She turned the corner and picked up her pace, watching the shimmer of lights on the dark river. She wondered where Farr was, and what he was doing at this moment.
* * *
The two young women pressed their services upon him, and in his inebriated state, Farr agreed. But on arriving at their squalid, airless, little room, he found he could not perform. Disappointed, but determined to show him a good time, the women began their lovemaking without him, on the other bed. Farr lay on the sagging mattress smoking a cigarette, watching their exaggerated movements. He could not help but think that Katrinka and Milou’s lovemaking had probably involved less expertise, but a great deal more tenderness.
The women finished in a united climax. Farr stood up and paid them their money. Stepping from the building into the dark street, a strong breeze struck his face. His head felt heavy from drink and too many cigarettes. Transport to the boat would be mid-morning. He turned back to the hotel.
The streets were quiet now. Everyone had found a place for the night or gone back to their rooms. He turned down a darkened lane, empty except for a lone street vendor and a girl at the far end. The girl squatted down, feeding a dog. The dog strolled away, and the girl continued down the cobblestoned street, turning a corner. Farr stood for a moment, something tugging at the back of his drink-fogged brain. He watched the street vendor pack up his cart and leave. He continued his walk, and in a few minutes arrived back at the hotel.
The concierge looked up as he entered. “Monsieur, there has been a visitor.”
Farr realized then, how desperate he was to talk to someone. Maybe Val had arrived. “Did he leave his name?”
“No, monsieur. It was a young woman. She waited a long time for your return. She has just left a short time ago.”
His body jolted into violent movement, his voice harsh. “Where was she headed? Did she give her name?”
“Yes, monsieur, an unusual one. Swallow? A nickname, I think.”
Farr whirled and was out the door.
She called after him, “Monsieur, she has left a note—” but he was gone.
Farr sprinted down the pavement, cursing himself. Why hadn’t he realized? The young woman in the street. She’d had Katrinka’s posture. Katrinka’s walk. What was she doing here? Was it possible?
In a few minutes, he rounded the corner. Of course it was empty. He ran down the lane, turning into another. Then another, and another. She had to be here. He stood for a few moments on the curb, his heart slamming. She had vanished. Paris and its maze of alleyways and lanes had simply swallowed her up.
In angry desperation, he cupped his hands to his mouth, calling out her name, his voice echoing and bouncing off the old buildings and paving stones. He continued searching and calling until he was hoarse and exhausted. Stopping by a park bench along the river, he slumped over, holding his head in his hands.
* * *
Katrinka hurried back through the streets to her room. Perhaps he had returned to his hotel. Perhaps at this moment he was reading her note and coming to find her.
She was so tired. If she could just sleep tonight, waking up in Wolfe’s arms. It seemed she could almost hear him calling her name. His voice echoing through the darkened and empty streets of Paris like some defiant Rochester, demanding the return of his recalcitrant Jane.
* * *
Farr woke from his cramped position on the park bench. The sun was just coming up over the river. His joints were stiff, and he needed a hot drink.
He found a small café, but could not face the food. He drank the bad coffee, then made his way back to the hotel. He’d just enough time to wash from the basin and grab his rucksack, before a large truck sounded its horn in the street below. After giving a swift glance around the room, he ran down the stairs. He’d already settled his account when checking in. The concierge was not about, so he left his key on the desk.
After throwing his rucksack into the back of the truck, he pulled himself up. There were a few other soldiers, and a Jed member he recognized from his training days. Most looked in the final stages of a bad hangover, and there was not much conversation. He slept the rest of the way to the port.
* * *
Katrinka spent a wretched night listening for the knock on her door, but he did not come. As the minutes and hours dragged by in the bleak, unfamiliar room, her loneliness became intolerable. She shivered, seized with irrational panic. What was she doing here? Wills was gone. Her father gone, and her parents dead. Wolfe was never coming back. He would never forgive her. Her entire body throbbed like an exposed nerve.
