When We Fall

by Carolyn Kirby

  ‘Johnnie!’

  Marjorie floats towards a tall figure in air force blue who kisses Marjorie on both cheeks. Vee stands alone by a fake marble pillar; her head, her heart, her whole body, thump in time with the double bass. She scans the darkened tables but all uniforms look the same colour in the dimness and the faces all look blurred. She probably would not even recognise Stefan Bergel if he were standing right in front of her.

  If he is not here, she will have to turn around, go back up the stairs, find the nearest Underground and return to base. Perhaps that is what she should do anyway. But Marjorie is pulling Johnnie Vee’s way.

  ‘Johnnie, Vee here is looking for a chap from 302. Are there any in tonight?’

  He nods at Vee, and gives her a look that is ever so slightly the once-over. His voice is made of sharper cut-glass even than Marjorie’s.

  ‘302? They’re always in! Over there, in the corner.’

  It seems rude not to follow the lift of his chin and Vee sets off, winding between candlelit tables around the dance floor. Sonia was wrong about the uniform. No other woman here is wearing one.

  As she reaches a circle of dull jackets, Vee stumbles and all of the heads that had been bent together look up. At once, she recognises a face but it is not Stefan’s. Piotr Double Whiskey’s hair is slicked back, his face blank. Vee stands for a long moment staring at him. Clearly he does not remember her. Perhaps without her flying helmet…

  ‘Vee.’

  It is Stefan’s voice. At first Vee cannot see him in the tight circle of men. And his voice sounds far off. Cool. Not pleased to see her. When she sees his face, it is deathly white.

  He must have forgotten she was coming. And there is no doubt about it now, she should just go. In the second it takes to turn her head away, the whole thing plays out in her head; how she will leave with a flourish, bound up the staircase and march off into the cool air…

  But his hand is on her arm. ‘Vee.’

  She realises that she has not actually moved and Stefan is still beside her, touching her. His face seems far away, and then very close.

  ‘Vee, you came.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. You asked me, if you remember.’

  His hand leaves her arm but he stays close. ‘Of course. I am sorry, I should be waiting for you by the door. But Piotr has brought news of something and I…’

  Vee snorts and sounds angrier than she intends. ‘Well, I won’t keep you.’

  This time, she does turn away.

  ‘No, Vee.’ Stefan’s hand takes her elbow. ‘Don’t go. Please.’

  She turns to him. His face still looks washed-out, but his eyes flash, intent on her, and full of pleading.

  ‘I must let you finish your talk with your comrades.’

  Perhaps she really has interrupted something serious; planning for a raid across the Channel, or working out why some op went badly wrong. Stefan is reaching for a plush-covered stool from another table and Vee sinks on to it without really making a decision to stay. Her heart is pounding. It is clear that none of the stony-faced men want her here. And none of them seem to feel like speaking English.

  Piotr gives Vee a smile but it looks forced. Then his hand is in the air, fingers clicking. Almost instantly, a white-coated waiter brings a jug and glasses. Liquid, blue enough to go into an engine, is poured and a glass is put in front of Vee.

  ‘What’s this?’

  Stefan’s face has more colour and his features start to relax. ‘A Messerschmitt.’

  ‘Right. And that is…?’

  At last, he is smiling. ‘Drink it, and tell me.’

  Vee sips and then coughs. The cocktail is syrupy but leaves her mouth on fire.

  She coughs again. ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Of course.’ He laughs drily. ‘And?’

  ‘Curacao, I suppose, to make it blue.’

  ‘That is right. Blue like our jackets.’

  ‘And something sweet…’ There is a cough-mixture taste that she cannot place. ‘Pears?’

  ‘Cherry brandy. The best. From Wielkopolska.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Greater Poland, it means. The region where our squadron is from. The old heart of Poland.’

  His knee pushes up against hers. She gulps another mouthful of the blue drink before taking a breath. A lovely looseness flows into her shoulders and then down her spine. The thumping in her head lightens.

