March 1945, Romania
Tom
‘It’s not always the best policy.’ Tom felt a hand on his back.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘Honesty, old man. Not always the best policy.’ Major Croft held a clipboard in one hand. A piece of string attached a pen to the bulldog clip at the top of the clipboard. The paperwork fluttered and flipped in the wind. He had been going down the line, ticking off all the allied prisoners and forced workers on his list: the line of ticks looked like the seagulls that whirled on the thermals above the docks. But there was one missing. Where a gull should be, there was instead a worm – a question mark next to Detta’s name.
‘But I told you, and so did Flight Sergeant Harper, she saved our lives. You have that in writing in our repatriation statements, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, but—’
‘But she’s German?’
‘It does put me in rather an awkward position with London.’
‘An awkward position?’
‘Yes. Rather.’
Major Croft was a reservist. Too old for combat, he’d spent the war desk-bound, somewhere in London. This jolly to the Black Sea to log the homecoming prisoners under the reciprocal Yalta agreement would be the closest he’d ever get to the action, Tom surmised.
‘I just thought, better to come clean now. I had to claim she was French to get her away. But we wouldn’t want anyone from our side to think we were being underhand about it. It was a matter of survival, don’t you see?’
The major’s hand was still between his shoulder blades in what was probably intended as some kind of paternal gesture. Tom shook it off. An awkward position? Try being shot out of the sky and having to survive on your wits for the next three years, that’s ruddy awkward, sunshine.
The wind had whipped the grey clouds into peaks, mirroring the tumultuous sea. He could taste brine on his tongue. ‘Would it be “awkward” for London if I refused to get on the ship without her, and telegrammed the British Press to explain why?’ Tom said, looking out to where the Highland Princess strained her bulk against the anchor lines, like a horse at the reins – as if she, too, couldn’t wait to be rid of this Godforsaken port. A line of Russian POWs were filing off the ship, like a trickle of oil, spilling down the gangplank and onto the docks.
‘Don’t quite catch your drift.’ The major’s greying moustache was lifted by the gale as he spoke.
‘I’m not leaving without her.’
The major sighed. ‘Why the hell did you have to tell me she was an enemy alien?’
‘The war will be over soon, maybe even by the time we make it back to England. What difference does it really make?’
The major didn’t answer; he looked out to where Detta sat, on the sheltered seat he’d encouraged her to sit on, behind the pile of pallets. What had seemed like chivalry, was in fact cowardice, Tom realized – the old buffer had wanted her out of the way whilst he broke the news to Tom that she wouldn’t be joining them on the long voyage home. Sensing their gaze, she turned and waved, smiling, unaware that her freedom was in the balance.
Behind her, the sea and sky were the same grey-green as the Wehrmacht uniforms she’d found for them to escape in, all those weeks ago in Lossen. ‘Look, she helped us escape from the SS. She saved our lives. I’m not leaving her,’ Tom said.
‘I’m afraid my hands are tied. I can’t have a German on board without explicit authority from London.’
‘You’re not seriously planning on leaving her here with the Ivans? You know what they’ll do to her, don’t you?’
‘As I said, my hands are tied.’
‘Do you have any children, Major?’
‘Yes, two daughters, Dinah and Eve.’
‘How old?’
‘Sixteen and eighteen. Dinah’s just joined the Wrens. Funny to think she was only twelve in September ’39, still a child, really, and now she’s off doing her bit for King and country like the rest of us. Time flies, eh?’
‘Would you leave your eldest daughter alone here with the Russian soldiers?’
‘Well, of course not, but – look here, you’re putting me in an impossible situation.’
The last of the Russian POWs were filing off the Highland Princess now, and the queue of allied escapees and forced workers bunched forward in anticipation of boarding. Tom glanced at Detta again. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave her here.
He grabbed the major’s pen and scrawled a tick over the question mark next to Detta’s name.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Major Croft snatched the clipboard away, and in doing so the ink blotted the line of type. ‘The record is spoiled now, you chump.’
‘Yes it is. It’s impossible to be clear on this passenger’s details, isn’t it? Perhaps you could have London wire the ship when she docks at Port Said to request clarification?’
The pen swung like a pendulum below the crumpled sheets of paper. ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ The major stopped the swinging pen with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Dashed windy, pen seems to have slipped.’ He ran a line through the remainder of the record, obliterating Detta’s nationality.
The barriers were lifted, then, and the queue began to surge forward. Detta got up from her seat and came over to join him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Tom said, shaking his free hand.
‘Not at all.’ Major Croft cleared his throat and turned to Detta. ‘Bon voyage, dear,’ he said. Just then there was an enormous honk from the red funnel. Major Croft stepped sideways, away from the queue, and Tom and Detta were caught up in the human swell. ‘Bon voyage to the pair of you!’ the major called out, and was lost from view as they rose like a tide with the others towards the waiting ship.