She got up, stumbling in the dark, to her knapsack. Deep in the back of an interior pocket, she found what she was looking for. She gazed down at the glass vial nestled in her hand. The tablet seemed to glow in the darkness. Unscrewing the top, she shook the pill into her sweating palm, staring at it. Then with a sharp cry, she flung it to the floor, stomping and smashing it into tiny bits.
Katrinka returned to her bed and crawled under the thin covering, doubling herself into a tight knot. She was going to be alone forever, and would just have to cope with it. She sank into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
Katrinka checked out of her room in the late afternoon, dressed in the green woolen skirt and jacket. It felt heavy but warm, in the chilled air. With her identification papers, she was able to arrange a lorry transport to take her to Dieppe. As she struggled to climb into the back, helping arms reached out to pull her up. She found a place to sit along the wooden bench; she was the only female. The soldiers looked a bit worse for wear, and after a few minutes of casual chatter, most of them fell asleep. It took over five hours of sitting on that hard bench, stiff with cold, before they reached the port.
Checking in with the dock clerk, she found that no boat or ship would be leaving for Newhaven until after midnight. She took a tram to the cinema, and later stopped at a café for a hot meal, and read a magazine. When she got back to the port, she handed her papers to the dock master and was allowed to board the vessel.
They would be traveling in a small convoy of ships, and they had to wait for them all to be loaded and ready. They did not leave until two in the morning, and it was a rough crossing. Unable to sleep, Katrinka went up top, staring at the black water and fog-streaked sky as the coastline of France receded into darkness. She would never return.
Chapter 12
London, 1944
The ship and its passengers reached Newhaven early the next morning. Katrinka followed the directions, going up to London by train, her clothing still damp from the moist air of the sea crossing. The sun was shining, but it was a hard, bright light, and held no warmth. Arriving at King’s Cross Station, she disembarked and walked out into the city.
The destruction shocked her. Entire neighborhoods had been bombed into rubble. Rows of skeletal houses leaned into each other, their masonry crumbling. She passed a few houses that had somehow remained intact, but with windows blown out or entire walls missing. Several streets were torn up and closed off.
This was another side of the war, one she had not seen in France. Although heavily oppressed with threats of violence, the countryside had remained relatively free of destruction. But here, war had left its mark everywhere.
Even with the devastation, Katrinka thrilled to the immediate sense of energy. There was a determined vibrancy amid the grit and dirt, and its raw excitement lifted her spirits. Crowds of people went about their daily business, and cafés buzzed with activity. Despite the bombings, cinemas and some theaters remained open, and were decorated with colorful playbills.
She eventually found her way to the news building and stopped just outside the entrance, searching her bag to make sure all her papers were in order. Her hands were shaking. She’d better get this over with.
Nigel Brockley met her inside the large newsroom, and led her through the maze of desks to his office. W
ith its clacking typewriters and voices shouting into phones, the newsroom was a cacophony of noise. The air was multilayered with tobacco smoke, and it stung her eyes.
Katrinka settled into an old leather chair by the door, its springs digging uncomfortably into her thighs. Mr. Brockley was a wiry, middle-aged man with thick-framed glasses and a round snubbed nose. She watched as he called for his secretary to bring tea and buns. After studying the papers she gave him, he asked her a series of questions. She could not take dictation and had no typing skills. He noted her obvious inexperience, but nonetheless remained professional and courteous. He told her he was short of staff, and she could run errands and answer the phones.
After tea, he directed her to a woman’s boarding house near the Batavia Mews, where a room and meals could be had for a small charge. Then he stood up, shook her hand, and told her to report for work on Monday morning. Before she left, he’d scribbled down the directions to the nearest bomb shelter, which she had pocketed in shocked silence.
