That Burning Summer

by Lydia Syson

  “Wow! Uncle Fred! I can’t believe this!”

  Fred beamed.

  “We thought you were old enough now, didn’t we, Myra?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Ernest felt the weight of it, then ripped off the paper.

  “It’s a Webley and Scott. Mark II,” said Uncle Fred. “Thought I’d never lay my hands on anything light enough for you to handle. Can’t get a weapon for love or money these days. I was ready to give up, I tell you. But I asked around, quietly, and in the end—in the nick of time really—I found a man in Udimore who was prepared to let this go. Bit naughty really. Should have been handed in.”

  “You’ve done it up beautifully, Fred,” said Mum. “Looks good as new, doesn’t it, Ernest? Lovely.”

  “It was his son’s.”

  Ernest’s voice broke into the expectant silence.

  “It’s fantastic. Thank you so much. I can’t wait to use it.”

  In the torchlight, the rifle seemed to glow in Ernest’s hands. Fred had polished the wooden butt beautifully, and the barrel shone too.

  “I’ll take you out soon as I can. Shame we’re so busy right now, and with so little help. Give it here, lad, and I’ll show you how to load it.”

  Fred unlocked it with a snap, pointed out where the pellets would go, and cracked the gun back on itself and straight again before passing it back to Ernest. Peggy wanted to tell him: Don’t hold it so tight. Your knuckles are white. He’ll see you’re afraid. Relax. Just relax. It’ll be all right. But her skin had begun to prickle again, hot and cold at once. A new tide of nausea was sweeping over her.

  29

  Fragments of childhood came back to Henryk in his confusion. The paper planes he used to make for Klara and Anna, for his own pleasure as much as theirs. Experimenting with the folds. Improving the arc of flight. Let’s try this. No, this perhaps. Weight it a little more here, lighten a little more at the tail. Nose-diving too soon. Veering to the left. But there, now. There. Yes, that’s perfect.

  High ceilings, wooden floor, littered with paper.

  Curled on the floor of the church, stomach in spasm, Henryk went through his memory like a checklist. The right order, that was the thing, that was how you kept going. One thing after another, just one thing and then another thing. That was the trick of it all. You need a system. Like when you’re climbing at full throttle after take-off. Oxygen: ON. Reflector sight: BRIGHT. Gun button: FIRE. Yes. That was it. Stone: IN POCKET.

  And then he was back in Beirut again, last Christmas, when they weren’t allowed off the boat. French soldiers were posted at the pier, a guard—for them? There were black men in uniform too, the first Henryk had ever seen, hands in their pockets, watching, listening. They were listening to the singing. The Polish pilots sang while they waited. Carols of course. It was Christmas, remember. In the still of the night. Wśród nocnej ciszy. And patriotic hymns. Pod Twą obronę. We place ourselves in your care.

  Nothing to eat for hours and hours, nothing to do but sing, and drink. Someone had a mouth organ. Zygi. Yes, that’s right, it was Zygi who played the mouth organ, really quite well, considering. Where was Zygi now? He played tangos and then the Funeral March. And of course Boże, coś Polskę. Polskę, Polskę, ah Polskę. Home in their hearts and head.

  But nobody could actually speak of home. They wept. They drank some more. Such longing. Henryk felt it again now. He swallowed the spit pooling in his mouth, and remembered thinking of the girls as they walked around the Christmas tree in their best dresses, just as they had the year before and the year before that. Every year the same. Could it possibly be true again? He didn’t know then, not in Beirut. He could still believe it was possible.

  All the storms of the journey, and then this heat. Palm trees like trees in films, like Hollywood really, with sun and snowy mountain tips behind the city to make you think of skiing in Zakopane. So hot on the coast and so windless that people were swimming in the harbor, splashing and laughing, the sea so clear you could see their bodies all crooked through the water.

  And when at last it was their turn to get off the boat, how the people stared. They couldn’t stop staring. Women through black veils, men in long white robes, like priests, heads wrapped in cloths, wound round and round and round. It was the way the French soldiers marched them in fours, like criminals. No wonder the people stared. Henryk remembered the shame, the guilt … when you don’t know your own destination, you feel you are to blame for it.

