The Pathfinder (21 page)

Before he could say anything, Celia spoke – not looking at him but away down across the field, shielding her eyes against the low sun. ‘I think it's much better if we're honest, Michael, don't you? Our parents both seem intent on marrying us off to each other – it's awfully obvious, isn't it? Bless them, they're not very subtle. But they've rather overlooked the fact that it might not be at all what you, or I, are planning. That they might have got the whole thing completely wrong.' She turned her head towards him, smiling. ‘Will you be the one to disillusion them, or shall I? Or would it be kinder and wiser to say nothing?'

He said slowly, ‘I think it would be better to say nothing.'

‘I agree. There's really nothing to say, is there? They'll give up eventually. I'm sorry if it's an embarrassment for you.'

‘It isn't. I hope it isn't for you.'

‘Of course not. Let's just ignore it.' She looked away again. ‘I can't see Brandy. Do you think she's gone off somewhere?'

He whistled for the spaniel who reappeared from a hedge and scampered towards them, tongue lolling. They set off back towards the house. The sun had sunk lower, casting long dark shadows, and rooks were wheeling and cawing over the woods, preparing to roost for the night. The perfect moment had passed and gone. He was grateful to Celia for her frankness and relieved that he had misjudged her feelings. She had seemed almost as anxious as himself to put an end to the situation.

‘When are you going back to Berlin, Michael?'

‘My leave's up on Tuesday.'

‘Good luck, then. It sounds as though you'll be needing it over there.'

He nodded grimly. ‘All the luck we can get.'

‘I'll still write, if you like. Give you the home news.'

He glanced at her as she walked beside him; her face was calm and composed. ‘Please do, if you get the time.'

Ten

Coming in to land at RAF Gatow, the Dakota passed low over the surrounding pine forests and the grey waters of the Havel See. It looked bleak and depressing – as though winter had already taken a firm grip in his absence – and it was raining. The Dakota touched, bounced and settled. It flashed past the two GCA cabins, ran on smoothly and turned towards the unloading apron. Besides passengers, Harrison's plane was carrying bags of mail, cigarettes, medical supplies, and an assortment of necessities – razor blades, candles, boots and shoes, socks and, ominously, a large consignment of hot-water bottles for the sick and elderly. Another plane had landed just ahead and there would be another close behind, and another behind that, and yet another . . . a continuous succession of them, as precisely spaced as beads on a string.

Harrison was out as soon as the door was open, down the steps and onto the wet and windswept tarmac. A reloaded York lumbered by, heading for the row of blue lamps that marked the taxi track. The Australian Air Force Dakota that had landed ahead of them was already being unloaded – a gang of German labourers heaving sacks of flour fast onto a backed-up lorry. Ten minutes was the calculated unloading time for a Dakota, seventeen for the Skymaster parked next door. Thirty minutes allowed on the apron for unloading and reloading. Fifty minutes, in all, from touchdown to take-off. That was the aim and, more often than not, it was achieved. Beyond the RAAF Dakota stood a brand new Handley Page Hastings and alongside it a row of civil aircraft painted with their company names: Eagle Aviation, Bond Air Services, Skyways, Westminster Airways, the Lancashire Aircraft Corporation. The motley collection contracted from seventeen private civil airlines to the airlift cause was another big headache: many of them were decrepit old machines with no spares or compatible equipment.

He threaded his way through the constant criss-cross traffic of heavy lorries and trucks, passing an RAF pilot and navigator who, from their black-streaked faces, had just brought in a consignment of coal. A group of Berlin children were waiting to board a Dakota, standing patiently among the rain puddles. He paused for a moment. They reminded him of an assembly of British evacuees that he had once seen during the war on a railway station platform in London. Pasty-white and tearful faces, pathetic bundles and baskets, luggage labels tied to buttonholes on shabby, make-do clothes.

