When We Fall

by Carolyn Kirby

  ‘Would you mind stepping into my room for a moment?’

  Her stomach flips. He is freshly shaved and gives off a faint smell of leather and soap.

  ‘Certainly.’

  His room is neat, the bed made. Beside the chest of drawers, a kit bag stands bulging into its fastened straps. Beck closes the door and gestures for Ewa to sit on the bed. But she does not like the idea of him standing over her, nor of him sitting next to her on the soft eiderdown. So she goes to lean, a little awkwardly, on the oak bedstead while Beck stands by the window. As he speaks, he looks down on to the side street that leads to the deserted square.

  ‘I am sorry not to give you any notice, Eva, but I must leave today.’

  ‘I see.’ Ewa presses both hands onto the bedstead. Unexpected dismay washes through her. ‘I hope it’s not because of… of Friday.’

  He turns to look at her and his face is ashen. ‘It is, in a way.’

  ‘Because of what I said, in the cinema? Does that mean you have to move out?’

  ‘No, no. It is to do with what we saw on the screen. I am to go to the east.’

  ‘To Russia? To that place?’

  He puts his head to one side in assent. ‘There is an aeroplane leaving this afternoon and I must be on it.’

  ‘Will you be back in Posen again?’

  ‘I hope so. With all my heart.’

  But his eyes are so forlorn that she realises with the sink of her stomach that he is not really expecting to come back. Stupid tears prick at the top of her nose. Was every man she ever liked destined to disappear into the cold vastness of Russia?

  ‘I’m sorry that you are going, and I am sorry for Friday. I hope that you will remember me fondly.’

  He steps towards her and takes her hand from the bedstead. ‘Dear Eva. I will not stop thinking of you.’

  ‘Oh, Heinrich…’

  ‘Perhaps I may write?’

  ‘Of course. Please…’

  But already his mouth is over hers; his tongue hot and searching, his body stiffening. She wants to give in to the kiss but she cannot quite relax herself against him.

  Then, abruptly, he steps back. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘No, Heinrich, there is nothing to forgive. I just feel anxious and sad that you are leaving.’

  He throws her a guarded look then sighs and hangs his head. ‘I should tell you that posters will be going up around the city next week. Police posters. In Polish. About what we saw at the cinema.’

  Her pulse quickens and she sinks back to the bedstead. ‘Yes?’

  ‘They will be asking for Poles who know of any of their countrymen who were imprisoned by the Soviets in 1939 to bring forward documents and photographs.’

  Ewa’s heart is hammering. ‘Why?’

  ‘These things might help us to identify the many bodies that have been found.’

  She swallows and tries to give a polite smile. ‘I don’t think I know of anyone who can help with that.’

  But Beck shakes his head and sighs. His eyes fix on her right hand that is smoothing back and forth over the carved lip of the bedstead.

  ‘You still have on your ring.’

  ‘Ah, yes. A silly thing but I do like it.’

  ‘And still on your right hand, like a Polish engagement ring.’

  ‘But I am German!’ Her voice is too sharp. She starts swinging her arms about as she tries to laugh. ‘You know a great deal about marriage traditions, Heinrich.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He shrugs with one shoulder. ‘I know, for instance, that English women, like Germans, wear their engagement ring on the left hand. But the English put the wedding ring there too.’

  Ewa gives a tiny frown. ‘Do they?’

  She cannot begin to imagine why he has mentioned the English. The oddness of his remark unnerves her.

  She stands up. ‘You have a long journey, Heinrich. Let me pack you some food.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t go to any trouble.’

  ‘It is no trouble. I have already prepared a selection of cured meats for this evening’s supper and it’s only right that you should have your share.’

  He sighs and puts out his hand to her as if trying to make amends but Ewa is at the door giving a nod and a smile before leaving the room.

  Her stomach somersaults as she hurries down the stairs. If he really does know, as he seems to, about her engagement to Stefan, then he also knows that she has been lying to him. She must find out for sure what he knows, so that she can make things right with him before he leaves. And if Beck does know about Stefan, there is only one way he can have found out.

  A metal cask is rolling along the passageway and Ewa stops on the bottom stair to watch her father heave it into the dining room. Then she follows him.

  ‘Papa.’

  He grunts and bumps the beer cask upright on the linoleum. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I must speak with you. In the kitchen.’

  ‘Why?’

  But Ewa has already turned back into the passageway. She holds the kitchen door open until her father is inside. Then she snaps it shut.

  ‘What have you said about me, Papa?’

  ‘How do you mean, Maus?’

  He is standing with thumbs latched into his braces, cheeks puffed red behind his moustache. Ewa steps forward so that their faces are level and almost touching. The amused twinkle in his eye is infuriating.

  ‘About Stefan.’

  Her father’s brow wrinkles. ‘Nothing. Why should I?’

  ‘Have any of them been asking whether I was spoken for?’

  ‘You’re not though are you? All that was years ago.’

  His words seem to relegate Stefan far into her past like a broken toy or a dead pet.

  ‘But we were engaged.’

