The Escape Page 9

  ‘I’m coming now!’ The priest’s voice came from the corridor below. How loud it was, Tom thought, how easily sound travels in this house. Gordon was still struggling to get under the boards, making faint grunting sounds with the effort, and the wood scraped and creaked as he went. The priest could probably hear him from the hallway and so would anyone coming in through the front door.

  The triple knock came again. ‘Just need to unlock . . .’ the priest said loudly from below. Gordon was in. Thank God, now it was his turn. But then there was the sound of the door opening and voices. He froze. If he moved now, they’d hear downstairs. He lay still, planning what to do. He’d keep still and quiet, pray they’d not come up as far as this room – but if they did, then what? As gently as he could, he began to pull the covers from the bed, trying not to shift his body weight at all as he did so. He heard the voices from the hallway.

  ‘Good morning, Father Richter.’ It was her voice, the woman with the blue scarf, the woman on the path, the beautiful, lethal girl. ‘I just met these two officers in church. They’re looking for some escaped terrorfliegers, but they didn’t find them in your church. Shall I start with upstairs or downstairs today, Father?’ she carried on without seeming to draw breath. ‘I can leave the study until later, if you’re planning your sermon. Or shall we have a cup of tea before I get started?’

  The priest cleared his throat before speaking. Tom could hear it – so he stopped trying to pull the covers over himself, worried that even a small movement would give away a telltale sound. ‘A cup of tea sounds like a good idea, Detta,’ Father Richter said. (So, her name was Detta, and she was the priest’s housekeeper. But she’d brought the SS to the house, so she was a Nazi.) ‘I’m afraid I only have peppermint, you know how it is, but it’s warm, at least, and I have some honey to sweeten it with. Gentlemen?’ There was a pause in which Tom imagined the two officers exchanging glances. Then he heard a male voice saying no, thank you, but did he have any knowledge of the escaped prisoners?

  A set of footsteps moved away then, but they didn’t sound like military boots, the footfalls were softer. Tom imagined the girl walking off along the corridor.

  ‘Terrorfliegers?’ the priest asked. ‘No, I haven’t seen anything like that. How many?’

  ‘Only two. And we think they may be in the vicinity.’

  ‘Well, they’re not here. We’re all German in this village – nobody would hide those who murder our people. Look for yourselves.’

  The soft footfalls returned along the length of the corridor below, with another noise, a kind of dull clunk-thunk – the housekeeper must be carrying a mop and bucket. ‘I’ll just start with the bedding and the floors upstairs then, shall I, Father, as we’re not having tea?’ her voice came again.

  ‘As you wish, Detta,’ Father Richter said. The clunk-thunk sounds moved up the stairwell.

  At any moment those two officers would tramp up the stairs behind her and barge into the upstairs rooms. Would they all be shot immediately? Or would they make a show of it, drag them into the main street and do it in front of the whole village?

  ‘If you see or hear anything unusual, or you catch some local gossip about it, or someone lets something slip in confession, you must report it immediately. Immediately, is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, officer,’ Father Richter said.

  ‘You too, Fräulein.’

  ‘Of course, officer, immediately,’ the girl’s voice came from the top of the stairwell, just a few paces away from the door.

  ‘We’ll be making house-to-house enquiries, so if you do remember seeing anything suspicious, then you can tell us straight away. We’ll be in the village a while. Good morning, Father, Fräulein.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  The door slammed. There was the sound of boots tramping on the street outside, moving away, across the road. Tom let out half a breath. It wasn’t over. The housekeeper was coming with her mop and bucket. She’d discover them, then run out onto the street to tell the police. It felt like the way a cat toys with a mouse – releasing it just to claw it back to certain death. The footsteps and the clunking sound of the mop bucket stopped outside the door. The door handle moved. She was about to find them. It was too late.

  Tom jumped up, lifting his hands above his head in surrender. I tried, was all he could think, remembering his muckers on the march, trudging mindlessly forward into the remains of the Reich. At least I damn well tried.

