The Escape Page 17

  Turning away from the rectangle of incandescent explosions, the cellar felt darker than ever, a blackness that pushed right in on his eyeballs as he blindly picked his way over the bodies of the other men and found his way to the cellar steps.

  ‘Where the hell d’you think you’re going?’ He could barely hear Gordon’s voice over the din.

  ‘Nowhere. I’ll be back soon.’ The metal rail was cold under his palm. His boots scraped against the damp concrete stairs.

  The stairwell came up beside the barracks’ back door. It was louder out here – deafening. The streaming flares assaulted the eastern skies. He ran the few steps to the back door, pushed through. In the strobing brightness he saw a cup fall and break on the floor, the sound of it smashing masked by the tearing explosions outside. He ran through the kitchen and up the barracks stairs, back to the room they’d been in earlier, smoking Gordon’s last cigarettes and watching the man whittling his stick. The windowpane had blown in: saw-edged shards glinted and shivered.

  Coming up the street, just approaching the manse, was a single German Panzer tank. As he watched, one of the tanks paused, the gun turret swivelled, and fired a salvo before roaring off. It was almost parallel with the barracks when a single Katyusha rocket screeched over. Tom lost his footing as the whole place shook. Outside, a reverberating blast turned the tank into a huge orb of orange flame. Smoke belched through the broken window and the air was momentarily hot and burnt-tasting. ‘Poor bastard,’ Tom muttered, unable to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears.

  After that, the Katyushas paused their incessant screaming. He looked out through the empty window, past the quivering silhouettes of trees. The church had a chunk missing from the far end, like a bite from a sandwich. But the manse looked intact, thank God. He drew breath. The full moon dangled like a dog tag, but the eastern skies were turning paler, a line of rose-gold threading the edge of the snowy plains. It would be daybreak soon.

  But then the silence was broken by a metallic clatter. Coming up the road from the east were two snaking columns of tanks. It was too far away to see clearly from here, but he knew that each one would be emblazoned with a Soviet star: the Russians at last.

  The Red Army rumbled closer. He was as good as free, but when he thought of her, the thought of freedom felt like a betrayal.

  He stood and watched as tanks, foot soldiers and trucks bulging with troops began thundering into the village, in a never-ending stream. Distant gunfire from the west rumbled, barely audible above the din of clanking tanks, roaring engines and jubilant Russian voices. Then, in the murky pre-dawn, shadows began to break free from the convoy and swarm into the remnants of the village houses. He heard shots and laughter carried on the icy air.

  He imagined her there, waiting in the darkness, rigid with fear and numb with cold. He imagined the heavy thuds on the front door, the throaty Soviet shouts, and the hail of bullets splintering the oak door.

  The world was still twilit and vague. He leant further out through the necklace of glass shards. The trees obscured his view but he thought he could make out figures at the front door already. But, coming out through the back, the way he and Gordon had escaped earlier, were three distinct shadows. They scurried through the graveyard. He could just about make out her scarf, trailing like a pennant, as she ran. They disappeared up through the trees. He exhaled. Of course. She’d said they’d go to the Schloss, join her friend with the ambulance, take their chances as the front passed through. Good luck and God speed, he thought.

  Chapter 24

  November 1989, Devon

  Odette

  I gulp down the sense of panic I always feel in this place, with its slippery lino floors and institutional smell – the dreary dislocation of it all is so reminiscent of my own incarceration, all those years ago . . .

