When We Fall

by Carolyn Kirby

  ‘Did you see that damn fool? I’m going to report him to Ops and then give him a piece of my mind.’

  Or her, Vee thinks. But the Perspex hood of the Spitfire has slid back and it is clear that the pilot is, indeed, a man. As he climbs out, ground staff are already swirling around him. He stands with his back to Vee, talking intently to Smithson the chief mechanic. His arms inside a sheepskin jacket sweep in fluid, descriptive arcs around the nose of the plane. The fitters are crowding around the pilot and she can’t see his face, but there is something about the way he is moving…

  Without quite thinking or knowing why, Vee sets off towards him. Her pace quickens. She is now walking as fast as she can without actually breaking into a jog. It is not far but Vee can’t seem to get her breath. And then, when the airman turns, she sees why.

  He catches sight of Vee as he is still talking and his ice-blue eyes latch on to her and do not leave. Then, as the ground staff start to clamber over the Spitfire, Stefan Bergel comes towards her.

  ‘Vee.’

  Vee’s heart is beating so hard she has to cough before she can speak. And her face can’t decide what expression to take on. There are so many to choose from – surprise, delight, cool reserve. She tries for wry amusement.

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  His smile becomes sheepish. ‘Every cloud, as you English say, has something silver.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here then, because of the low cloud?’ She cannot stop herself smiling too. ‘Even with your radio?’

  ‘No, no, I was not lost. A little mechanical trouble, that is all.’

  ‘And this was the nearest aerodrome, was it?’

  ‘Exactly, and I don’t want to risk it in… these conditions.’ Is he blushing? He turns to look at the fitters pushing his Spitfire towards the hangar. ‘And I know ATA ground staff are good.’

  He tilts his head in the start of a shrug. Then he grins and Vee’s insides seem to liquefy. God, he looks good. In his sheepskin flying jacket he seems taller, broader. She can hardly breathe. She looks away. By the entrance to the administration block, heads are starting to turn.

  Vee pushes back the loose hair from her forehead. ‘I’d offer you tea but there is someone over there who is very keen to have a word with you and it might be best to avoid him.’

  ‘Oh, that Tiger Moth…’

  ‘Yes. That one you nearly crashed in to.’

  ‘I think he was not expecting to meet any other plane.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, anyway, it might be best to keep out of his way and stay by your aeroplane.’

  ‘With you?’

  Her stomach somersaults. ‘All right. If you like.’

  Between patches of dirty snow, the grass is heavy with moisture. The toes of Vee’s flying boots turn black as they walk to the hangar. Inside the cavernous entrance, Stefan leans his shoulder against the metal wall. Nearby, test bay mechanics in a scruffy mix of overalls, jackets and flat caps, crawl over the Spitfire; crouching on the wings and unscrewing panels on the fuselage.

  Stefan’s gaze turns to Vee and she cannot think of a single thing to say. She laughs for no reason and looks away.

  ‘What is funny?’

  ‘Oh nothing. Would you have a cig, at all?

  It seems as good a remark as any.

  Stefan unzips the sheepskin and takes a packet from his uniform jacket inside, tapping out two cigarettes. Vee does not really want it but she puts one to her mouth as he strikes a match. Stefan cups his hand around the flame, holding it to her face until the light catches. His head is close to hers now. Almost touching. There is one stray black bristle on his smooth cheek. She breathes in his breath. Then he moves away.

  The smoke of the too-strong cigarette fills Vee’s lungs and calms her blood. She throws Stefan an amused look.

  ‘Funny that you don’t seem surprised to see me.’

  ‘Well, you told me, White Waltham is your home base.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

  ‘And I want to find out if you have your Wings already.’

  Vee blows a plume of nicotine smoke from the corner of her mouth then reaches into her trouser pocket. ‘Funnily enough…’

  The embroidered wings unfurl on her palm.

  ‘Vee! Congratulations!’