  Then, oddly, there was a soft knock, and the door slowly opened. She didn’t have on the blue scarf or the fur coat. She had one finger on her pursed lips. Her eyes flicked round the room.

  ‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘I thought there were two of you in here.’

  Detta

  The man had his hands above his head. He was wearing a blue-grey uniform, and she noticed the pilot’s wings above his left breast pocket. She looked at his face. It was him. It was the man she’d seen on the path.

  He looked straight into her eyes as he lowered his arms. He looked pale and drawn, exhaustion bowing his body, but his eyes held the same spark of blue she remembered. He recognized her too, she could tell. She hesitated, a knot forming deep in her gut.

  There were footsteps coming up the stairwell behind her. Father Richter came in, went across to the window, and looked out through the shutter slats. ‘It’s fine. They’re in the Mullers’.’ He turned back. ‘Tom, this is Fräulein Detta. She’s going to help us. Detta, this is Tom.’

  Detta reached out, ready to shake hands, but the airman ignored her and swivelled to face the priest. ‘She brought the SS here,’ he said in near-perfect German.

  ‘But I thought it would be even more suspicious if I tried to keep them away,’ Detta replied. ‘They were asking for the priest; they would have come here anyway. At least I was able to—’

  ‘Escort them onto the premises yourself?’ the airman interrupted.

  Heat rose in her chest. How dare he question her motives? She had put herself in danger trying to help. ‘I could have directed them upstairs if I’d wanted to. God knows you were making enough noise with your shuffling about up here. Why else do you think I tried to get them into the kitchen for tea? Why else do you think I went and got the mop and bucket out?’

  He still hadn’t turned back to look at her. ‘You may as well have put a signpost up: Terrorfliegers, this way.’

  ‘I was only trying to cover up the sound of the creaking floorboards. And if they had decided to search upstairs, they would hardly have started off in the room I was cleaning. I was trying to buy you some time.’

  ‘Of course you were.’ He raised an eyebrow as he turned back to face her.

  ‘Now then. Please.’ Father Richter took a pace in between them, holding both palms downwards as if physically suppressing their quarrel. ‘Detta, you will have to excuse Tom. He is understandably nervy. Tom, you can trust Detta.’

  ‘Can I, though?’ His eyes were hard as he looked at her. ‘How do I know she won’t betray us?’

  There was a beat, then, as nobody answered him. Detta realized her own right hand was still stuck out, awkwardly, for the abortive introduction, and let it drop to her side. She took a breath. The air tasted of grime and desperation. She switched to speaking English, the good, formal English that the nuns at Ursulinen Kloster in Breslau had drilled into her for all those years: ‘We are not all Nazis, you know.’

  She watched his expression change. His eyes softened at the sound of his native tongue. Then he frowned. ‘The fact that you speak English doesn’t alter my concerns.’

  ‘When the SS were here I would only have had to nod in this direction, and you would have a bullet in your head by now.’

  ‘And so would Father Richter. How do I know you weren’t just protecting him? How do I know you won’t just find another way to turn us in without implicating the priest?’

  ‘You really think I’d do that?’ She was aware of her chin jutting out as she spoke. ‘Really?’ She stared into his ice-
blue eyes, watching how his pupils swelled as he returned her gaze. Then he blinked, dipped his head, and turned away. Father Richter, unable to understand the volley of English, looked from one to the other, tugging his beard. From outside came the muffled sound of a military vehicle slowing as it approached the estate junction, beyond the barracks.

  ‘He thinks I’m not to be trusted,’ Detta reverted to German as she spoke to the priest.

  Father Richter took a step towards the airman and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘We need Detta. She’s the only one who can bring extra food and medicine here without arousing suspicion. As God is my witness, she is on our side.’

  ‘You can get hold of medical supplies?’ The airman turned away from Father Richter to look at Detta again.

  She nodded, thinking of the ambulance she’d seen going to the Schloss last night. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He rattled off a list of items he needed urgently. ‘If you can get those, as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Their eyes locked again, and this time he didn’t turn away.

  ‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I appreciate the position you’re being put in by helping us, and I’m very grateful.’ He held out a hand towards her. ‘Tom Jenkins. Sehr erfreut.’

  She hesitated, then held out her own right hand. ‘Detta. How d’you do.’

  Their fingers touched in a brief, formal handshake. At his touch it felt as if there was a pull at the knot in her stomach. He fixed her with his gaze. ‘You won’t betray us.’

  She shook her head, even though it was more of a statement than a question. ‘I want to help you in any way I can.’

  ‘Wish someone would bloody help me.’ A muffled English voice came from under the bed, and a filthy hand grappled the floorboards.

  ‘Please excuse Lazarus over there, manners were never his strong suit.’ Tom smiled then. ‘Be over in a sec, Gordon, just need to check the SS aren’t still on the prowl before we get you out.’

  Chapter 12

  November 1989, East Berlin

  Miranda

  I am about to close my Filofax, stash it in my rucksack and head out of the Embassy into the sleet when I think of someone else I need to call. I check my contacts pages and lift the receiver again.

  ‘Ah hello there, Miranda, can you pass me over to Quill for a moment please?’ I phoned the Sunday Correspondent’s picture desk, but it is Richard, the editor, who answers.

  ‘Sorry, what was that? This line’s terrible, I’m afraid.’ A trench-coated man pushes through the exit and the glass Embassy doors let in a gust of damp autumn air.

  ‘Quill – I need a word with him. Is he there?’

  ‘Sorry, no. He’s not with me right now. He’s back at the apartment, there’s a party.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine there would be a fair amount of celebration going on.’ I hear Richard’s nasal chuckle. ‘Well, get him to give me a call when you see him, won’t you? Got some queries about his copy.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘And did you get my shots?’ I hold the receiver so close to my ear that it hurts.

  ‘Yes, they’re great,’ Richard says, and I exhale. ‘Really well done with these. You’ve got some talent for catching the moment, that’s for sure. The photos are exactly what we need. It’s just the words that need some, er, clarification.’

  ‘So I’ll get a picture credit?’ I say.

  ‘Of course. Let me make a note of your full name for the subs.’

  ‘It’s Wade,’ I say. ‘Miranda Wade.’

  ‘Good, good. Right, well I think what I’ll need you guys to focus on now is getting some really strong human interest stories for next week,’ Richard says. ‘You know, families being reunited after years of separation by the Wall, et cetera.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think I get the idea. And you’re happy with what you’ve got for this Sunday?’

  ‘More than happy. Keep sending over whatever you can. Obviously we’ll need portraits to go with any human interest stories that Quill digs up, and it would be good to include some decent photos of East Berlin, too, so we can compare and contrast lifestyles between East and West Berliners. And anything else you’ve got.’

  ‘Could you use some shots of youths dismantling the Wall? I took some photos earlier of a group of young men attacking the Wall with a sledgehammer and I thought—’

  ‘Perfect. Brilliant. Send them over as soon as you can.’

  ‘Only I took them with the Rolleiflex.’

  ‘I have no idea what that means, but our picture-desk guys can cope with most things – just get them over asap. Look it’s crazy here today, I can’t talk, but send over anything you’ve got, as soon as you can.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks, Richard.’ The line goes dead, and I hang up.

  The main streets are still choked with cars heading towards the Wall border crossing points, and the air is thick with the metallic tang of exhaust fumes and the chug of two-stroke engines. Sleet runs like sideways tears on windscreens. I find a courier office just off Pariser Platz and get the Rolleiflex film sent off to Richard in London. When I come out the weather has begun to lift.

  Pedestrians hunch their shoulders against the icy air and hurry past, all except one: a middle-aged man in a check jacket and homburg, who mutters something about changing money. I nod, and we duck into a side street. I exchange some of my Western marks for East, at a rate of four to one. The Eastern notes are as flimsy as Monopoly money, stuffed hastily into my jeans pockets. The man dissolves into the chilly afternoon.

