Spitfire Girls Page 11

  ‘They’ve been put in a funny new place on the Isle of Man. I’m being flown over there, then I come back here for my big send-off.’

  ‘Send-off?’

  Edith measured her words:

  ‘I am going home and then coming back here.’

  ‘What about Hartmut and Zuki, and the Führer’s aircraft?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to see them right now.’ Edith rose, stuffing the doll into her deepest pocket. ‘Take care of yourself, Raine.’ She knew the Führer’s aircraft was already well and truly impounded.

  ‘Please tell Hartmut and Zuki,’ Raine whispered, her guard dozing, ‘I still have the roll of film in my camera – the important roll for the Führer. From my window I can see this whole encampment and I have taken one or two good wide shots with the last remaining exposures. Perhaps I should not be telling you this – I am spying, in so many words, right under their noses.’

  ‘Miss Fischtal?’ A polite voice interrupted the two girls. They could see a drably dressed official beyond the steel bars. ‘It is time for your interview.’

  ‘They call it an interview!’ Raine exclaimed, laughing. ‘What a country.’ She reached out and touched Edith’s arm, squeezing it affectionately. ‘You are an amazing girl, little Jewess,’ she said, grinning.

  Edith had timed her visit to coincide with the interview schedule. As Raine was led away, she lingered in the chamber.

  ‘When you are released, the Hindenburg reels will be returned to you intact. Their word of honour, and mine,’ she shouted as Raine was marched down the corridor. ‘Rotten Kraut!’

  ‘Go to hell, Jud,’ retorted Raine, grinning back. When she had gone the guard was wide awake and was gaping at the American.

  ‘We tease each other,’ Edith muttered. ‘Have you ever seen these?’ She handed him a pack of Winston filter-tips. He became engrossed in the cigarettes as she scooped up Raine’s leather pouch and in masterly fashion reached for the Leica, rewound the film and replaced it with a fresh roll, advancing it to the same exposure as before. ‘Thank God,’ Edith muttered to herself, noticing the American markings on the canister. Had the film been German she could not have replaced it and the mission would have been catastrophic.

  Edith walked briskly down the corridor, not looking back and praying she would not be searched upon her departure. At the front gate, to her delight, Tim Haydon had arrived with a gaggle of MPs, to inspect the premises of the hastily organized detention centre. Circumventing the crowd that had gathered, she left by a rear door and thrust her hand back into the pocket containing the doll, adding the film to keep it company. Raine had given her something special and even if destiny said they were racial enemies she wanted to keep one German mother happy. In exchange for her kindness, she had helped herself to what she hoped was a bonus.

  Jumping into the car, Edith could see this new Beaverbrook chauffeur looking deprived. He had heard about the riches she had showered on his colleague.

  ‘When I am back from America, Joe, be assured there will be chocolate and Camels for you, too.’

  He grunted.

  Edith held her breath. His driving was abysmal, and he smelled. She let her mind wander to Hartmut and Zuki. Other American girls, like Molly Santarello, might not have cared, but here she was, a Jewess, worried about the fate of two Nazis. Looking out of the window and trying to ignore the atmosphere of hostility seeming to rise like a cloud from her driver, she watched rural England racing by and fingered the film in her pocket. There was a peace about this countryside that, though flat, somehow reminded her of the rolling hills of Pennsylvania, and she half expected that at any moment a family of Amish farmers would emerge, their black garb set against the yellow of the well-tended fields. Here in a land readying itself for another bloodletting, she watched sheep grazing and could envisage their markings coagulating into swastikas in a year’s time, men like Hartmut owning vast tracts of land and women like Raine parading in uniform.

  Where would characters with the courage of Valerie Cobb fit in?

  Even in the United States, where Roosevelt fought daily with a Congress of appeasement, men on the street knew about the build-up of German air power. While the British took pride in their merchant fleet, chugging in and out of Southampton and New York with grandeur, Hitler Youth of both sexes were learning skills to far outclass the children of the New World, and German factories were producing aircraft by the thousand – dwarfing the meagre supplies of antiquated machines peppering the fields of English flying clubs. Women like Valerie, and her crop of indomitable fliers, could be at the forefront of a sudden conflict: if there were not enough pilots their presence could tip the balance. How odd, Edith thought, that carnage catapulted women into jobs forbidden to them in peacetime – and by those very men who also concocted the war games.

