Put Out the Light

by Terry Deary

  I pushed myself off the wall and wandered across the yard towards her. ‘You’ve seen a bank getting robbed?’

  ‘Oh yes, many times,’ she told me.

  ‘In Sheffield?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Yes, in Sheffield,’ the woman said. ‘At the Tinsley Picture Palace on Sheffield Road. Sometimes we went to The Pavilion on Attercliffe Common. I used to take our Paul – he’s a bomber pilot, you know. We used to go and watch all those cowboy films. Our Paul used to love Tom Mix, but I liked the women.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Grimley, but those are just films—’

  ‘Adventures of Dorothy Dare, Ruth of the Rockies, A Lass of the Lumberlands … but me favourite was The Perils of Pauline.’

  The warden spread his hands and moaned. ‘They are films. I’m an actor myself … and when I play Othello, I don’t really smother my wife. It’s not real life!’

  Mrs Grimley looked slowly around. ‘So,’ she said with a sly edge to her voice, ‘are you saying nobody ever kills his wife?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘And are you saying no one robs banks?’

  Warden Crane blew out his cheeks, ‘No, I’m not saying no one robs banks –’

  ‘There you are then!’ the woman crowed. ‘Banks get robbed. And they are not getting robbed when my money’s in them.’

  The warden shook his head wearily. ‘Can you just take care to keep your curtains shut, please?’

  What happened next was such a shock it still runs through my head like one of those old black-and-white films. First, there was a low whirring sound, like a distant foghorn. It grew louder and the note got higher until it was a wail.

  The warden jumped into the middle of the street. ‘Air raid!’ he shouted as doors crashed open and people tumbled outside. Then there was a foot-scuttering, foot-fleeing, breath-gasping, clog-clattering, door-slamming race to the shelters. The dark, empty street was suddenly filled with people and light, as they forgot to switch off their lights before they opened their doors.

  As families streamed towards us, Warden Crane bellowed over the air-raid siren. ‘Gas masks. If you haven’t got your gas masks, go back and get them NOW!’

  The stream of people turned into a blundering mass of struggling families. Some tried to turn back for their gas masks. Some crowded round the warden and babbled their questions.

  ‘Stanhope Street,’ he shouted. ‘Go to the public shelter in Stanhope Street.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ a woman asked. She was carrying a sleepy toddler in her arms and another tugged at the hem of her dressing gown.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Sally offered.

  Warden Crane nodded at her. ‘Good lass. You and your brother show them the way.’

  He stood in the middle of the cobbles like a rock in a stream as people flowed around him.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked, hanging back.

  ‘I need to check every house in the district. Make sure no one’s asleep or too deaf to hear the siren.’

  ‘You could get hit by a bomb,’ I gasped.

  The warden raised his chin in the air and looked as brave as Roy Rogers himself. ‘It’s my duty, lad. When the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger. Some of us have to risk our lives so the rest of you stay safe. Now, run along to the shelter.’

  I turned and raced down the street. Sally stood at the corner, her voice as thin as one of the recorders we played in school. ‘This way, down to the end of Stanhope Street!’

  When the last family had passed, we walked behind them and went into the brick shelter with the concrete roof. It was like walking into an oven. The shelter was meant for fifty people but about two hundred were crowded inside. The smell was awful and the squalling children must have done more damage to the concrete roof than a ten-ton bomb. Men and women were arguing loudly about who should be allowed to sit on the stone floor. Some looked like they were going to faint in the crush and smoke, as fifty people lit up cigarettes.

  Sally and I backed out into the road and were glad of the cool night air. The siren had faded. There was no sound of bombers. Then the wail began again, but this time a steady sound that meant all clear.

  I stuck my head into the shelter. ‘False alarm!’ I cried through the wall of noise. As the word spread, there was more shouting as people were crushed in the rush to get out again. At last, people began to drift away.

  ‘I’m staying in the house next time,’ a man grumbled. ‘I’ve got one of them Morrison shelters.’

  ‘They’re just a steel table,’ a woman argued. ‘Useless. I’m going to get an Anderson shelter put up in the back garden. I just wish I had a man to help.’