  The men begin to speak. Quick syllables ricochet and the solemn mood lifts. One of the airmen raises his chin, first at Vee then at Stefan, and after his whoosh of words, laughter erupts.

  Stefan bats away their jibes then jumps up and holds out his hand to Vee.

  ‘Care to dance?’

  She nods and takes his hand. It is cool and firm. He weaves her into the heave of bodies and the pulse of beats on the dance floor. Stepping backwards on the polished springy wood, Stefan passes his arm behind Vee’s waist and pulls her body into his. He feels strong and supple and warm. Her hand, still inside his, is lifted and they start to sway. But their feet stay rooted. A trumpet blasts and couples kaleidoscope around them.

  Vee leans into Stefan. ‘Aren’t you supposed to dance, on a dance floor?’

  He looks at her then with an intensity that makes a tingle rise up her neck. He is squeezing her hand too, quite hard. But he says nothing.

  She tries to smile. ‘You did forget about me coming tonight, didn’t you?’

  He sighs and gives the slightest of shrugs. ‘I… yes, for a minute I did. The news that we had was very bad.’

  ‘From the squadron?’

  ‘No, no from Russia.’

  ‘Russia?’

  Vee frowns. Why would news from the Eastern Front be so important to them? And anyway, she knows that although the fighting is fierce, the news from there nowadays is pretty good. Britain’s Russian allies have begun to push the Germans back.

  Again, though, Stefan’s face seems to blanch. ‘It is now certain that a great many of our Polish comrades, who were prisoners in Russia, are dead.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Did you know any of them?’

  ‘I…’ He shakes his head and briefly closes his eyes. ‘Vee. This is something… I cannot talk about it.’

  ‘Of course, no need.’

  He does not seem to hear and has a dark, faraway look. ‘I do not want to hide the truth, but I did something bad… something I… I’m sorry.’

  Again he shakes his head and Vee wonders what he can be talking about, what on earth would make him feel so bad. But then she thinks of his near miss with Freddie Dunne and does not really want to know.

  She eases her body away from his. ‘This wasn’t the best time for our night out, was it? Perhaps I should come back next week.’

  ‘No! Vee, please stay with me.’

  ‘Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather talk to your friends?’

  Stefan shakes his head and his feet begin to move against the vibrating floor. Although it is not dancing, exactly. His grip around Vee’s waist tightens and then, with a shake of his head, his face lowers on to her shoulder.

  She does not quite know what to do. It must look odd, how they are standing here clinging, not really moving. Marjorie might be looking, too.

  She speaks close to his ear. ‘Is this part of my instruction?’

  His head lifts. ‘What?’

  ‘In flying blind?’

  He looks at her, his eyes watery through a strobe of flickering light, but he is smiling. Their bodies lock together. Music lilts and swells as the dancing couples spin, but Stefan and Vee stay fixed to the floor and to each other. Heat flows through Vee, sharp as cherry brandy. She does not care if Marjorie sees.

  Vee thinks then of how she left Sonia, glancing from wristwatch to sky. If Tony has not returned by now, Sonia’s world will already have
fractured entirely and forever.

  Vee pulls away from Stefan although their feet still shuffle together on the dance floor. ‘Stefan… I like you, very much. But I don’t want to make life complicated for either of us.’

  He looks at her intently, his eyes searching hers. Are there tears in them? But his voice is steady.

  ‘I am glad you are here, Vee. Very glad.’

  His voice, with its musical accent, reminds her suddenly of her father.

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘You make me believe that things can be good again. That I can make things right.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  But as her face moves towards his, his mouth presses down on hers and she cannot tell which of them kissed the other first.

  Hesitantly, Stefan pulls away and smiles, but his gaze has locked on to Vee’s. She cannot stop her hand rising to stroke a forefinger across his lips.

  ‘Let’s go somewhere, Stefan.’

  He nods. Their linked hands drop to their sides but the fingers stay locked.