  ‘Is this what you was wanting, miss?’ growled Joe, his bull-like neck red, hairy and unwashed.

  Edith was gratified that his reckless driving had brought them that much sooner to the airfield from which she would be flown to Hartmut and Zuki. She had consented to being flown, instead of flying herself, because she was still exhausted and dizzy from her transatlantic ordeal.

  ‘Thank you, Joe. When I am back tonight, will you be here to pick me up?’

  ‘Not bloody likely.’ He did not look at her when he spoke, and Edith hated the man.

  ‘Then who is going to be here?’

  ‘Can’t say, miss,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s my night out with the missus.’

  ‘Do you have children, Joe?’

  ‘What’s it to you, then?’ He scowled at the girl, tapping the steering wheel impatiently.

  ‘I just thought I might bring them some things from home when I come back.’

  ‘I’m not a charity case.’ He paused. ‘I’ve a lad that wants to be a pilot – but I’ll beat the life out of him before he goes on that lark.’

  ‘Flying is a terrific profession.’

  ‘Is it then, miss?’ He had started the motor and was chewing his lip.

  ‘What’s his name? Valerie Cobb may want to recruit him.’

  ‘Put my Cal anywhere near that madwoman? You must be joking.’

  In the distance Edith could see her aircraft being readied and she backed away from the car.

  ‘Goodbye, Joe,’ she said, but he had already reversed, creating a cloud of dust.

  Edith walked to the three-seater Spartan and was surprised to see another passenger in the aeroplane. She lifted herself into the tiny cabin and on closer inspection discovered she was in the company of two women in flying suits.

  ‘I’m Barbara Newman, and this is Sally Remington.’

  ‘Edith Allam. You’re both dressed for flying. Who’s the pilot here?’

  ‘I am,’ Barbara replied. ‘What do you call that you’re wearing?’

  Edith looked down at the plethora of zippered pockets across her own suit and she laughed. ‘Does one of you know the way to the Isle of Man?’

  ‘Barbara will fly you there, and, as I have just obtained my night-flight licence, I will bring you back.’

  Edith settled herself in the rear of the small aircraft and as it soared into the afternoon sky Joe March stopped Lord Beaverbrook’s car and spat out of the window. He looked at his watch and headed back toward London, which he would reach by pub opening time. He had not seen his wife or son for a week.

  ‘Bloody pilots. Bunch of perverts,’ he mumbled, and drove away, not caring if Edith Allam ever came back – dead or alive.

  During that short flight through clear weather Sally and Barbara kept Edith entertained with elaborate anecdotes about their sporting careers. Her dizziness had subsided while airborne, but as soon as the Spartan landed she felt ill yet again. Bracing herself, she climbed out of the aircraft and shook Barbara’s hand.

  ‘Thank you so very much,’ she said, smiling gratefully. ‘I look forward to Chatterbox Number Two flying me back.’

  Sally stuck out her tongue playfully, all three w
omen united in the special spirit of friendship that always seemed to blossom amongst pilots. As her ferry team retreated to the tiny terminal building Edith could see the detention centre in the distance. Her energy seemed to return in one great wave, and she walked with vigour to the front entrance.

  ‘I am looking for Hartmut Weiss and Zuki Pilzer.’

  She was directed to the back garden of the building, which until recently had been a stately home. Edith chuckled at the sight of Hartmut and Zuki sunning themselves in the company of a uniformed official.

  ‘Edith!’ Hartmut exclaimed, jumping from his lounge chair.

  ‘This looks like fun, boys,’ she said, as the others rose.

  ‘We are rather new at this, madam,’ said the official, making a little bow.

  ‘No need to curtsey – I’m not royalty.’

  ‘Unfortunately, madam, because these two gentlemen are the nation’s first – shall we say? – informal detainees, they must not hold conversations with anyone except government officials.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘We have reason to believe they may be German spies.’

