The Escape

by Clare Harvey

  There was a feeling, then, like the panic-tug she’d felt that last morning in work at the Reichsbahn office, when she saw the Russian bombers fly overhead. She’d listened to the pull in her gut that morning, and it had taken her running to safety to catch the last train across the Oder. What was it telling her to do now?

  Come on Detta, get in! The call came from the back of the van.

  There it was again, that inner clench, like homesickness. But not for a place, she realized, for a person. For Tom. ‘I’m going,’ Detta said, turning on her heel.

  ‘You’re what?’ Her mother looked up from under the hood, frowning.

  ‘By the time you’ve got the engine going, and driven all the way round by the estate road, I’ll be ready,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you outside the barracks in five minutes.’

  ‘You can’t, it’s not safe!’

  But Detta was already gone. She heard her mother’s voice dwindle as she ran, feet slipping through the crusted snow. ‘Just five minutes,’ she called out, holding her splayed fingers in the air as she ran. ‘I’ll see you outside the barracks in five minutes.’

  Five minutes: enough time to tell Tom she loved him, to kiss him, just one last time. Five minutes was no time at all: they’d still be able to get away safely, wouldn’t they?

  Tom

  The air was sharp as a razor’s edge. The night was beginning to lift, stars fading into blue. He hurried up the slippery path between the trees. He could just make out a large building with a curved portico and steps. That must be the Schloss, mustn’t it? He needed to reach her before they set off. He broke into a run, feet sinking through the ice and into the powder snow. It was as effortful as running through sand dunes. What could he say? Don’t go – come with me to England. It was stupid, audacious, reckless. It could never work. She’d say no. He had to try. Afterwards – if there were an afterwards – he could tell himself that at least he damn well gave it his best shot. That was all.

  Lost in a swirl of thoughts, pushing through the drifts, chest heaving, he looked up to check the way. And there, through the trees, someone was running down the hill towards him. Someone in a fur coat, with a blue scarf flapping free from her pale face: it was her.

  She was there.

  ‘I was coming to find you.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  ‘How long have we got?’

  ‘No time – they’re just starting the ambulance now.’ Her skin was cold as porcelain, as his lips touched hers. She spoke through kisses. ‘I ran. They tried to stop me, but I told them to pick me up at the barracks. We’ve got as long as it takes them to drive round along the estate road, that’s all.’ She took his hand, tugged him back in the direction he’d come from. ‘I can’t make them wait any longer, it’s not safe. We have to go now.’

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘The church is right there. There’s a priest driving down the road and there are two witnesses with him.’ The words spilled without thought, but they made sense, complete and utter sense. If they were married she could stay with him; he could take her back home to safety. ‘It will only take a couple of minutes to do. Come back to England with me, as my wife.’ He could see it now. There were to be no best suits or confetti, not even a ring, just a few snatched moments in a war-ravaged church.

  ‘You’re mad.’

  ‘And you call all this sanity? It’s a chance, don’t you see? It’s the only chance we’ve got.’

  They paused, as he gestured round at the shattered village below them, the line of tanks rumbling on through.

  He saw her lips part, ready to respond.

  Detta

  She was here, between the Schloss and the manse, just as she had been when she’d seen him stagger through the blizzard supporting his colleague. It was the same, but utterly different, here on the path with the man she should have known she was in love with from the outset. He had asked her – impossibly, wonderfully – to marry him. His blue eyes searched her face.

  And she was about to say yes, surrender to his barrage of kisses, when she noticed something: a black dash scudding in her peripheral vision. A bird? There was a sound, too, a whining drone that tore through the air.

  ‘Drop,’ he yelled, but she was down before the words left his lips, snow shoved up her nostrils, grit on her cheek. The plane screamed through, spraying bullets that whizzed like angry hornets. She could feel his body next to hers as the sound veered away. She half-sat up to watch where it went. The dirty snow stung as she wiped it from her eyes.

