Maybe

by Morris Gleitzman

  Just put my arms round her.

  ‘The Nazis beat me,’ she says. ‘For spoiling their plans. Called me murdering scum. I agreed with them. They put me in a slave labour camp. I thought I’d die there. I should have done, but I didn’t.’

  She presses her face into my shoulder and more sobs shake her.

  I wait till she finishes.

  ‘You did your best,’ I say softly. ‘I knew someone else who did something like that. He was doing his best too. He was a good person like you.’

  Celeste pulls away. Looks me in the face.

  ‘I’m not a good person, Felix,’ she says.

  Her eyes are so sad. Again I don’t know what to say. I wish I had the words. I wish I could say something to help her feel better.

  ‘Do you have any family?’ I say.

  It’s a risky thing to ask in wartime, but I want her to have somebody. Somebody who understands. Somebody who forgives her. Somebody who can help her see her own good heart.

  A fourteen-year-old person you’ve only just met isn’t enough.

  ‘Before the war,’ says Celeste, ‘my father died and my mother went to live in Australia. Our plan was for me to join her in Melbourne. But the war started and I was trapped here in Poland. We managed to keep in touch for a while. Then we lost contact for six years. When the war ended I tried to get in touch again. But I didn’t ever hear back. She must have moved. I haven’t been able to find her. She probably thinks I’m dead.’

  Celeste stares at the floor.

  I have a thought. About how wars can really mess up postal deliveries, but not always.

  ‘In your letters,’ I say, ‘did you tell your mother what happened? With the children in the hospital? And then afterwards?’

  Maybe a letter got through. Maybe her mother is trying to find her. To hold her. To forgive her.

  Celeste shakes her head.

  ‘I can’t put that in a letter,’ she says. ‘I need to tell her that myself.’

  I look at the pain and sadness on Celeste’s face. A mother would understand, I know she would. A mother would put her arms round her daughter and they’d be much better arms than mine.

  I have another thought.

  ‘Your friend Flight Lieutenant Wagstaff,’ I say. ‘He’s Australian. He could take you.’

  Celeste sighs.

  ‘That was my plan,’ she says. ‘My selfish plan. When I heard there was an Australian pilot in the district, and I found out he was going to fly a special plane back to Australia, I made sure I met him and made friends with him.’

  She looks away.

  I think she must be embarrassed about having a romance for travel purposes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Most people would do that to find their mum.’

  Celeste sighs again.

  ‘Dougie was going to smuggle me onto the flight to Australia,’ she says. ‘But he can’t do that now. His leg won’t heal for ages. They’re bringing in another pilot.’

  My mind is racing.

  ‘You can still go,’ I say. ‘Ken will take you. You can be his special survivor. You can be the one to meet the people of Australia. And after that you can find your mother.’

  Celeste shakes her head miserably.

  ‘I asked Ken yesterday,’ she says. ‘I begged him. But I’m too old. He wants a young survivor.’

  I stare at her.

  That’s ridiculous. Celeste can’t be any more than thirty. What’s wrong with a middle-aged survivor?

  ‘It’s not just my age,’ says Celeste. ‘I’d have to talk about myself to the newspapers over there. I don’t think the Australian people would feel very good discovering that their sons and husbands had died to save a woman who killed eight children.’

  It’s alright, I want to say to her.

  They’d understand.

  But then I remember that people who haven’t actually been in a war often don’t understand.

  Unless they’re your mother.

  I think about Mum.

  I imagine telling her some of the things that I’ve done. Things I’m ashamed of. Times I’ve been selfish. Times I’ve been scared. Times I haven’t been able to save people.

  I imagine Mum’s arms around me.

  Forgiving me.

  Celeste’s eyes are full of tears again. So are mine.

  I hear the sound of floorboards creaking.

  It’s not me or Celeste.

  The bedroom door is open. Gabriek and Anya are standing in the doorway, gazing at Celeste, almost in tears themselves.

  They look at me. They don’t say anything.

  They don’t need to.

