When We Fall

by Carolyn Kirby

  Another crack in the air makes her jump, but it is just Stefan yanking at the door below the balcony. He squeezes himself through then hauls something out behind him. It is a big dusty suitcase. Bringing it towards Vee, he clears a space in the debris beside the pool, then lays the case on the tiles. A sour smell wafts up. Vee’s nose wrinkles.

  ‘Is that what you’ve been searching for?’

  Stefan nods and presses at the catches. With a click and a swirl of vinegary air, the suitcase lid flips open. Vee presses her finger to her nose but it is just envelopes, piles of fat brown envelopes crammed inside. The buff paper bulges and is spotted with fatty stains. Can this really be what Stefan has gone to so much trouble to find?

  ‘What is all this, then, Stefan?’

  He does not reply but starts to rifle through the packages until he finds the one that he wants. It is marked 1001 in neat faded ink and the seal has already been opened. Stefan eases the contents on to the floor; a bronze badge in the shape of a swooping eagle, an ebony cigarette-holder, a rusted pen with lizard-skin markings.

  Stefan stands up and steps back, still looking at the contents.

  Vee gives a snort. ‘Is this why we have come here? And put the Anson in harms way, as well as ourselves?’

  Stefan’s hand rasps back and forth across his chin.

  ‘Well, is it, Stefan?’

  He blinks up at the blue arc of the dome. His eyes are wet. And every part of him is trembling.

  ‘Those things there, on the floor, they belonged to someone I killed.’

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘When I was a prisoner. The first time. In Russia.’

  ‘When you were with the Polish forces?’

  He nods. ‘The first winter of the war… I never doubted that they would let us go.’

  ‘And did they?’

  Briefly, Stefan’s eyes close, then they seem to open on to something very far away. Vee has seen that look once before, when she overheard her father talking about the horrors that made him leave his homeland.

  Stefan slumps down on to the dusty tiles and Vee goes to sit beside him. When he begins to talk quietly, quickly, his words are as much addressed to the building around him as to Vee. She senses that he will not leave this place until he has confessed.

  ‘I thought they were releasing us in April 1940. They took us from the prison camp and put us on a train and then buses. The bus windows were painted grey and my friend Henryk said that this was a very bad sign, but still I had hope. They took us to a large villa, a dacha they called it, in the forest. The guards here were different to those in the camp. They shouted at us and hit us with their guns and herded us into a barbed-wire pen behind the house.

  We stayed in that pen as it got dark and colder. Everyone was asking: Are we meant to stay out here all night? Then we heard the noises. Muffled cracks. Coming from the house. At last, somebody said the thing we were all thinking. Was that a pistol shot? And then I smelt the cordite and I knew it was.’

  Vee puts a hand on Stefan’s arm but he does not seem to notice.

  ‘My friend Henryk pulled me to a corner of the wire pen. We shared the last cigarette in his packet and he told me his plan. He, like me, grew up in Poland but speaking German. Remember, he said, that you and I are citizens of the Reich. I was so afraid that I could not think what he meant. Henryk’s eyes were frightened but his certainty swept me along. He said we should insist to our captors that our families were always loyal to the Kingdom of Prussia and then to Germany, that we were forced to join the Polish armed forces but are now delighted that our home towns are German again. Henryk said he would tell them that his uncle held a senior position in Gauleiter Greiser’s administration in Reichsgau Wartheland. Which was true.’

  ‘And was it true, about you being loyal Germans?’

  ‘Me? Never. I am Polish. Nationality is not just about language. A great nation like Poland should be more than a group of people who happen to say their prayers in the same tongue.’ Stefan looks down at the rusted fountain pen on the floor and touches it lightly with his finger. ‘Henryk thought differently, I know. But as we stood listening to pistol shots in the darkness, I could only pray that his plan would work. I knew that the Soviets had let some prisoners go free from our prison camp when they insisted that they were German and had contacts at the German Embassy in Moscow. That was in the days when Hitler and Stalin were bosom pals. Anyway, I thought, as we shivered behind the barbed wire, what harm can it do to try?