  ‘I wish I had a garden,’ the man said. ‘Tell you what, I’ll put up your shelter if you let me use it when there’s a raid.’

  ‘Would you do that?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Anything’s better than going in there again,’ said the man, as they walked off into the night.

  Sally and I followed Mrs Grimley back up her road. ‘There was never any raid,’ she crowed. ‘I told Warden Crane. I said, they need a bomber’s moon.’

  The old man who hobbled along beside her said, ‘Ah, that was last night.’

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘I heard it on the radio,’ the old man said. ‘Last night we sent Wellington bombers over to Berlin.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Capital of Germany. Where that Mr Hitler lives.’

  ‘Nasty man. Never liked his face. Silly moustache,’ Mrs Grimley said.

  ‘It’ll be a burned moustache if our lads in the Wellingtons hit the target.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll hit the target all right,’ the old woman said smugly. ‘My Paul’s a pilot in them bombers. I hope he got back safe.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ Mr Crawley said, ‘it’s a bit like poking a stick in a beehive.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Sally asked him.

  ‘Stirring up trouble, if you ask me,’ Mr Crawley said. ‘If we attack them, then they’ll attack us. Mark my words, the next time that siren sounds, it won’t be a false alarm.’

  Chapter 7

  Dachau, Germany 26 August 1940

  Hansl stood in the street and looked at the rubble where once there had been a row of houses. ‘Remember what you said yesterday?’ he said.

  Manfred nodded. ‘My brother Ernst said the British won’t bother with little towns like Dachau.’

  ‘He was wrong,’ Hansl said.

  Manfred shook his head slowly. ‘It was just one plane. Just one bomb. Ernst says it was a freak – probably some British plane losing some weight. There was a raid on Berlin last night.’

  ‘We’re a long way from Berlin,’ Hansl mocked.

  ‘Maybe he was lost.’

  ‘How many are dead in Dachau?’

  ‘Ten so far. Three missing. Five in hospital.’

  ‘And your grandpa?’

  ‘He refused to go to the shelter when the siren went off. He said he’d faced the British in the trenches twenty years ago and they didn’t get him then, so they won’t get him now.’

  ‘He was wrong,’ Hansl said.

  ‘He’s not dead. He’s in hospital. Herr Gruber says I can have the morning off school to visit him.’

  ‘Awwww!’ Hansl cried. ‘Some people have all the luck. I wish my grandpa had been bombed and I got a morning off school. Even better, I wish that British plane had dropped a plane on the school and flattened Herr Gruber.’

  ‘I’ll send a letter to Mr Churchill with a map telling him to send two bombs – one for the school and one for your grandpa’s house.’

  ‘Will you?’ Hansl gasped.

  ‘No.’

  Men and women were tugging at the rubble and loading it onto horse-drawn wagons. ‘In a week, this street will be flat,’ a policeman said. ‘In a month, brand-new houses will have been built. The British will not break our spirit with their bombs. But we will break theirs. We will bomb them to dust. They deserve it
.’

  The town-hall clock struck nine. ‘I’ll be late!’ Hansl cried, and raced down the street.

  ‘You’ll be late, too,’ the policeman said to Manfred.

  ‘I’ve got the morning off. They pulled my grandpa out of the rubble, so I’m off to visit him in hospital.’

  ‘A good man, Weiss.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course. We fought together in the trenches. He was as tough as a boot. Fifty bombs couldn’t hurt him.’

  ‘That’s what he says,’ Manfred nodded. ‘How does he know?’

  The policeman chuckled. ‘You ask him. And tell him Inspektor Finkel was asking after him.’

  ‘I will,’ Manfred promised and walked away from the ruined street. The wind blew clouds of cement dust after him and the smell of burned wood filled his nostrils.

  The hospital was a collection of low, wooden buildings housing different wards. A nurse pointed Manfred towards the emergency building. His grandpa had a bandage around his head that covered one eye and his arm was in a sling. His one blue eye shone fiercely. ‘See, Manfred!’ he cried as the boy stepped into the room. ‘They can’t get me. They couldn’t get me in the last war and they won’t get me now.’

  ‘But they did, Grandpa,’ Manfred said.

