The torch beam goes to Stefan’s face.
Haller’s voice is quiet. ‘So, start explaining.’
‘We got the wrong one, unfortunately. But nothing else has changed. And the Neptun is here.’
Perhaps only Ewa can detect the fear in Stefan’s voice.
‘Nothing has changed? You really think that?’ Haller’s head jerks towards the men with rifles. ‘Get this piece of horseshit out of my truck.’
Ewa jumps back as Beck, arms and legs bound, is dragged on to the mud. Nearby, metal jangles and a horse fidgets. Shadows waver between moonlit trees as Haller swipes torchlight over the unmoving body. Then he drills light on to the face.
‘SS-Obersturmführer. Heinrich Beck. God in heaven.’
The shaft of light pivots up on to Stefan.
‘What, in Christ’s name, is going on?’
‘A mistake, Komendant. Like I said. But what’s the difference? Taking either him or Greiser would be a propaganda victory. And I know for a fact that this one has secrets that will be valuable to Poland.’
Haller gives a dry laugh. ‘Like the new names of streets in the Jewish Quarter?’ Haller’s beam glares onto Ewa. ‘And her? Why is she here?’
Ewa winces but Stefan’s flat tone does not change.
‘She got caught up in the struggle in the yard. It wasn’t safe for her to return into the guest house.’
‘What a complete cock-up.’
Ewa hears herself speak. ‘But now I am here, I can pass on my communication to you in person.’
‘And what would that be?’
She does not miss a beat. ‘The Dakota must not land.’
And as she says the words, Ewa realises that this is indeed the best solution. If the Dakota stays in the sky, the AK’s reception party will melt back into the trees. Stefan will not go to England and, as long as Heinrich Beck is disposed of, Ewa will be able to return to the guest house as if almost nothing has happened.
Stefan goes up to Haller. ‘Don’t listen to her. She does not know what she is talking about.’
With a hard hand, Haller pushes him away. ‘I will decide that.’ He turns to Ewa. ‘Young lady? Tell us what you know.’
She thinks back to the warm smoke-filled dining room, the smell of gravy, buzz of voices.
‘Something is not right. Greiser and his party didn’t drink.’
Haller pauses. ‘None of them?’
‘Not even beer.’
Close by, there is a sudden lash of water. Ewa jerks round and Haller’s torch beam carves across the butter-yellow skirt and on to black trees. But it is just a horse pissing on mud.
‘That’s a worry, but not enough to call off the landing.’
Ewa steps closer to Haller. ‘And SS-Obersturmführer Beck knows something.’
Stefan lurches towards her but Haller puts up a hand to stop him.
Ewa speaks with sudden confidence. ‘He was listening for a plane, a big one he said, and looking at the sky.’
Haller stands silent for a moment and then nods. ‘Someone put a jacket over this girl’s dress. It’s too bloody bright.’ He takes a step towards the figure on the ground and then rams his farm boot into Beck’s ear. ‘Aufwachen!’
Another thwack of boot on skull brings a flimsy groan from the ground. Then Haller kneels and speaks calmly into Beck’s ear whilst roughly untying the rope from his mouth.
‘What do you know about tonight? Why were they not drinking?’
His German is fluid with the sing-song lilt of the region. Beck does not reply.
‘Answer me, Heinrich.’ Haller moves the rope to Beck’s neck. ‘Or shall we try Polish eh, Henryk? Odpowiedz mi!’
Beck groans again and Haller looks up at Stefan. ‘Well, comrade? Do you want to try?’
But Stefan is staring through the mesh of branches at the slate-grey sky. ‘Listen.’
Then Ewa hears it – the distant hum of engines.
Stefan looks back at Haller. ‘It’s coming. You must give the order for the flare path, Komendant.’
For long seconds, Haller looks from Stefan to Ewa and then at the rumbling sky. At last, he turns and waves his rifle. A roaring flash of orange light rips through the darkness. The carthorse, squealing and rearing up in its traces, is silhouetted against the flames from a blazing oil drum. Colours slick over Beck’s bruised skin like petrol on dirty water.