  Oskar’s shrug suggests that this is long forgotten and was all some girlish whim anyway. That Stefan means so little to her father makes Ewa suddenly want to cry.

  ‘But you must have said something to someone, Papa. Did any of them ask about me?’

  ‘Not in that way.’

  ‘In what way, then?’

  ‘You know. Nothing much.’

  ‘Something though?’

  Her father lowers his voice. ‘Obersturmführer Beck was asking the other day about your childhood.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Oh, the usual things – what you were good at in school, what you liked to do in your spare time.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘That you were good at cookery. But he knows that anyway. And you liked to go up to the aerodrome to watch the planes. I’ve said nothing at all about Stefan. Why would I?’

  Ewa folds her arms and turns away. She knows he is telling the truth. He has never lied to her in her whole life, even when, during her mother’s illness, she had wished that he would.

  ‘Is that it? Can I go back to the beer now, Maus?’

  She nods, irritated, then goes to the cold cupboard. Three types of unopened sausage and two hams are piled on to the platter. At the table she selects the sharpest knife from the block to shear off a selection of thin slices then lays them on a sheet of waxed paper. It was dry bread and herring that went into the packets given to Stefan’s comrades as they left prison. Stefan had believed, naively, that this would be enough for a journey back to Poland. But Stefan’s sceptical friend from Katowice was right, Ewa can see that now. Those prisoners who left the monastery citadel did not travel far. And all of them, even that female pilot and Stefan himself, now lie in shallow graves under Russian larch trees.

  Ewa folds waxed paper over the slivers of meat and tucks in the ends. A clear chapter of her life has ended. She no longer needs to imagine that Stefan is somewhere else. He is gone. And the sense of him being wiped from the world comes as a strange relief. She is suddenly
glad that Beck is going too. She will not need to pretend to him any longer about Stefan.

  Life will become simple again; cooking and cleaning for the occupiers, silent typing and information drops for the AK. Ewa will throw her whole self into this last part. There is nothing now to stop her taking more risks, like cultivating a relationship with the Resettlement Office and becoming a proper spy.

  Beck is already in the passageway.

  She holds out the packet of meats to him. ‘It is all freshly sliced and will keep as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Eva.’ He unbuttons the top of his jacket and pushes the packet inside. His voice softens. ‘Take good care, dear. I will write.’

  Ewa nods and quickly touches his hand, patting it as a mother might when sending off a child to his first day at school.

  Beck’s face brightens, suddenly. ‘And so, now, this is your last chance.’

  ‘For…?’

  ‘For a guess – about my home town.’

  Ewa sighs and shakes her head. ‘You have outwitted me, Obersturmführer Beck. I have no idea.’

  ‘The answer will make you smile.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you still have no idea?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I am from Kattowitz.’

  In a thump of shock, her face, she fears, becomes molten.

  Beck picks up his bags but says nothing more, giving a final click of heels and a quick nod before pulling the back door behind him.

  Ewa stands in the passageway hardly breathing. Had Beck deliberately saved that bombshell until he was leaving? For he must have known what her reaction to it would be. How could she be anything other than alarmed to find out that he, like her, had grown up in the Republic of Poland in a town with two names?

  Ewa fears though that the agitation on her face has given even more than that away. And, impossible as it is, she wonders if Beck realised that she had been thinking only a few moments earlier about a man from the town that her dead lover had called Katowice.

  White Waltham, England

  Friday 23 April

  Vee lifts the chit from the counter and her eyes do not leave the indents of black typeface on the flimsy top-sheet. The paper quivers in her hand.

  Captain Mills raises an eyebrow above his round spectacles. ‘Something amiss?’

  Vee gathers the breath to reply. ‘A Spitfire.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure that MK355 is a Spitfire?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean are you sure that I’m ready to fly one?’

  ‘You’ve got ten hours solo on a Master haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well. What more do you want?’

  ‘A couple of circuits in a Spit, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh we don’t bother with that any more. Can’t keep a fighter plane tied up as a trainer. And you’re better prepared with your hours on the Master than most RAF men. If you’re nervous, I suggest you fly round Castle Bromwich in the Spit a couple of times before you head south. Just watch for the balloons.’

  Did he wink? Vee can’t quite tell. But the thought that he might have produces in her a surge of irritation which is enough to steady the trembling paper in her hand.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  She knows that Captain Mills is right about her hours in the Master being good enough preparation; the controls, the cockpit, the horsepower are all about as close to a Spit as you can get. It is just that the Master has two seats and the Spitfire only ever has one. At some point, every Spitfire pilot has to get into the fastest machine on earth and fly it, for the first time, alone.

  In the corridor, though, she has to stop and lean a shoulder against the wall to look at the chit again. A brand-new Spitfire. A Mark Nine, just like the one that Stefan flies… Oh God. Vee presses her hand into a tight fist. For at least an hour she has not thought of Stefan but here he is again at the front of her mind.

  Since the disastrous night out in London, Vee has heard nothing from him. At first, the shock of Tony’s death overtook everything else. And Sonia’s grief made her own disappointment in love seem more just. It would have been intolerable to have been blissfully in love whilst Sonia was in such despair. And anyway, Vee told herself, it was up to Stefan to make the first move.