He watched the German children begin scrambling up the aircraft steps, a harassed-looking RAF flight lieutenant at the top shepherding them in through the open door. They were the lucky ones, though, Harrison thought. They'd be out of it before winter really set in. A Tudor tanker had landed and was heading for the liquid fuel depot at the back of the unloading apron; beyond that lay the coal depot that was never still. The York's engines were bellowing at the end of the runway and it began its take-off run. He turned his head to see it climb into the sky.

Two hours later he was back on duty in the Operations Room.

The skeleton was of a small child. Lili had uncovered it, digging down with her spade into a heap of rubble. She had gone deep and turned over the broken bricks, almost as though she were digging for potatoes. But instead of potatoes, she had fetched up the bones of a small hand and arm. The bones were still attached to the rest of the remains which were buried deeper under a heavy block of masonry. The other
trummerfrauen
gathered around. After some discussion, they combined their strength to roll the block to one side and then began, very carefully, to scrape away the debris beneath, following the direction of the arm. It took some time before the rest of the skeleton was exposed.

The child would have been about three years old and was lying on its back with one arm outstretched, the other arm across its small ribcage, the head back a little. The bones were fleshless, long since picked clean by the rats, but scraps of blue striped material adhered to them in places and there was still hair on the skull – blond curls. Beautiful hair. The mouth, slightly open, as though in a laugh, showed perfect little white teeth. The women stared down in silence at first and then one or two of them started weeping.

It was dark by the time Lili had walked home. She let herself into the apartment and took off her headscarf and her coat. Grandfather was dozing in his chair and Dirk sitting at the table, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette.

‘Where is Rudi?'

He looked up. ‘Lying down on his bed, reading a book. He's OK. What's the matter, Lili?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Yes, there is. I can tell by your face.'

She came and sat at the table with him and rested her head in her hands. ‘We found the body of a small child in the ruins today. It upset me, that's all.'

‘It's not the first you've found, is it?'

‘It's the first child. So small . . . a little boy, I think. Perhaps three years old.'

‘Forget about it, Lili. He died years ago. It's finished.'

‘I wonder what happened to his mother and father . . . If they died, too.'

‘Well, the father was most probably away fighting and is dead and the mother was very likely killed by the same bomb as her child.'

‘Or she might have survived and never found him. Or the father came back from the war and could not find either of them. You know, like those notices people put up all over the city, begging for any news of someone. I stop to read them sometimes and it breaks my heart. I stand there crying . . .' Tears came into her eyes.

‘You shouldn't read them. You're torturing yourself, Lili. Forget all about it. Have a cigarette. I found four packets at work today.' He meant, of course, that he had stolen them, but she had given up remonstrating with him. He lit one for her with his American lighter. ‘You're tired, that's the trouble. You shouldn't do that crazy job any more. I'm always telling you. We'll find you something else. Perhaps with the Americans. They have German women working at Tempelhof.'

‘What sort of work?'

‘Waitresses, cleaners, in the kitchens, sweeping out the planes . . . It's not wonderful but it's better than what you're doing.'

‘I don't mind what I'm doing. And I'm not sure I'd want to be a servant to the Americans. Or the British, either. Seeing that little child has reminded me of what they did to us.'

‘The war is over, Lili, and the sooner you realize that, the better. The Allies are our friends, now – they have to be – and we have to be friends with them if we want to survive. It's stupid to think otherwise.'

She handed him the cigarette. ‘You have this. I don't want it. I must go and see how Rudi is.'

He was curled up on his bed, reading one of Father's English books:
Oliver Twist
by Charles Dickens. Again, he had not been well enough to go to school. ‘This is a good book, Lili. I do not understand everything but enough to follow the story. I am very sorry for Oliver. The English did not treat poor orphans well.'

He was a poor orphan himself and in just as bad circumstances. Worse, perhaps, because the story in the book, she remembered, had a happy ending. She said, ‘Be careful you don't strain your eyes. The light is bad in here.'

‘Oh, I can see enough.'

Since reading was one of the very few things he had to enjoy, it was unthinkable to stop him. ‘I am going to cook some supper. I'll call you when it's ready.'