  It was not long before the guards took us in single file into the dacha. I stood in line behind Henryk in what seemed like a recreation room. A stout Russian officer at a card table was questioning the prisoners, in Polish, for their name, home town and date of birth. Then he told them to remove their coats and caps and to place their belongings on the table. We could all hear the thudding of gunshot but the men seemed in a kind of trance and went willingly, as they were directed, through a panelled door.

  But when Henryk arrived at the card table, he broke the spell. The Russian officer was stunned to silence by his stream of angry German. Henryk’s own family had links to the highest ranks of NSDAP, he said, and if we were not safely delivered into German hands, there would be a major diplomatic incident. The Russian officer then asked him his name. Heinrich, he replied.

  The officer was irritated but replied in good German. All right then. Go with that guard there. Then he looked at me. Are you a Fritz too? he asked. I simply nodded and my fate was sealed.

  I do not know how long Henryk and I sat on a bench in a side room waiting. I should have been thinking about my treachery, my betrayal of the solemn oath I had sworn to the Republic of Poland when I joined the Air Force. But all I could think was: do not send me through that panelled door.

  When the stout officer burst into the side room he was wearing a stained leather apron, like a butcher. For a second, I thought, stupidly, that the troops must have been hunting in the forest and the stout officer had been butchering the game. Henryk began to shout something in German but the Russian wearily put up his hand. Spare us the drama, he said, or words to that effect. We are happy to believe that both of you are Volksdeutsche, but you must prove your allegiance to Hitler. The Pole is an enemy both of the Reich and of the USSR. Now you must demonstrate to me that the Pole is your enemy too.

  At this point, he took a Walther pistol from behind his apron and placed one bullet from his pocket into the magazine. I glanced at Henryk but he was looking only at the gun. Come with me, the officer said. I was so afraid that I could hardly walk but I followed Henryk across the recreation room and through the panelled door.

  We went down a short flight of concrete stairs and into a dim corridor. A generator was rumbling but I could still hear the shots. We came to a metal door that might once have been a meat larder. The stout officer waved the handgun at Henryk. You first, he said. Then he knocked on the metal door and Henryk disappeared inside.

  As I waited by the door on my own, I wondered whether to run. Perhaps I could find an exit directly from the cellar to the outdoors. But even if, by some chance, I could get away from the building without being seen, how could I navigate the vast Russian forests and travel a thousand kilometres with no map or money and no hope of seeing a friendly face? And so, I stayed where I was.

  Then, very close, there was a blast and Henryk came back out through the door. His face was grey. You, said the officer in the apron and he pointed the pistol at me. I went into the windowless room. It smelled like a butcher’s shop with a blocked latrine. The bulb was dim and at first I could see nothing. The cellar walls were padded with sacks and in the corner beside another closed door was a guard who looked sweaty and possibly drunk.

  Then I saw that someone was lying face down on the concrete floor. Someone rather small in very wide trousers. Not moving. The hands were tied behind the back with wire and as I could not see a
head, I wondered if the body had already been decapitated. But then I realised that the head was bent forward into a sort of manhole in the floor.

  The stout officer thrust his gun into my hand. The Walther PPK is a small gun but quite heavy. Let me show you the correct angle, the officer said and pulled me by the elbow. He guided my arm towards the head in the manhole and angled my wrist so that the nozzle of the pistol rested on the nape of the prisoner’s neck. A little higher, the officer said, that’s right.

  The prisoner’s hair fell forward and exposed the neck. The hair was very thick and curly. Dark blonde. A lock of it fell on to the barrel of the PPK. I wondered who it was and if I could remember anyone from the camp who would let his hair grow so long. But all through the winter, we prisoners had kept our heads covered in balaclavas or scarves. Then I thought no more and I pulled the trigger.’ Stefan lowers his head and for a while does not seem to breathe. ‘After the blast, there was a sound in the manhole like air escaping from a tyre. And with that sound, I realised who it was that I had killed.’