  The plane hadn’t been aiming for them. It flew along the length of the village street, and down the tank columns, picking off the foot-soldiers and infantry-stuffed trucks. Machine-gun fire crackled like burning twigs. She looked back at him. He lay quite still. His eyes were closed.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Your lot picked their moment to do a counter-attack,’ he said, getting up in one swift movement, reaching down a hand to help her. They heard returning fire from the Russian troops, saw the German plane bank and turn, a black bow in the Prussian blue sky. ‘Buggers are coming back for another go. Better make a run for it.’

  They sprinted downhill towards the barracks: slipping, ricocheting from tree to tree, tumbling down the concrete cellar steps, and falling inside.

  Her breath burned in her throat, heartbeat a speeding train. The faces of the Frenchmen were pale blobs in the gloom. There were shouts and the sound of metal clanging from the main road as anti-aircraft guns were positioned. The plane’s bullets sounded like sudden hail, a summer storm passing overhead.

  ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘Detta, answer me. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, realizing that he couldn’t see her nod, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark.

  ‘Busy out?’ Gordon shouted from somewhere across the cellar.

  ‘Nazi counter-attack. But just one plane, by the looks of it.’

  They picked over supine bodies, some snoring, oblivious to the battle going on outside, and found their way to Gordon, who shifted up to give them space next to him on the straw-filled mattress. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Gordon had the remnants of a candle burning next to him on the concrete floor, and was shading in a Union Jack on a large piece of cardboard. ‘Let them get on with it all out there for a bit longer. Gives me more time to finish this,’ he said. ‘Which should have been your job, seeing as you’re the artist.’

  ‘Thought I’d let you have a turn, for a change,’ Tom replied.

  Detta thought of Mother and the others. Had they managed to start the ambulance? Had they taken cover when the plane flew over or driven away? Tom put an arm round her and she let her head rest on his shoulder, blocking one ear, so the stammer of the guns wasn’t as loud, and that side of her face felt warm and safe.

  Eventually the sounds died down. She thought that surely Mother and the others must be coming now, and made a move to get up and go to find them. She was just turning to say a final, awful goodbye to Tom – it must surely be too late for the reckless wedding plan? – but just as she stood, there was banging on the cellar door, and the shout of a Russian voice.

  ‘Quick, Detta!’ Tom grabbed her and bundled her into the triangular hole under the stairwell. The men had been using one side of it as a temporary toilet. She huddled in the opposite corner, gagging at the smell. Tom and Gordon shoved the mattress in front, and Gordon leant his back against her – in the darkness it would have looked as if he were just sitting up against the wall. Someone blew out the candle, and she couldn’t see anything except the faint grey-pink smudge of Gordon’s neck. There was the stench of old urine, and the loud Russian voice echoing inside the dank cellar walls as the door opened above her head.

  He spoke first in Russian, but then in heavily accented German as his f
ootsteps descended the steps: ‘Fransosich?’

  ‘Oui, oui,’ the Frenchmen chorused. His footfalls continued. She counted eight, nine . . . He was almost at the bottom.

  ‘And British,’ Gordon called out.

  ‘British? How many?’

  ‘Two. RAF,’ Tom chipped in.

  Detta heard a shuffle as Tom got up, meeting the Russian on the lowest step. ‘Ah, RAF.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Warrant Officer Jenkins and over there is Flight Sergeant Harper, my skipper.’

  ‘Warrant Officer?’

  ‘Yes, it’s like a Sergeant Major rank in the army.’

  ‘Ah, ma-jori! Ma-jori Jenkins.’ They must be shaking hands, she thought. ‘Come.’

  Two sets of footsteps began tramping up the steps, above her hiding place. ‘He thinks I’m in charge, thinks I’m a major. I’ve got to go,’ Tom’s voice called down.

  ‘Let’s say it’s a field promotion, acting rank only,’ Gordon said. ‘Enjoy your new position. But don’t be too long, eh?’

