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  ‘Why haven’t you fucked her?’ asked a guard.

  Paul saw lips moving.

  ‘Idiot! Why aren’t you fucking her?’

  He could see the guard’s rage and noticed the others covering their faces. One turned away and disappeared.

  ‘Fuck her now.’ He grabbed Paul and pushed him down next to the terrible mess of death on the floor.

  ‘Leave me be,’ Paul screamed, thinking he could hear his own voice inside his head.

  His tormentor tore off his rags and took his buttocks in both hands, forcing Paul to thrust his groin into the mound of infestation that once had been a woman. He stood up and kicked the emaciated Briton, and Paul shut his eyes. A maggot crawled up his nostril as another blow landed on his torso. Then the man was bending down again, his breath close to Paul’s face. Eyes still tightly shut, he felt strong, supple hands reaching around his wasted frame and settling on his genitals. His eyes wide open now, he looked up to see faces laughing as he was pulled by his most vulnerable extremity in supreme agony around the room. Then he was thrown to the floor, and pathetically he asked for Zack.

  The men went.

  She was still there.

  What were other young men doing at home at this very moment? he thought to himself. What was Britain doing?

  His loins were suffering searing pain and that night his urine came in excruciating minuscule spurts. More bugs arrived in the night and he dreamed of the woman the Spaniard had wanted him to assault in death. When he awoke the next morning she was gone. The room was clean and he was given a washbasin filled with hot water. He asked for Zack and saw lips moving again. They were saying he would be brought back to him today. Later another white-haired young woman came, with good food, and he had to fuck her. Her lips moved incessantly and he was beaten when he could no longer function. He wondered what her name was as she too was beaten, but much harder than he, so that she broke open and oozed.

  At least, he told himself, he could not hear anything.

  Then she died.

  33

  Never had a woman been so desolate and disoriented as Edith Allam on this solo flight across the Atlantic. During her dazed episode at the hands of Beaverbrook, she had agreed to participate in the publicity exercise and had not thought beyond the excitement and the money during the preparations for the trip. Now, horrified at the prospect of an interminable journey without company, at regular intervals she recited her name, address and occupation out loud because her mind had begun to panic. She would have to endure hours airborne in a state of terror, not out of fear of the ocean below but of the frigid void inside the cabin, which refused to talk back to the aviatrix.

  ‘How could Amelia and Amy have done these journeys?’ Edith said aloud, her voice distorted within her headgear. ‘How will I ever do the Australian leg? If I refuse, will it cause an international incident?’

  Forcing her brain to concentrate on peripheral subjects she let her mind wander to Errol: when she returned to Britain, Valerie’s suggestion would be put to him. He could come back to England and be part of ATA – their sole Negro! thought Edith, grinning to herself. Looking down at nothingness, she was grateful for a smooth flight, the aircraft functioning magnificently and the air currents in her favour. Now she was dropping altitude in the approach to her first stopover in Iceland.

  ‘My name is Edith and I live on Florence Avenue in Philadelphia,’ she repeated to herself, as the aeroplane coasted on to the runway, a thin mist obscuring Edith’s vision.

  Her papers cleared, the aircraft checked and refuelled, the young American woman was ready for the next leg of her crossing. Having made human contact for an hour she felt more confident, and had shut herself back inside the cabin when a noise made her freeze. Already taxiing, Edith guided the Oxford past the ground crew and drew to a halt. Turning around, she could feel the blood rushing to her head as Hartmut Weiss, blue and nearly frozen, emerged, almost crushed, from underneath the extra fuel tank that had been lagged with heavy blankets. He was whimpering and his watery blue eyes were expressionless. Without a sound, Edith put the aircraft into full throttle and they were airborne.

  ‘Christ Almighty, Hartmut,’ she shouted as they achieved cruising altitude.

  He sat up slowly, moaning.

  ‘It’s hours before we land again. Don’t you dare pee on the floor.’

  ‘That’s unlikely – I am frozen and will never pee again.’

  His lady pilot glanced around and saw a face coming to life, a dead man miraculously revived, and she was dazzled. ‘You goddam Kraut – why are you here?’

  ‘I got away from that crazy Isle of Man by giving my watch to a security guard, stole a ride from a pair of Austrians on the run in East Anglia, and got under this back seat while you were flirting with Sean Vine and Alec Harborne.’

  ‘So you didn’t miss a trick.’ Edith felt tense – did he still have his gun as well?

  ‘I was jealous. You read my letter?’

  ‘It was silly. I’ve never read anything so stupid.’

  ‘A great deal of effort went into it. Passion is a pig on paper.’ He was trembling, but Edith did not care. ‘How many letters must I write to make you begin to feel?’

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘Feel – like a woman.’

  ‘A woman lives right here.’ She pointed to her chest.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, we still have six hours to go on this trip. Can’t you freeze up again?’

  He had struggled to climb out from beneath his impossibly placed hideout, and now he sat next to the American. A brief pocket of turbulence shook the Oxford and Edith bit her lip. It bled, red droplets falling on to her jacket.

  Hartmut removed his handkerchief, emblazoned with a swastika, and wiped her chin. ‘We share common blood,’ he said, shivering.

  ‘That’ll be the day.’ Edith stared straight ahead, thinking of Errol and of her crowd on a hot July night drinking icecream sodas in South Philly. ‘Do you want to share the flying, Hartmut?’

  He was not listening, his foot tapping nervously. ‘You must know I am Jewish,’ he murmured, reaching for her hand.

  ‘And I’m a heavyweight pugilist,’ she snapped, pulling away from his icy grasp.

  ‘When we get to Greenland I will show you.’

  ‘Not on your life! Anyway, I thought you said it had frozen.’