  During his story, Vee’s eyes have not moved from Stefan’s face. She squeezes his arm.

  ‘And who was it?’

  Stefan snorts. ‘I understood then why the Soviets had agreed to Henryk’s ridiculous demands. Even an officer of the NKVD might prefer not to place his pistol against the one head, amongst the hundreds to be blown apart, that was female.

  ‘Female?’

  Stefan does not seem to hear her. ‘How convenient that a stupid Volksdeutscher in a Polish uniform was there to do the dirty work instead.’

  Vee frowns. ‘Were there women officers, then, in the Polish army?’

  Stefan’s face is deathly white. ‘In the Air Force, yes.’ His pale eyes turn at last to rest on Vee. ‘The woman I murdered was a pilot. Like you.’

  Lusowo, Poland

  Saturday 14 July

  ‘Up there. Checkpoint.’

  Without braking, Stefan comes to a stop, one foot on the ground. The dusty suitcase is cradled between his forearms and balanced on the crossbar. Vee wonders if the peculiar load will draw curiosity from passers-by but no one in the crumbling streets pays any attention.

  Stefan nods to the end of the street where a youth in a mismatched uniform is fiddling with the stock of a sub-machine gun. Stefan bends his head towards Vee.

  ‘Don’t speak and it will be all right.’

  Shakily, he sets off, keeping one protective hand on the suitcase. Overhead, a thin spire teeters from the skeleton of a church.

  As they get closer, the youth in uniform raises his arm, signalling them to stop. His other hand stays on the gun hanging around his neck.

  Stefan dismounts and lifts the suitcase on to the ground. The stink of decay swirls. He starts talking; an easy stream of Polish through a wide smile. The youth replies in slow sullen syllables and raises his chin at the case. Stefan shrugs as he talks and holds out his hands. The tip of a roll of green banknotes is protruding from his fist.

  The guard turns to Vee, eyes narrowed. She looks at the ground and holds her breath but Stefan does not stop talking. Then he seems to shake hands with the guard as if something is agreed. The guard steps back, one hand in his pocket and waves them on. Stefan clamps the suitcase between his forearms as he remounts the bike and begins to pedal.

  The road widens. To each side, empty clearings are piled with debris amongst the warehouses and workshops that still stand. Children in rags wave and shout. A boy throws a stone. Despite his cargo, Stefan’s speed does not let up. Vee follows, pedalling hard on the gearless bike until she is alongside him.

  ‘What will you say about the suitcase, if anyone asks?’

  ‘Like I told the boy with the gun. Medical supplies.’

  ‘He believed you?

  ‘Of course not. He was just glad not to need a closer look. And to have some dollars.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the suitcase when we get back to Berlin?’

  ‘Take it to Potsdam.’

  ‘And you think it will prove that the Soviets were to blame for the killings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But will anyone at the Peace Conference listen? Now they have seen what the Germans did in their concentration camps?’

  A muscle in Stefan’s cheek twitches. ‘They must.’

  On a cleared patch of pavement, someone has made a makeshift café with boxes and stools arranged around a tea urn. The warehouses and blocks of flats in this district are less damaged. A locksmith’s merchandise is laid out on a tabletop outside a shop. Trains whistle. There are, at last, patches of blue in the sky.

  Vee recognises the start of the tree-lined highway that brought them to the city. Behind a chain-link fence, a tattered windsock hangs by an open field and if Vee squints at the big curving sheds and distant factory buildings, the place could almost be the Hawker factory at Langley or Vickers-Armstrong at Castle Bromwich.

  Once they are past the airfield, Stefan takes a different turn. This track leads them to the field where the Anson landed without passing through the village. Vee’s stomach hops as they approach, but the Anson is still there behind the elbow of trees, camouflaged by summer leaves. Vee skirts the wing and drops her bike to the ground. The white sky is mottled with blue. There is nothing now to stop them taking off.

