The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It will be much better to have lots of people,” she told Dane firmly, when he tried to curb her activities, “you want a crush, darling.”

  Dane did not want a crush but he realised that there was some truth in her words.

  “You want a crush,” repeated Wynne, who was waiting for a call to Kingsport. “Parties always go better if there’s no room to move, and that horrible Corbett woman must be swamped … and if you haven’t anything to do you can run over to Kingsport and buy a cake.”

  “A cake!”

  “A wedding cake, of course. We’ve got a teeny one, but it won’t feed a quarter of the people. Do go, Dane … I’ve got such a lot to do, and Sophie’s in the most awful flap.”

  He went. It was not an easy matter to find a wedding cake ready made, for most people (so he was informed) ordered their wedding cakes some time in advance, but at last, after visiting at least half-a-dozen baker’s shops, he ran one to earth. It was not a very grand wedding cake, but it would have to do—after all it was war-time. Dane put it in the car and returned to Fernacres in triumph to find the house in confusion. Wynne was knee-deep in flowers and the servants were rushing about with trays of glasses. Roy had arrived and had brought Harry Coles and two other naval friends who were complete strangers to Dane—he had never seen them before. Nobody seemed to be worrying about them, but they seemed perfectly happy; they had made themselves at home and were listening to the radio in the drawing-room.

  “Roy’s busy,” explained the elder of the two. “He and Harry are moving tables and things and they didn’t want us, so we just parked ourselves here. Hope it’s all right, sir.”

  Dane was about to inquire what their names were and to offer them some sherry and a little light conversation when Hartley came for him and bore him away. From then on everything was a rush and a whirl and partook of the qualities of a dream—almost of a nightmare. His search for the cake had delayed him and there was no time to dress and have lunch in a civilised manner—and Hartley was so excited and worried and so terrified that they would be late that Dane could scarcely recognise him as the quiet, capable creature he had known for so long. Dane had never seen Hartley in a state of perturbation—in the tightest corner he was always perfectly serene—and if Dane had not been so perturbed himself, the sight of a perturbed Hartley would have amused him. As it was he was not amused, he was extremely annoyed. He was annoyed with Wynne for sending him off on that idiotic quest for the cake, and he was annoyed with Hartley for trying to hustle him into the magnificent garments which he had ordered for the occasion. He was even annoyed with Harry Coles who had brought up a plate of ham sandwiches and a glass of beer and was trying to induce Dane to partake of some refreshment while he was trying to dress.

  “If you think I want beer …” said Dane, struggling to force a stud through his brand new collar and breaking his nail in the attempt. “Oh, curse … take it away for Heaven’s sake. I hate beer at any time.…”

  “You hate beer!” inquired Harry incredulously.

  “We ought to be ready!” cried Hartley, jumping about like a jack-in-the-box. “We ought—really—we’ll never be there by two o’clock.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and the bright golden ring with which he had been entrusted leaped into the air and rolled away under the wardrobe.

  By the time they had moved the wardrobe and recovered the ring it was ten minutes to two, and Dane was rushed downstairs and into the car at record speed.

  All this time Dane had not set eyes on Sophie and he was beset by an unreasonable conviction that something had happened to her, that she had changed her mind, or fallen down the stairs or something. He kept on asking where she was, but nobody had time to answer this very natural question. Everyone was quite mad, thought Dane in despair.

  It was not until he and Hartley were standing at the altar rails in the little church (empty save for Wynne and the servants and the three young naval officers in the front pews) and he saw Sophie arriving and walking up the aisle on Roy’s arm, that the turmoil in his brain subsided and he knew that everything was all right. He had loved Sophie for twenty-seven years and now at last she was his. Her face was rather pale, rather bewildered, and just a little sad, but it broke into a tender and trusting smile … yes, everything was all right.

  They had all been late for lunch, and late at the church, and now they were late for their party. When they drove up to the house there were several cars in the drive and a cluster of guests standing about and looking at the house in a mystified way. The house was shut up, for all the servants had been at the wedding, and it certainly was a trifle peculiar to be bidden to a party and to arrive at an empty house. Dane did his best to carry off the situation and he was ably seconded by Wynne. Hartley threw open the door and everyone flocked into the drawing-room where the wedding cake was displayed upon a table surrounded by champagne glasses. The popping of corks started immediately and was followed by a buzz of talk and trills of laughter—the party had begun.

  Fortunately Mrs. Corbett was not amongst the early arrivals, who had been received—or not received—in such an unconventional manner, she had decided to arrive late so as to keep Sophie on tenterhooks as to whether or not she was coming. She arrived when the party was in full swing and Dane’s champagne had done its appointed work. She arrived with her husband and son in tow (Migs had come over from Aldershot for two days’ leave) and found the room so packed with a chattering throng of guests that it was scarcely possible to get in at the door, and it was only too obvious that nobody had missed her, neither Sophie, nor anyone else.