* * *
Except for her old schoolgirl clothing, Katrinka had nothing to unpack. She stood in the middle of the tiny room at the Batavia Mews Boarding House and looked around. There was a chipped water basin in the corner with a yellowed mirror hanging above it. She tried the taps, and cold water trickled out. The bath was down the hall. A small window overlooked an abandoned rubbish heap below. She closed the window, shivering. There was no coal fire, but the hearth contained a coin-operated gas log. She could not imagine living here very long.
She took off her jacket and hung it on a battered coatrack in a corner of the room. Then she sat down to write a brief letter to her father’s solicitor, telling him she had arrived and where she was living. She left it on the table to post the next day, and went downstairs to dinner.
The helpings were sparse, but the food was tasty and warm, and her spirits lifted. Katrinka hoped never to see another field ration. She glanced shyly around the table. There were four or five young women like herself, and a few of them gave her a smile.
After finishing her meal, and being unwilling to return to the room, Katrinka took her cup of tea into the tiny parlor. She sat in one of the two chairs pulled close to the gas fire, letting the warmth seep into her exhausted body.
A few minutes later, a raw-boned young woman walked in with her tea. She wore a dress of blue wool, which was bunched at the hem. She had applied some dark coloring to her legs that carried a fusty odor. Her rough-chapped hands were constantly in motion, tugging at the belt around her waist or patting the dark hair back from her face. She greeted Katrinka and asked if she could sit in the chair opposite. Katrinka nodded, smiled, and introduced herself.
After settling into her chair, the young woman introduced herself as Beryl. She mentioned the weather. She mentioned her current state of health and that of her fellow boarders. With these civilities accomplished, Beryl launched into a barrage of information, skillfully diminishing any chance reply from her companion.
“You new ’ere?” asked Beryl.
Katrinka nodded.
“Got a job yet? There’s plenty to be found, what with bombs going off every day. Cause quite a ruckus, they do. There’s some folk that are gettin’ out. They told us it was gas explosions, but it weren’t that at all. Them Boche got this new kind of bomb. Gives you no warning, just a loud bang, sudden like.”
Katrinka had heard Raphael talk about the rocket attacks. It was an entirely different matter to hear about them now, with the locality painfully close.
Beryl continued, “My auntie up north tells me to come stay with ’er, the man gone and all, but I says, ‘And what would I do up there, with no picture shows or places to go dancin’, and not even enough food to feed the pigs with?’ I’ll take my chances ’ere, thank you very much. It’s an excitin’ place now, what with all them American blokes on leave. Plenty of chocolate, they’ve got, and they know how to show a girl a good time, too.”
She paused for breath, looking at Katrinka curiously. “You got a boyfriend?”
Katrinka shook her head. To her dismay, tears filled her eyes. She blinked rapidly, but Beryl saw it.
“Now, none of that; it’s no matter. We’ll have a good time, just you see. Tomorrow’s Saturday and I’ve got shoppin’ to do. We’ll go up to Woolies, ’ave tea, and later we’ll go out to the pictures.”
* * *
So, the next day at noon, after spending her first sleepless night in a bomb shelter tube station, Katrinka and Beryl boarded a tram and headed to the Woolworths department store. Beryl chatted excitedly. They would do some shopping, as there was a sale on. Then maybe they’d find a warm place to have their tea.
But at the first stop, Katrinka realized she’d forgotten her coin purse. After promising to rejoin Beryl in front of Woolworths, she jumped down and hurried away, as the tram lumbered on.
A sudden, violent explosion shattered the air. This was followed a split second later by a blinding flash, which illuminated the entire area with an eerie blue light. Katrinka’s body was flung out onto the road, and the breath sucked from her lungs. She attempted to stand, but her knees collapsed. Her ears shrilled as shards of metal, glass, and rock, rained down. She tried to scream but could not get any air. The ringing in her ears terrified her, and she clutched her head with both hands, screwing her eyes shut. If it continued much longer, she knew she would go mad.
