Spitfire Girls (13 page)

‘Josef, why all those old coins?' She tapped his chest playfully.

‘Dogfights.'

They walked down the corridor of the Air Command Headquarters, and a pair of cadets saluted the ace as they passed.

‘You must be old enough to retire – what are you, forty?' she demanded, striding ahead of Ratusz.

‘Not quite. Do you think I have a future in England?'

‘I can't imagine why everyone is going there. What if there is no war? All the stupid Poles will come back.'

‘By that time Poland will be ruled by the Russians – mark my words.' He stopped at the gents' lavatory. ‘Wait here.'

Hana Bukova remembered the first time she had met Josef Ratusz, hero of the First War who had helped England win. Her mother had met him at her flying club and had brought him home for dinner. Their housekeeper had been flustered because she had made only enough prohes for three, and Hana's father had been agitated by the presence of a man with exceptional capabilities. Josef's flaming red hair was always too long, offending Libor Buk even further, but little Hana could only marvel at his spectacular looks, wishing he were her father instead. Libor looked so old next to Josef, she thought.

Vera felt her redheaded genius had shown magnanimity in helping the British. He had explained, in turn, that he was distantly related to the Royal Family and could trace his ancestry back to the first Plantagenets, who were, of course, Polish aristocracy masquerading as Englishmen, he asserted …

‘Father thinks you are mad, you know,' Hana said as he emerged, transformed, from the men's room. They made a swift exit, her hair attracting the usual glances on the sunny courtyard outside the Command building.

‘All royal people are a little bit mad,' he said flatly, looking up at the splendid structure. ‘This used to be a palace in which the Romanovs stayed when they visited.'

‘Rubbish, Josef,' she scoffed, hoisting herself into an old van.

He stared at her oddly, then turned the creaking door handle of the rusting vehicle, and got in beside her. He threw his large bag on to the rear seat, grimacing as he did so.

‘What's the matter now,' she spoke as if he were an elder brother, inasmuch as she had recovered from her childhood crush.

‘This car is filthy,' he said.

‘Wait until you get to England,' retorted Hana. ‘I have heard they bath together once a week there, and eat chopped-rat sausages.'

‘Hana, what is going to happen to us?' His face had paled, and their eyes met.

She lowered her hand from the ignition at the sight of Josef's terrified expression. ‘Just think of those Jews in the Ghetto, Josef, and be grateful.'

‘They don't concern me. Worrying about Jews is tiring. Why don't they all become Catholics?'

Hana started up the engine, and they sped along the main road towards the airfield. She kept silent, and Josef smoked. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that he still gripped his ornate cigarette holder like a woman.

They slowed down.

‘Why are we stopping?' asked Josef.

Hana remained silent, peering through the windscreen at the walls of the Ghetto.

‘What is this fascination you have with these bloody people?' he complained, waving his cigarette in the air.

‘Mother should be here somewhere,' she whispered, glancing from side to side.

‘Why, for God's sake? Have you tricked your own mother into saving Jews?'

‘She didn't have to be tricked. There are special people in her consignment.'

‘If she were to come down over Germany her reward would be worse than that of her cargo, Hana,' he said, looking miserable. ‘They are incinerating Jews but torturing Polish Catholics.'

Hana sat up. ‘Where did you hear this?' she demanded, starting to shake.

‘It is a secret, but now you know it. We will take it with us to the British.'

Hana wanted to run out and stop her mother, but would that mean Benno's fate being sealed? How could she allow anyone to incinerate him? Who could ever torture her adorable Mama? She started the motor again, and they roared away.

At the airfield Hana found her small craft, surrounded by shabby refugees awaiting other pilots. An official approached them, and Hana motioned to Josef to get in. It was too late, and the man in a dark coat tapped the side of her small window. She knew her brief.

‘We are travelling to Lvov.'

‘What is that in your rear seating?' the man demanded.

‘I am under instructions by the Polish government to deliver these confidential papers,' Josef volunteered, uncovering the large lump in the rear section. Hana's heart skipped a beat. Beneath the faded blanket were, indeed, boxes of papers marked with the seal of the Warsaw regime. Their operatives had done their appointed job after all. Josef proffered his own credentials.

