She levers out the mushroom’s bulbous root and tries to imagine orange flames turning Stefan’s prison letters to ash. But she knows that she will not burn them. Not even for him.
‘I’ll do what I think best. You don’t have to tell me, Stefan. I have been doing what I think best for the past four years.’
‘Where will you hide the typewriter?’
‘I’ll find somewhere.’
‘In the old town?’
‘Why are you so interested?’
He puts a hand in his trouser pocket. ‘I might need a hiding place for something else. Just until Saturday. But it could be something quite large.’
‘There are plenty of hiding places out here on the farm.’
‘No. It needs to be in the city.’
‘Why? What is it?’
‘Something I’m going to pick up in town. I’ll tell you more when I know for sure.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just that nothing is certain yet.’
‘Perhaps I should report you to the komendant. How do I know that this isn’t part of some secret instructions you have from the English which will betray the AK? Or that you weren’t joking yesterday about being from the Gestapo?’
‘Be kind to me, Ewa. We don’t have much time together.’
She stands up and looks down at his face. It is still so hard to remember that he is really here, that it is less than a day since everything she could foresee in her life was reshaped like the twist of a kaleidoscope.
He must be right that whatever happens, they will not have long together. And when he is gone, her life will go back to what it was before; so empty and numb that only the terror and exhilaration of insurgency will make her feel alive.
She puts a hand to his cheek. ‘When will I see you next, Stefan?’
He does not answer but pulls her to him, kissing her neck, her face, her hair. They fall together. Baskets drop into the brown blanket of crumbled leaves and Ewa is lost in the feel and smell and heat of him. But when she senses that he is trying to go further with her right there in the open, the needle of irritation returns.
‘No, Stefan. Not here.’
He scans the sparse woodland of grey trunks and fallen leaves, his arms still cradling her. ‘There’s a grove of holly bushes over there…’
‘No!’ Ewa wriggles away. ‘We can’t keep doing it anyway, Stefan. What if I am already pregnant?’
‘We’ll get married.’
‘Don’t joke.’
‘I’m not. Look…’
He fumbles inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a tightly folded slip of paper then opening it between his hands. A crowned eagle unfurls above serial numbers stamped in ink. The words are in Polish and in French: Rzeczpospolita Polska, Certificat de Mariage.
Ewa’s hand goes to her mouth. It is not a joke. Everything inside her, apart from the firm knock of her heart, seems to freeze.
But Stefan is covering her face with light frantic kisses. ‘Darling, darling Ewa, marry me.’
‘How can I?’
He doesn’t seem to hear. ‘We just need a priest and a few signatures; the komendant and Robak will do.’
‘Stefan, Stefan…’ Tears well up and she tries to cover them with a frown. ‘What sort of husband can I expect? One who goes to work in the morning and doesn’t come back for four years?’
‘No, no, it won’t be that long this time.’
‘What do you mean, this time?’
But as she says the words, instantly she knows. As Stefan himself said, the transport plane can ferry not just documents and equipment, but also people. A pang of grief waves through her. What an idiot she is not to have realised sooner.
‘You’re going back to England, aren’t you? On the Dakota?’
He looks at her but says nothing.
Ewa shakes her head and takes a gulp of air. ‘But we can have a nice little wedding party before your flight. And then you can leave me more desolate than I was before you came.’
‘Just marry me, Ewa.’ He pulls her tighter. ‘The certificate will be lodged with the Polish government in London. Records will be changed. You will be my wife, forever, no matter what happens. I want you to be mine, Ewa. And I want you, and everyone else, to have no doubt about that.’
Her eyes search his. The pupils have shrunk to black dots on blue ice.
‘And then everything in my life would be even more complicated than it is now.’
She pushes him away and picks up the larger wicker basket. There are hardly any mushrooms inside it. Stefan is chewing his bottom lip and staring at the ground as he folds the marriage certificate into a tiny rectangle.
‘Is there something else in the way of us marrying, Ewa? Someone…?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure?’
‘There is no one.’ She studies his face. ‘And you, Stefan? In England…’
‘No.’
He pushes the folded certificate into his inside pocket and steps up to her, taking her face in his hands. ‘Once we are married we can forget that the last four years ever happened.’
A pair of wood pigeons thrash up from a treetop, wings flapping like a round of applause. Ewa remembers suddenly how the world used to feel before Stefan had grasped her elbow by the flower market, and how close she had been to taking up again with Beck. It is not fair for Stefan to ask so much of her. He has not even tried to understand what she has been through.
‘So, once you’re sipping your English tea again, that piece of paper is supposed to keep me faithful, is it? Even if I’ve no idea, as I hadn’t until yesterday, whether you are alive or dead?’ Stefan says nothing and Ewa shakes her head. ‘Well, if that’s what you think, think again. Because when you’ve gone and I need to cheer myself up by fucking a good-looking officer in a black uniform that is exactly what I will do.’
Stefan looks down into the smaller basket, shaking white and brown mushrooms across the base. Shafts of sunlight pierce the woodland canopy as he turns away and begins walking back towards the farm.
Ewa immediately regrets what she has said. There are only three more days before Saturday and then he will be gone. Without warning, a hot sob rises in her throat.