  I nod slowly to let them know that I’m going to Australia.

  it’s too late to pull out. To cancel the trip. To tell Ken I’m not going to Australia.

  Not in this monster.

  I stare up at the huge dark plane standing at the end of the runway. Its giant wings and engines blocking out the sky.

  A Lancaster bomber, Ken says it’s called.

  ‘Once you’ve seen one, you’ll never forget it,’ he said this morning in the air base briefing room.

  I didn’t realise then, but I’d already seen one. More than one. And he’s right, I won’t ever forget. Not ever. Hundreds of them filling the night sky. Their deafening noise making babies scream and cows vomit. Their bombs turning the homes of innocent families into brick-dust and mincemeat.

  OK, they were aiming at Nazis. Most of the time. But still.

  Do I really have to go up in this monster?

  I pull myself together. I’ve promised Celeste.

  Plus it’s the only way I can keep Gabriek and Anya safe. To deal with Zliv once and for all.

  A hand whacks me on the shoulder.

  ‘Photos,’ says Ken, hurrying past in his flying suit with his briefcase under his arm. ‘Let the folks in Australia know you’re on your way.’

  He waves me over to a photographer who has a camera set up on a tripod.

  I waddle across, trying not to trip over. I haven’t got used to these flying boots yet.

  Ken smooths the creases out of my flying jacket and steps back. The photographer shows me where to stand, then peers through his camera.

  ‘Try to look heroic,’ says Ken. ‘But also grateful. Like you’re thinking of all the brave Aussies who sacrificed themselves for your freedom.’

  I try.

  The photographer takes a few photos, thanks me and starts to pack up.

  ‘Last goodbyes, Felix,’ says Ken. ‘We leave in ten.’

  He means minutes. Part of me wishes he meant hours. Or months.

  ‘Ken,’ I say, but he’s already walking away, too busy to hear me.

  He’d better not have been too busy to talk to the commander. To fix it so that if Anya and Celeste need medical help with the birth, the base hospital will provide it.

  Ken frowned this morning when I told him that was the deal.

  ‘Not gunna be easy,’ he said. ‘The base hospital’s not kitted out for childbirth.’

  I didn’t understand all the Australian words, but I could tell from Ken’s face what he meant.

  ‘They don’t need anything special,’ I said. ‘Just hot water and a sharp pair of scissors. Talk to the commander or I’m not going.’

  ‘Okey doke,’ said Ken, rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll fix it.’

  I hope this air base is better at childbirth than they are at organising.

  This runway is chaos. People in uniform running around with clipboards. Other people in overalls doing things to the plane. There’s oil dripping from one of the engines and I think that’s a puddle of aircraft fuel on the tarmac.

  I watch the ground crew struggling to load big kitbags into the machine gun turret at the back of the plane.

  Crazy. They’d be better off taking the machine gun out first. We’re not going to need it. Anya could organise things better than this standing on her head.

  I look around to see if Anya has arriv
ed. Gabriek and Celeste are walking towards me, alone.

  ‘Where’s Anya?’ I say.

  Celeste gives an apologetic shrug.

  My insides droop.

  ‘Doesn’t she want to say goodbye?’ I say.

  Gabriek swaps a glance with Celeste. It’s a very quick one, but I see it.

  Is something wrong? Has Anya changed her mind about me going? Is she not here because she’s upset and wants me to stay?

  ‘Try not to feel bad, Felix,’ says Gabriek, putting his arm round my shoulders. ‘The four of us have spent the last two days saying goodbye. Maybe Anya’s just said all hers.’

  ‘For now,’ says Celeste, stroking my hair.

  I pull myself together.

  Plenty of time for feeling sad later. There are other more important things to do now.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ I say to Gabriek, ‘that Ken will be sending you a special letter from the Australian government that guarantees places for you and Celeste and Anya and the baby on the first boat to Australia.’

  Gabriek smiles.

  ‘I won’t forget,’ he says. ‘Because you’ve told me fifty times.’

  ‘Hey, Felix,’ yells Ken from near the plane. ‘Time to get on board.’