  There were no trees, no grass, no leaves in the town of tents they reached next. Just bare soil. By the time darkness came, some mattresses and some blankets had arrived too. The torn canvas at the entrance to the tent flapped in the wind, which came cool from the west.

  A week of walking. That was it. Walking in valleys, until Sylvester Night came, and then it was time to banish that terrible old year, to drum up some hope for the next. They had to pretend to celebrate. They had to do something. And so they screamed with laughter, and cheered, and beat their mess-tins outside the tents and shouted: “Long live Poland. Long live the New Year.” And for that moment, he believed it all possible. A free homeland. They would do it. Of course they would.

  The next day the arguments began again. And two weeks after that the letters came. A great packet of them, months old, addressed in strangers’ hands to the camps in Romania.

  Men stood around like statues, fists clenched by their sides, reading of horrors. Every so often there would be a gasp, or a slow sigh. Someone would let out a cry or a groan. And Henryk waited. Hoping and fearing for his turn. Checking off names in his head. He counted. If the twelfth name wasn’t his, it would mean good news.

  Nine. Ten. Eleven. No. No.

  Twelve. The twelfth name was his. Gizela’s writing he knew at once. He opened the letter and read the first words.

  “We are quite alone now…. zupełnie same.”

  Her father had received a summons, an appointment at the university. They didn’t know why. Off he went. Mother—Matka—all in a fluster, looking here and there. He didn’t have his suit. How could her clever husband go off like that? What would they think of him, so shabby-looking, hardly out of his slippers, no time to comb his hair? He must make an impression, a good impression. They must realize how clever he was, how important. Matka grabbed his best clothes, a freshly ironed shirt, her handbag. She put on lipstick, told Gizela what to cook for supper and jumped into a taxi to go to the university. They never came back.

  And then the word went round the camp. The teachers. The professors. The writers. The musicians. They’re killing them.

  30

  By early evening, Peggy was feeling well enough to join the birthday expedition to the cinema. Desperate though she was to make sure Henryk was all right, she couldn’t let Ernest down, not after last night.

  “Funny how you can feel a stranger in your own town,” she was about to whisper to him as they got out of the car. Something had changed since they’d been gone. As though they’d been away for years instead of weeks, and everything had happened without her. It made her feel detached and different, even more than usual. But when she saw how happy Ernest looked, she kept her mouth shut.

  “Contraband,” he said, staring up at the black letters above the white-painted archway. “What’s that then?”

  “Goodness. They change the program so often now,” said their mother. “I thought they’d still be showing Just William. That was going to be the surprise. What a shame.”

  “It’s all right, Mum. I don’t mind.”

  Peggy answered his question quickly, guiltily pleased not to be sitting through Just William.

  “Contraband … it’s illegal stuff, isn’t it? What smugglers do. Like Dr. Syn. You know.”

  “Then why isn’t it spelled ‘b-a-n-n-e-d’ if you’re not allowed it?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it should be.”

  The queue outside the cinema was full of soldiers, of course. She’d never seen so many. Peggy didn’t even kno
w which regiment was at the Camp at the moment. The gunfire from that direction was pretty much continuous now, rattling the town’s window frames over and over again. Nobody took much notice. There had never been much of a phoney war at Lydd. It had always sounded like the real thing.

  “Oooh, Conrad Veidt!” said June, who had left Claudette with Aunt Myra, and put her best hat on. “Is he a spy in this one, too?”

  “He’s a bit ancient for you, isn’t he?” said Peggy.

  “I like an older man,” June confessed, and they all tutted and laughed. “On the silver screen, that is. Oh, leave me alone.” She took out her cigarette packet, shook it gently and frowned.

  “Isn’t he the one who gave all his fortune to the war effort?” said Mum.

  “But he’s a German,” said Peggy, hoping to distract June, who seemed to be counting her cigarettes. The tactic seemed to work.

  “Doesn’t mean he likes Hitler though, does it?”

