She blinks sideways at Stefan Bergel. ‘But you’re not. English, that is.’
‘No, no, no!’ He chuckles and inclines his shoulder towards her, lifting the flattened yellow edge of the life-vest. ‘POLAND’ is embroidered on to the shoulder of his overalls.
‘I see.’
So, what he said before must have been in Polish, or perhaps it had just been My God, with that accent of his.
Grey fog swirls around the green flares. In the control tower, shadowy figures move around behind big windows criss-crossed with tape. Stefan raises a thumb in their direction then leads the way to a blackened wooden hut that even inside smells of creosote.
In the corner of the uncertainly furnished room, an urn steams on a ring-stained bench. An airman slumped in a saggy armchair snores. Vee drops her parachute pack to the floor and sits at a scuffed card table. She takes a gulp from the cup that Stefan puts down in front of her. Despite the steam, the tea is not very hot.
Stefan leans back and in his chair. ‘So. What do you think of our mess?’
‘Messy.’
‘We need more ladies to visit.’
‘To do the tidying?’
He laughs and his dark hair, wet from the fog, falls forward on to his brow. But beneath the smile, his pale eyes are fixed, unblinking, on Vee. This makes her feel awkward but also faintly excited. Luckily, the hut is too cold for her to have any urge to undo the collar of her Sidcot, or even take off her leather helmet. She must not be tempted to stay too long. Given that she hasn’t made her scheduled touchdown at Birch, Captain Mills might already be wondering where she and the Tiger have gone.
Stefan leans across the card table, half whispering. ‘Okay. I give in. I know you are not WAAF, so tell me what you are? Coastal command or civil aviation of some sort…?’
‘Of some sort, yes. Air Transport Auxiliary.’
‘Oh, yes. You deliver our new planes and take the knackered ones out of our way.’
She laughs. His English is good, but eccentric. ‘That’s right.’
‘And Luton is your base?’
Vee shakes her head. ‘White Waltham.’
‘Ah yes, near Northolt.’ He nods as he takes a sip of tea. ‘And giving radios to ATA pilots would make their navigation too easy?’
‘It would rather take the fun out of it, I suppose.’
‘Seriously?’
She laughs. ‘Of course not seriously.’
He looks a little hurt and again guilt folds through her. She cannot remember a man ever being so alert to what she has to say. It makes her feel older than him although clearly she is not. She takes a sip of cool tea then puts the saucerless cup on to the felt tabletop. A few dark hairs on Stefan’s wrist seem trapped in the steel links of his watch. It is all she can do not to run her finger around the rim of the strap and free them. She blinks the thought away. Her wits must be addled by the fog. She keeps a grip on the teacup with both hands.
‘There’s lots of reasons we don’t have radios. ATA often have to fly brand-new planes from the factory to maintenance units for the radios to be fitted there. So we have to learn to fly contact with the ground and not rely on wireless signals. And anyway, the channels have to be kept clear for you lot.’
‘So if sea fog comes down they don’t mind to lose a Tiger Moth and a lady pilot?’
‘They haven’t lost me, have they? I’m here.’
‘And I am most glad that you are.’
She thinks for a mortifying instant that he is going to take hold of her wrist just as she had imagined taking his. But instead he smoothes back the wet hair from his brow.
Across the room, the airman in the armchair farts noisily as his head flops on to his shoulder. Stefan picks up a flattened cushion and throws it at him, barking out a swoosh of syllables. Grunting, the airman shifts and opens his eyes, then he sees Vee and jumps to his feet. Without a word, he steps forward and takes hold of her hand pressing it to his lips before Vee can resist. Then he makes the same Germanic head bowing and clicking of heels as Stefan but with more flourish.
He says something unintelligible and then, ‘I delight to meet you, madam.’
Vee frees her hand and grins. ‘Hello.’
Stefan raises his chin and then his voice at the airman, who immediately does the same then torrents of words swish back and forth across the room. Vee sees that she was wrong; Polish sounds nothing like German. This language glides and cracks in an unfamiliar, incomprehensible stream. Not a single word resembles anything English.
‘He is trying to tell you that his name is Piotr Drzewiecki. But everyone here now calls him Double Whiskey and he must get used to it.’
‘Must he? Why?’
‘Because we try to make things easy for our English hosts.’
‘Not everyone can have a name that is idiot-proof.’
Stefan turns back to face her as he realises what she means. He blinks slowly. ‘Your name…’
‘…is Armenian. You were right. My father came to England as a very young man and then he met my mother. Katchatourian might be a mouthful but my father kept the name because it is all that he has left from his homeland.’
‘Which is now in… the Soviet Union?’
‘The town where he was born is in Turkey, I believe. But he washed his hands of the place long ago. People with names like his were treated horribly there.’
Vee surprises herself by how much she has said. Usually, she throws down her surname like a challenge, refusing to excuse or explain, and is ready to pounce when anyone gets it wrong.
Stefan is staring at her with an intensity that is disconcerting. She picks up her cup, draining the tepid tea. Then she looks at her watch but Stefan is quicker.
‘A quarter to two.’
‘Yes.’
‘You have been here only twenty-five minutes. And vis is not much better.’