‘Stefan. Wait. Wait.’
He turns. His face is blank.
‘Stefan, I’m sorry.’ Her voice cracks. ‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow.’
‘When, then?’
‘Thursday. That’s when I might need the hiding place.’
She wipes her wet cheek. ‘This thing you want to hide, how big is it?’
He frowns. ‘A suitcase, perhaps…’
She comes alongside him and takes his hand, folding it between hers. ‘How big is the suitcase?’
‘Not over-large but quite heavy.’ His voice is flat. ‘And it may have a very strong smell.’
Posen, Greater German Reich
Wednesday 6 October
‘Did I tell you, Eva? Eight more for dinner on Saturday.’
Her father kneels on newspaper as he uses a wire brush to knock soot from the stove’s baffle plate.
Ewa winces. She is trying not to think about Saturday. ‘How are we supposed to find extra veal for that many?’
‘We’ll just have to beat the Schnitzels a bit harder.’
She clatters breakfast plates into the sink. ‘And why are they having their celebration here anyway? We haven’t got the space.’
‘Just be glad of the business. Have you seen the dining room bookings for next month?’
‘No.’
‘There aren’t any.’
Ewa turns the tap on hard. ‘What else can we expect when most of the population aren’t allowed to eat here?’
‘Keep your voice down, Maus.’
‘It is down.’
‘Maus…’
His voice has a careworn edge. Instantly, Ewa wants to say sorry, and that it is only the stress of planning for the Gauleiter’s dinner that is making her bad-tempered. But she knows that if she starts to apologise, her voice will crumble into tears and it will be hard for her not to tell him what is really tying her heart in knots.
Because she won’t see Stefan today. And that means one whole day of the four they have left will be wasted. Ewa will be scrubbing crockery and peeling carrots when he is less than an hour’s bicycle ride away. This thought, if she lets it, is enough to make her punch the wall.
But she must keep herself calm in order to dispose safely of the noiseless typewriter; a task which is now a welcome distraction. They have told her the address and the timings so she just needs to package the machine discreetly and get it there. Already, Ewa is thinking of the route. The direct tram will take her straight past the Castle so she will need to hold her nerve, but she knows that plain sight is always safest. AK work is still the best way to push Stefan out of her mind.
Ewa glances at her father. ‘All right. I’ll make the food already ordered go further by doing two types of potatoes. Roasted as well as mashed.’
He smiles from under his eyebrows. ‘Good, Maus. I’ll go to the wholesaler later. He owes me a favour.’
‘Can you get some cream too? And cottage cheese?’
‘I’ll try.’
She rolls her shoulders as she wipes a greasy plate. ‘What time will you go?’
Her father glances at the clock on the dresser. ‘As soon as I’ve done this.’
She nods. The officers will be gone soon too. She heard Beck get up and leave the house before she was dressed. She has hardly spoken to him since he got back. He ate at the Castle last night and was clearly too busy today for breakfast. Within the hour, the guest house will be empty and that will be her chance to pack the typewriter.
Oskar Hartman’s army knapsack has faded from khaki to beige on the top of his wardrobe. Once the guest house is quiet, Ewa stands on a chair to lift it down. The old knapsack is rather stained on one side, but all of the buckles are intact and the straps are still so supple that she wonders whether her father has been greasing the leather. She wonders why he does not use the bag any more. Perhaps, when it comes to anything to do with the World War, he is proud of his service but does not want to be reminded of it too often.
Ewa takes the knapsack to her room and packs it methodically. There is just enough space to bury the noiseless typewriter within a thick wrapping of threadbare summer frocks and grey underwear. She carries it downstairs to the dining room on her shoulder. The knapsack is heavy but she concentrates on holding it in a way that will make it appear light.
Leaving the bag by the sideboard, she goes to the window and stands on her toes to peer over the half-nets. Across the square, a few men in suits loiter under the turrets and arches of the new town hall. One of the men, in houndstooth check, catches her eye and raises his hat. Ewa makes herself smile back at him.
Then the back door bangs and her heart drops. For a nasty second she imagines the men in suits filing through the passageway and making straight for the typewriter. But that is plain silliness. She has only just packed it up and has told no one of her plan to transport it.
Ewa holds her breath and listens. Is it her father? Surely not yet. And none of the officers are likely to come back so soon. She must not worry. Her cover story is good and unless someone actually unpacks the knapsack, she has nothing to fear. It will not do to let herself be so nervy. On Saturday she must keep her hands steady enough to serve Gauleiter Greiser’s Schnitzel without spilling gravy on his brown uniform.
Footsteps pad from the passageway on to the stairs and Ewa waits for a bedroom door to click before she leaves the dining room. Looking into the hatstand mirror, dark roots show through her blonde hair like a crack in her skull. She pulls the hat with blackcock feathers over the dark growth and tilts it to one side. The weather is still fine enough for her double-breasted jacket too. Upstairs, something heavy like a man’s shoe drops on to the floor. But she cannot let a lodger delay her. It is gone ten and she must be at the safe house by eleven or nobody will be there. The over-bright lipstick smears but that will have to do. She looks German at least.