‘There is an unusually strong smell of fuel in this aeroplane,' the man grumbled, scowling at Hana. ‘I will send for one of my technicians. Your papers, madam?'

Hana gave him her documents, and he started.

‘Bukova?'

‘Hana.'

He was smiling. ‘I have met your mother, not an hour ago.'

Hana tried to conceal her elation:

‘What was my mother doing?'

‘She had a planeload of diplomats – also going to Lvov.' He handed her back the papers, still smiling. ‘Please do not go yet – I will bring a technician.' He moved off, the two pilots watching him weave in between the parked machines and the hordes of hopeful escapees. As his image receded, Hana became agitated. There was only one thing to do.

‘What the hell – are you insane?!' Josef Ratusz protested.

Refugees unfortunate enough to be close to Hana's aircraft were felled by the sudden explosion of twin propellers, revved with such ferocity as to make the fuselage groan. She knew she would have to be quick, like a squadron leader running to his fighter plane amid a raid, but her small Fokker resisted her urgings.

Above the din Josef shouted:

‘They will shoot us – we'll be sent for incineration with those ghetto Jews!'

By now the little aircraft had gained an amazing momentum. Though Hana could not avoid the unspeakable sin of clipping several stationary craft, she was racing along and had cleared the parking patch.

‘
Please
don't
stall
,' she muttered to the straining machine.

Ratusz had fallen silent. Outside, sirens began to wail
and Hana made for the runway. There was no time for clearance from a groundsman, and as the two extra fuel tanks underneath the diplomatic boxes sloshed menacingly behind the two pilots, two engines agreed not to stall and the aircraft left the ground.

Josef looked down to see the dreaded image of men in Gestapo raincoats firing handguns.

‘Stupid pistols!' he hissed.

Roaring upwards, Hana felt the ping of a bullet underneath her feet.

‘Not so stupid,' she shouted, grinning at Josef.

‘We could still be shot down,' he snarled back. ‘That man had our particulars – mark my words he alerts the Germans.'

‘Nonsense,' said Hana, still in Polish airspace but already levelling off at an even altitude. It was getting cold.

Ratusz shivered, then turned around to inspect the fuel tanks.

‘Leave them be.'

He obeyed, but were she a man there would have been a fight, and that fight would have ended in death. As it was, he could only marvel at her superb flying skills, her control, and the magnificent waves of her hair.

‘What are you staring at, Josef? You should be helping me navigate. Stupid man!'

Ratusz reached over and patted the back of her head, snapping the rear band on her goggles.

‘Wait until we get to Malmö – everyone will want to know why Ratusz is a passenger and the girl flies,' he said, his hands back on his lap.

Hana remained silent, her concentration now at a dizzy
pitch over the dangerous coastline they were fast approaching.

‘I am a slave to this airy space,' Josef almost sang, sadly, gazing out of his small window.

Humming its way across the northern extremity of the girl's native land, the Fokker seemed to accelerate of its own accord when the Baltic began to glimmer beneath. Warsaw to Malmö had taken what seemed a few moments, but already the two pilots were sharing an unspoken urge to make use of the extra fuel. They had been travelling for a considerable period, and now it was time to reach a safe haven. Hana did not like the smell of the tanks, which she knew were leaking, and she prayed their re-entry into a warmer atmosphere would not make everything worse. She saw the coastline of Sweden ahead and prepared for her landing approach. Josef Ratusz was nervous and he worried about the landing, but most pressing of all he worried about England and its men. His medals and his royal claims meant nothing when the very idea of chasing a fox revolted him, thus setting him apart as an alien. It had happened in 1918, and, as England never changed, it would happen again.

Hana was bringing the aircraft down through low cloud, and he shut his eyes. In the blackness of his mind's eye he could see men in red coats on horseback.