  Sophie enjoyed the party thoroughly—she was really a very sociable person—but it was not until the guests had gone that she realised how delightful it had been. The guests had gone and Sophie and Dane, in defiance of the customs of civilised man, remained behind amongst the crumbs of wedding cake and the empty glasses in attitudes of complete exhaustion.

  “It was nice,” said Sophie. “How nice people are!”

  “All except Mrs. Corbett,” murmured Dane.

  “Even Mrs. Corbett …” said Sophie, more vague than ever because she was so tired, … “we wouldn’t have had the party, I mean.”

  “She has her uses,” Dane agreed.

  Chapter Ten

  In spite of the war, and the miseries which war had engendered, the world turned on its axis and circled the sun on its appointed course. The world rolled over and the sunbeams crept across its surface and they were no less golden than they had been in the piping times of peace. Slowly the sunbeams climbed up the eastern slopes of the Carpathian Mountains and swept over Western Europe in a yellow flood and they shone upon the garden and cities of the conquered peoples as warmly and cheerfully as on those of their conquerors. They touched the spires of Prague and threw a mantle of light around Vienna; the Danube caught the sunbeams and sparkled with joy; Breslau and Dresden were warmed and wakened; Berlin was not far behind. The world rolled a fraction further and in the city of Freigarten it was day—but here the sunbeams struggled amongst heavy clouds and a drizzle of rain was falling.

  Anna Heiden was glad to see the grey daylight stealing through her windows. The days were long and lonely and tiring but the nights were worse, for they were full of sad thoughts and uneasy dreams. In the daytime she could think of Franz reasonably and almost cheerfully—yes, in the daytime Anna was sure that Franz was in England and therefore safe—but at night she was not so sure, and her fitful sleep was haunted by dreams which still clung about her when she woke.

  Otto Heiden had returned from Prague and had been given an important appointment in his native city. He was kind to Anna, and, unless Franz was mentioned he was pleasant and easy to live with. Franz was the bone of contention between them and their arguments about Franz were long and heated. Anna made no secret of her feelings about Franz—he was in England and she was glad, for he was safe in England with his English relations; he was all the safer because he was half English himself.

 
“Franz should be here,” Otto would declare, and the veins would stand out upon his forehead with suppressed fury. “Franz should be fighting for the Reich—it is dreadful that my son—my only son—should be in England now.”

  He might have said more but he was aware that Anna was ill, she looked so ill sometimes that he was quite alarmed about her; he made a good many allowances for Anna because—in his own selfish way—he was fond of her.

  On this particular morning when Anna woke and saw that day had come she was more than usually thankful. Her dreams had been of Franz and they were still with her … Franz was in danger, and the danger was all the more horrifying because it was vague and obscure. Her pillow was wet with the tears which had fallen in her sleep—they were still dripping silently like rain—and her familiar room was full of the mists and shadows which had haunted her all night long.

  Anna rose and prepared some hot milk, and then she found that she had overheated it so she put it on her window sill to cool. She stood by the window and waited, and looked out at the dull damp morning. There was no sky to be seen and the houses opposite were scarcely visible; it was still very early and Freigarten was not yet properly awake. The world was grey—just as Anna’s world was grey—there was no rift in the leaden clouds, no promise of sunshine. The rain was falling steadily as though it would never stop and the window pane was distorted with a film of water.

  Anna was still waiting for the milk to cool when she heard the sound of footsteps coming down the street; she stood by the curtain and, holding it a little to one side, looked down to see who it was. There were plenty of troops in Freigarten, and they marched hither and thither in a purposeless sort of way; sometimes Anna saw them marching down the street towards the big new flying field which had just been built, and sometimes they marched up the street to the Barracks in the Square … but this was not troops marching, it was three young officers, and Anna realised that they must be flying officers on their way to the flying field. She looked down at the three figures marching along so confidently through the deserted streets and her heart contracted with pity … they were going to carry out one of those reconnaissance flights and they might never return.

  She could not see them very well because of the uncertain light and the heavy rain, but she could see that all three figures were tall and well set-up in their long military overcoats. The one who walked in the middle was taller than his companions—taller and broader of shoulder—and because Anna Heiden had always liked men to be tall it was the tall one that she looked at. They came down the street marching briskly, and when they were almost level with Anna’s window the tall man paused and looked up. Anna could not see his features but something in the poise of his head reminded her of Franz … it was Franz!

  Anna was so sure that it was Franz that she leaned forward to the window and a little cry escaped her lips … but the officer had only paused for a moment and he was hastening on.

  It was not Franz—no, it could not be. How could it be Franz? Anna knew that Franz was in England—safe in England with his mother’s relatives—and even if he were not in England he would not be wearing the uniform of an officer in the Dritte Reich … and, even if the incredible had come to pass and Franz had decided to fight for the man he hated, he would not be here in Freigarten, passing the very door, without coming in to see her …

  The milk had cooled now and Anna took it up and began to drink it. Her heart was beating uncertainly for the little incident had upset her … he had been so like Franz.