It stopped finally, and she pushed herself upright, gazing about in disbelief. All was dust and pandemonium. Her eyes were gritty, and she smelled fire. She turned to see a huge column of black smoke rising from a jagged crater that had once been the Woolworths store. Down the street, she saw the tram. She stood up and began limping toward it.
Bodies and fragments of bodies lay scattered everywhere, some with their clothing torn away. The smell of scorched flesh filled her nostrils, making her gag. The twisted wreckage of cars lay scattered across the road. She came to the tram and peered in through the smoke, coughing and gasping Beryl’s name. One look told her all the occupants were dead, some decapitated bodies still sitting upright in their seats. A few mangled body parts protruded from Beryl’s seat. Katrinka did not look further.
The screams of trapped victims came from the street. She turned back, scrabbling over the wooden boards and sharp wires. She could hear the wail of ambulances in the distance. Dense dust and smoke was everywhere. Her eyes burned.
“Please…” came a voice, and an arm reached out. She was shocked to see a face looking up at her, half buried in the rubble. She bent over, heaving away shattered cement blocks and twisted metal, as a woman’s body began to appear. Katrinka crouched over her.
“Are you all right? Can you move?”
With help, the woman sat up and grasped Katrinka’s arm. She seemed dazed. Blood was trickling from her ear.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I think the building has been bombed.” She scanned the woman frantically for signs of injury. “Your ear is bleeding, do you have any pain?”
The woman seemed bewildered and licked her lips. They were caked with dust. “I think… my ankle may be broken.”
The sirens were quite close now; the alarms pierced the air, mingling with the cries for help. Katrinka pulled a handkerchief from her bag and gave it to the woman. “You must wait here. I will bring help.” She scrambled to her feet and hurried over to an ambulance that had just pulled into the side of the road. Many more were arriving. She spotted a man unloading equipment, and ran up to him.
“Sir. There is someone injured—”
He looked up from his crouched position, his face set in grim lines. “Bloody hell, lass. We’ve massive injuries here. Get to work and help us out. There’s a good girl.”
“But there is a woman. She is—”
“Make them comfortable. Do what you can. Someone will be around soon to see to the injured.”
> She whispered, “Yes, of course.”
She stumbled back to the woman, who was sitting motionless, still in a daze.
“They say they will be coming soon. Is there anything I can do for you?” Katrinka asked.
“No, thank you, dear. I believe it is just my ankle. I will wait here until…” Suddenly, the woman toppled backward into the dust.
Katrinka cried out and leaned over her. She took the woman’s wrist, but there was no pulse. There was nothing. The woman’s eyes stared vacantly into hers, the mouth open and her lips still caked with dust.
A spasm rose in her throat, and Katrinka lurched behind a semi-collapsed wall. After a few terrible minutes, she returned to the woman and covered her with a piece of cloth.
She spent the rest of the afternoon helping the rescue workers and the other volunteers. Once, she passed a heavyset man sitting in the dirt, drawing circles with a bent twig. He sang in a plaintive, high-pitched voice and seemed unaware of his surroundings.
Back and forth she went, helping with the wounded, digging and clawing through the rubble, at times having to step over scattered body parts. Her brain blocked out much of the horror. It was beyond all comprehension.
The sun was going down when she heard a feeble cry coming from a large pile of wreckage. Tearing away the bricks and glass shards, she came upon a child clasping a small kitten. The little girl was barely conscious, her ginger-colored hair matted in blood. She wore a yellow dress with tiny elephants embroidered on the smocking. The kitten’s breath was a raspy, rattling sound. Fearing to move them, she crouched, wrapping her arms about them both. She whispered soothing words, violently wishing for help to come.
The kitten died first, and a few minutes later the child, still clutching the small animal in her arms. She continued holding them until rescue workers arrived. Then she stood up and backed away. There was no feeling at all in her arms. She must have gone back to the searching, but she did not remember much of anything after that.
Just Another Girl on the Road Page 21