  I look at Gabriek. His weatherbeaten face is so full of love, I can hardly bear this.

  ‘No deep sea diving,’ I say to him.

  It’s meant to be a joke, but my voice is so sad it sounds like I’m the one under water.

  Gabriek doesn’t say anything.

  Just gives my shoulders a long squeeze, his eyes not leaving my face.

  ‘Whoa,’ yells a voice in English. ‘Not so fast.’

  I look around.

  A nurse is pushing a man in a wheelchair across the tarmac towards us. The man is waving wildly.

  As he gets closer, I see that one of his legs is heavily bandaged.

  Then I recognise him.

  ‘Hello, Flight Lieutenant Wagstaff,’ I say.

  ‘Dougie,’ says the man, holding out his hand. ‘Didn’t want the plane taking off before I could say thanks.’

  I shake his hand. I’m very pleased to see him. When I tried to visit him yesterday to thank him for saving us, he was having surgery again.

  ‘Thank you, Dougie,’ I say. ‘I hope your leg gets better.’

  ‘No worries,’ says Dougie. ‘I’ll be surfing before Christmas.’

  I’m not sure what that means, but I’m glad he seems so cheerful. When I’m doing photos in Australia, and they ask me to think of Aussies making sacrifices, I’ll think of Dougie.

  ‘If you ever find yourself in Coonabarabran,’ says Dougie, ‘go to the Civic Hotel and draw them a diagram of what you did to my leg and they’ll buy you drinks for a week.’

  He speaks so fast I miss some of it, but I can tell it’s something kind.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ says Dougie. ‘Thank you.’

  There are four men with him in flying suits.

  ‘So,’ says one of them, grinning at me. ‘This must be our cargo.’

  ‘VIP cargo, mate,’ says Dougie to the man. ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  I don’t know what VIP means but the others seem to. They all roll their eyes.

  ‘This is Rusty, your pilot,’ says Dougie to me. ‘Simmo the flight engineer, Gav the navigator, and Wally the wireless operator when he’s sober.’

  I understand most of that, and I try to look like I understand it all.

  ‘Hello,’ I say to them.

  They all mutter things that sound like ‘gerday’.

  ‘Make sure you look after this one,’ says Dougie to Rusty. ‘No bumps, right?’

  ‘I’ve got a rule, Dougie,’ says Rusty. ‘No bumps, no bullets. Pity you didn’t adopt that motto.’

  I’m confused, but they all laugh, which is good. They seem friendly.

  ‘Let’s get you on the plane,’ Rusty says to me.

  I turn back to Gabriek.

  Lots of people are watching, but I don’t care. I give him a hug.

  ‘See you in Australia,’ I say.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Felix,’ he says.

  We hug for a few more moments, then Gabriek steps back several paces. Which is typical of how thoughtful he is. When it’s this hard to say goodbye, having a bit of space helps.

  I give Celeste a hug as well.

  ‘Thank you for saving us too,’ I say to her.

  ‘No thanks needed,’ she says. ‘You’re repaying me a hundred times. And don’t worry about Anya. You’ll see her again.’

  ‘And you’ll see your mum again,’ I say, patting the pocket of my flying suit where I’ve got my few precious things and Celeste’s letter to her mother.

  ‘I’ve got your mail safe too,’ says Celeste. ‘I’ll post them today. It’s really sweet of you, Felix, sending farewell letters to your old neighbours in the city.’

  I nod gratefully.

  Best not to go into any explanations.

  Celeste and Gabriek would only worry if I told them how those letters are going to save them all from Zliv.

  I get on the plane.

  everybody feels scared when they fly for the first time.

  Even before they’ve taken off.

  I think they must do because Simmo is being very understanding.

  ‘We’ve given you the double room,’ he says as he gets me settled into my turret.

  He’s joking.

  We’re in a four-engined bomber the size of a castle, but this turret is tiny. Probably because it’s under the front of the plane and if it was any bigger it would scrape on the runway.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘This is bigger than the hole I lived in once.’

  Simmo gives me a look.

  I hope I haven’t insulted his plane. I tell him I really like this turret, specially the perspex walls.