  Then he is pulling her away from the vibrating floor and around the circular tables, the serge of their jackets catching at tablecloths and velvet drapes. As they mount the staircase, their arms circle each other’s waists; hips press against thighs.

  And then they are out in cool air. The square is quiet. A half-moon lights the entrance to a side street, and then an alleyway. Vee stumbles as her foot slips on slimy cardboard and against cobbles. But she does not care where it is they are going as long as she is still holding Stefan’s hand.

  They enter another alley and Stefan looks over his shoulder but there is no one around. At a dark doorway they stop. The disused door is padlocked and thick with dust but Vee steps back and lets her jacket rest against it. Stefan buries his face in her neck – kissing, licking, biting. Then he is unbuttoning her jacket and her shirt. His fingers are inside, on the skin that no one ever sees. He seems to know how best to touch, with a soft insistence that shocks Vee even as it delights her. She tries to ignore a tiny voice at the back of her brain: see, you are not his first, you are not the only one. But all she wants, all that every nerve in her body is telling her, becomes one word: more. She says it louder, over and over as he pushes her flat against the dust-covered door and then upwards into the corner. A ridge of clammy bricks is pushing a line of pain into her buttock and she is standing on something with a nasty squish to it. But nothing matters except her need for more.

  Stefan’s hand is under her skirt now, rucking up the fine woollen cloth, pulling at her underthings. There is a tug then a rip, and silk trickles down her legs. She leans into him as she feels the soft heap of Sonia’s knickers around one of her shoes. Stefan. Is she saying it? Stefan. And then he is pushing against her, pushing into her. He says nothing, only breathes, although his breaths might be words she does not understand.

  ‘Stefan… more… please.’

  But then he stops, and his breath is a single word. ‘Scheisse.’

  ‘Stefan…’

  They are both panting. Both still wanting. But the urgency has gone. Above them, a stripe of bleached sky divides the black roofs. Stefan’s eyes catch a gleam of half-moonlight but he does not look at Vee.

  ‘Stefan? What is it? I’m sorry…’

  He mumbles words that she cannot make out and something cold goes through her.

  ‘Stefan, it doesn’t matter. I don’t mind about not doing it… it doesn’t matter.’

  But he has already pulled himself away from her, and buttoned up. She reaches down to save Sonia’s silk from the filth. And when she straightens, Stefan has already turned his back to her and is moving away, head down, as he pulls on his airman’s side-cap and breaks into a run towards the street.

  Posen, Greater German Reich

  Sunday 18 April

  Ewa sits on the bedroom rug chewing her nails. Letters from the hidden drawer are scattered around her and she has at last found a private half-hour to scan them, again and again, for some clue that will link Stefan to a grand wooden house rising from larch trees above a curving river.

  Beneath the curious address on each letter – Gorki Rest Home, Moscow, PO Box 12 – there is plenty of detail about Stefan’s life as a prisoner of war; the dull routine of queuing inside the monastery citadel to wash, eat and be counted; the occasional, apparently cordial attempts at interrogation by the Soviets. Stefan describes the bitter winter and then the brief thaw early in the spring of 1940. But there is nothing on any of his densely written pages about a dacha in a forest like the one Ewa saw on the screen at the Apollo.

  Stefan’s words can still make her heart ache. ‘It cannot be long now, my love, until we are together, for today I saw the first release of prisoners.’ His confidence is both irritating and desperately sad. Excitement thrills through his account of a sentry marching the muddy pathways between the shacks calling out names from a printed list. ‘Those who heard their own names cheered and punched the air as they were told to gather their belongings and report to the cinema hut. There, each of those happy souls was given a portion of dry bread and herring wrapped in white paper before they bounded into the hut and to freedom. Start praying, my darling Ewa, as many times a day as you can, that my name will be on the next list.’