  ‘No, I’ll be back soon, I promise.’ Tom raised his voice as he replied, for her benefit, Detta was certain. Then there were more footsteps and the sound of the cellar door opening and slamming shut. He was gone.

  She nudged at Gordon’s back. ‘Let me out.’

  ‘It’s not safe. What if more Russians come and see you? You need to stay where you are, I’m afraid.’ He shunted back against her. She shoved him, then, hard as she could. He grunted, more in surprise than pain, as she pushed past him and stood up. The darkness span, but she ignored her dizziness and reached out, stumbling over bodies on the floor. ‘Wait!’ Gordon yelled, but she was too fast for him.

  She reached the concrete stairs and began to climb. She had to get out, had to find her mother and the others. But just as she reached the top step the cellar door slammed open again.

  It was too late to run back and hide.

  Chapter 26

  November, 1989, East Germany

  Miranda

  ‘Aufstehen Sie, sofort!’ Get up immediately!

  I open my eyes, squint to focus: peeling paint, high-up frosted window, tiny sink and unlidded toilet, a rough grey blanket edge, the whole room no bigger than a double bed. Room? No, cell. I remember now. I am in a cell at the Stasi HQ in Frankfurt an der Oder.

  ‘Schnell!’ The guard bangs on the other side of the door. I see his dark eye and the greyish-pink square of his razored cheek through the peephole in the airlock-thick metal door. I stand, rubbing my eyes, mouth dry, head swimming. The door opens and a hand reaches in and grabs my upper arm. I’m drunk with exhaustion and dread.

  Our shoes make plasticky noises on the lino, and the air smells of old men. I’m not sure how many times I have walked this walk already – four, five times, or more? They don’t let me sleep in between questioning. Each time my eyes close, the guard bangs the door. If I don’t respond he enters, shakes me awake. They took my watch off me when I arrived, along with my other things. I can’t tell how long I’ve been here, or even if this is the same guard.

  The walls are painted three-quarters up with gunmetal grey, only the tops of the doors and the ceiling are creamy-white, like a head on a pint of beer. Doors are shut, close-lidded, unseeing, on either side, except for one, further along to my right. As we pass, I glimpse a man feeding the contents of an open filing cabinet into a buzzing paper shredder. A telephone rings but nobody answers it. The guard sees me looking.

  ‘Eyes to the floor. Walk on.’ He tightens his grip on my arm as we pass the open doorway. Should I feel violated by his bruising fingers? The truth is, I’m grateful. I’m now so weak with hunger and lack of sleep that I need his support. We reach the door halfway down the corridor, on the left, with the red light above it, which flickers to life at his knock.

  ‘Enter,’ says a voice.

  ‘Address him as Captain,’ says the guard, opening the door, releasing his grip, and hustling me ahead of him inside the room. A seated man fiddles with something in his desk drawer and clicks it shut at my approach. He doesn’t get up.

  ‘Hands under your thighs, palms down.’ The seated man – Captain – gestures to the empty chair in front of the desk. I sit as I have been told.

  He is clean shaven, greying hair shorn to disguise the bald patch, with not one single distinguishing feature in his stony face. He could be any middle-aged, middle manager anywhere: a bureaucrat in a suit, a college lecturer in jeans and a jumper, a dentist in a white coat. But he is none of these things. He has the shiny epaulettes and grey wool jacket of a Stasi officer.

  He thinks – they think – that I am some kind of spy. I had a camera, a map, and I was caught taking photographs, at night, of a Russian armaments train. I have no ID. In the confusion of capture, instead of sticking to speaking English, and pretending not to understand, I responded in German – the good German taught me by my grandmother, with an East German accent. I can see how it looks, and I have nothing to prove them wrong. I tell them to contact the British Embassy in East Berlin, where my emergency travel documents are being processed. But the Embassy is closed for the weekend. And anyway, they say, they don’t believe me. So the questioning continues:

  ‘What have you to tell us, Fräulein?’