  ‘Great view from here,’ I say. ‘And it’s good you and Rusty are just up there in the cockpit. In the barn I had Dom just above my head. He was a very kind horse but he used to stamp a lot.’

  Simmo gives me another look.

  It’s a sympathetic one.

  While he shows me how to buckle myself in and use the intercom in my flying helmet and get oxygen through my face mask, he also tells me what he thinks of Nazis and the things they did to children.

  ‘Mongrels,’ he says.

  Then he goes back up to the cockpit and one by one the engines clatter and start to roar.

  ‘Righty-ho,’ says Rusty’s voice in my helmet.

  ‘Relax and enjoy the flight, Felix. Best spot in the plane you’ve got there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, trying not to sound too nervous.

  Suddenly the engines go from a small roar to a big roar and we lurch forward along the runway.

  This is fast.

  I thought Celeste driving the truck was fast, but this is very fast.

  ‘Ever been up in a crate?’ yells Rusty’s voice.

  I’m not sure what a crate is, but the highest up I’ve ever been is an orphanage in the mountains, so I say no.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Rusty. ‘Up we go.’

  I close my eyes. Everything is rattling. I hope Simmo the flight engineer isn’t up the back playing cards with Ken, which Ken invited him to do. I hope he’s in the cockpit with a spanner tightening things.

  I open my eyes.

  And gape.

  Through the perspex walls, everything is getting small very quickly. Far below, the air base looks like a breadboard with a few caraway seeds on it, which are probably people.

  I wave in case Gabriek and Celeste can see me.

  Maybe even Anya.

  The farms down there look like the checked eiderdown that Mum and Dad used to have on their bed. They cuddled me on it a lot.

  ‘Good view, eh?’ says Rusty’s voice. ‘I’ll fly under the clouds for as long as I can so you can see the sights.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  I stare through the perspe
x for ages.

  It’s all there. My whole life.

  Getting smaller and smaller.

  I can’t actually see everything, all the places and all the people I’ve been lucky to have, but I can see them in my imagination.

  The orphanage. The cellar. The farm. The forest.

  All the places that have given me good protection.

  Mum, Dad, Zelda, Barney, Genia, Doctor Zajak, Yuli, Celeste, Gabriek, Anya. Everyone I’ve cared about. Everyone I’ve lost.

  And now I’m leaving them all behind.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I whisper.

  I let my sad thoughts gently touch them all for a while.

  Then I realise something.

  Oops.

  All the flight crew up here would have heard me saying goodbye in their helmets. And it’s probably one of the few Polish words they understand.

  But nobody has said anything. They know it was a private moment.

  I like Australians.

  We’re flying over a big city.

  It looks big enough to be the city where me and Gabriek and Anya used to live. I wonder if Zliv is there, looking up at this plane and wondering.

  No. Why would he?

  He hasn’t got my letter yet.

  The plane gives a lurch.

  ‘Whoa,’ says Rusty’s voice. ‘That flap’s a bit sticky.

  Have to look at that when we refuel.’

  ‘Will do,’ says Simmo’s voice.

  ‘Felix,’ says Rusty. ‘If there’s anything you want to know about Australia, just ask.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Is it true about the universities?

  That they’re very good?’

  Rusty doesn’t reply.

  For a moment I think he’s busy trying to deal with the sticky flap, but then I hear him blowing air into his mask like people do when they don’t know an answer.

  Simmo answers instead.

  ‘Mine was great,’ he says. ‘University of life.’

  Wally’s voice breaks in.

  ‘My cousin went to a technical college,’ he says.

  ‘She reckoned the canteen was good.’

  ‘What about the police in Australia?’ I say. ‘Are they good?’

  ‘Definitely,’ says Rusty. ‘Best in the world.’

  ‘Very tough,’ says Simmo. ‘But fair.’

  That’s a relief to hear.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I don’t ask for further details. Such as how well- trained and well-equipped the Australian police are. And whether they’d be able to deal with a ruthless fanatical Polish killer coming to Australia on a tip-off.