  His eyes light up and in what seems like a reflex, his hand is on her shoulder, squeezing. Slowly, he lets go and Vee wills him to touch her again. But, of course, he does not.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You do not seem so happy about it.’

  ‘They were given to me rather grudgingly, I think’

  His brow furrows. She forgets, as she talks to him, that English is not his language.

  ‘I mean… I was told, as I got them, that I am a rather reckless pilot.’

  Stefan snorts and drops the stub of his cigarette. ‘Then you should join 302 Squadron. That is exactly what we need.’

  She laughs. ‘If only that were possible…’

  ‘In Poland you could.’

  ‘Really? You have female fighter pilots?’

  ‘A few, yes. When we had an Air Force.’ He looks down at his smouldering cig-end and grinds it with his boot. His face is suddenly expressionless.

  Vee shakes her head. ‘I can’t imagine having to fight as well as fly.’

  ‘If you had to, you would do it. And you are a pilot now. That is the most important thing.’

  He looks up at her smiling, but his eyes are troubled.

  ‘And we must have a drink, yes, to celebrate?’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Of course. If you like.’

  She folds her arms and points at him with the ashy tip of her cigarette. ‘It’s rather a long way to Bradwell Bay.’

  ‘Oh, 302 is at Northolt now. And you go to London sometimes?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  A smile starts and Vee cannot stop it spreading. Does this mean he has asked her out? Or perhaps he was just being polite.

  ‘Oi! 302.’

  Vee jumps and looks round.

  It is Smithson, the mechanic. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that Mark Nine.’ He looks Vee up and down. ‘And I can see now that you’d be surprised if there was.’

  Stefan straightens, looking Smithson in the eye. ‘On the contrary, old chap. Better safe than sorry, eh?’

  Vee blinks. Stefan sounds almost English.

  Smithson shakes his head. ‘We’ll put your machine outside and just as soon as you’ve finished with your… business here, I’ll thank you to get it out of our way.’

  Stefan gives a nod and a quick salute. Vee cannot decide if there is insolence in it. He takes a pair of soft leather gloves from his pocket, and with no great urgency, pulls them on. He does not seem embarrassed in the least. Did he really lie about a fault on his plane just because, as Smithson thinks, he wanted to see Vee again? The warmth of Stefan’s smile makes her think that Smithson might be right.

  Stefan leans towards her conspiratorially. ‘So, would you like to meet Donald?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  Stefan points at the Spitfire being pushed out by three fitters. Painted on the fuselage are two garish cartoon birds.

  ‘Donald Duck?’

  ‘Correct!’

  The duck, with his jaunty blue cap and half-quacking beak, holds up a feather like a warning finger.

  ‘Why Donald Duck?’

  ‘’Cos I like the way he talks, lady.’

  Stefan’s squeaking, quacking American duck-voice is uncannily perfect. Vee laughs out loud.

  ‘And the other bird, is it a crow?’

  ‘A raven. A symbol of our squadron, the Poznański.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘From
Poznań.’

  It must be a place, but she has never heard of it. From the corner of her eye she sees Smithson scowling.

  ‘Come on,’ Stefan places a hand lightly on her back and they go outside. ‘Have you been inside one before? Sit in, if you like.’

  ‘In your Spitfire?’

  ‘For sure.’

  Close up, the plane’s metallic curves are speckled with rivets. Stefan climbs on to the wing and lowers the door flap. His hand seems to hoist Vee directly into the tight cockpit. She sinks on to the bucket-seat, eyes flickering across the confusion of instruments and gauges. She can’t imagine ever getting the hang of them all. The Tiger’s few dials and pointers are hard enough.

  Stefan’s shadow looms. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s cramped, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry?

  ‘You know, small.’

  ‘Ah yes. But it has to be. When you are fighting, you must wear the aeroplane like a coat.’

  The cockpit smells, as all cockpits do, of engine fuel and greasy metal, but in this one there is also a tang of just-exploded firework. Vee’s hand rests on the Spitfire’s control column, her thumb caressing the black button inside the circular handle.