  The tall man in the military greatcoat had paused and looked up only for a moment, but during that moment he had fallen out of step with his companions. He hastened a little and fell into step once more. Anna had been right in her first instinctive thought—he was Franz Heiden.

  “What was it?” inquired one of his companions (he was smaller and slighter than the other but he was obviously the senior, for he wore an air of authority and the badges on his uniform proclaimed him to be a pilot captain in the German Air Force). “What were you looking at, Franz? Do you know somebody in that house?”

  “I used to live there at one time.”

  “You were saying ‘Auf wiedersehen,’ ” suggested the other companion in a sympathetic tone.

  “I was saying, ‘Good-bye,’ ” replied Franz, using the English expression with its air of sadness and finality.

  They walked on in silence for a few moments and their brisk footsteps echoed in the deserted streets.

  “Is there somebody living there?” inquired the pilot captain. “Somebody that you know?”

  “There may be,” replied Franz sadly, “or again there may not. She may have … gone.”

  He was aware of the glances exchanged between his companions and added, “It was my aunt.”

  “It was his aunt, Max,” said the pilot captain in a significant tone.

  “But perhaps it really was his aunt,” replied the other.

  “It really was,” said Franz with a faint smile, “and she may be there still. I wasn’t sure … it seemed to me that I saw her figure behind the curtain.”

  He spoke so sadly that his two companions forbore to tease him any more.

  “Some day you will return,” declared the young officer who had been addressed as “Max.” “Some day when the clouds have passed … and Rudi and I will be glad to see you again,” he added affectionately.

  “We shall be very glad … if we are alive,” the pilot captain agreed.

  “Pshut!” exclaimed Max. “What a way to talk, Rudi! We shall all three meet and dine together when the clouds have blown away.”

  “If we are alive,” repeated Rudi soberly.

  Franz did not answer. It seemed incredible that the clouds would ever pass, and even more incredible that all three of them would be alive to welcome the sunshine. He was feeling depressed and weary, for he had been through a great deal in the last few months. Now his work for the league was finished for he had become a marked man and the league was sending him out of the country in accordance with its usual policy.

  “We shall all be alive,” Max declared—he was the optimist of the party—“Look, Rudi, I will make a bet with you that Franz will dine with us before this time next year.”

  The others laughed shortly and without much mirth.

  “It would be a foolish bet to make,” Rudi pointed out; “for if Franz and I were not alive we could not claim the money … but enough of that,” he added in a different tone. “We are nearly there now. You understand exactly what is to be done. Franz goes with me through the gate. Max follows. There is to be no talking. The machine will be ready to start. We have discussed it all so often that it should go without a hitch. If the Herr Commandant appears you must be extremely careful. Salute smartly and say as little as you can. Is there anything you want to ask me, Franz?”

  “It is all as clear as day,” replied Franz. “As you say, we have thought out every detail, and unless the Gestapo have received information I do not see what can go wrong.”

  “How could they?” inquired Max.

  “It is unlikely,” Rudi admitted; “for Franz has been well hidden and the fact that we are smuggling him out of the country is known to very few. The thing has been planned as carefully as possible, and for the rest we must trust to luck.”

  Franz nodded. His luck had held for a long time and indeed it had been so amazing, and he had had so many almost miraculous escapes that “Franz’s luck” had become proverbial amongst his companions, but just lately Franz had felt that his luck was deserting him—he had lost his confidence. “We must trust to luck,” he said in a sober voice, “but I want to thank you both for what you are doing.”

  “That is nonsense,” Rudi replied. “We are carrying out our orders—besides we are very glad to help you.”

  “You would do the same for us,” Max put in.

  “It is good of you all the same,” declared Franz, “but remember if anything should go wrong you two know nothing about me—that is understo
od.”

  “Yes, it is understood,” Rudi agreed.

  “But Rudi—” began Max, seizing him by the arm. “But Rudi, surely—”

  “It is the order,” Rudi explained. “You and I know nothing of Franz; he is merely Fritz Herschel, the expert in photography who is taking the place of Schwartz. We could not help Franz by exposing ourselves and we are valuable to the League.… But there is no need to anticipate trouble for every detail has been thought out.”

  Max said nothing but his young mouth set in a firm line. If anything went wrong with their plans he would not stand aside and let them take Franz. Rudi was a fanatic and nothing mattered to him but the overthrow of the Nazis—Rudi would sacrifice his best friend in the interests of the League—but Max felt that an individual was more important than any league; he could not have explained why he thought so but it was just this feeling that had made him turn against the Nazi régime. If the League was going all Nazi (thought Max) then there would be nothing left for a man to cleave to—nothing that mattered except his own soul.

  Franz had some inkling of what was going on in Max’s mind for the same idea had struck him once or twice during his work for the League. He said quietly, “We must use their weapons for their overthrow, Max, or at least we must use a weapon equally sharp … but we have chosen … the weapon has not been forced upon us.”

  Max was silent, for he understood, but Rudi did not understand at all.

  “What weapon?” he inquired.