  ‘That’s crazy!’ asserted Edith.

  Hartmut was staring at her.

  ‘Edith is a famous aviatrix,’ said Zuki impressively.

  ‘May I give them a message from a friend?’ asked Edith.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said the official, still standing.

  She knew she could get nowhere, and Hartmut’s gaze made her feel uneasy. She sat. To her astonishment he reached over and took her hand in his, holding it loosely but just enough to make her tingle.

  ‘I really must ask you to leave,’ the polite English gentleman said, staring at the joined hands.

  ‘They fall in love!’ Zuki chuckled.

  ‘God forbid,’ Edith said, withdrawing her fingers from the German’s grip.

  ‘Please would you come with me,’ said the official.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded angrily.

  ‘In these times in which we live, one gives obeisance to authority.’

  ‘I’m an American on some puny island, and these are my friends.’

  ‘That is why it would be wise for you to come with me.’ He led her away.

  ‘Are you afraid they might run away while you’re not looking?’

  ‘They wouldn’t. Miss Allam, you should distance yourself from these men.’

  ‘How do you know my last name?’

  ‘We have certain information.’

  Edith’s heart was banging and she wanted to leave this place. ‘Could you please give Hartmut a message?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tell him Raine is fine and the film is still in the camera.’

  ‘I shall pass on the message. He did ask me to give you this, if you ever visited.’

  Edith saw him remove an unsealed green envelope from his jacket pocket, her name written on the outside in ornate German script.

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt another dizzy spell coming on. ‘Mr …?’

  ‘Anthony Seifert,’ he said, and Edith could have sworn he clicked his heels. ‘At your service.’ He turned away and marched back to his charges.

  Edith waved to the men and made her way to the airfield, where her lady pilots would be surprised to have had so short a break, and where she would board the little Spartan and laugh in their glorious company. There would be no chauffeur to take her back to the Beaverbrook villa, but she would walk, her body numb as she read Hartmut’s words by the moonlight, before sinking into bed as dawn was breaking.

  18

  In a beautifully photographed newsreel, daily life in Naziland was being portrayed by a breathless narrator in a tone of apprehension tinged with a kind of perverse excitement. Hitler’s handmaidens smiled out from under Tyrolean headwear, and his footmen kicked in the faces of corner shopkeepers. Frame by frame the natives were proving they were, indeed, the best Germany had to offer – except, of course, for its flagship ‘Hindenburg’, now aflame in a terrifying finale.

  At the conclusion of the newsreel the lights came up on a stage and in front of the screen a troupe of dancers emerged. Pollock’s Afternoon Theatre was providing entertainment for an assortment of people who had found themselves in Aldgate East, and on this day Alec Harborne and his fiancée Marion Wickham, in bomber jackets, were laughing their heads off. Scenes of horrors across one Channel and an ocean had left little impression, but the twosome had now come alive watching one of Britain’s finest pilots doing what she did to earn a living.

  Stella Teague, possessed of all the qualifications for RAF distinction, had trained as a ballerina and her tiny figure gave her a waif-like, almost pathetic appearance. It was therefore a shock, to those who allowed themselves to pity her, when she would rush away from rehearsals to serve a force inside her: aeroplanes had begun to overtake her bloodstream and her body had acquired an ache when compelled to remain grounded. Stella had loved earning a living from an exceptional occupation, but now a dilemma was emerging. Her company had been scheduled to tour the Americas, but rumours of a European war had scotched her greatest chance of New York stardom, as well as the chances her ballet master had had for international acclaim. He was German, his name was Grunberg, and he was classified in Britain as an Alien To Be Watched.

  Now Stella had been relegated to movie-house sideshows, because the cancellation of her suspect master’s tour had been compounded by her preoccupation with flying. Dance could no longer be her life. To pass her A and B licences, she had had to sit still and study, and to be a Rambert she must keep moving. Her libido had been sequestered, much to the concern of her parents, especially when tutu money had gone into a bomber jacket. Valerie Cobb had visited her flying club and when she had accompanied the MP’s daughter to a pilots’ gathering in Austria Valerie had warned her that this would be the last of these friendly events.