  ‘I have done nothing, Captain.’

  ‘You think we imprison people on a whim?’

  ‘No, but—’

  And so it goes. The same as the last four – five, or more? – occasions: what was I doing taking photographs of a Russian train? Who am I working for? Who do I report to?

  I say I am just a photography student, getting photos for my portfolio. I didn’t realize what I was doing. I talk about the moonlight, the smoke, the barbed wire and the bird . . .

  ‘Nonsense.’ He says British students don’t speak German this well, don’t have East German accents, don’t take study trips mid-term.

  I tell him I lost my passport.

  ‘Then how did you come through to the East without ID?’

  ‘I walked through a gap in the Wall,’ I say. A flicker passes his face as I say this and he takes a drag of the cigarette that lies half-burnt in the metal ashtray.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ he says. ‘The part of the Wall that was reported as damaged has been replaced and is occupied by border guards.’ He exhales. Smoke hangs in the air between us. I say I lost my passport in West Berlin, then walked through a vandalized piece of the Wall and reported my missing passport in East Berlin.

  ‘But why? Even if it’s true that you’re a student with a lost passport, why would you run to the East, and come here? There are more holes in your story than a sieve, Fräulein.’ The almost-finished cigarette smoulders on in the ashtray.

  I tell him that I’ve come to try to find my grandmother’s old house, it’s in a village called Lossen, somewhere near Breslau. Does he know it? He smirks. ‘Breslau does not exist,’ he says. It is in Poland and is called something else now. And how could I hope to get to Poland without a passport?

  He seems to get angry, then stubs out the remains of his cigarette and half rises from his chair. I am a stupid little girl. Do I want to start World War Three?

  ‘Do you realize how delicate the situation is at present?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘No.’

  I confuse myself. ‘No, I don’t want to start World War Three. Yes. I realize how delicate the situation is.’ But do I? What is going on outside this office, out in the real world, in real time? I think of the man pushing paperwork into the shredder, and the unanswered phone, ringing off the hook.

  I ask about my camera. He says it is impounded as evidence. No, of course I cannot have it back.

  He sits back in his chair and sighs. ‘You will tell the truth in the end, Fräulein. Everyone always gives way eventually. Are you worried about betraying your superiors, perhaps? But could betrayal mean freedom? Think about that, Fräulein.’ He tells the guard to take me away and I am marched back to my cell.

  And so I continue to be shunted, starvin
g, thirsty, sleepless, between my cell and his office. How long between each interrogation? An hour, two? I don’t know. There are no clocks. All the curtains are closed, there’s no daylight. I lose all track of time. My head is thick as lard. I am so cold and angry. It is pointless telling the truth because nobody believes it. Why can’t I sleep?

  Back again: hours, days, later, I can’t tell. The same stupid question:

  What have you to tell us?

  Nothing. Let me sleep.

  What have you to tell us?

  The Wall is coming down.

  What have you to tell us?

  Why don’t you believe me?

  What have you to tell us?

  I hate what I have become.

  What have you to tell us?

  I feel alone in crowds.

  What have you to tell us?

  My boyfriend hurt me.

  What have you to tell us?

  My father was a junkie. It turned him insane.

  An angry confessional, a shivering delirium. I shout my answers. The tape is running. The man making notes on a pad. I don’t care. I don’t even know where I am anymore.

  What have you to tell us?

  He had a bad trip, and I found him. I found him. I called the ambulance. And you know what my mother said? He’ll be fine. He’ll be home before you know it. Daddy will be fine: the biggest fucking lie of the many lies she’s told. He wasn’t fine. He never came back.

  What have you to tell us?

  My boyfriend is a drug dealer. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

  What have you to tell us?

  He says he’s just selling a lifestyle choice. My father made a lifestyle choice and look what happened to him. Look what happened to him! Are you writing this down? Are you? Because somebody should. Nobody else gives a fuck.