  But as the days wore on, a panicky voice inside her began to whisper that maybe the same thing had happened to Stefan. The Fairchild, with Tony at the controls, had smashed into a ploughed field for no apparent reason. Everyone is saying that it will be put down by the Accidents Committee as pilot to blame. But Vee is beginning to wonder whether all pilots end up being killed by an aeroplane, if they keep on flying long enough.

  As the days have gone by and Vee has gone over again and again what happened in the alleyway, her doubts about what to do next have become more insistent. Perhaps she should make allowances for Stefan’s sudden reluctance to go further with her. The stress of combat may have made things difficult for him in… in that department. Or the shock of that news about the massacre, as she now knows it to be, of Polish prisoners. It seemed as if Stefan had a very personal connection to that event, perhaps even guilt, in his own mind at least.

  On the other hand, his apparent distress about events in Russia might have simply been a cover for ungentlemanly behaviour. Perhaps he became incapable only when he realised that it was Vee he was pushing up against the dirty doorway, and not his beautiful Polish girlfriend. Or even his wife. Because yesterday, with a start, Vee suddenly saw how easy it would be for Stefan to be a married man and to keep this fact hidden from her. If this is really how it is, Stefan’s comrades must have all been secretly laughing at Vee, or feeling sorry for her. But this thought has become so distasteful that she commands herself not to think of it again.

  Perhaps the only way to put these crowding, distracting doubts out of her mind is to make a telephone call and ask Stefan some straight questions. She would surely get a sense of whether he is lying in his replies. And perhaps, in order to rid herself, once and for all, of the agitation he has caused her, she must make this call before flying her first Spit.

  She starts to walk down the corridor towards the parachute store. Speaking to Stefan may not make her braver but it should at least reduce the confusion she feels. That would be better than nothing.

  One of the telephone cubicles is occupied. A woman’s lace-up shoe, visible beneath the door, is tapping furiously. The other cubicle door is ajar. Inside, Vee can see the heavy black receiver on its plaited loop of brown cable. Vee goes in and lifts the receiver. Then she presses a shilling into the slot.

  The operator’s voice crackles with impatience. ‘Exchange and number.’

  ‘Northolt Aerodrome, please. I don’t have the number.’

  There is a long pause.

  ‘Station Operations or Mess Office?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mess.’

  Another pause.

  Vee stares at the sign on the back of the door: Is your call really necessary? Is it? Probably not. It’s probably the opposite of necessary.

  ‘Hello. Mess Office.’

  Vee jumps and automatically presses the silver button. Her shilling clunks into the box.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Flight Sergeant Bergel, 302 Squadron.’

  ‘Sorry. Not here.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Could I pass on a message?’

  ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Or find out 302’s new location?

  ‘No, miss. You misunderstand. There’s been no squadron movements.’

  ‘But Flight Sergeant Bergel…’

  Silence.

  ‘… is he all right?’

  ‘May I ask what this would be in connection with?’

  ‘I’m just a friend.
’

  ‘Oh.’

  Is there a sneer in his voice? She may be imagining it.

  ‘Well, miss, I can tell you that he has moved on for operational reasons but that is all. Is there anyone else you’d like to speak to?’

  ‘Erm… Piotr. Piotr Dev…’

  ‘Drzewiecki.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The line seems to go dead. Then there are voices in the background. The pips will start going before long and she doesn’t have another shilling, only pennies and ha’pennies and she’s not sure how many of those…

  ‘Please? Who is this?’

  Vee recognises the strong accent with its impetuous edge.

  ‘Oh. Hello. It’s Vee Katchatourian, Stefan’s friend.’ Piotr does not answer. For all she knows, Stefan has lots of ‘friends’. ‘I’m from ATA. Do you remember? At The 400 Club…’

  ‘The lady pilot.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How I can help you?’

  ‘I just want to make sure that Stefan is all right.’

  ‘Yes. He is.’

  ‘Oh. Good. Could you give me his telephone number?’

  ‘No. I do not have.’

  ‘Or an address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could you pass him a message from me?’

  The line goes quiet. Perhaps there is a sigh.

  ‘Miss Vee, I think best you forget Stefan.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye, Miss Vee.’

  The pips start then.

  ‘Oh. All right. Goodbye.’

  There is a click and then the burr of an empty line.

  Vee replaces the receiver on to the cradle but her hands stay cupped around the warm weight of Bakelite. What on earth did any of that mean? She can think of no good reason why they should be so evasive. Perhaps Piotr’s English is at fault and he did not understand what she was asking. Or perhaps he was simply covering for Stefan who has no intention of ever seeing Vee again.

  A bang from the adjoining cubicle makes Vee let go of the receiver. Beneath the cubicle partition, she sees again the shoe that was tapping but is now still. It is Sonia’s shoe, she realises. And when Vee goes out into the corridor, Sonia is there, with a face that is, as it has been since last Saturday, the colour of morning ash.