  June smiled and busied herself with her matches, while Ernest offered the shelter of his hands for the flame. Peggy smiled too, at the thought of the three cigarettes she’d managed to stash away for Henryk, and how pleased he’d be when she gave them to him. He was unlikely to have escaped the effects of the beans—though she hoped he hadn’t suffered as much as she had—and cigarettes might make amends. He was obviously too polite to ask for anything. Thoughtful. He wanted to make things easier for her, but she didn’t mind going to any trouble for him.

  Up ahead, Peggy spotted Dorothy, who’d once been in her class at the Council School but must have been working for a year at least by now. Dot was hanging on the arm of a young sergeant with a shaving rash. He looked very pleased with himself. When she saw Peggy, she gave her a waggly-fingered wave, and turned back to her beau with a flounce, and then they both stared and smiled at Peggy and her family. Her heels were very high, Peggy noticed her mum noticing.

  “Peg! Peg!” There was Jeannie Ashbee, jumping up and down on the other side of the road, waiting for a chance to dart through the traffic. Peggy was pleased to see her, and hurried to meet her. Jeannie didn’t think she was stuck up.

  “I haven’t seen you for ages!”

  “I know. I know. I’ve been so busy!” said Jeannie. “You don’t know what you’re missing! Oh, sorry … I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. What’s the matter with you? You do look peaky.”

  Her stomach pitched and churned.

  “I ate something funny. I was sick all night.”

  They inspected each other. Jeannie was wearing a dress Peggy had never seen before. Yellow gingham with short puffy sleeves, and a zigzag crochet trim at the arms and neckline. A matching belt too. She took a step towards her, and Peggy noticed her friend had also acquired a new swing to her hips. Everyone was changing. She realized how much she was looking forward to curling up in the dark in a tip-down tickly velvet cinema seat, where nobody could look at her.

  “How’s the Hatchery?” she asked, after admiring the dress.

  “Oh, work … !” Jeannie managed to make it sound as though she’d been at it for half a century. “It’s not so bad. We have a laugh, most of the time. It’s just a bit horrible when the chicks don’t come out properly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you really want to know?” said Jeannie, shaking her head and keeping going regardless. “Sometimes the eggs crack, but not all the way. And then you have to kill the chicks. They’re no good, you see. Poorly. But it’s got to be done.”

  “What?” Peggy asked.

  “Well, that’s the horrible thing. You squash them. With your thumb. When they’re alive. I didn’t know I’d have to do that. But you do get used to it. You can get used to anything, really, can’t you, if you have to? It would be nice if you didn’t have to use your bare hands, but there you go.”

  “I suppose it would be nice.”

  “And we’re all in it together. There’s a conchie working there with us now, friend of the boss or something, but he’s OK really, I suppose. I was surprised.”

  Peggy took a step backwards. Jeannie blushed and blundered on.

  “My uncle’s been called up now. Lucky he’d finished making our shelter. He went last week.”

  “You don’t know where?”

  “Can’t say, can I?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ask. I just wondered.”

  “I don’t know anyway.”

  The atmosphere seemed to thicken; it was getting harder to breathe. Jeannie tried to make amends.

  “So, will you come to the dance this Saturday? At the Camp? They’ve got a proper dance floor there now, all springy. And there’s going to be a live band too. The works. The food’s lovely. I can’t wait. Why don’t you ask your mum?”

  Jeannie flashed a smile at the cinema line, eyes guarded. Peggy looked too. All those people she didn’t know. She thought about it, and realized with a sudden tightening in her chest that she had not the slightest desire to whirl around anywhere with any of those eager young men. There was only one person she wanted to dance with now. It was a feeling that made her happy and desperately sad at exactly the same time.

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”

  Ernest called her then.

  “Look … they’re starting to go in,” said Peggy, ready to hurry off. “You’re not coming to the picture then?”