  She rolls her shoulders and her head thumps. The last thing she ate was a sausage roll for breakfast in Berlin. But inside the plane her chocolate ration is in the overnight bag. The orange squash in her Thermos might even still be cool.

  Stefan has dismounted and is lifting the suitcase onto the Anson’s wing. The aeroplane clanks and groans. Vee stoops to follow him through the open door.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  Stefan is in amongst the cargo finding a place to secure the case. Lorry tyres and crates are all still tied down with straps; the folded map is still clipped to the instrument panel in the cockpit. Vee goes to the niche beneath the metal bench for her bag, but the space is empty. For a second her thoughts freeze. She could swear that she put her bag there as usual, but perhaps in the strange commotion of setting off from Gatow she stowed it somewhere else.

  ‘Can you see my overnight bag down there?’

  Stefan looks up, frowning. His face is flushed. ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I left my bag here but I can’t see it.’

  He stands up, holding a coil of wire which he stuffs into his pocket.

  Then he rubs his hands on his jacket. ‘Come, Vee. Outside.’

  ‘Why?’

  He does not reply. She follows him out on to the wing and jumps to the grass. Before she can catch up, Stefan has righted the bike and is back in the saddle.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To return the bike.’

  ‘Can’t we just go now? Forget the bikes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about mine, then? Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No. Leave it in the trees over there. And you should stay in the trees too.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I am not back thirty minutes from now start up the engines and leave.’

  ‘Stefan, I can’t just…’

  ‘You must go, Vee. Promise me. Take the suitcase to the Americans at the Potsdam Peace Conference. That is most important. Thirty minutes only, yes?’

  Her pulse quickens. ‘Shall I keep the gun, then?’

  ‘No. Just stay in the trees. If anyone comes, anyone at all, hide.’

  Vee feels suddenly cold. ‘Stefan… you are coming back, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes seem empty. She goes forward and touches his hand but his fingers grip the handlebars. Then he pushes down hard on the pedals. Vee watches him ride away across the yellow field and does not breathe until he has disappeared.

  She stumbles to
the shade of the trees and slumps down on the dead leaves. Everything makes sense now. His precious suitcase is safely stored on a transport plane with a love-struck woman pilot who will deposit it with the American delegation at Potsdam, leaving Stefan to nurse Ewa back to loveliness. Because he is doing more than returning the bike, that is for sure. And now that he has gone, it seems ridiculous to Vee that she ever imagined him coming back with her to Berlin.

  She glances at her watch. Quarter past five, Berlin time. Perhaps she should just go now. Why should she wait half an hour when he is so obviously not coming back? But her hands are shaking. Unsteadily, she stands and goes to the Anson. Everything might look clearer if only she could find that chocolate ration and flask.

  Inside the plane, the fatty odour from the suitcase is already hanging in the air. Vee checks the space between the tubular struts under the second pilot’s seat but the overnight bag is not there either. The dashboard clock has a hollow tick. Five twenty-three. Almost ten minutes he has been gone. It will take her fifteen to do the checks and warm up the engines. She will start the process any minute now.

  She goes outside. The low sun has pierced a clear hole in the cloud and the field is bathed in dusty light. The vis looks all right to at least fifteen hundred. Vee flicks a strand of hair from her eyes and starts her walk-around checks – kicking the tyres to test their hardness, pulling on the rudder wires, running her hands along the cowlings. A tidemark of moisture makes her examine the fuel cap more carefully but it is probably just condensation. Nothing untoward. The flaps and tail-plane move freely, the airscrews are clean. Five thirty-eight. More than twenty minutes since he went. She wipes her hands on her trousers and takes a long breath of grass-scented air. A blackbird trills. It is time to start the engines.

  Inside the open doorway, Vee puts up her hand against the glare of low sunlight. Is there a quiver of movement at the edge of the grass? Warm air crosses her face. But there is nothing to see except the empty field and the distant stripe of a sandy track across it. Cloud is rising, thinning, breaking up. She slams the door and turns the handle to SHUT. Stefan has gone. Gone back to Ewa as he must always have been intending that he would.