A Parachute in the Lime Tree

by Annemarie Neary

  ‘I’d like to correspond.’

  She started to snigger. ‘Jewish penpals? You’re pulling my leg.’

  He tried to laugh along with her but found he couldn’t.

  ‘Don’t go taking offence, Officer.’ She was scrutinising him now, her eyes flickering over his uniform, scanning his face. ‘Maybe they’ve not gone at all. Is that what you’re thinking? Maybe they’re lying low in some cellar, with their diamonds and their fox furs.’ She leaned towards him, ‘The last man we had here used to give their people back in Dublin all kinds of grief about the Jews. “How am I supposed to cope? It’s a tidal wave. I’m inundated.” To hear him, you’d think half the Jews in Europe were heading for Ireland. He put the wind up them, all right. He’s gone now, more’s the pity.’ She whispered conspiratorially, ‘The Foreign Ministry loved him but he wasn’t neutral enough for the Irish. Neutral? With thousands of them fighting for Britain? Don’t make me laugh. Anyhow, we’ve a young gentleman now. Came from Ireland last summer.’ She lowered her voice and mouthed the words, ‘Out of his depth … But sit yourself down and I’ll see if he’ll talk to you.’

  She led Oskar into a waiting room, then disappeared through a set of double doors. She came back a moment later and beckoned him in.

  The official stood up when Oskar entered the room, which seemed odd until Oskar realised that he was standing for the uniform and not for him.

  ‘All our records are confidential,’ he started, ‘There is no possibility of my being able to help you. None at all.’ The man rubbed his eyes, then felt for his chair and sat down. He took a crumpled handkerchief from his drawer and caught a sneeze in it.

  The uniform was no longer an asset, Oskar could tell. Though not invited to, he sat down as well, slid the jacket off and placed it over his lap. The man was watching him from over the top of the handkerchief, his eyes pale and shrewd as he swiped it back and forward on his nose, then rolled it into a ball and shoved it back in his desk.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ Oskar said, and handed over Elsa’s letter. The man made no comment at first, even though it couldn’t have taken long to read.

  ‘You see? I’m not here looking for trouble. I’m not here to cause problems for anyone, least of all the Frankels. I am simply trying to contact an old friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man said, his voice softer now. ‘But if your friend is in Ireland at all, she’s in the six counties.’ The man reached into the drawer again for the handkerchief to stifle another sneeze. ‘Just before war broke out, the British let in some children and young people. A few ended up in Belfast. Needless to say, we sat on our hands until it was too late.’

  ‘But if there was a visa application, surely you’d have some record?’

  ‘My predecessor wasn’t keen on records.’

  The woman reappeared on the landing. She waited until he’d reached her level and then she came so close he could smell violets on her breath.

  ‘Those Jews you’re looking for. They won’t have been short of a bob or two. Some of them bury it in the garden, you know. My husband told me. Often you will find a Jewish garden is full of loot. I hate to ask, but these people pay next to nothing.’

  It took Oskar a moment to realise that she was asking him for money. He found something in one of his pockets and hoped that would be enough.

  She smoothed the crumpled note front and back before pocketing it. ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ she said.

  The woman was gone half an hour at least. He was beginning to think she might not return at all when she beckoned him into a small side room packed with files. She pointed to a ledger entry, made the year before in looping blue ink, and gave him a scrap of paper on which to write. In the margin, a note had been made in large black letters. ‘TAKE NO ACTION.’ As far as he could see, the same message was repeated right down the length of the page.

  Peter Israel Frankel, aged fifty-one years, Rosl Sara Frankel, aged forty-four years. Formerly of Berlin. Currently resident at 77 Roote Weg, Amsterdam, care of Mr Rudi Wittmeyer. Representations made to the Taoiseach, Mr Eamon de Valera, by Miss Esther Alexander of Whitecrest, County Wicklow. Copy to the Legation at Den Haag. Only daughter, Elsa Sara Frankel, aged eighteen years, formerly resident in Belfast, now living in the State. Supported by members of the Jewish community. Sponsors available for parents. Employment offered in Miss Alexander’s establishment.

