When We Fall

by Carolyn Kirby

  Stefan takes Ewa’s hand and brings it to his lips, but his eyes are darting around the church.

  He whispers and nods towards the shadows at the side of the aisle. ‘What’s behind that door there?’

  Ewa has been through the door once, with her mother, to arrange a basket of flowers.

  ‘No, Stefan. It’s the sacristy. One of the priests might be in there.’

  ‘They are probably all sleeping after their lunch.’

  ‘Stefan…’

  But he is still holding on to her hand and pulling her towards the door. Ewa tells her feet not to follow him but they will not listen. Stefan puts down the suitcase to press on the door handle. It is not locked.

  Inside, the room is as she remembers it – a cramped sacristy with lace-edged vestments crowding the hooks around the walls. The key is still in the lock on the inside of the door. She hears Stefan turn it before he comes up to her and puts a hand on her cheek.

  Ewa whispers. ‘No, Stefan. This is not right.’

  ‘Please, Ewa. We may not get another chance. Perhaps God is giving us this opportunity.’

  ‘Stefan…’

  But there is uncertainty in her voice. The scent of candle-wax fills her lungs as Stefan’s mouth covers hers. She knows then that it is too late for pious objection. All she cares about is him.

  They make almost no noise on the stone floor. Ewa tries to clamp her moans behind a grinding of teeth, but the effort of stifling her final feverish cry leaves her heaving gulps of air. Icy flagstones bite at each of her vertebrae as she sinks back. The cold track of a tear trickles into her hair.

  Stefan is looking away from her as they lie twisted and sticky. This should be a time for tenderness, for words of love, but the turquoise suitcase is filling Ewa’s vision and the shadow of it is seeping across her thoughts.

  She puts her lips to Stefan’s ear. ‘Did you get that suitcase from Heinrich Beck?’

  The twitch in Stefan’s eye is so slight that Ewa is not quite sure if she has imagined it.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I saw you with him. Going into the Institute of Forensic Medicine.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  If he hasn’t told her straight, badgering is not going to make him change his mind.

  Stefan frowns. ‘Is this Beck one of your lodgers?’

  ‘Yes. You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  And as she looks at him, she is no longer sure what she believes. The figure by the Forensic Medicine plaque was wearing a hat with a wide brim, much wider than the trilby that Stefan has on, but darker in colour than the fedora he wore on Monday. Perhaps…

  ‘How well do you know him, Ewa?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It can’t have been easy living with so many attractive young men under the same roof.’

  ‘Shut up, Stefan. You have no idea what my life has been like.’

  Stefan sighs. ‘I could not blame you, you know…’

  Ewa’s voice, fighting the need to stay quiet, becomes a hiss. ‘Could you not? Is that because of what you got up to in England? It would be convenient for you perhaps, if two wrongs could make everything all right.’

  Outside the door, footsteps echo through the darkly cavernous church. Hurriedly, Ewa sits up and straightens her stockings, clicking them securely on to their straps. Stefan is staring at her. Perhaps it is just the dim light that makes it look as if there are tears in his eyes.

  The footsteps on stone are suddenly very close. Swiftly, Stefan buckles his belt. He signals Ewa to keep still and tip-toes to the door with the suitcase in his hand. Then he is beckoning her forward and unlocking the door. As they leave the sacristy, the priest turns and asks, loudly, what they are doing, but Stefan and Ewa are already on their way out of the main door.

  They hurry past the wooden belfry and the scrubby lawn beyond. When they reach the road and Stefan is sure that no one is following, he puts the suitcase on the ground and lights a cigarette.

  He waves the match to extinguish the flame. ‘When we go, you pick up the suitcase.’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t want to take it.’

  ‘Ewa, listen to me. If you knew the importance of what is inside it, what this evidence might mean for the Polish nation, for the whole way that the war is being fought…’

  ‘Perhaps I don’t care about any of that…’

  ‘Ewa!’

  ‘…compared to the hurt I feel hearing you lie to me.’

  ‘Lie? What about?’ Stefan takes hold of her hand. ‘I swear to tell you the truth. Ask me anything you like.’

  ‘All right then. But if I detect any hint of a lie, you will be taking that suitcase away with you again.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  He is trying to smile but his eyes are wary. Ewa pulls her hand away.

  ‘All right then. The girl. In England. I know there was one. Tell me.’

  He looks faintly relieved, then serious again. He nods. ‘You are right. I kissed her, but that was all, I swear.’

  There. He has said it. But Ewa feels winded as if punched. She covers her stomach with her arms as questions foam into her mouth: so, what does this English girl look like? Is she taller than me, prettier, funnier? Did you go dancing, drinking, swimming together? Did you try to fuck her, and it was just that she wouldn’t let you?

  Only one question seeps through.

  ‘Did you take her up with you in your aeroplane, like you used to take me?’

  He shrugs. ‘No point. She flies them too.’

  ‘Herself?’

  ‘She’s a pilot.’

  Oh, Judas. A lady pilot. Another one. Ewa imagines the English aviatrix, tall and rangy with a silk scarf around her neck, laughing as she jerks back the stick to loop the loop. Damn her. And damn him. But Stefan says he has not slept with her. Ewa has to believe that.