‘Actually, I’d say that it seems much improved.’
But the window is too misted and dirty to tell whether the weather is getting better or worse.
‘Why not stay here? You have your things.’ Stefan nods at her overnight bag.
‘That’s only in case of real emergencies.’
‘Perhaps if you stay here you will avoid a real emergency. Piotr says no routine take-offs will be allowed for the rest of today.’
Is that what they’d been talking about? There seemed more passion to it than a conversation about the weather. Vee summons her most crystal-cut English voice.
‘Well, ATA authorises me to make my own decisions. So I’ll leave now and get back whilst there’s enough light.’ With a scraping of wood, she stands up. ‘Better not let the engine get too cold.’
Stefan stays seated with his arms on the table and begins to make some other argument for her staying here, but Vee is out of the door before he catches her up.
The mist is most definitely lighter now and Vee enjoys a shiver of smugness that she was right. Her pace slows as she senses Stefan’s broad shadow behind her.
‘Please don’t trouble yourself to come with me.’
‘But you need someone to turn the airscrew.’
‘Do you not have ground staff?’
‘I am very happy to do it myself.’
And perhaps, now she thinks of it, that would be for the best. Someone else here might demand official clearances and maybe even telephone Captain Mills. Which could make things tricky. All being well, she will not have to mention this forced landing at all, just say that she gave Birch a miss due to the nearby sea-fret. That should keep her cross-country record in the clear.
The haze has lightened enough for Vee to see the row of Hurricanes and Spitfires on the far side of the runway. She cannot stop herself asking.
‘You fly fighters?’
Stefan nods. ‘You too?’
‘Oh no.
Not yet, at least. I have to get my Wings first.’
‘Soon, then.’
‘Maybe not, after today.’
‘Ach! All pilots get lost in cloud. What do ATA expect, if you have no radio?’
She smiles. He seems so indignant on her behalf.
‘Do you think anyone will tell ATA that I was here?’
‘It is better for you if they do not?’
‘Well, a forced landing doesn’t look very good, does it?’
‘In that case I will make sure there was no Tiger Moth landing here today.’
‘Will you? Thanks awfully.’
Stefan shrugs with one shoulder. ‘It is nothing.’
Briefly, his hand touches her sleeve. ‘Please, stand there a moment.’
He steps closer, scrutinising her face. Vee smells the cinnamon edge of his soap and the leather of his flying jacket beneath the overalls. Her pulse quickens as he pulls a perfectly white handkerchief from his pocket.
‘There is grease. Close your eyes.’
Without thinking, she does as he says and puts her face up to him like a child. Her eyes close. Soft fabric strokes, again and again, at the same spot just below her eyebrow.
‘There.’
Her eyes open and she feels a tug of air as he steps away. His expression has changed; it is serious, embarrassingly so, and there is something in his gaze that seems desperately sad.
She smiles awkwardly. ‘Is it really so perplexing for you to see a woman in a cockpit?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You look at me so oddly, and when you first saw me you seemed…’
‘What?’
‘Shocked.’
‘No. You are wrong. I have nothing against women pilots. The very opposite, in fact…’ She sees his throat move as he swallows. ‘In fact, I…’
He opens his mouth as if to say more but then shakes his head. His skin instantly has a greyish tinge.
Suddenly self-conscious, Vee puts a hand to her forehead to peer down the runway.
‘I think the cloud base has lifted above a thousand now.’
He sighs. ‘You are right.’
They go to the Tiger and Stefan stands beside the cockpit. Vee lowers the parachute pack into the hole in the seat before settling herself on top of it. She takes out the map and once again Stefan leans over it, pointing.
‘Keep dead east until you see the railway track. Then, if the vis is still bad, follow the track north to Rivenhall and land there, see?’
‘Thank you.’ Another unscheduled landing? She would do no such thing. Vee flips the ignition switch. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind? The screw?’
Stefan nods and moves off towards the nose.
‘Throttle set.’
‘Throttle set. Contact!’
He pulls the blade with both hands and the propeller blast throws his hair across his eyes. The Tiger’s engine blurts into its sewing-machine patter and Stefan steps back, waiting as Vee tightens the strap across her lap and pulls on her gloves. He is still there, hands in pockets and a twisted look on his face, as she tests the flaps and checks the dials whilst the engine warms.
Perhaps she reminds him of someone he used to know. Maybe someone in Poland. Maybe even another female pilot. A chap that good-looking will have had lots of girls. Although something about Stefan’s drained expression suggests that he does not much want to think about whoever it is that Vee has brought to mind.
Vee gives him a polite wave before steering the Tiger on to the concrete. She throws a final furtive glance as she pushes the throttle lever forward. He does not wave back. The windsock lumbers up in the slight breeze from the sea and the Tiger hops easily, as it always does, into the air.
Almost as soon as the wheels are released from the pull of the ground, the atmosphere around the bi-plane dilutes into weak sunlight. Vee circles on to an easterly bearing by crossing and re-crossing the stripe of listless waves along the estuary’s edge. As she gains height, a slice of clear air opens between the ground fog and a high ceiling of cloud. To the east, a railway track scores through drab fields. Ahead on the horizon is the brown smudge of London. Then as Vee looks back at the receding aerodrome her heart jumps. Illuminated by the flare path, Stefan is still there, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. And he is still looking her way.