He didn't ask what it was; he had no real interest in eating any more and in any case it was always the same sort of thing. As she reached the door, he said, ‘Do you think the squadron leader will come again soon?'

‘I told you, he went to England on leave, I don't know when he'll be back.'

‘I've been thinking more about what he said – about my going away.'

‘Yes?'

‘I really wouldn't mind too much – if it wasn't for long. Would there be books?'

‘I'm sure there would be.'

‘And the squadron leader thought it would be a good idea, didn't he? You said that.'

‘Yes, he did. He didn't think you should spend the winter in Berlin. Nor do I, Rudi. Not the way things are. But we must wait to see if it is possible for the RAF to take you out. Since we are not in the British sector, it may be difficult. Nothing is promised.'

She went back to prepare the supper: cabbage, yet again, and some turnips, with slices of liver sausage and dumplings. She simmered it all in the big pot. One day, she vowed, I am never, ever going to eat cabbage again.

They had just finished eating and Rudi had gone off to bed when the doorbell rang and Dirk went to open the door. It was Nico.

He came into the room, smiling his toad's smile. Even from several feet away, she could smell the smell of him. ‘Good evening, Lili. I hope I am not disturbing you?'

He always disturbs me, she thought. I am never at ease when he is in the room. They sat down round the table and she took the chair furthest from him and occupied herself with some mending. Nico kept his coat on against the cold. He had brought more things for them: a tin of American corned beef, some soap, some Nestles condensed milk. She wished he would stop and wanted to tell him so. Dirk, naturally, would not agree. He could never understand her dislike and distrust of Nico.
He's a good fellow, Lili. He helps us. You should be grateful
.

Nico produced one more item from his coat pocket – something in a flat paper bag. ‘For you, dear Lili. Something rather special.' She put it down on the table. ‘Please open it.' She did so, reluctantly, and found it was a pair of stockings. ‘American nylons,' Nico said, his dark eyes fixed on her. ‘I was sure you would be pleased by them. They are hard to come by, even for me.'

‘Thank you.'

They were gossamer-fine but she knew she would never wear them because they were from him. That he had given such an intimate present repelled her.

Grandfather had got up to switch on the wireless and was turning the dial. There were the usual squeals and howls and the torrent of Russian propaganda from Radio Berlin, and then an American male voice soulfully singing some popular song.
I wish I didn't love you so
 . . . Surprisingly, Grandfather, who had never listened to anything but Viennese waltzes and operetta, had taken happily to the American sector station, RIAS. He settled down again in his chair, nodding his head. Nico laughed. ‘The old man likes it.'

She didn't care for the lack of respect. ‘Grandfather has always loved music.'

‘Forgive me . . . of course. He is a Berliner. Berliners always love music. And to dance, isn't that so? They love to dance.'

She shrugged. ‘It's a long time since I saw people dancing.'

‘Lili is tired and out of sorts today,' Dirk said. ‘I have been telling her that she ought not to go on with that labouring work she does. We should find something else better.'

‘I agree with you, Dirk.'

‘There are lots of German girls employed at Tempelhof, but she won't listen to me.'

Nico was fitting one of his Turkish cigarettes into his holder. He flicked his lighter and the smell of the tobacco burning joined the smell of cologne and hair oil. ‘It so happens that I know a man who is in charge of the workforce at one of the Siemens factories. If you like, Lili, I will ask him if he could take you on. They have many women applying, of course, but he owes me a favour.'

‘Thank you, but no, Nico.'

Dirk made a gesture of helplessness. ‘She's crazy.'

‘Well, at least she has had the good sense to remain here. It's much better for all of you – I told you that. You have food and you have electric light. Did you know that households in the western sectors are allowed only four hours of electricity in a day and their gas supply goes off every evening? A little bag of coal is all they are being given to last the winter and unless they can afford candles or kerosene they must sit in the cold and dark with just their hunger for company.'