  Gran said her friend might be at work, so it’s too soon to head over there yet. I think about what Richard said, and decide to take some shots of East Berlin. I walk along the grey car-choked streets, then cross the bridge to Museum Island. The baroque dome of the restored cathedral is a dull reflection in the mirrored bronze windows of the Palace of the Republic. At Neptune Fountain a young GDR soldier walks hand in hand with a blonde girl in a pale pink beret and matching coat, oblivious to all but each other. The love-drunk pair make me think of a photograph of Gran and Granddad just after they were married, on VE day: him in his RAF uniform, and her holding his hand, smiling in the spring sunshine in front of the carved grey stones of the cathedral. They were happy together for twenty years, until the worst of marriage wreckers came along: cancer. I never met him, but I know he was the love of her life. I take the East German couple’s photo, hoping to capture the adoration in the soldier’s eyes as he looks at his girlfriend. Did Quill ever look at me like that, I wonder?

  The vertiginous Telecoms tower is a stiletto heel rammed through a Christmas bauble. At its base teenage boys mess around on skateboards. I snap them when they’re not looking, imagining what readers of the Sunday Correspondent will think: they don’t look cowed by communism, they look like teenagers the world over.

  At Alexanderplatz station the early commuter rush spills onto the train: mostly men, in long coats, carrying briefcases, avoiding eye contact, heading off early on a Friday afternoon to homes in the suburbs. Last night’s momentous events at the Wall seemed to have passed most people by. There is nothing of the giddy optimism I photographed at the border crossing last night. Here in the East everyone seems to be carrying on as normal, despite streets jammed with the westbound traffic. I board the train with the businessmen, but it’s too crowded to sit down. I feel my heart thudding, faster than it should, just off the beat of the train on the tracks: an adrenaline disco going on inside me.

  After five stops the coloured lights of the fairground at Treptow Park flicker past like fireworks. For a moment I’m reminded of going on the ghost train at the Ottery St Mary fair with my dad, rattling along the tracks, screaming happily at the unconvincing ghouls. I try to work out when that must have been: I can’t have been more than seven, if Dad was still around.

  I give way to the memories: the bedtime stories Dad conjured from thin air, the touch of his fingertips brushing my hair from my face as I turned away to sleep. Sometimes he’d be
happy, full of energy, and after school we’d rush to take the bus to the beach, dance on rainy sands, and storm the amusement arcades. Other times his eyes drooped, and he’d say he was too tired for anything, and I’d make us both sugar sandwiches and watch old cowboy films on TV with him. I didn’t mind, sitting together in the half-dark. But Mum did, when she came home from work to find curtains drawn, dirty washing-up, and overflowing ashtrays.

  Still thinking of my father, I get off the train at Planterwald, the next stop along the line. A tarmac path runs beside the river Spree. On the opposite bank there are factories and a belching power station. I take a photo of the cityscape, then walk on, past empty benches and litter bins.

  I ask a solitary dog walker – a woman in a quilted grey coat like a raincloud – the way to the park. Her terrier licks my hand as I ruffle his ears, and the woman points to a path through the woods to my left. I thank her and head off. Soon I see the top of the big wheel through the trees. As I walk on the big wheel disappears, the trees are too tall and close, but I start to hear music. Blown by the breeze an amplified pop song falls unevenly between the tree roots: Kylie Minogue singing ‘I Should Be So Lucky’. The ground is slippery with wet earth and fallen leaves. I notice fungus growing like coral in a gap in a tree trunk.

  Funny how some childhood memories stick, but don’t make sense until years later. I remember one argument that didn’t wait until after my bedtime. Dad’s friends had been over all afternoon: air thick with blue smoke and John Martyn albums on the stereo. They’d painted a mural on the living-room wall of a woman with rainbow-coloured hair and a dress made of snakes. I remember Mum throwing open windows, chucking things in the bin, shouting that she could cope with weed, but she drew the line at mushrooms. I must have been about five or six. I thought they were having a row about gardening.