by Clare Harvey
No, from Saint Nicklaus – yes of course from the SS, what did you think I was talking about? They made a terrible mess in my front room. One of those dogs knocked over my Delft vase with its stupid, big tail, not that anyone thought to apologize. They didn’t even close the door behind them when they left.
Did they catch them?
Who?
The terrorfliegers they were looking for.
I don’t know. Who cares, anyway. I don’t know why they’re wasting energy on a manhunt at a time like this. You’d think they’d have better things to do, wouldn’t you?
I suppose it’s a matter of principle – remember what happened at Sagan the other year?
What’s that?
Oh, you must remember – there was a mass escape from the prison camp and they shot them all, all fifty of them.
That’s the SS for you, they never give up.
‘Detta, can I have a word?’ Frau Moll was at her side. ‘It’s about the girls’ French lessons.’ French lessons, for heaven’s sake. Two men had just been murdered, the front line was within walking distance of their village, and yet Frau Moll wanted to talk about French lessons. Nevertheless, Detta nodded – anything to distract her from dwelling on those two shots she’d heard. She let herself be pulled away from the cluster of gossiping villagers. The Moll girls, cheeks flushed and giggling, were still playing tag with the baker’s boys, taking no notice of the shudder and roar in the skies.
‘I’ve got us a way out,’ Frau Moll leant in close to Detta to speak.
‘But there’ll be transport, won’t there? Everyone is packed and ready, waiting for the evacuation order.’ Even Mother, she thought, who claims she doesn’t want to leave, but will surely change her mind now the SS are in the guesthouse.
‘There won’t be an evacuation order. There is no organized transport.’
‘What?’
‘The HQ and the field hospital are going to move today, and I expect the SS will retreat at the same time.’
‘And they’re all just going to leave, without lifting a finger to help the villagers?’
Frau Moll nodded. ‘Don’t say anything. And like Frau Lipp said just now, in all likelihood the fighting will pass through and they can sit it out in their cellars.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘No, not really. But I have a plan to get us away, at least.’
She explained that the Brigadier’s driver had deliberately disabled one of the field ambulances by disconnecting the distributor. ‘We wait until they’ve gone, then we take the ambulance – he’s shown me how to reconnect it, it’s quite simple really. And he’s hidden some spare fuel in the old ice house. The trick will be to get out at the right time, just as the front line is passing through. Johann – Corporal Mann – says to take the side roads and head south-west. I’ve got a map. He says the Red Army will keep going north, on to Brieg and then Breslau, because they need to capture the major towns before they can go onto Berlin. So we’ll go sideways, south-west, slip down towards France, and disappear.’
‘We?’
‘You speak French, and your mother is French. And I think there’ll be enough space for Father Richter, too.’
‘Father Richter doesn’t speak French.’
‘No, but he’s a Catholic priest. Think about it: an ambulance with a priest and a handful of French-speaking women and girls – it’s our best chance of getting out.’
‘And what about your husband? Once this is all over then the British will release him, and then—’
‘They’ll put him on trial, and he’ll be executed for what he’s done.’
‘You can’t possibly know that.’
‘Can’t I? Listen, Detta, once we leave, there’s no going back. Whatever these people say, our old lives are ending, one way or another. Tell your mother and Father Richter, and come and visit me at home, so we can discuss the details in private.’
Detta nodded. ‘Thank you. I will.’
As they turned to join the main group, Detta saw old Herr Schneider, the railway guard, coming down the path from beyond the French barracks. Herr Schneider had an air rifle over one shoulder and carried something in his left hand. He grinned at her, and held it up: two birds, black and lifeless as a pair of gloves. ‘Starlings,’ he called out. ‘All I could get, but it’ll do for the pot.’
Two shots, she’d heard: crack-crack, clear as day – two dead starlings, that was all.
‘Did you see whether the SS got the escaped prisoners?’ she yelled back. ‘They were about to search the French barracks when we went into church.’ She walked a few paces towards him, winding through the toppling tombstones.