April 1945, The Irish Sea
Detta
‘There it is!’ He pointed East and she looked. It didn’t seem much, that doodle on the horizon, a shade darker than the cloud-laden skies and churning sea. A honk reverberated from the ship’s red funnel, and white froth laced their stern. Seagulls mewled and swung overhead. Tom grinned, dropped his pointing arm, draped it round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Detta leant into him, hoping that by sheer proximity some of his homecoming joy would rub off on her. ‘Bloody good to be back,’ he murmured, kissing her temple, where the wind whisked her hair from her forehead.
Home. Was it her home?
Until now she’d managed to put the future from her mind, drifting in the day-to-day routine of life on board. At Port Said there had been oranges – oranges! She had forgotten what they even tasted like. Their waistlines thickened and their cheeks tanned as they chugged across the Mediterranean. The French had all jumped ship at Naples. Detta wondered if they’d got back home with their girlfriends by now. Tom had joked that they should make the most of the trip, saying it would be the only time he’d be able to take her on a sunshine cruise on his RAF salary. It was almost like a honeymoon, the lazy, drowsy days. Almost – there was precious little privacy on a troop ship, of course. She’d had to share a cabin with a Polish girl called Wanda, and Tom was down below with the men. Even so, they had managed a few snatched moments of intimacy, and he’d promised to marry her the second they disembarked.
The port – Liverpool, it was called – was closer now. She could distinguish the outlines of buildings and ships in the dock. ‘We’ll be off this tub by nightfall,’ Tom said, and started to talk about which hotel they could stay at, and how they could get a special licence for the wedding so they wouldn’t have to wait. ‘I want to have a ring on your finger before I take you down to Devon to meet the family,’ he said.
As he spoke she was wondering distractedly whether there might be somewhere to get her hair done. It felt like a luxury, even to think about it, but she indulged herself in girlish thoughts, just for a moment. She glanced up at the ship’s red funnel and thought of lipstick. Could you get hold of cosmetics in Britain, after all these years of war? It would be wonderful to have lipstick to wear on her wedding day, she thought, half-listening to Tom and watching Liverpool get larger as the ship steamed into port. When a figure came up behind them, she assumed it must be Gordon, coming to join them as the ship finally docked.
‘Warrant Officer Jenkins?’ It was a voice she didn’t recognize. They both spun round. It was a naval officer: white jacket with braid, florid face beneath his cap.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Miss Odette Bruncel?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, please.’ An order phrased as a question: they had no choice but to follow him inside.
The saloon was empty, save for the table at the far end by the bulkhead doors, where two other uniformed men sat. They looked up as Tom and Detta came over, but did not stand to greet them.
‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure it’s just a formality,’ Tom said. But a shiver ran right through Detta as she was told to stay where she was, and Tom was called up to the table alone. He was not invited to sit, but stood ‘at ease’ as they spoke to him. She strained, but was too far away to hear what was being said. All she could hear were the sounds of the ship coming into port: the honk from the funnel and the answering toot-toot of one of the port’s tug boats; the clang and thunk of metal chains being lowered, and, faintly, the strains of a military band striking up, tinny as a scratched gramophone record.
When they led Tom out she felt the thud as the bow made contact with the docks. His eyes slipped sideways to meet hers, and she had the urge to reach out and touch him as he passed, but he was too far away, and then he was gone, together with the first officer, the saloon door slamming behind them.
‘Miss Bruncel?’ The officer on the right looked up, and she knew she should approach. Her legs felt weak, as if she’d got up for the first time after a long illness. She forced herself forward. Close up she could see the man was quite old: what was left of his hair ran in grey furry strips above his large ears. The other man had dark brown hair oiled flat across his forehead, and didn’t look up, just continued to write something in red ink on his papers. It was the same red as the ship’s funnel, she noticed, that curling ribbon of text, the same colour as the lipstick she’d hoped to find for her wedding day. She couldn’t read the words he wrote: upside down in that funny foreign language.
‘Miss Odette Bruncel?’ the older man repeated. She nodded. ‘From Lossen, in Germany?’ She nodded again. ‘Date of birth 25th of September 1925?’ Another nod. ‘As an enemy alien, you will be taken to a reception centre for questioning as soon as the ship docks. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
She’d said she understood, but she hadn’t, not really. She hadn’t known that she’d be handcuffed immediately, without even the chance to say goodbye to Tom or collect her things from her cabin.
There were flags and bunting swagging the docks, people waving handkerchiefs and cheering, and the band played ‘Rose Marie I love you’ as she was shunted down the gangplank. The waiting crowd’s happiness swelled like an overblown balloon, fit to burst. Detta’s eyes flicked round, looking for a glimpse of Tom, but he was nowhere, nowhere at all. Just as her head was pushed down, ducking her into the back of the waiting black car, she saw a blonde woman break free from behind the barrier and rush up to one of the disembarking prisoners, kissing him, long and hard, like she’d never let him go. Then the door was slammed shut.
The wipers pulled grey raindrops across the oblong windscreen, but the rear of the van was blacked out, so she couldn’t see the docks, the ship or the endless grey seas, or whether Tom had seen her being taken away at all.