  After leaving the Legation, Oskar could easily have got home in time for dinner but he couldn’t face it. He walked the length of Unter den Linden looking for somewhere quiet to have a beer, then passed through Franz Josef Platz, where, years before, he’d witnessed the first of the Nazi book burnings. Eventually, he found a place in a side street, took a corner table, and ordered two beers in quick succession as he read and reread the details he’d managed to scribble down.

  Next morning, he slept late again. When he came downstairs, Frau Auger was already there. She sat slightly in front of Mutti and greeted him over the rim of a coffee cup. Vati, it seemed, had taken yet another walk.

  ‘Almost time to leave us?’ she asked.

  He ignored her, and turned to his mother. ‘I went up to the attic yesterday. There are letters, books, so many things.’ His voice tailed off.

  Mutti took the coffee pot into the kitchen. He followed her and closed the door behind him. Neither of them said anything right away. Then, she took a small package from her apron pocket. He was in no mood to take anything from her but when he started to tell her that, she put her finger to her lips. ‘Take it, Oskar.’

  On his way out the gate, Oskar almost collided with one of the next door’s new occupants. She was thin, a little shabby, with a wispy plait wound round on the back of her head. She smiled up at him, her hand outstretched in greeting. He looked at the hand, then straight into the watery blue eyes that brightened as she prepared to introduce herself. And then he turned away. Walking off, he realised his protest would have no effect whatsoever; the woman would simply think him rude, deranged even. So, he turned back towards the house. The woman was about to unlock the door. She dropped her key when she spotted him coming up the path. She was still scrabbling around for it when he told her this was Elsa Frankel’s house, that it would never really be hers.

  At first, she seemed unsure how to react, but once she got the measure of him she gathered herself and squared up to him. ‘And who the hell are you?’ she said. ‘It’s our place now. All legal, fair and square. We’ve got the papers to prove it, contracts, everything. So why don’t you go and take a hike.’

  Afraid of losing control altogether, he left without another word. As he made off, his own words reverberated in his ears. Each time he heard them they sounded weaker, more pathetic. He strode off in the direction of the station, his heart banging against the wall of his chest. As he reached the Tiergarten, the Charlottenburger Chaussee lay dappled before him, the weak sun dripping through the lines of green and brown burlap threaded through the camouflage netting overhead. A voice in his head jeered him. Once again, he’d achieved nothing. His protest had been pointless. ‘You didn’t want to know once they made her wear the star,’ the voice said. ‘Oh, you sneaked around, sure. You met her in places no one would see you. Took her to the woods, to the shady side of the lake. But you were a coward, really. You hadn’t the balls to hold her hand in public, so what’s the use in crying now?’

  When he got to the station it was full of men in uniform. On the train, he sat for a long time looking at nothing at all. They had moved well beyond the city before he could bring himself to open Mutti’s package. He waited until the other men had fallen asleep or started another game of skat. He turned it over and over in his hands, then tore off the brown paper. It was a beautiful thing, covered in the finest buffed pigskin. Tucked inside, there must have been half a dozen letters in Elsa’s ringlety script, tied together with a neat ribbon. He swept his palm over the smooth surface of the page, then wrote the first thing that came into his head.


  Elsa Elsa in the wood

  I would love you if I could

  He hadn’t used a pen in such a long time, it felt awkward. He flexed his hand and scratched at the paper with the nib.

  Love is falling from the sky

  Fire and light and dragonfly

  He never was much of a poet. Elsa would laugh her head off at him. But his heart was in it and he didn’t care if it was doggerel. Suddenly, his predicament seemed to have one, simple solution. He considered the dangers. He might not even manage to get out; he might hesitate, or catch someone’s eye at the crucial moment. He could be drowned or dashed on rocks, captured or shot on sight. And even if he avoided all those things, he still might not find her.

