’ She flicked the indicator and turned into their lane.
Steering his questioning in another direction, Matt asked, ‘Where did they go to, then?’
‘I remember people saying Cami’s father had taken them abroad for a while, and then I think they moved to somewhere near London. It seemed they travelled quite a bit.’
Mum parked on their drive and turned to face him. ‘So…is this the reason you’ve been chopping and changing about going to stay with Aunt Janey? This girl? You know it’s very good of your aunt to agree to put you up for so long, and it’s not fair on her if you let her down at the last minute.’
Matt raised his eyebrows. He could see what was coming. Mum sometimes got a bee in her bonnet about things, and she was about to go off on one. To avoid the tirade that was hanging in the air like a storm about to break, he shrugged. ‘I may hang around until the air show, then I’ll go. It’s only a few days more. Besides, Allan has asked me to show him around the village.’
Matt clomped towards the kitchen, arms swinging and dragging his ankle. He couldn’t be bothered to focus on walking properly now. His foot ached from all the standing around watching Allan filming.
Inside, as he placed the groceries on th
e counter, a shriek startled him. He hobbled towards the sound echoing down the hallway.
Mum stood in the centre of the living room amidst chaos.
Their house had been ransacked.
‘What?!’ He stared at cushions scattered on the floor, the furniture overturned, the lamp shade on the floor with its cord detached from its plug, its bulb smashed into tiny shards, Mum’s magazines dumped beside the fireplace.
Matt hobbled into the dining room. Everything was normal. Nothing out of place. ‘Mum’, he called out. ‘Look in here.’
She was at his side in an instant. They glanced at each other and then both leapt up the stairs, Mum way ahead of him, calling out as she checked each room.
Moments later they stood staring at each other on the landing, Mum panting from the dash to check if any other room had been disturbed.
Matt said, ‘It looks like they only broke into the lounge.’
Mum was already charging down the stairs, calling out, ‘Don’t touch anything, but let’s see what’s stolen.’
He followed.
In the living room he looked around. The TV was still there, and the Commodore 64.
Mum opened drawers and reported that the good cutlery set was okay. Matt scratched his head. ‘It looks like everything’s here. Nothing seems to be missing.’
‘Then, why break in. ‘What on earth were they looking for?’
‘Maybe they were looking for Allan’s camera.’
‘Why?’ Mum frowned at him.
‘It’s a cool piece of kit. And small and worth a lot if some little prick wanted to flog it.’ Matt realised the slip, but in her state of stress Mum didn’t even notice. They weren’t allowed to swear or be foulmouthed in front of her, but luckily this time she’d been too distracted to give him a telling off.
‘We’d better call the police.’
‘Why…if nothing’s missing?’
‘So they can make sure this doesn’t happen again. And to catch the…the little bastard who trashed my lounge!’
If it wasn’t for the situation, Matt would have grinned. He’d never heard Mum swear and it almost seemed sweet and endearing.