  I stop at the nurse’s station on the way in and ask how Jono is getting on. I knock on the glass window, and the young nurse with the black-framed glasses looks up from the filing cabinet, smiles, and gestures for me to come in. The door to the medicine store is open, and I glimpse his colleague reaching to get something from the top shelf. The air is fuggy with old smoke, and there’s a metal ashtray stuffed with butts next to the spider plant on the windowsill. The nurse says Jono’s responding well to the new drugs. In good weeks he’s been doing crosswords, he says, closing the filing cabinet. Not doing, creating, his older colleague calls out from the store room. She comes to stand in the doorway, hands on ample hips. Your son-in-law creates cryptic crosswords for one of the papers, she says. The Sunday Correspondent, that new one, calls himself Phaedrus, she adds.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I say, looking from one to the other. The male nurse pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and nods. The woman says that Jono is a clever man. She says it in an accusing way, chin thrusting, as if I underestimate my son-in-law’s intellect. ‘And has he had any problems with the paranoia or hearing voices recently?’ I ask. The male nurse says no, he’s been stable for a while now. ‘I heard something on the radio about care in the community, halfway houses, that sort of thing . . .’ My voice dithers – I realize now I’m here that I’m not quite sure what I’m asking for. I have a vague idea that if Jono is out of the mental institution then this will be a beginning of getting Helen and Miranda to speak to each other again, of reuniting their torn family.

  But that painful pulse between my neck and forehead comes again, and it’s hard to think or articulate clearly.

  The female nurse says there’s been a lot of nonsense written in the press about care in the community, and the man says it’s something I’d have to take up with Jono himself, before making an approach to his consultant, and I thank them both and leave. It’s a start, I think, beginning the long walk through the common room, up the stairs and along the corridor. At least I’ve flagged it up.

  ‘Hello Jono,’ I say, walking across the ward towards the man sat on the neatly made bed. He looks up, and there’s a flicker of recognition but he doesn’t respond. In front of him, on a tray, is a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. There are three other beds in the room, but they are empty – their occupants must be downstairs watching TV.

  Outside the window I see the leafless oaks tremble and jerk in the incoming gale, but inside is warm as a summer’s day. ‘How are you?’ I say, now I’m closer. He doesn’t answer, but looks at me, green eyes, receding ash-coloured curls, cheeks pale beneath a blue-ish haze of stubble. I sit down on the brown blanket beside him, careful not to disturb the jigsaw. Now I’m close I can see that it is a map of the world, with dozens of tiny pieces to slot into place. Africa, Asia and the Americas are mostly complete, but Europe is a jagged hole in the centre. I pick up a piece of jigsaw: plain blue, with four lugs. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Someone turns a radio on in the next room, and chart hits are a tinny mosquito whine through the thin hospital wall. Some girl pop star singing about being lucky in love. ‘Your nurse says you’ve been doing well recently,’ I say, turning the jigsaw piece in my fingers. He nods. I see how his fingers quiver as he slots in a sliver of the Adriatic coastline.

  I think about what the nurse said about him starting to create crosswords and selling them to the newspapers. Jono always was a clever man: clever, sensitive, and good-looking, too, in his slender, boyish way. No wonder Helen fell for him. He led her astray at university, I suppose, but after her father died it was hardly surprising she went off the rails a bit. And Jono was a good dad to Miranda, for a while, before his mental health problems became fully apparent. If he’s getting better now then maybe he could provide a steadying influence, a ‘positive male role model’, something to make her realize that there are good men around, that she deserves better than the one she ended up with in Berlin.

  ‘The nurses say you’re doing really well,’ I repeat. ‘I was wondering if we could start thinking of you moving out of here? If we talk to your consultant. What do you think?’

  ‘
Is she coming?’ he says.

  ‘Who?’ I ask even though I know.

  ‘Miranda.’

  ‘No. She’s in Berlin, taking photos.’

  ‘But who’s picking her up from school?’

  ‘Nobody. She’s grown up now, Jono.’

  ‘Of course. I forgot.’ He picks up a piece of Italy. The shake is more pronounced now. It is an effort for him to fit the piece into its place, but I resist the urge to help. ‘I’d like to see more of her. But not her mother. Helen is still trying to poison me, you know.’ He says it in such a dull voice, that I almost find myself nodding, as if he’s just mentioned the weather, or something that’s happened in an episode of Eastenders.

  ‘She’s never tried to poison you, Jono, you know it was just the—’

  ‘I had a message last night.’ He interrupts in that same flat, matter-of-fact voice. ‘At the end of the six o’clock news. It was Michael Burke – of course he had to speak in code, but I understood. She’s after me again.’

  ‘No. No she’s not, Jono.’ The uncomfortable pump from neck to temple comes again, and I feel prickles of sweat on my hairline.