Posen, Greater German Reich
Thursday 1 April
Ewa can tell by the way her father is frying eggs that he is in a bad mood. The fat is too hot and it spits grease over the stove top, burning black bubbles into the egg-whites. He looks over his shoulder at her, glowering. Beer froth flecks his grey moustache.
‘Lie-in?’
‘Hardly.’
‘You know how much there is to do. And another Schutzstaffel officer is arriving this morning.’
‘Without any notice? They’ve got a nerve.’
Her father’s eyes dart. ‘Keep it down, Maus.’
Ewa clatters dried-up dishes in the sink and bangs the half-full coffee pot back on to the stove. ‘Where will we put him? In the gable room?’
‘No, he is an SS-Obersturmführer. He should go in the oak-bed room.’
Ewa nods. At least the attic room next to her own will stay empty a little longer. Panic sometimes waves through her when she thinks of those few thin centimetres of plaster and wood that separate her secret drawer from the head of a snoring officer of the Reich.
Overcooked eggs bounce as her father tips them on to a cracked plate. He balances it on a pile of papers on the dresser and, still standing, chops the rubbery eggs with a spoon. Ewa leans the base of her spine against the sink and folds her arms.
‘And will we charge extra for the bigger room?’
Her father shakes his head as he pokes a slice of stale black bread into the hardened yolk. ‘A flat rate was agreed. Let’s just be glad of the business.’
‘And the extra work?’
‘Yes, why not? A new lodger will make up for the empty dining room.’
‘What else did you expect, Papa, when we put the “Germans Only” sign on the front door?’
His hand with the black bread halts mid-air as he glares. Ewa has gone too far. She knows that he feels uneasy at the extent of their collaboration with the occupiers. But whereas Ewa can justify her own politeness to the lodgers as a cover for her secret resistance, her father, Oskar, must make himself believe that he has no alternative. The German invasion was inevitable, he argues, because the Republic of Poland was so weak. The country existed only for twenty years before dissolving again inside the borders of its mighty neighbours. How can he be a traitor to a state so flimsy and one that is no more?
Ewa suspects that her father was, in part, relieved when the Wehrmacht marched into Poznań and promptly changed all of the town signs to Posen. The city immediately began to look and feel a bit more like it did in Oskar Hartman’s youth. And no longer did he feel a twinge of embarrassment about his German name, or have to sing his favourite Christmas carols in private.
Although he would never admit it to her, Ewa wonders if her father prefers to be an actual German rather than a German-speaking Pole. But Oskar was born and raised in the city when it was part of Germany and he even fought unswervingly for the Kaiser throughout the World War. Ewa suspects that her father does not himself know where his loyalties really lie and she cannot help picking at his discomfort like a half-healed scab.
‘Enough, Eva.’
The sound of the wrong name in his mouth, with its hard German E, makes Ewa want to rip the scab right off.
‘We should never have gone on the DV List.’
‘Not again, Eva. And quietly.’
‘I’m not Eva. I’m sick of that name.’
But in order to secure their place in Category One of the Deutsche Volksliste and so be allowed to continue their business in the g
uest house after the occupiers arrived, Herr Hartman had sworn that the name on his daughter’s birth certificate was not his choice. In 1919, when she was born, the newly appointed Polish officials who filled out her birth certificate had automatically changed her German name Eva into the Polish Ewa. But at home, Oskar insisted convincingly to the sympathetic SS-Scharführer, his daughter was always called Eva.
Oskar brings his empty plate to the sink and hisses. ‘If you were still Ewa we would not be living in this guest house any more. Some smug settler would be standing where I am, cooking herrings for every meal and speaking German with a Russian accent. Imagine that!’
She shrugs with one shoulder but knows he is right. They had no real choice about the Volksliste. Their life, if they had been categorised as Poles then evicted and perhaps sent west to the Alt Reich as forced labourers, is unimaginable. And how could she be any use to the Polish underground army, the AK, if she were slaving in a German factory somewhere wearing a purple star with a P on it?
Ewa pours half-warm coffee and raises the bowl to her lips to hide her defeat. It is pitiful really, to be arguing like this with her father. She sounds as if she is fifteen not twenty-three. But there is comfort in a bad temper; it stops her thinking about the life she might have had without the war.
‘I am sorry, Papa. I will put the best sheets on the oak-bed.’
‘Good, Maus.’ He turns on the tap. ‘I know it is hard for you to be running everything, especially with the guests we now have…’ He puts his hand over hers and squeezes it. ‘I could not manage to keep the guest house going without you.’
She feels an unexpected prickling at the back of her nose and leans herself against her father’s warm bulk. His cheek bristles against her forehead.
‘I’m glad to do it, Papa. And they do not give me any trouble really.’
She stands back and pulls a speck of yolk from the tail of his moustache.
He nods and keeps his voice low. ‘At least I am too old to be called up, unlike some who chose the DV List. You will not have to worry about being here on your own.’
When We Fall Page 2