  Fraternity

  The final leg of the long journey back to Vannes was by plane. He looked from one man to the next, and thought to himself how impossible it would be to jump from a transport. On a Heinkel, though, with each man intent on his own job, it might just work. They flew over recent combat fields, miles and miles of ruined buildings, then across the stonewalled fields of Normandy, before setting down on the high plateau at Meucon. Once the planes were rolled into the paddocks and camouflaged, they drove into Vannes.

  By the time he reached his billet at the Hotel Moderne, the idea of jumping seemed ridiculous. Even if he managed to bail out before his comrades stopped him, how could he hope to reach Ireland from a burning English city? He was trapped in the C-station of a Heinkel just as surely as he’d been in Zweibrückenstrasse.

  Madame Pouliquen was sitting at the little reception desk in the foyer. A new gold tooth glinted at him as he approached. ‘All gone,’ she said. ‘Forecast’s so bad they’ve cancelled everything tonight. They’re down at the Deux Pigeons. Perish the thought they’d hang around here.’

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Delphine watching him from behind the beaded curtain that cut off the reception desk from the Pouliquen quarters. He turned to face her as he walked back across the foyer. Her reddened mouth was like a wound on her pale face, and he felt a sudden rage at himself for living on dreams when real life was there for the taking. He smiled at her and she returned it. He nodded and she returned that too. And sure enough, when he left the hotel on the way to the Deux Pigeons, there she was in the alleyway, waiting for him.

  He’d made love to so many girls since Elsa went, desperate to find her in a mouth, a strand of hair. These encounters always followed the same sequence: hope, desire, relief, disgust. But it never seemed to stop him. He closed his eyes tight as she fumbled at his buttons. He felt himself harden as she guided him inside her. Elsa was there, as she always was, running ahead of him all the way to the top of the hill. He had almost reached her when she dipped over the other side and the sun caught him and he was blinded a moment. He opened his eyes and Elsa disappeared. He bashed his hand against the rough wall behind Delphine’s head. When he pulled away from her, her mouth was still open, her eyes blurred. She rearranged herself, clutching at her blouse, pulling down her skirt. She said nothing when he pressed the money into her hand, turned away when he reached out to smooth down her hair. His anger frightened him, the desolation when he opened his eyes and she was still not Elsa. He tried to say something to make amends but she was already gone.

  As he opened the door of the Deux Pigeons there was the familiar waft of hair oil and cigarette smoke. The crew were sitting together, as they always did. Joachim called out to him and by now the idea of jumping seemed like treachery. The others told tales of the idiots they’d had to put up with while Oskar and Joachim were away. Everyone laughed, even Werner, who was never known for merriment. Oskar rocked back on the frail café chair and let the men’s voices wash over him. Next thing, Joachim was in his face, clicking his fingers to demand his attention. ‘Come on, Oskar, stay with us.’ He turned back to the others, and continued his story. ‘She was a peach, and her sister was even lovelier. Next thing I knew, I was walking through the centre of Dresden with one on each arm. I tell you, back home, this uniform works like a charm. What do you say, Oskar?’

  ‘Oh, I’d give Herr Göring the credit, Joachim, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You know they say he can’t get it up any more,’ Joachim said, ‘It takes three at a time to blow that whistle.’

  Werner’s face reddened. He muttered something about morale.

  ‘Who cares, Werner,’ said Joachim, ‘Relax, will you?’

  Werner was looking nervously over his shoulder, but Joachim wasn’t fazed. ‘He let the English get their breath back when he could have finished them off. He’s a disaster. Besides–’ Joachim gulped back his schnapps, ‘all he really cares is feathering his own nest. And what a nest!’

  ‘So he’s got somewhere he likes to go to wind down,’ said Werner. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘A dozen Old Masters on the bathroom wall, Werner. Just to watch him piss.’

  Oskar’s attention began to wander. There was a new girl behind the bar. She looked like she had sealed herself off from her surroundings. Now and then, her eyes darted to the table where Joachim and the others were sitting. When Joachim flashed his brilliant smile at her she ignored him.

  Oskar walked over to the bar on the pretext of examining the bottles ranged behind it. He could see Joachim in the mirror, making drunken gestures at him while the others laughed into their beers.