  He sighs, pushing in pieces of the Alps, then glances up at me. ‘I’m not stupid, Odette.’ He grins, then, unexpected, small, white teeth, like milk teeth. And my heart pulls, because even after all these years, he’s still the sweet young man my daughter fell in love with, and he’s still Miranda’s father. ‘The sound’s come back,’ he says. ‘It’s my mind singing to me. I wish you could hear it, such a happy sound – a male voice choir, humming. Like a brain full of Welsh bees. You’d like it, because you like music, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. I feel like crying. It was stupid of me to think Jono was well enough to get out of this place, that having a functioning father figure again could somehow help my granddaughter.

  He starts a tuneless whistle, that cuts across the muffled radio from the next room. I pick up my piece of blue jigsaw and slot it into the English Channel. Jono makes a start on Poland. I remember the packet of Rolos I have in my bag and give them to him, and he says thank you, and puts them under his pillow. Eventually the male nurse pops his head round the door and says it’s time for me to leave. I kiss Jono on the cheek; he smells of soap powder and toothpaste, like a Monday morning schoolboy. He breaks off his whistle to say goodbye. The jigsaw is almost finished, just Germany left to complete.

  In the corridor the nurse asks if everything is okay. He is measuring coloured pills into plastic pots on the trolley. I tell him that Jono is talking about brain noises, and messages through the TV again. He pulls out a clipboard, makes a note, and says he’ll talk to the consultant about it. He thanks me for mentioning it and we smile and say goodbye.

  I resist the urge to run as I get to the communal area, all those saggy-saliva mouths and dead-eyed stares swivelling as I pass through. The television is a loud, waspish buzz, the atmosphere thick and sweaty.

  The plump nurse lets me out of the main door, and I lean a hand on the stonework at the top of the steps, pausing to draw in cool, fresh air. The pain pulses again and again, neck to forehead, like electric jolts. I didn’t sleep well last night, worrying about Miranda, and there was the collision earlier on. It’s just a mixture of exhaustion and mild whiplash, I think. What I need now is to go home and lie down in the cool darkness of my bedroom, and sleep.

  I look up to my left. I can see Jono at the window, watching, and I try to raise my arm to wave goodbye, but my hand is leaden-heavy. I cannot lift it.

  In the car park my white Fiesta is just a few paces away, but it seems to recede as I look. There is a sudden inverse pressure, air being sucked out. I see a black halo round everything, and hear a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Then my leg gives, and I crumple to the ground.

  Chapter 25

  January 1945, Nazi Germany

  Tom

  Where was the gushing relief at his imminent liberation? There was nothing but the sour sting of grief in his throat at the thought of losing her, of what would happen to her. He watched from the window, waiting. The litmus dawn spread pink into navy overhead, and silhouettes came slowly into focus with the daybreak: the bottle-brush trees, the torn edge of the church with its onion-shaped spire. She would be up there somewhere, beyond the church, through the trees: Detta, her mother, the priest and the others, packing themselves into the ambulance, ready for their flight. Then she’d be gone, for ever. He thrust a hand into his pocket and felt the edge of the ripped postcard. He felt like that: torn apart. What were the chances they’d manage to find each other again? If only she weren’t German. If only he could take her with him, keep her safe. He stared out at the black outline of the church, clenching his jaw.

  Distant ordnance still boomed, and from the road came shouting and the sounds of military traffic. He looked, but could see no sign of an ambulance careering past. And what would he do if he saw it – wave like an impotent idiot? He turned away from the window and went back down to the cellar.

  In the stinking darkness he felt more trapped than he’d ever felt as a PoW. ‘I retrieved this whilst you were out on your little stroll.’ Gordon handed him back his RAF jacket, ripped from its hiding place in one of the palliases. There was a swish of cloth as Tom slipped it on, in readiness for meeting the Russians. The guttering candlelight glanced off the gilded edges of the insignia. He touched the uniform badge, above his heart. Per Ardua Ad Astra – through adversity to the stars, whatever the hell that meant.