From the row of men with flat caps and moustaches, one comes to Haller, rifle in hand. Ewa hears some of the words murmured between them: landing code, stable lamps, transmitter. A jacket is draped around Ewa’s shoulders. The sweet heavy smell of Mokri tobacco enfolds her. Someone pushes her to follow the rustle of Haller’s footsteps to the edge of the trees. She must keep up, and she must think of a way to change Haller’s mind and stop the Dakota from landing.
Beneath the sweep of the sky, grey grass stretches into the ashen distance. Ewa’s neck is clammy inside the rough collar of the jacket but she has started shivering and cannot seem to stop. A harness jangles and hooves stamp but the distant engine-hum is deepening. It can only be the Dakota.
‘It’s coming.’ Haller strides into the bouncing orange light, an oversized pistol in his hand. His voice cracks through the snarl of oil-drum flames. ‘Action stations!’
One by one, stable lamps are set alight at exact intervals along the edge of the clover field. The grey grass mutates to an eerie nocturnal green.
The Dakota’s engines are thundering now, almost overhead. The roar vibrates through Ewa’s chest as the plane passes low over the trees, propeller-engines churning on the black wings. It is a very big plane, as big as any she has seen. A white light winks, again and again, from the bull-nosed cockpit.
Stefan comes up to Haller. ‘And now you must give the order to start the Morse code signals.’
‘Shut up, Bergel. Don’t tell me what to do.’
Stefan’s hand is on Haller’s arm. ‘Listen to me. The Dakota is about to make its landing circuit. The cockpit signaller is asking us for permission to turn on the lights. You must give the signal from the ground or the pilot will not make his approach.’
Still Haller does not move.
‘For God’s sake…’ Stefan pulls his jacket back and tucks it behind something in his waistband. His hand hovers at his side, ‘…give the order.’
Haller turns to face him. ‘Are you threatening me?’
He sounds unsurprised.
With a cold creep of certainty about what she must do, Ewa feels herself moving forward until she is standing next to Haller. One side of his face is orange in the barrel’s flame-light.
‘Don’t listen to my husband. The plane must not land.’
‘Why? What do you know?’
‘He and Obersturmführer Beck have been plotting something together. It’s no mistake that Beck is here.’
‘No! Ewa, you’re wrong. That’s bullshit.’ Stefan’s voice cracks. ‘Jesus! The Dakota is ready to come down. For Christ’s sake, Haller, give the order, tell them to land!’
Ewa’s voice is firm. ‘Don’t trust what he says. Call it off.’
Stefan turns to her, pleading. ‘Jesus, Ewa. Ewa!’
She does not look at him. It is for his good as much as hers that she is doing this. He might not think it at this moment, but he is much better off not returning to England. And, as long as Beck is out of the way for good, Ewa can return to the guest house tonight. She rubs her hands up her icy forearms. If only she had the strength and the imagination to kill Beck herself.
The Dakota’s snub-nosed outline passes over the far grove of trees, engines growling. As it banks for a final circuit of the landing field, the plane’s black outline pivots on its wingtip against the pearl sky. A pinprick of light in the cockpit winks.
Haller takes a stubby pistol from his belt and loads it with one fat
round, then stretches his arm into the air as if about to start a race. In one swift movement, Stefan jumps forward grabbing Haller’s arm, trying to push it down and point the flare gun at the ground. But with his left hand, Haller lands a punch on the underside of Stefan’s chin. Stefan clutches his mouth with both hands and reels back.
A shot cracks. Red light threads up in to darkness. For a moment, the firework flare hangs high above the field in a chalky waft of powder. Haller stands, feet apart, and lowers his arm. He is looking, as everyone is, at the red-tinted sky. The Dakota’s cockpit has gone black. The plane’s nose turns slowly upwards towards the oval moon and the wheels fold gently back into the wings.
Ewa stands frozen in the flare’s red light. Then, she looks round. Stefan has taken a step backwards, his right arm stiff at his side. His profile is sharp against the oil-drum flames; blood is smeared over his mouth, his eyes are unblinking. His pace quickens as he scuttles back to the edge of the trees where Beck lies still on the ground. Nearby, a sudden flash exposes Tomasz with his rifle raised.