‘Nothing doing. Angry as hell they were. That’s it, those escapees are free, probably across the other side of the Oder already, if they’ve got any sense. And d’you know what, I say good luck to ’em, those cliff-pissing Britishers. It’s every man for himself now, and if they can escape, I say so what. Good luck to them.’ He was yelling to be heard over the sounds of the guns, and everyone could hear his treacherous words, but nobody seemed to care. He waved his dead starlings as a goodbye, and went on his way.
Father Richter was closing the church door. The villagers had started to walk home. She would need to join Mother, go back to the manse, help cook lunch, and tell them of Frau Moll’s escape plan. But before she went back to join them, she turned so she could look up along the path through the trees and see the barracks.
Was he still there, and was he still alive? She had to find a way to get back and see him, just to be sure.
Tom
‘I heard shots. I thought you were dead,’ she said, hurling herself into his arms.
‘I’ve fallen in love with you,’ he whispered into her hair as they embraced. And it was as if they’d made some kind of contract, there, standing in the doorway of the barracks in the freezing fog. When they kissed this time it wasn’t the tender brushing of lips it had been last night; now it was deep and urgent, like slaking a thirst. She pulled away at last, and he opened his eyes. Darkness was falling, as if someone were shading pencil through the air, turning everything grey and featureless.
‘I came to tell you that we’re going to leave, soon,’ she said. ‘My friend has a plan to get us away in an old army ambulance.’
‘You’ve got transport. That’s good news. If you’re in an ambulance then you’ve a much better chance . . .’ He stopped himself from spelling it out. ‘You’ll be safer there than on foot with the other refugees.’
She nodded. ‘I know.’ She pulled a postcard from her pocket. It was a picture of the village guesthouse – her home. ‘Keep this, so you’ll remember me, whatever happens,’ she said.
She pulled away, turning to leave. ‘No, wait!’ He tore the postcard in half, took a pencil from his pocket and wrote his parents’ address on the reverse. ‘We can find each other again. After this,’ he said. ‘After this is over. I’ll come and get you. We’ll find each other, somehow, somewhere.’
She glanced down at the address. ‘You want me to write to you in England?’ she said, looking up again, into his eyes.
‘No.’ He opened his arms and drew her into him one last time. ‘I want you to join me in England and be my wife.’
They couldn’t kiss forever. She tore herself away, with exquisite slowness. Then she was gone, swallowed up by the icy fog. He stayed in the doorway, looking out into the freezing blankness, even though he could no longer see her. He tried to imagine her in a white wedding dress in a shaft of stained-glass sunlight, aunts in best hats and confetti in pockets. Gordon would be beside him in a morning suit, with a rose in his buttonhole and a gold ring in a velveteen box. He tried to imagine it, but the image wouldn’t stick. It was stupid to try.
He sighed, and realized he could hear his own breath. The artillery had gone quiet. The front line was momentarily silenced – odd.
It was just as he turned the handle to go back into the barracks that he heard it: the clatter-rumble of tanks coming a
long the main road, followed almost simultaneously by the yell of a low-flying plane, and the stuttering rattle of strafing machine-gun fire coming right through the centre of the village.
Chapter 22
November 1989, Devon
Odette
In all likelihood it is nothing, the dizziness I feel as I stand up from the grave. One leg has pins and needles so bad I can barely walk. Perhaps I’m in some kind of mild shock from bumping the car. Still, I decide not to drive until I’ve taken in some fluid. The village shop doubles as a post office and should be open by now. As I turn away from the grave a starling flies past, over the headstone and on into the golden sunshine beyond.
Still unsteady, I pause to rest at the lychgate. In the distance, beyond the muddle of village rooftops, I can just make out the silver-blue shimmer where the fields end and the cliffs smash into the sea. Grey clouds have begun to mass over the southern horizon. An autumn gale is on its way. I go down the steps and cross the street to the shop, tucked like an afterthought on the corner by the pub.