  The old man scowled. ‘They didn’t kill me,’ he argued. ‘A bullet or bomb hasn’t been made that has my name on it. When I was a boy, a gypsy looked at the palm of my hand and said I had the longest lifeline she’d ever seen. I’ll live to a hundred – no bullets or bombs can change that.’

  Manfred shivered. ‘Herr Hitler says gypsies are under-humans. They’re like the Polish and the Jews. They should be locked away in a camp so we don’t have to mix with them.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the old man sighed. ‘But I believed the gypsy that told me my fortune. It gives you great courage. I went into battle and I knew I’d be safe. That’s why I won an Iron Cross for bravery.’ Suddenly, he stretched out a strong hand and gripped Manfred’s wrist. ‘When they dig up the ruins of the house, see if they can find my medal, there’s a good lad.’

  ‘Yes, Grandpa,’ Manfred promised.

  But, as he walked back to school, he forgot his promise. Manfred was too full of a new scheme and he couldn’t wait to share it with Hansl.

  Hansl was in the school canteen, dipping a piece of hard bread in a bowl of thin soup. Manfred grabbed a plate and sat beside his friend.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Hansl asked.

  ‘Wrong?’ Manfred said.

  ‘You look agitated.’

  ‘I have a plan to help us win this war. We will kill an Englishman!’

  Hansl let a piece of soggy bread drop into his soup, splashing the wooden table. ‘What? Grab a gun? Steal a gun, walk to France, find a boat and sail over to England? Shoot the first Englishman we see? Did the bomb hit you on the head? Are you mad?’

  ‘No, listen, people are saying you only get killed if your name is on a bomb or a bullet.’

  Hansl’s face screwed up with a frown. ‘So?’

  ‘So, we find a bomb and we write an Englishman’s name on it. Easy!’

  ‘Which Englishman?’ Hansl asked.

  Manfred spread his hands. ‘My grandpa says he used to fight the Tommies in the last war. We find a bomb, we write Tommy on it and it’s sure to kill a Tommy. Simple.’

  Hansl nodded. ‘Yes, Manfred. Simple. You are very, very simple. Maybe the doctor can have a look at your head.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my plan?’

  Hansl ticked off the problems on his fingers. ‘How do you write on a bomb?’

  ‘With chalk. We steal a piece from Herr Gruber’s classroom.’

  ‘Where do we find a bomb?’

  ‘There’s a munitions factory just outside the work camp. It has hundreds of bombs,’ Manfred said.

  ‘How do we get into the factory? The guards will stop us at the gate.’

  ‘They aren’t proper guards. I mean, the real soldiers are at the front, fighting for Herr Hitler. The guards they leave behind are old men like my grandpa.’

  ‘But they still have guns and they’ll still keep us out,’ Hansl argued.

  ‘I’ve thought of that. We’ll get a letter that says we can enter the factory – that it’s part of our Hitler Youth training.’

  Hansl shook his head. ‘Shall I tear a piece of paper from my exercise book? Write you a note? They won’t fall for it, Manfred.’

  ‘No – my brother will write the note. He’ll type it on a piece of proper paper from his base, then he’ll sign it. The guard won’t dare stop us.’

  Hansl blinked. ‘It might work, but wait … How do we know where to find the bombs that are heading for England? There are thousands of bombs in the factory and it’s huge.’

  Manfred gave a small, tight smile. ‘I’ve thought of that, too.’

  As they walked to class, Manfred explained more. Hansl nodded. ‘Yes, Manfred, it might just work. Let’s wait and see.’

  Chapter 8

  The school monitor rang the bell and the boys shuffled to their desks, waiting to be given the word to go.

  Herr Gruber walked across to the old piano in the corner. ‘The anthem, before you go, boys,’ he said.

  The class stood and raised their arms in the Nazi salute as their thin voices sang the marching song:

  ‘Germany, Germany above all,

  Above all in the world!’

  The teacher stood at the door and watched the boys walk silently past him. As Hansl reached the door he said, ‘Sir, is that an English spy in the corridor?’

  ‘What?’ the teacher gasped and turned to look. As he stepped out of the room, Hansl ran to the blackboard, snatched a piece of chalk and hid it in his pocket before hurrying after Manfred.