Then, a shot, very close, rips through the stillness. And when Ewa looks across the landing field, Haller is, for some reason, sitting slumped on the grass with his legs stretched out in front of him. His hand, holding the flare gun, rests limply on the ground.
Ewa’s eyes drift over the unnatural colours of the nighttime countryside as her mind tries to process what is happening. The open field is illuminated by the blazing oil drum and remnants of the red flare. And on the far side of the landing strip, inside another copse of trees, strange white lights are twinkling. These dots of whiteness begin to stretch and grow, becoming trails of burning light. Then, they blast out of the black branches, and are coming closer.
Ewa stands, paralysed, as quiet punches of air seem to surround her. The carthorse whinnies then screams. But Ewa still cannot move. Her eyes become transfixed by hunched grey figures in close-fitting helmets who are coming across the field towards her, running and firing. Something whistles past her neck leaving a breath of air. Shadows skitter.
‘Runter!’
Get down! Did someone say it? Ewa drops to the ground.
Stefan, she is sure it is him, crouches as he runs across the grass. But she cannot tell whether he is heading towards the grey helmets or away from them.
Ewa lies flat, pressing her face into the damp earth. It smells mouldy and comforting. Blades of grass tickle her cheek and dew seeps through her skirt on to her knees. If the firing stops, just for a moment, she will look up and work out which way to run.
Gingerly, she rests her chin on the mud and her eye catches the bright egg of the moon. Beside it, the Dakota’s dark outline stands upright on its tail as it climbs. Then Ewa’s face is slammed against the ground. Her teeth bite into soil. She tries to cry out but her tongue is pushed against grass. Her arms rip backwards. Wire bites her wrists. Something inside her flattened nose goes pop.
A rough hand is on the back of her head, scooping up hair and jerking her head back. Tape is pressed over her eyes and mouth. And then her whole body seems to be pulled upright by the roots of her hair. Her feet stumble, shoeless as she struggles to balance. Hands grip her upper arms. Lips and warm breath brush her ear, and the voice that comes from them is vaguely familiar.
‘Don’t worry, Fräulein. I’ve got you.’
Gestapo HQ Posen, Greater German Reich
Sunday 10 October
Window bars blacken against a blanching sky. In the corner of the cell, a bleary-eyed girl squats, swaying over a half-full bucket until her trickle becomes a drip. She wipes herself with a bare hand and dries it on her coat. Ewa knows it can’t be long until she must go over there too. She closes her eyes.
Since the metal door slammed in the dark, she has been crouching motionless but awake against the wall. Every sound in the night – an engine revving, a drunken shout, the fizz of electricity, a woman’s stifled sob – has brought with it a spasm of fear.
In the cell, five women are sleeping under greasy blankets on two plank beds. They grumbled as Ewa was thrown in with them but soon went back to sleep. Even though Ewa saw nothing beyond the blindfold as she was brought into the building, she has no doubt about where she is. There were at least six flights of stairs, so this cell must be high enough for the window not to be opaqued with cement.
One of the women snorts but Ewa decides not to open her eyes. Now the others are waking, she will pretend to be asleep. All of her concentration should focus on her cover story which must be simple and stuck to no matter what. Perhaps if she rehearses the details over and over in her mind she will prepare herself for the ordeals ahead. Everyone knows what goes on inside this anonymous office block; cigarettes stubbed out on the soles of feet, fingernails pulled out one by one with pincers. And there must be plenty more tortures as yet unknown. Yes, she must concentrate. But she can think of nothing except last night.
The separate events have already fractured in her memory and their sequence is now unclear. There was certainly an ambush from the trees by troops well hidden and waiting, waiting no doubt for the Dakota to land before making their move. Could the Gestapo know, by now, that it was Ewa’s words to Haller that stopped the plane from landing? Perhaps they had already been told that, by the same person who had tipped them off about the Dakota in the first place…
‘Hey, you. Over there…’
Ewa opens one eye. The woman’s hair is spiked with grips in the tangled remnant of an elaborate roll; the dress under her cheap coat is cut low across her large bosom.