  ‘Thought we’d lost you for a moment there, old man,’ Gordon said. ‘Gone AWOL on me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thought you’d gone to make an honest woman of her.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The girl, the priest, the church – all you were lacking was the best man, and given the circumstances I would have understood if you’d gone and done it without me.’

  The realization struck Tom with sudden force. ‘You’re right. Christ, I’m an idiot!’ And, grabbing his coat, he pelted up the cellar steps.

  There was a priest, a church, and the woman he loved. He thought he’d have to wait until the war was over, wait for her letter, then come out to Europe to find her and bring her home. But no, he could marry her now, take her with him, keep her safe. If it wasn’t too late already?

  Detta

  ‘At last!’ Frau Moll called from the cab, as the engine finally stuttered to life. Detta heard the Moll girls clapping from inside the ambulance. Through the passenger window she saw Father Richter make the sign of the cross and roll his eyes heavenwards. She, Mother and Father Richter had just made it out of the manse before the Red Army arrived. When they got to the Schloss Frau Moll was ready to go, but the vehicle wouldn’t start.

  Luckily Mother had some knowledge from her time as a driver in the last war. Now, she straightened up from under the hood, wiping her hands on her coat. ‘Come on, then,’ she said, and Detta slammed the bonnet shut. But as she did, the engine died again. Frau Moll turned the ignition. The engine choked. ‘Stop, stop!’ Mother gestured at Frau Moll through the windscreen. ‘If you keep doing that, it’ll flood. We’ll have to wait a couple of minutes.’

  ‘We don’t have a couple of minutes!’

  ‘I’m telling you, if you keep trying to start it like that, it will just make it worse, and then we really will end up stuck here.’

  ‘But the Reds could be on their way.’

  ‘They won’t be. Not yet.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘The infantry will pass through the village like a plague, but they won’t trouble themselves with walking through the woods and up the hill, they’ll be keen to keep going on to Breslau while the weather holds.’

  ‘And what makes you an expert in military strategy? I’ve got my daughters to think about!’

  ‘Ladies,’ Father Richter’s low tones interjected. ‘Can I ask for calm?’

  ‘No, Father, you cannot!’

  Detta turned awa
y from the quarrel. Beyond the Schloss, beyond the treeline, beyond the Oder river, the sun was already rising: red-gold and angry, shooting out livid orange skeins of high cloud above the Eastern skies. The stars were fading. Soon it would be daylight.

  Last night she’d kissed Tom – kissed him properly – for the first time. Would it be the last?

  He’d told her he loved her, and she hadn’t responded. Why hadn’t she told him she loved him, too? Now it was too late.

  She span her body away from the sunrise to look down through the trees towards the French barracks. It had survived the Katyusha barrage. He was safe, just there, down the snowy hill, not more than a few hundred steps away, through the silver birch and firs.

  ‘Are we going now, Maman?’ one of the Moll girls called from the back of the ambulance.

  ‘Soon, darling. As soon as we can get this thing going again,’ Frau Moll called back.

  Detta felt oddly detached, as if she were viewing them all from up in a mistletoe ball, looking down at the van with the red cross on the side, the black-robed priest in the passenger seat, the panic-faced women, shouting through the glass windscreen at each other, and the girl with the blue scarf, a splash of sky against the snow. They all looked very small, far below.

  Any moment now the ambulance would cough back to life, the girl with the blue scarf would get inside with the others, and they’d be gone, driving along the estate road, turning past the barracks, and away.

  She could hear Mother and Frau Moll yelling at each other, the judder-rumble of tanks through the village, and the twitter of birdsong from high up in the trees but it was all muffled, as if heard through glass, as if her whole little world were captured inside a snowglobe, and she was outside, looking in, ready to shake it up.

  Then with a rush, she was back inside herself, the cold biting her forehead, and the Moll girls calling from the ambulance: come inside with us, Fräulein Detta, it’s time to go! She took a step towards the vehicle, ready to get inside with the little girls. She would be in the back with them for the journey, so she wouldn’t see the barracks as they passed by. She wouldn’t see if Tom were standing at a window to wave goodbye, and they wouldn’t stop, so she couldn’t tell him – why hadn’t she told him when she had the chance? – that she loved him.