  Upon Stella’s return, the senior Teagues expressed their concern that she had no man in her life, but like most girls who had encountered Valerie Cobb her mind had become preoccupied with bettering her flying skills. She would set her sights on C and D licences. Grunberg fretted daily, and Stella got impatient with the ballet master. Why didn’t he try flying?

  ‘Men aren’t allowed in here! Get out!’ shrieked an outraged ballerina.

  Alec Harborne had marched into the girls’ changing room in the cold, damp snake-pit that passed as a theatre.

  Transformed into a pilot with the donning of her bomber jacket and trousers, Stella laughed as Alec taunted the other dancing girls, his Scottish accent remarkably out of place amongst the well-spoken females. That they had found themselves in Aldgate East was as incongruous as Stella’s tiny figure in flier’s garb.

  Marion Wickham faced a similar future and was still fighting daily with her parents about her expensive hobby. Flying had been an obsession ever since she had watched her uncle, a World War I ace, putting together a homemade biplane in their meagre back acre. It was not until she met Hana Bukova, the brilliant multilingual Polish pilot, on her trip to Austria, that she realized she was not the only girl to have been inspired by a mad relative. In Hana’s case, it had been her own mother and when Marion had related this later to her parents Mr Wickham had taken to his bed and Mrs Wickham had taken to her garden.

  All the women who had met at the last friendly fly-in on the Austro-German border were living out a dream beyond the highest hopes of their mundane contemporaries, whose ambitions were to work in a library, or an MP’s office, and to marry an affluent barrister. Meeting Alec Harborne, a passionate character never destined to be called to the Bar, had given Marion a semblance of normality in the eyes of her family. Her eagerness to fly still caused arguments, but stocky, red-haired Alec would intervene and shock everyone by declaiming accurate quotations from epic poems.

  ‘Yesterday I took a woman to Elstree and she nearly died when I lit up after take-off,’ Alec related chattily, the girl pilots in tow. ‘She spent the journey in a state of shock, and when she a
sked me how long it would take to reach our destination, I shouted, “Four cigarettes.” She nearly fainted.’

  Now they were on an omnibus and hatted lady shoppers were glaring.

  ‘I’d like to see a few of these dancing girls in the air – out of their tutus and into heavy gear.’ Alec was getting louder. ‘My dream is to die with them flying right under me.’

  ‘Let’s go find Angelique,’ Marion said, as more eyes turned. ‘She’s Romeo when the year ends!’

  The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts had been attractive to young women for many years, and this afternoon the three fliers were eager to collect from its noisy innards the fourth amongst their ranks. Angelique Florian had become the star of her RADA year, but, like Stella, had allowed her concentration to drift to aircraft. Young men had already begun to drift away inside those aircraft, leaving the great roles to be tackled by the girl players. Angelique wanted the roles, and the flying machines, and for the time being she was enjoying both rare commodities in a suddenly unusual world.

  When the omnibus stopped alongside RADA the conductor gestured as if with contempt and the trio swept on to the pavement. Energy seemed to blast from the open door of the drama school and Angelique emerged, her dark hair framing a face best suited to a Cleopatra she would never portray.

  ‘Next year I’m down for Richard III,’ she exulted, slapping Alec on his shoulder. Her height put him at the same level, and momentarily he lost his balance. ‘Those boys wanted so to do it – one of them brought his parachute to use for the great toad’s hump.’

  ‘They’re better off in barracks,’ sniffed Alec. ‘Now you can make theatrical history.’

  ‘I’m more worried about Zack and Paul,’ murmured Angelique, subdued.

  All four had stopped walking. Everyone knew that yet another anniversary had passed, marking the absence of Angelique’s brothers. Zack and Paul had paid their uninvited visit to Spain but had not yet returned from an anti-Franco colony in France. When she had joined Valerie Cobb’s group on the fly-in, Angelique had received echoes of misery from those who had fled Spain, and now she was desperately worried about her brothers. Coming back to the challenge of Perdita and Hermione had seemed a crazy exercise despite its crucial effect on her RADA results. She could see flying, and not A Winter’s Tale, as her only way to keep sane through a war.