  ‘Is this the trigger?’

  Stefan is silent. She looks up and his face is expressionless, his eyes locked open, as if on a target. He turns then, and jumps to the ground. The cockpit feels suddenly bigger without his shadow across it. Vee curses silently for having reminded him, as she must have just done, of some ghastly kill that he would rather forget.

  Her pulse quickens as she climbs out. Painted on the fuselage, next to the raven and below the red and white chequerboard of Poland, are three small black crosses edged in white. Three kills, then, at least.

  Stefan is standing on the grass with his hand outstretched. He has taken off his gloves. Vee resists her impulse to climb down unaided and takes his hand which is cool and surprisingly small around hers. He does not let go as she stands beside him on the ground. And then, before she has realised what he is doing, Stefan brings the back of her hand to his mouth, pressing her knuckles to his lips. Vee stands, unable to move. His pale eyes fix on hers as he turns her hand over and this time brings her palm to his mouth. Heat flickers from his lips to the flesh of her hand and into the pit of her stomach.

  But then, without a word, Stefan drops Vee’s hand and turns away. He leaps on to the Spitfire’s wing and into the cockpit. His arm is raised in a stiff wave. And Vee can’t quite tell whether he is bidding her farewell or simply signalling for ground staff to help him take off.

  Posen, Greater German Reich

  Monday 12 April

  A big black car, an Opel, is parked in a square of sunlight across the street. Ewa rubs her eye to slide a look past the chrome headlight perched on its wheel arch to the bald head squashed against the driver’s window. The man is not really asleep. There is a clear sight line from his rear-view mirror to the entrance of the stone-faced apartment block. Ewa squints up through the criss-cross of overhead tram wires to a fourth-floor window. The blind drops. She is expected.

  Her heels clack on the pavement. After a few more steps over the grid of slabs she will need to decide whether to cross the road or keep on going. Perhaps she should forget the drop for today. She has probably been to this address on Hindenburg Strasse too many times already. The papers in her basket should probably return to her secret wardrobe cavity for a little longer. But then, with a yap, a black and white terrier runs into the path of a coal lorry that is lumbering up the hill. The driver honks his horn and Ewa takes a quick breath. Now.

  Her ankle buckles on the cobbles but she hurries behind the truck and on to the pavement. Up two stone steps and she is at the wide front door. It eases open and she closes it behind her, clicks off the latch and breathes out.

  Perhaps it was too obvious to use the dog as a distraction. And a door left on the latch is a sure giveaway. She holds her breath, listening for footsteps outside. But all is quiet. Perhaps the man in the Opel is waiting until she leaves before he stops her. There must be, please God, a back way out.

  Electric bulbs buzz and flicker up the stairwell as Ewa turns on the ticking switch. The dial whirrs, trying to make her rush, but her footsteps echo evenly on the tiled stairs. On the fourth floor she stops, breathing in a smell of mildly blocked drain as she gives two short knocks on the nearest door, a pause, and then another knock.

  ‘Do you have a newspaper for me?’

  The words come through the door in heavily accented German.

  ‘Yes, I have brought you this morning’s Ostdeuchter Beobachter. The news from the front is excellent.’

  The door springs open and Ewa steps inside. The woman’s greying hair is pressed into flat waves against her head in a style that went out of fashion years ago. And she is wearing too much make-up. Gertruda might even be her real name.

  ‘You have it?’ Gertruda slips into Polish, holding out her hand.

  The package in Ewa’s basket is wrapped in the wide-winged eagle of the newspaper’s masthead.

  Ewa passes it over and whispers. ‘Have you seen that Opel outside?’

  Gertruda’s eyes narrow. ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Can I go out the back way?’

  ‘No. There isn’t one.’

  ‘Holy Mary! I’m not coming here again. I have been too many times. Tell Haller there must be a different arrangement.’