‘… what are you, then… some sort of Volksdeutsche?’
Ewa looks down. The butter-yellow skirt is ripped and smeared but she is still wearing her homemade Dirndl and frilly white blouse.
‘I’m a waitress.’
The other occupants of the cell rub their eyes and prop themselves up. The big-breasted woman looks Ewa over then folds her arms.
‘And that’s your uniform, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And very nicely it goes with your yellow hair.’
‘It’s peroxide.’
‘Like I say, very nice.’
The woman glances at the others and smirks.
A scrawny girl on the smaller bed lifts her head like a deer in a trap. She whispers to a pock-marked woman next to her then sits up and reaches into her coat pocket.
‘Here.’
She stretches out a hand to Ewa with a slice of dry black bread. Ewa blinks and takes it, but shakes her head at the chipped china cup that the big-breasted woman is holding out. The woman looks offended.
‘What? Too dirty for you? Think you’re going to catch something?’
Across the cell someone titters.
Ewa lifts one shoulder. ‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘Like hell you’re not. Go on girl, drink some water, and eat a bit of bread. You’re less likely to throw up if you do. And we’ve cleaned up enough vomit in this shithole.’
Ewa chews the sawdust bread and washes it down with a gulp of eggy water. She realises that her nostrils are getting used to the toilet stench of the piss bucket combined with unwashed bodies and menstrual blood. Perhaps it does not take long to get used to anything.
The big woman puts her hands on her hips. ‘I’m Walentina.’ Her head goes to one side as Ewa chews. ‘Nice to meet you too, dearie.’
‘Ewa.’ She wipes her mouth with her hand then slides a look at Walentina. ‘Have you been in here long?’
‘Any time here is too long.’
‘Why? What do they do to you?’
‘Depends what you’ve done, sweetheart.’ Walentina raises an eyebrow. ‘What have you done?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Come on. You must know why they’ve picked you up.’
Ewa shakes her head. Stick to the story; don’t change it, no matter what.
&nbs
p; ‘I’ve done nothing.’
‘Well then,’ Walentina perches her large behind on the edge of the plank bed, ‘I couldn’t say what will happen.’ She leans over and takes the cup out of Ewa’s hand. ‘But don’t worry, darling. In that dress, you’ll be right up their alley.’
She laughs and the others join in to a chorus of cackling and coughing so raucous that Ewa does not hear a key turn in the cell door. The guard’s eyes scan the room but fix on the yellow Dirndl. Ewa flushes hot and then cold and cannot stand without leaning against the wall. It has started.
The guard leads her along a shiny linoleum corridor, and then another, to an office. The room is ordinary; a small modern window, a filing cabinet, two desks. Behind one of the desks is a man in field grey. It takes Ewa a moment to recognise him; his face looks less red under the neon glare. But as soon as he starts to speak, she remembers the same self-satisfied voice telling a story about an F-W190 landing on Prinz Albrecht Strasse, and the same voice, the same words even, in her ear at the landing ground.
‘Don’t worry, Fräulein.’ The Sturmbannführer is smiling but his eyes are full of hate. ‘There’s no point lying. We know everything about you.’
Ewa wants to convince herself that he is bluffing, but she is suddenly without the strength to do anything for herself. Just staying upright in front of the desk takes all of her concentration. There is no chair in the room apart from his.
‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? September 1940. You joined the AK as a liaison girl…’
‘I am a waitress.’
‘And not a very good one. Please shut up until you are asked to speak.’ He glances down at a paper on the desk. White flakes powder the shoulders of his jacket. ‘So, at first you used to meet someone you knew as Marek from the aeroplane factory. Or at least, you walked past him on the bridge at dusk and he would pass you an envelope to put in your basket when no one was looking. That’s right, isn’t it?’
She feels herself start to sway. Concentrate on his shoulders. Count the flakes of dandruff.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I help my father run the Hartman guest house. That’s all I’ve done since the war…’
When We Fall Page 22