  The two friends ran across the school yard laughing, their boots clacking in time as they sang:

  ‘Manfred and Hansl above all,

  Above all in the world!’

  When they reached the street corner, Manfred skidded to a stop and leaned against the grocer’s shop.

  Some girls from the school next door wandered past, chattering, whispering and giggling as they caught sight of the boys waiting there.

  The big blonde girl with the red face walked past and sneered, ‘Traitor.’

  ‘Are you really blonde, or do you dye your hair?’ Manfred asked.

  The girl turned redder and pretended she hadn’t heard him.

  When the group of girls had left, the small girl in the grey dress stepped into the street, nervous as a rabbit. She shuffled towards the grocery store.

  Manfred moved into her path. ‘Stop,’ he said, unsure how to address her.

  The girl stood stiffly, her head lowered and body hunched, as if ready for a beating.

  ‘Irena Karski?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m not a sir,’ Manfred said. ‘I’m just Manfred, and this is Hansl. Remember? Two weeks ago? We helped you when those girls attacked you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Manfred.’

  ‘Thank you, Manfred, sir.’

  ‘I thought you might be able to help us in return.’

  ‘I have to get back to the factory,’ she said and tapped the red badge. ‘If I’m gone too long they will beat me.’

  Manfred nodded. ‘Can you leave the factory any other time?’

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘At night. There is a change of guard. The kind guard comes on duty. He used to let me go to the camp to see my father.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Manfred asked. ‘Can you get out tonight?’

  The girl raised her head and looked at him for the first time. ‘Yes. But you can’t. There’s a curfew. You can’t be on the streets after dark.’

  Manfred gave a smile, looking braver than he felt. ‘That doesn’t bother me. Just tell me which gate and what time.’

  ‘Gate C at 10 o’clock, sir.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Manfred said and the girl slipped past him into
the grocery store.

  Hansl looked at his friend. ‘No, we won’t be there,’ he said. ‘I’m not getting shot for this. Writing on a bomb’s a great idea, but it’s not worth getting shot for.’

  ‘Are you a coward?’ Manfred jeered.

  ‘Yes,’ Hansl nodded.

  Chapter 9

  Manfred pushed open his window and climbed out into the warm night. The town lay in darkness but a half-moon showed a faint cloud of dust over the bombed street where workers still dug in the rubble. He climbed down the drainpipe and dropped onto the soft grass before stepping out of the back gate and into the quiet lane. He had a torch with a blue bulb, but he didn’t need it yet – the streetlights’ tiny green flames were enough.

  Manfred hadn’t walked far when he heard feet on the road. A group of four soldiers marched in step down the middle of the street and he backed down an alley, hoping they wouldn’t see him. He waited until they had turned a corner before stepping out.

  ‘Where are you off to, young man?’ a voice asked.

  Manfred had almost walked into the old policeman. He choked back a scream and forced a smile onto his face. ‘My grandpa –’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He asked me to check his bombed house – to see if I could find his medal from the last war.’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘It’s the only time I have,’ Manfred said in a voice that he hoped would soften the policeman’s heart.

  The parchment face peered at him closely. ‘Your grandfather is a good man – ask Oberleutnant Siegel if the searchers have found anything. Tell them Constable Horst sent you.’

  Manfred managed a smile. ‘Thank you, Constable Horst. Thank you.’ He was almost bowing as he backed away. He turned and ran down the street.

  Manfred dodged around a bus that showed its ghostly blue headlights and reached his grandpa’s house. The men lifting the broken bricks and timbers onto the carts were thin, with hollow eyes and ragged uniforms. They were slaves from the camp up the road. They worked in silence by the light of the moon. Some shone blue torchlight into the ruins.

  The ruined houses were almost cleared now. Manfred saw his grandpa’s living room standing open to the evening air. The furniture was covered in dust and mostly broken, but he knew it well. A ring of soldiers with machine guns stood around and watched. He guessed that the soldier with a pistol by his side was the officer in charge. He explained his search and Oberleutnant Siegel let him step over the shattered wall into the living room. He found the dining table and tugged at the drawer. The medal was there. Grandpa used to take it out every Sunday when Manfred called to see him.