  “No. I’m fed up with all this spy business. It’s bad enough the way everyone talks about it all the time. Honestly!” Jeannie tossed her head dismissively. “Talk about obsessed! Anyway, according to Mum, it’s not funny men in false mustaches we need to look out for, or peculiar accents, let alone nuns. The thing about proper spies is that they just blend in, don’t they? What would be the point otherwise? Everyone knows now to watch out for nuns.”

  Peggy pretended to laugh, but she couldn’t meet her friend’s eye. For a moment she even wondered if Jeannie was saying all this on purpose, to test her. Was it possible she suspected something, that somehow she’d heard there hadn’t been a pilot in that plane? Henryk didn’t exactly blend in. She would have to keep her guard up here. She mustn’t let anything slip. Best not linger either.

  Over the road, Ernest was beckoning her urgently. She followed his gaze curiously, while she said goodbye to Jeannie. Victor Velvick and his mum had just arrived. That was why Ernest wanted to get inside so quickly. Well, they weren’t going to intimidate her. Peggy walked past them haughtily. Then she stumbled. A foot withdrew, she was certain. If another pair of soldiers hadn’t hoisted her up by one arm, she would have gone flying. They caught her with all the ease of a looker grabbing the limb of a passing lamb.

  31

  Victor Velvick cornered Ernest after the film. It was like an ambush. First a high, sharp whistle through the gap in his teeth to catch his attention, then he gripped Ernest by the shoulder and held him back while everyone else moved forward in the flow of people.

  He didn’t say anything to begin with. Just grinned at Ernest.

  “Wh-what do you want?” said Ernest. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What? Right away? No time for a heart-to-heart?” Without actually touching Ernest, Victor pinned him to the cinema wall, one muscled arm leaning across him, so that out of the corner of his eye Ernest could see the tendons flexing stiffly in the other boy’s wrist. Victor seemed to have grown another couple of inches in the weeks they had been apart. The fine down above his top lip was darker now, and there were tiny holes all over the skin of his nose which Ernest hadn’t seen before. His smell was different too. Stronger and muskier.

  “No. No time at all.” Ernest didn’t want to breathe him in.

  Victor frowned and looked pointedly back at the cluster of people gathering round June and Mum and Peggy, as if to say, “Really?” June was lighting another cigarette, and didn’t look as though she were going anywhere in a hurry. It wasn’t every day you got a chance to catch up with things in town. Peggy and Mum seemed mor
e restless.

  “What do you want to chat about, anyway?” said Ernest.

  “Oh you know … this and that … family matters … thought you might be getting a bit lonely these days.”

  “No. Are you?” Then he blushed. Why had he said that? Victor would take it as provocation. Nearly all the other town children had been sent away by then. Obviously not Ernest, who’d begged Mum to let him stay. And not Victor Velvick either. Mrs. Velvick said she needed him for deliveries, but everyone knew she couldn’t face being on her own. So it was just Victor and his mother now, and a space at the table where his brother used to sit.

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, I have.” Ernest made himself concentrate on Victor’s stories. “Been doing my bit—and it looks like I’ll be getting a medal for it too. Found a carrier pigeon, I did, by the miniature railway—have you seen the new armored trains they’ve got? Quite a sight! I caught it too, and it turned out it had a very important message on it. I was quite the hero last week.”

  “Oh. Congratulations.”

  Victor narrowed his eyes alarmingly.

  “I mean it. I really do. Well done,” said Ernest quickly, hoping desperately that Peggy or Mum might be watching. He couldn’t see them now, or June either. Victor had deliberately blocked his view with his great chest.

  Ernest didn’t know how, but Victor always managed to make it look as if he was just being friendly, from a distance. Something about his face, and the way he smiled, and nodded: that’s what did the trick. He even punched his arm from time to time, and threw back his head and laughed when Ernest hadn’t said anything funny. Any grown-up looking at them would think they were best mates.

  “I expect your dad is pretty lonely though …” Victor continued.

  “No. No. I don’t think so …”

  Again Victor’s head went back.

  “No, no …” he gasped, pretending to wipe a tear of hilarity from the corner of one eye. “Of course not. Silly me. Why should he be? They’ve probably given him a bunch of other Nazi-lovers for company, haven’t they?”