There was a vicious thud and a scraping of wheels, the fuel tanks now banging against each other as Hana struggled to maintain stability. Josef's eyes were still shut and as he agonized over a woman controlling his destiny a smell of burning rubber permeated the atmosphere. Sweden was upon them, but inside his head were red coats and horses.

He worried about England, and its men.

Three days had passed and Raine Fischtal had gained three pounds in weight, her enjoyment of rock cakes, chips and saveloys exceeded only by the fascination she had developed for BBC radio drama. In between bulletins warning of German advances, polite, chirpy voices spent hours at a time mulling over commonplace occurrences, some of those voices belonging to the most notable actors of the day. Raine was in solitary confinement but her humour had been salvaged by the presence of an old wireless in the spacious cell her British hosts had provided for the duration of her stay. For three days she had awaited, with calm resolve, the arrival of Gestapo-style torturers but so far she had met only an assortment of immensely courteous civil servants whose humility had embarrassed her, and who ended up treating her like a celebrity.

With some disgust, she had reflected that the English must either be completely mad or totally incompetent in affairs of national security. As of this hour she had revealed nothing except the nature of her contract as official filmmaker to the Third Reich and her knowledge of certain elementary flying techniques. Knowing Hartmut and Zuki, she suspected the British would secure nothing more concrete from that pair.

Lying in her dry and comfortable bed she heard approaching steps and hoped perversely that they might bring some unpleasantness – her figure could use some
stress, she mused. Sitting up abruptly, she knocked her plate of cold baked beans to the floor.

‘
Scheiss!
'

‘Swearing will get you nowhere, Raine!'

Edith Allam, dressed in a stylish zippered flying suit, was led into the luxurious chamber in which her German friend was being held captive.

‘Please forgive this mess,' Raine apologized. Then she glared at the uniformed guard. ‘You! Clean this up!'

He obeyed.

‘Christ almighty! You've got these Brits eating out of the palm of your hand.'

‘Of course,' said Raine, motioning for Edith to sit. ‘They know I am someone special.'

‘I'm sorry it has ended up this way, Raine.'

‘You lied to me.'

‘I did not lie. Maybe I'm naive, but I actually thought the British would welcome all four of us. It just shows you how isolated America has become. Apparently my telegrams arrived, were zipped over to Fleet Street and in no time the government top brass were ready to swoop before we had landed. It seems as if the British press and the government are as one. I'm sorry, sorry,
sorry
.'

Raine stared at Edith, unmoved.

‘But rest assured your film is safe, and you will get it back,' Edith continued, searching Raine's face for some sign of pleasure.

Creaking open her door and locking it behind him, the guard knelt to clear up the mess.

‘No Yank security guard would be seen dead cleaning up for a convict,' Edith remarked.

Observing her in silence, the guard straightened to his full height without making a sound.

‘May I see your Leica, Raine?' she asked, eyeing the matchless German camera that rested underneath the bed.

‘Of course.'

The guard watched the girls for an instant, then retreated, locking the door again as he disappeared down the corridor of the detention centre.

‘They are setting up makeshift places like this all over Britain, I gather,' Edith said, relaxing back into the spacious easy chair filling one corner of the chamber. She reached for the camera.

‘It's a waste of time,' Raine asserted. ‘Germany will march in to England soon, and that will be the end of it – all the wrong people are incarcerated at the moment, you understand?'

‘Sure. Soon the British will come to their senses and start capturing Jewish scientists and lawyers with Germanic names, using this as an excuse to keep Krauts off the streets. In reality, what they will be doing is preparing in advance for the Nazi takeover, showing your guys they can be just as efficient at rounding up undesirables. Think of all the employment Britain will generate, building and maintaining concentration camps. These islands could become the centre of world extermination.'

‘How do you know about concentration camps?' Raine asked, her eyes coming alive.

Edith gulped. Her mouth had overstepped her brain once more.

‘Oh – it's just a wild theory I developed when I was drunk, that's all.'

Raine scrutinized the American girl. ‘Edith, can I entrust you with something?' She knelt on the floor, reaching under the camp bed and pulling out a small, soiled leather bag tied shut with a drawstring. It smelled of petrol.