  Gertruda purses her lips. ‘Just say you brought stout and soup for the old lady in apartment 3-B, Madame Ratajski. I will go down now and warn her, just in case. Don’t worry. She speaks German and will say the right things. And she always has stout in the house. Paulaner stout, remember. Be sure to walk past the car when you leave. Not too fast. And think about where you will say you are heading.’

  ‘Seriously, I’m not coming back here.’

  Gertruda’s voice becomes a hiss. ‘Pull yourself together. It might be nothing.’ She jerks open the door. ‘Now, go.’

  At the bottom of the staircase, with her hand on the front door handle, Ewa stops. If she turns right, towards home, it is not far to the apparent safety of the crowd shuffling around the tram stop. But if she is to pass the black car as Gertruda has advised, she must turn left up the empty street. She knows that Gertruda, annoyingly, is right.

  Ewa turns left and walks without hesitation. The Opel and the man inside it have not moved. She keeps her pace steady and does not look at the car. Except for a peasant family pushing a handcart up the cobbles, the street is quiet. The peasant boy’s dirty feet are bare.

  Then, as she comes level with the car, Ewa makes herself throw a casual glance at the driver. His smooth head is still flattened against the glass: his eyes are closed. Perhaps he really is asleep. Ewa’s step cannot help quickening on a surge of elation to get past him. For the last twenty minutes she has thought of nothing except the wide street, the car, Gertruda; things that she can see, touch and hear. There has been no room in her brain for the past or the future.

  And this is exactly the mental effect she was hoping for when she joined the AK. In that first spring of the war, Ewa had sensed that the intense concentration accompanying each illicit task would be the best way, apart from insanity to blot Stefan out of her thoughts. Because as the days warmed through those fractured weeks and Ewa began to realise that Stefan’s letters might have stopped for good, she would do anything to avoid waiting in the house for Jabłoński to come with the post. That waiting had almost sent her mad.

  Then, as weeks without word from Stefan turned into months, Ewa started each day feeling that this would be the day when news of him would arrive. It might come on a scrap of paper from a neighbour, or from an unknown man in the dining room whispering as she served him cognac. But always, in her imaginings, it was Stefan’s death that was revealed. She began to want it. At least then the wai
ting would end.

  At last, almost a year after his first letter came from Russia, Ewa began to understand that she might never know what had happened to her lost love. And it was at that point, when hope had petered out, that she joined the AK. Miraculously, her tactic worked. The adrenaline that washed through her during undercover activities seemed to bring her back to life.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Ewa’s insides freeze. It is a man’s voice, speaking good German. Her feet want to run but she stops and looks back keeping her face, she hopes, neutral. Her legs weaken with relief. It is just Obersturmführer Beck, his hand raised in a greeting. His eyes, beneath the peak of his cap, reflect the gleam of his smile.

  ‘Fräulein Hartman.’

  He is a little out of breath. Did he hurry up the street fast enough to see her come out of the apartment block? She must assume that he did.

  ‘Obersturmführer. Good morning.’

  ‘May I walk with you? And carry your basket?’

  ‘Oh, it is empty now. But yes, of course, do walk with me. I’m surprised that you are not already in the library.’

  ‘Well, a small errand brought me out, but I am on my way back there now. And you?’

  ‘I took some leftovers to an old lady who lives here on Hindenburg Strasse.’

  ‘And you are not going back to the guest house?’

  She is indeed walking away from the Old Square and away from most of her usual shops. Reluctantly, she offers thanks to Gertruda for suggesting that she should have a story prepared.

  ‘I am going to call at the coal merchant. The weather seems set fine, so I think we will change our order.’

  Beck falls into step with her. His face glows and his tall boots are polished to a ripple of gloss. Ewa wishes now that she had been brave enough to wear her good jacket instead of this old winter coat. The coat is so dowdy that it helps her to feel invisible. But the warming spring air makes a coat that is loose enough to hide contraband look suspicious. With an inward wince, she realises yet again how cowardly impulses can put her in peril. From now on, she will dress to be noticed and then assume that there is always someone watching.