  After this hopeful message, Ewa remembers imagining that Stefan himself would arrive at her door before another of his letters. And so the postman’s next delivery came as a disappointment. In this letter, Stefan’s optimism seemed to falter: ‘Another prisoner cohort gained their release today,’ he wrote, ‘but alas, my name was not on the sentry’s list.’ Ewa’s own dismay had prickled into resentment as she read on: ‘… but I can report that one who had the good fortune to be called was my dear comrade, Janina Lewandowska, the aviatrix. When she saw me in the throng outside the cinema hut, she waved and shouted. “Lt Bergel, I will get your vodka martini ordered and wait for you at the Aero Club bar!”’

  At least that got the irritating female out of Stefan’s way, Ewa had thought. But reading further, her unease began to build. Stefan told of waiting with the remaining prisoners in sleety rain to see what would happen next. But the camp’s main gate stayed shut. Murmurs started up about what might lie in store for the officers inside the cinema if they were not to leave the camp. And then, Stefan wrote, ‘… the cinema doors suddenly re-opened and a line of men (with one woman elegantly bringing up the rear) marched down a narrow path past some outhouses to a wicket gate in the perimeter wall. This low gate, which I had never noticed before seemed to have appeared by magic. One by one, our fellow prisoners ducked through it and were gone. Keep praying, dear Ewa, that I will be next to pass that way!’

  Ewa shudders now at the eerie image of the gate in the wall. This wicket gate was always there, but the prisoners had gone about their daily lives oblivious to its sinister presence. Friday’s newsreel surely showed what lay in store on the other side.

  Yet even Stefan’s final letter, dated 7 April 1940, is relentless in its optimism. ‘Again today,’ he wrote, ‘some lucky men have been shipped to freedom through the gate in the perimeter wall. I watched them with a chess companion of mine from Katowice and later, over the chess board, we speculated about our freed comrades’ possible destination. My companion is a charming but wary individual. What good, he mused, was one small packet of bread and fish for a journey all the way to the Polish border? In the current season, such a trip might take nearly a week. Our comrades, he argued, must simply be on their way to another prison on Russian soil. But I would not give in to his pessimism. The fact that our most senior personnel (as well as our only female officer) have been moved first proves to me that there must be privilege or at least compassion attached to these prisoner movements. So stay full of faith, my darling, I am sure that our spring wedding is drawing near!’

  But that is all there
is. And these last words that Stefan wrote to her are now three years old. Ewa’s heart gives a hollow beat. She suddenly has no doubt that the officer from Katowice was right. The wicket gate in the citadel wall led only to a dacha built on sandy soil above a curving river.

  Ewa goes to her stocking drawer and slips Stefan’s ring back on to her right hand. It feels good to have her finger encircled again. And if Stefan, loved as he was, is dead perhaps her guilt about finding someone else will at last start to lighten.

  Since the embarrassment of Friday night, Beck has been absent from the dining room but it cannot be long until Ewa runs into him. She heard him last night in the room beneath hers, the oak-bed creaking as he thrashed about. There will be some initial embarrassment over Friday night as they meet again, but Ewa will suppress it under a bright veneer of normality. And she will be wearing the ring on her right hand as she normally does.

  Downstairs, there is a commotion of footsteps and doors closing. Ewa glances at the clock and realises how long she has been sitting here on the draughty floor. The breakfast things have been cleared away, but it will not be long until she must make a start with the lunch. They like a hot meal early on a Sunday. She sighs. Meatballs, godammit. When she planned the weekend menu, she was fizzing with nervous energy, able to think only of the coming cinema night with Beck. Now, the idea of cutting and grinding raw meat brings to mind a man with a hacksaw…

  Ewa jerks up, collecting and folding the letters, silently slotting the drawer back beneath the wardrobe. She cannot let herself be overcome. All of her concentration must go into facing Beck without slipping into embarrassment. Or fear.

  With a slam of the front door, downstairs quietens. Perhaps, that was him, Beck, leaving for the day. Ewa smoothes her skirt and locks her bedroom door behind her but as she reaches the lower landing, the door to the oak-bedroom opens and he is there.

  ‘Eva.’

  ‘Good morning, Obersturmführer.’

  She cannot quite look him in the eye.