  ‘The seats at the bar are reserved for regulars,’ the barmaid said, looking over his shoulder at the crew, ‘but I suppose you lot will do as you wish.’ The expression of loathing on her face fascinated him. Most people pretended to find them tolerable, whatever they really thought.

  ‘They might be a bit loud, but they don’t mean any harm. They’re just trying to let off a bit of steam.’

  ‘My heart bleeds. And who might you be? Their nursemaid? You sound like you think you’re in a different league.’

  For a moment, he considered sharing his dilemma with her. He hadn’t felt proud of anything he’d done for a very long time. He’d let himself be thwarted when it came to Elsa. Always caving in, letting them win. Jumping would be brave, he was sure of that. But was it honourable, or just insane? If the barmaid respected him for it – someone like her, who hated Germans no matter what they did – then maybe it was worthwhile. He ordered a small cognac and drank it down in one. He realised then that he’d made his decision without her. When he went back to the others, they had long since lost interest in his progress with the girl behind the bar. Joachim and Willy had just begun dancing a tango when Oskar left.

  The smell of planes seemed to linger at the Hotel Moderne. Perhaps that was why nobody seemed to want to drink there. The bar was a staging post between one sortie and the next; a place that never seemed to warm up. Even the crews only frequented it when they were back too late to find anywhere else. On those nights, anywhere would do: follow the beam, light the targets and leave.

  The others arrived back at the billet soon enough, with some of the girls from the Deux Pigeons. Joachim spread himself over three rickety chairs, smoking luxuriously, his yellow scarf knotted at his throat. When he spotted Madame, still at her accounts, he sprang to his feet and dragged Oskar with him into the foyer. He gave a little bow. When she continued to ignore him, he rang the brass bell on her desk.

  ‘One moment, please.’ She continued writing, licking the end of her pencil as she finished a fresh column of numbers. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The mural, Madame. That German paradise we’re going to paint for you.’

  Madame shrugged and went back to her sums.

  ‘Every airman this side of Quiberon will come here for a glimpse of home: mountains, pretty forests, houses from fairytales.’ He lent towards her in a stage whisper. ‘And not a swastika in sight.’

  She shook her head, still engrossed in the numbers on the page.

  ‘Oh come on, Madame. Oskar here will do the hard bits. I’ll stick to the sky. Consider it a fraternal gesture to the Hotel Moderne.’

  Madame Pouli
quen waved her hand in the air. ‘Go ahead, if you must. But no mess.’

  He reached out to take her hand but she snatched it away.

  They began the mural the next day. Joachim knew someone in ordnance and had managed to get hold of some surplus paint: military green (dark green and black green), two shades of grey (ash and cinder), black, white, maroon and a little dribble of bright red.

  They were usually too exhausted after a mission to do anything much. Joachim used to sit at the window of their room with his feet up on the metal balcony, playing his clarinet until Madame Pouliquen arrived in her hairnet to hammer at their door. Now, Oskar and Joachim would go straight to work on the mural. By that time, dawn would be upon them and its thin light seemed to suit the colours they had at their disposal. No matter how tired, they got a second wind, daubing at the uneven surface of the wall. Joachim used to say it made him feel a little better, to have made something for a change.

  When they started, they didn’t have a plan for this paradise of theirs. Oskar wanted a lake and with a lake went mountains. Joachim described the hotel by the Bodensee where he had met Gisela, his girl back home, and Oskar painted that too. Then, he added his grandmother’s house in Schwetzingen and a small church on a hill. One night they came back to find that someone had painted a little party flag onto the filigree balcony that Oskar had spent the previous night perfecting. The red paint was still tacky. Joachim smeared it off with his thumb and wiped it on the leg of his flying suit, before using some cinder grey to cancel it out completely. Normally, they’d enjoy a bit of banter and wear themselves out enough to be able to sleep. The flag made them both despondent. It reminded them that, whatever they might like to pretend, there was no longer any Germany without it: that even the fairytale they painted was rotten now. The next night, Oskar used the last drops of red paint for a row of geraniums in the window of his grandmother’s house and threw away the can.