The doorbell jangles as I push it open. It hasn’t changed that much over the years, I notice: fewer vegetables, more greetings cards, but still the same scent of brown paper and gossip. I shiver, even though it’s warmer here than outside. I feel a pain in my head, again, only this time it’s like a spark shooting from my neck to my forehead. I scan the cluttered shelves for painkillers.
There is a woman posting a parcel at the counter: short and plump, with a brown woollen hat pulled down over her perm. She gives me a sideways glance as she bustles out, and I know she recognizes me, as I do her. It is Anna Riddaway. Her uncle was killed in the North Africa campaign, and two of her cousins in the Plymouth Blitz. I know all about her – everyone knows everything, round here, it’s not a place for incomers or secrets.
We’d had to come and live here, with Tom’s parents, after the wedding. There hadn’t been anywhere else. Now, as I smell the peppery scent of Anna passing me by, I remember how everyone in the village managed to be icy-polite with me when I was with my husband, or his family, but assaulted me with aggressive silence whenever I was out alone. Tom’s parents and Gwen agreed to perpetuate the half-lie: that I was a German-speaking French girl from Alsace. But the villagers all guessed the truth. It was in the way their eyes veered away from mine, and muttered conversations came to an abrupt halt whenever I approached. It was a relief to move away to RAF quarters and, later, to our own home in Exeter, above the typing school we set up together.
The doorbell jangles again as Anna Riddaway leaves. The whey-faced post mistress, who I don’t recognize from my earlier life here, asks pointedly if she can help me. I push a packet of paracetamol and a plastic bottle of cola across the counter to her. She has just told me a price when I suddenly remember, and grab a tube of Rolos from the shelf. There is a faint click of her tongue against the roof of her mouth and she revises the figure. I give her a five pound note. She asks if I haven’t any change, and tuts again when I apologize, saying I only have a note.
Outside, the skies have darkened, early morning sun now shrouded and dull. The wind whips grit against my cheeks as I cross the road. I take a detour on my way back to the car to find the village telephone box. It smells of stale urine and cigarette smoke, but the windows are intact, and at least it offers some shelter from the south-wester blowing in.
Some things don’t change, I think, looking out through the smudged panes at the village street. I unscrew the cola bottle and push the chalky tablets from their silver blisters. The paracetamol is pebbles in my throat, the cola fizzy-sweet. I see Anna Riddaway, again, walking a small beige dog on a lead, shoulders hunched against the windy morning. I knock on the telephone box window as she passes, and she turns to look. Her face is very close to mine, through the glass: wide nose, small eyes, curranty in their basketwork of worry lines. I smile, even though the sparking pain between my neck and forehead has returned, even though smiling is the last thing I feel like doing. I smile so hard I feel my jaw will crack from the effort. And for a fleeting moment, Anna Riddaway cannot help herself. She lifts the corners of her mouth and smiles back, fraternizing with the enemy. Then she frowns, and is gone, tugging her dog away towards the park.
Things don’t change unless you make them, I think, taking another swig of the sickly cola. I put it down on top of the telephone directory, reach into my pocket for loose change, pick up the phone, and dial.
It goes to answerphone, as usual. Helen is out, or call-screening. ‘It’s your mother,’ I say. ‘I’ve taken your advice and given Miranda a distraction, so Quill can’t find her. But I’ve been thinking, things need to change. It’s not right that you two aren’t speaking. I can’t bear it anymore, Helen. I just can’t. So I’m going to fix things. I’m going to visit Jono.’
I hang up and walk out of the phone box into the windy day. I have helped Miranda get away from that awful man, I’ve got back in touch with Gwen, and I’ve even got Anna Riddaway to acknowledge me. I drain the last of the cola and put the bottle in the rubbish bin by the bench. I push through the rushing air to where my car is parked by the church wall. I look down at the crumpled metal on the wing. Ignoring the spasming twinge between my neck and forehead I get back into my damaged car and drive, turning left out of the village, towards Plymouth.
Cars can be mended, rifts can be healed, and families can be fixed too, can’t they?