Ewa goes back to the dining room and grabs the knapsack, but feet are cantering down the stairs. And before she has a chance to slide the bag behind the sideboard, a man in a black uniform comes into the room.
‘Do excuse me. Did I startle you?’
It is Beck. Ewa gasps, not so much in alarm, as at the magnificence of his appearance.
‘No, not at all. It’s just… I haven’t seen you in that uniform before.’
Beck frowns. His hair is slicked back and there is a whiff of chlorine as he looks down at himself.
‘Is it all right?’
‘Oh yes, marvellous. You look extremely smart.’
The jacket has a close, elegant cut that accentuates Beck’s broad shoulders and the fabric is raven black. The stiff peaked cap, with silver rope-braids and a grinning silver skull, is clutched under his arm.
‘Good. Thank you, Eva. It’s a big day for me, you see. My lecture…’
‘I know. I thought you had left for the Castle before breakfast.’
‘Forgive me.’
The look he gives her is long and unblinking. It makes her uneasy.
‘Have you eaten?’
He shakes his head. ‘I went for a swim. It usually helps to get my thoughts straight.’
‘And did it today?’
‘Not as I would have liked.’
Ewa almost asks why, but realises that she would rather not know.
‘I am happy to give you something to eat now, Heinrich, although breakfast is finished. Would you like bread and ham?’
‘No, please, Eva, don’t put yourself to any trouble, I can see that you are about to go out.’ His eyes drop pointedly to the knapsack. ‘An old army pack?’
‘My father’s.’
‘He fought for the Kaiser?’
‘Of course.’
‘I didn’t know. Was he in France?’
‘I think so, yes. Although he rarely talks about it.’
‘My father too.’ Beck smiles. ‘It is good to see that you are still using it.’
Ewa finds with a jolt that she has for a moment entirely forgotten about what is inside the knapsack.
‘I just use it for my work with the settlers.’ She laughs, perhaps too brightly and drops to her knees unbuckling the flap and the other straps beneath. ‘See how useful and roomy it is!’ She peels a corner of the top layer to show a printed skirt and a cotton slip. Only an edge of the towel, which is wrapped around the noiseless typewriter, pokes out of the clothes.
‘They were my mother’s things. But I have no use for them. It’s too selfish to keep them when there are so many citizens in need. So I am taking them to a family of settlers from Volhynia. They are country people and the woman does not go out because she is ashamed of her peasant clothes.’
Beck’s eyes shine. ‘You are very thoughtful.’
‘I should have done it before now.’
He sighs. ‘Too many farmers have ended up in the city.’
As Ewa re-buckles the inner flaps, something shiny catches her eye; a small silver knob, one of the screws that holds the typewriter ribbon in place, is protruding out. Mother of God. Has Beck seen it? She pulls over the outer flap and fastens the buckles.
‘Please,’ Beck steps towards her and bends to pick the knapsack up. ‘Let me help you.’
‘No, no.’
Her hand gets there first and she puts all of her strength into making the pack seem lighter than it is.
‘Are you sure I cannot get you some breakfast?’
‘I w
ill eat something at the Castle. I must not detain you. Which way are you going?’
‘Near the zoo.’
‘By tram, up St Martin Strasse?’
She can think of no way out and smiles. ‘Yes.’
‘Let me walk you to the tram stop.’
‘That would be lovely, Heinrich.’
‘And please, Eva, allow me to carry the knapsack.’
Shit, shit, shit.
‘Thank you, Heinrich. You are so kind.’
But if Beck thinks that the knapsack is absurdly heavy for its cargo of ladies’ lingerie, he does not say. In fact, he says nothing. In the street outside, only the marching of his top-boots echoes off the painted house-fronts. Perhaps he is nervous about his lecture, or perhaps the memory of their last walk this way, on a mild April evening, is shadowing each step.
Their silence, as well as the grandeur of Beck’s black uniform, begins to weigh down on Ewa. She winces up at the blue strip between the overhanging gables looking for something, anything, to say.
‘How nice that the conference visitors will see Posen in fine weather.’
‘Yes.’
He marches on. Pedestrians ahead of them on the street melt out of their way.
‘We had a very pleasant summer here. Was it hot, where you were?’
Beck sniffs. ‘Damnably.’
‘Oh.’
His pace slows. ‘I’m sorry, Eva. Please excuse my grumpiness this morning.’
With one finger, Ewa touches his black sleeve. ‘Don’t apologise. I understand perfectly.’
He frowns but then smiles. ‘Perhaps you do.’
As they approach the tram stop, a woman in a tight headscarf flashes Ewa a scowl before darting away. Ewa knows how she must look, in her smart jacket and jaunty hat, beside a man resplendent in SS black. But if that woman could see inside the old army knapsack that the officer is carrying, the sneer would be wiped off her face.
The old street opens out into the Platz where the tram intersection is crowded with people. But they must all be Poles because none of them are actually waiting for a tram.
Beck puts the knapsack on the ground and brushes his black gloves together. Ewa’s heart skips. If he is going to say something about the weight of the pack, it will be now.
When We Fall Page 15