  She flattens her hand against her brow. ‘Shit, Stefan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You asked me to tell you the truth and I did.’

  ‘I wish now that you hadn’t.’

  ‘Ewa…’

  She picks up the suitcase. ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what is inside the case?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just make sure that the authorities can’t find it.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Where will you hide it?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I have somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  The suitcase is heavier than the old army knapsack with a noiseless typewriter inside it, but not much.

  ‘Where?’

  She turns to go and Stefan puts a hand on her arm. ‘All right, Ewa. But come to the farm tomorrow, to Haller’s wood shed at eleven. There will be a priest.’

  Her heart drops a beat. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Why bother? We’re as good as married now we’ve fucked in a church.’

  But just saying the words is enough to send a wave of cold dread through Ewa’s insides. If she has not invited the wrath of heaven to descend on her head by this act of sacrilege, then heaven cannot exist.

  She walks away, tears clouding her eyes. It would be crazy to go to the farm tomorrow. The last thing she needs is the drama and complication of a clandestine wedding. But if she does not go, she will not see Stefan again before he leaves on the Dakota. And so she might never see him again.

  Posen, Greater German Reich

  Thursday 7 October

  As Ewa wipes her eye, she sees Jabłoński coming towards her up St Adalbert Strasse and her stomach does a quick somersault. He must have
seen her with Stefan. But how much did he see, and what did he make of it? There is no way to avoid him though. Ewa must pull herself together, and she is already close enough to see the knowing grin on the postman’s round face.

  He pulls at his cap. ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Hartman.’

  His German has the characteristic lilt of the region.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  She pulls her handkerchief from her pocket and blows her nose. Hopefully he will think she has a cold.

  Jabłoński winks. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell Papa.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your secret assignation.’

  ‘What?’

  His smile widens. ‘With that mystery man outside the church.’

  Ewa is torn by sudden indecision. Should she laugh dismissively and pooh-pooh his insinuations, or admit everything and beg Jabłoński to keep her secret?

  But she does not blink. ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Do I recognise him from somewhere?’

  ‘I doubt it. He said he is a newly ordained priest from an underground seminary in Krakow, and is hoping to join the holy fathers here.’

  ‘He told you all that just then, did he?’

  She nods. ‘He seemed to think I would be able to put in a good word for him with the priests even though I told him that I hardly ever go to Mass nowadays.’

  ‘And that’s why he took hold of your hand?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, no. You are mistaken. It must have been the way we were standing.’

  ‘He didn’t look much like a priest.’

  ‘They often go in disguise these days, don’t they?’

  Jabłoński is smiling but she can see that he is sceptical. He adjusts the postbag over his shoulder and they both look, automatically, back up the street towards the church. The pavements on both sides of the cobbles are deserted. Most of the apartments have been empty since the evacuation of this neighbourhood at the very start of the war. The settlers seem particularly reluctant to live in the former Jewish quarter.

  Jabłoński glances at the turquoise suitcase. ‘And I thought that was his too.’

  ‘No, no, just some old clothes I have collected for the settlers.’

  ‘Very old by the smell of them.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Ewa laughs, perhaps a little too energetically. Stefan must have gone back into the city down Kanonen Strasse. At least he is not following her. His insistence about wanting to know where the suitcase is to be hidden has made her wonder if he might. If she talks to Jabłoński a little longer, she will ensure that Stefan is not on her tail.

  ‘Have you not finished your rounds yet?’

  Jabłoński blows out his cheeks. ‘Almost. So many sweethearts’ letters coming to and from the Front these days,’ he winks again, ‘it keeps me on my feet all afternoon.’

  But Ewa cannot stand his saucy innuendo any longer. ‘Well, do not let me detain you further. Heil Hitler.’

  Jabłoński seems momentarily flummoxed by Ewa’s salute before she sets off down the street. At the edge of the as-yet-unnamed Platz, she looks back at the postman. He is still strolling up St Adalbert Strasse and there is no sign of Stefan. At least she did not tell Stefan where she is going with the suitcase. Whatever is inside it means a lot to him, that much is clear. And so, if he wants the suitcase back, whenever that might be, Stefan will have to find Ewa first.

  She waits for the tram to roll by before crossing the wide roadway between apartment blocks and heading to the main entrance of the swimming pool. The glass door allows her a clear view of the unattended reception desk. She pushes in and there is still no one around. Ewa goes straight through the swinging door and into the chlorine steaminess of the poolside.

  The blue water is ruffled by a fat man floating on his back with a fondant dome of belly exposed to the air. He does not look Ewa’s way, and even though her heels echo on the tiles, the attendant does not appear.

  The louvered door of the ladies’ changing room closes softly behind her. She does not take a proper breath until she is inside the lavatory cubicle, the turquoise suitcase balanced on the toilet seat and the door bolted.

  The suitcase is locked but the fastenings are old and loose. Luckily, Ewa has brought several screwdrivers in her handbag. It does not take much fiddling and poking before the clasps jump open.