Chapter 23
January 1945, Nazi Germany
Detta
Detta checked her watch in the flickering candlelight. How long since she’d seen Tom, seen him for the last time? At some point she’d have to stop counting the minutes and give him up for good.
Wait, Frau Moll had said. Wait until the front passes through. For hours they’d sat in Father Richter’s windowless study, under the stairs, listening to the interminable rumble-clatter of the German tanks heading towards Breslau, and the roar as Russian planes flew along the lines, gunning them down, even as they retreated. The sound of strafing was like an avalanche of stones on the manse roof.
Now there came an answering boom of anti-aircraft fire from the street outside, and the candle flames flickered. Father Richter clasped his hands tighter in prayer. Mother worried the rosary. Detta paced. Were they just to stay here like sitting ducks? To leave for the Schloss now would be madness, but being stuck here in the airless study brought its own insanity.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ Detta said, next time there was a pause in the relay of airborne machine-gunners.
‘Are you sure?’ Her mother looked up from the rosary.
‘Better to go while it’s quiet, no?’
Mother shrugged, face white and hopeless, and Detta left, picking up one of the candles from the desk. She closed the door behind her and turned right towards the stairs. The moving candlelight pooled and threw shadows as she went.
It got louder, colder and brighter as she climbed the stairs. When she reached the top step she realized why: there hadn’t been time to shutter the upstairs windows before it started, and the one above the front door, where she’d sat with Tom that night – was it only last night? – had blown in. Shards of glass spangled the floorboards, reflecting the exploding sky. The smashed window let in the noise, and the bitter chill. Through the missing window she could also see the branches of the old beech tree, crackling with orange flame. The air tasted burnt.
Detta knew she ought to be quick, to take advantage of the lull in the fighting, but she couldn’t help but inch towards the broken window, take a look out beyond the burning tree. She flattened herself against the side of the wall so as not to be seen.
Flames crawled over the Muller’s rooftop, and the bakery was gone, nothing but rubble. The straggling line of tanks clattered up the street, with some men trudging alongside in weary escape. Detta edged closer to the window, shoes crunching on broken glass and splintered wood. She couldn’t help but look, to her right, up the track. The French barracks were still standing, thank
God. Surely they would have gone down to the cellar to shelter, wouldn’t they? And soon he’d be free. As soon as this line of Panzers was replaced by T-34s. How soon would that be, she wondered? How many hours did she have left?
She felt in her pocket for the torn postcard. Maybe one day, somehow, they’d find a way to be reunited. But for now the angry night held him tight in its fist. She pulled her gaze away, biting her lip, telling herself she had to forget him, that the only thing she could afford to focus on right now was getting through this night alive.
But, just as she turned away, the sky tore apart with white fury and there was a deafening yell.
Tom
A high-pitched scream tore through the dark sludge of his dreams and the ground juddered in response.
Katyushas, non?
Oui, oui, ils ont pres d’ici.
Banshee wails came again and again, followed by shuddering crashes. What was a Katyusha’s range? How close was the Red Army now?
When the Russian planes started strafing the village they’d decamped into the barracks cellar, hauling palliases and blankets down the outside steps in the pauses between attacks. They spent the night shoved up against each other in the clammy darkness, passing round roll-ups, the tobacco cut with foul-smelling dried herbs to make it last. A bottle of vodka went round, too: just a few acid-sweet gulps each, but enough to take the edge off their fear and let them drift into semi-consciousness. The air smelled of smoke and stale piss, and was chill as a crypt, even with them all holed up down there.
There was a grille in the cellar wall, just at head height. Tom stood up and looked out. It was lit up like daylight out there. He checked his watch. He thought she’d made it back to the manse before the Russian planes began their shoot up. She was probably still alive. Probably. And if she were, was she awake in the manse, hearing the howling Red Army rockets, just like him? He wished he could hold her, and tell her it would all be all right, just as she’d held him when he’d had his nightmare last night – was it only last night?