  A sweetish sickly smell blooms up. Ewa puts a hand over her mouth and nose and half closes her eyes, cowering from what she may see inside. But there is nothing repulsive, just a pile of brown envelopes each with a number inked on the top right hand corner. Some of the bulging buff packages are spotted with grease.

  Gingerly, one hand still over her mouth, Ewa picks up envelope 2539. The seal is gummed but she uses the screwdriver to tear the paper. Crouching to the floor, she eases out the contents: a small clothbound notebook, now grey; a medical card, too faded to read; a silver St Christopher medal that has clearly failed to protect its wearer.

  Ewa puts a fingernail to the crinkled pages of the notebook and a vinegary odour wafts out. It looks like a diary with dated entries in spidery indelible pencil. Many of the words have been erased in a blur of watermarks and dirt. But the Polish ź’s and ł’s are unmistakable. At the front there is a date; November 30, 1939, and at the back before the blank pages begin, a rushed final entry:

  April 9, 1940

  …. we were brought to a place in the forest – something of a summer vacation spot. Here, a thorough search. They took my watch, which showed 6.30am. They asked about my wedding band which… they took my roubles, my penknife, my belt…

  Ewa’s heart quickens. She replaces the contents and folds the top of the envelope. Then she takes another from the suitcase. 3765. Greasy litter spews from the envelope along with a stink of week-old broth. Wire spectacles, one lens cracked; a tortoiseshell comb with brown hairs still caught in the teeth. Ewa stirs the contents with the screwdriver and the bad-meat smell thickens over a dark-haired woman with big sad eyes who stares up from a studio photograph. On her lap, a small girl half covers her face with a toy cat. Underneath the photograph is a sheet of stained writing paper:

  My darling, I cannot eat or sleep or think of anything but you…

  Ewa feels a cleave of sympathy for the dark-haired woman who, if she is alive, may still be living in the same deadened twilight of not-knowing that Ewa inhabited until last week. This envelope on the lavatory floor may be the only proof that the dark-haired woman’s man is dead, and unless she sees it, the woman will never know what became of him. Because Ewa can see what all of this is – the same sort of unearthed personal effects that she saw on the cinema newsreel six months ago. These items have become evidence of a war crime; evidence that has now been stolen.

  Ewa wants to believe that this is why Stefan has taken such a risk with this stuff. His motive for placing himself, and her, in such danger could be compassion for the families of his murdered Polish comrades. Perhaps the AK can somehow contact the families of the dead to let them know the true fate of their loved ones.

  But the unlikeliness of this task makes Ewa uneasy. Tears needle her sinuses as she refills the envelopes and folds them back into the suitcase. She knows now what the contents of all of the envelopes will be like, and she cannot bear to see any more.

  With the screwdriver, the grille comes away easily. Placed sideways, and angled up from the gap beneath the changing cubicle, the suitcase slides neatly into the vent. Ewa undresses to her slip, then gets down on her knees to wriggle her shoulder into the gap between wall and changing cubicles. She reaches in and gives the suitcase a shove. The inside of her forearm scrapes on the metal edge of the grille, but the case shunts forward and is well into the air vent before it seems to hit the outside wall. If the swimming pool is closed when Stefan decides he wants the suitcase back, he can pull it out from the street.

 
Ewa takes off her underwear and stands naked, sniffing the lardy air that seems to waft back and forth through the vent. But the overarching reek of chlorine from the pool is doing its work. Ewa turns on the shower and rinses her hands again and again in the flow before putting them to her nose to make sure that the suitcase smell has left no trace. Then she cups both hands and sloshes warm water up between her legs. She is suddenly glad that Stefan took no precautions and so she can still feel the stream of leaking hotness that he left inside her.

  Ewa’s swimming costume, still damp from yesterday, seems to have grown to twice its normal size. She arranges the armholes around her breasts and pulls the tape belt tight. The smell of the suitcase is not particularly noticeable in the changing room now. Perhaps Ewa has got used to it. But as long as the air vent does its job, she doubts that anyone will be troubled by the undertone of bad meat. And if there are complaints, she is sure that the lazy attendant will not bother to investigate.

  That same attendant is still nowhere to be seen on the deserted poolside. The fat man is ratcheting down a roped-off swimming lane with arm strokes that are infrequent but surprisingly efficient. Ewa takes a long breath and looks up at the diving board. Then she begins to climb.

  The high platform does not seem so terrifying today. Perhaps it is because the fat man’s strokes have churned up the surface of the water and so obscured the true depth of the pool. Or perhaps she has got used to the fear.

  Yesterday, Ewa did not notice the striking view of the roof from the high board. She stands at the end of the fixed platform, her eyes following the angles at the intersection of dome and barrel arch. How elegantly the disparate shapes fit together. How naturally the architectural lines flow into each other. Despite everything weighing down on her, Ewa feels light-headed and slightly euphoric. If hiding the suitcase of evidence is, as Stefan says, a momentous act of resistance, then this is something that they have achieved together. Ewa realises then that she cannot bear for this triumph to be their last shared act.

  ‘Hey, you!’

  It is the attendant, standing beside the 1.8M depth marker with his hands on his hips.

  From the top board Ewa smiles and waves. ‘Hello there!’