  ‘Not when I am with you.’

  ‘Oh, God, Hartmut. Shut up.’ She turned to her right and he was grinning, holding in his hand a tiny mezuzah on a delicate chain. Looking down into the majestic space in which her aircraft sailed she had to admit to herself that his presence had turned this ordeal into a dizzying dance in the sky.

  ‘How did you get into the Luftwaffe?’ she demanded coolly.

  ‘I have no living family, and very few friends who could accuse me of having Jewish connections. Besides, just look at me.’

  ‘Don’t they give you a medical? Surely that would show.’

  ‘It showed, but in those days, Jews still had jobs in high places, including inspection doctor to the German air force.’

  ‘Okay, just try that on Burt Malone or Eddie Cuomo, or on some hardnosed reporter when we get back to Philly.’

  Hartmut took Edith’s hand once more and placed the mezuzah in her gloved palm. She was glad of his company and of his beautiful face and thick blonde hair. He would need her from now on and though his presence would complicate everything wherever she went, for ever, Edith believed he was one of her own. She vowed to make room for him in a future that looked more agonizing as each hour brought her closer to Florence Avenue and to the City of Brotherly Love.

  ‘This would be a great time for us all to go out for a soda.’

  Philadelphia Airport had never received a gleaming Oxford and the crowds awaiting the city’s best-known daughter were as interested in her aircraft as in Edith Allam’s latest achievements.

  Eddie Cuomo had been fired for his Hindenburg histri-
onics, then rehired by the local radio news station, his first job this transatlantic spectacular starring the Philly girl herself. A war was brewing overseas, but here was another reason for a fun day out alongside the oil refinery.

  Edith seemed ill at ease, wanting the crowds to disperse as quickly as possible.

  ‘What about a soda, honey?’ Eddie persisted.

  ‘No, thank you. Have you seen Burt Malone, Eddie?’ she asked, ignoring the other reporters thrusting and shouting at her as she walked behind the aircraft.

  His face fell. It was obvious Burt would not be there to greet her. Nor would her parents, and nor would Errol Carnaby.

  Facing the huddled press, Edith smiled and waved for their accompanying photographers. She noticed there was no-one from Malone’s firm, which seemed odd, because Beaverbrook had gone to such pains to liaise with the US affiliate. Everyone must be angry at me, she thought, smiling again for a popping flashgun. Her heart leapt when the reporters dispersed and she was able to extricate her German from the bowels of the Oxford.

  ‘You’ve peed in your pants, stupid Kraut,’ she muttered, helping Hartmut out of the aircraft. They had been left alone, the ground crew – consisting of two World War I veterans and a black cleaner – chattering away to the reporters alongside the small terminal building.

  ‘Aren’t you going to take me to your house?’ Hartmut asked.

  ‘My father would think the coastal invasion had started,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. Unzipping one of her pockets she withdrew a small handful of dollar bills and thrust them into the top of his undergarment. He reached inside and salvaged the money, which had fallen down along his hairless chest.

  ‘Listen, Hartmut. By now my parents will know I have been having a romance with a Negro, because he can never keep his mouth shut. Burt Malone will be steaming because Britain has beaten us to it in distributing Raine’s film. It’s all my fault. Now Beaverbrook expects me to recruit Americans, then I have to go to Australia. He’s paying for it, and Valerie Cobb is waiting for me to succeed. On top of all that, I’m goddamned if Jacqui Cochran is going to overtake us.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ Hartmut was grinning, and Edith was becoming irritable.

  ‘Jacqui is only the best woman pilot in America, and she knows everybody, including the President. I want to beat her at getting an American contingent for Valerie Cobb’s gang.’

  ‘Instead, why don’t you marry me?’

  Edith pushed Hartmut out of the aircraft, on to the wing. A small ladder had been provided, down which he climbed.

  Edith could see Eddie Cuomo approaching. ‘Get moving, Hartmut,’ she hissed, pointing towards the swampland at the edge of the airfield.

  ‘Who’s your friend, Allam?’ Cuomo shouted, running towards the Oxford.

  Hartmut froze, his back to the radio man.

  ‘He’s a maintenance man, Eddie,’ Edith replied, slapping him on the shoulder and trying to manoeuvre him away from the scene.

  ‘Hey, boys,’ he yelled, motioning to the others in the distance, ‘We’ve got a real-live stowaway down here!’

  Edith was shaking, and Hartmut shut his eyes, slumping over where he stood, the orange flame of the oil refinery jets as bright against the sky as his rich head of hair.

  ‘Weren’t you here a little while ago, sonny?’ Eddie persisted.

  Hartmut was speechless.

  ‘They’re saying your pal Zuki spoke to the German American Bund – is that right?’

  ‘Listen, Cuomo, leave him to me, okay?’ sighed Edith.

  ‘I need a story, baby,’ he said, casting an avuncular look at the tired aviatrix. ‘You should feel lucky to have one friend left in this town.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They made that coloured boy talk – and you’re a scarlet lady.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Malone’s brother – the cop.’

  The reporters had gathered around Hartmut, and Edith’s fury grew: why had the German not made a run for it, to be absorbed into a place like Tinicum Island or Atlantic City? Hartmut was enjoying the attention, his stunning looks a dream for the press photographers. Edith focused on one of the figures fumbling with a large camera, his skinny arms and legs grotesque inside a baggy suit.

  ‘Stan Bialik,’ she said, approaching him. ‘Why haven’t you said hello?’

  He ignored her, his face reddening and his fingers unable to organize the photographic plate.

  ‘Here – let me do it,’ she offered, taking the camera from his grasp.

  Bialik moved off, but with her free hand Edith pulled at his sleeve, forcing him to remain by her side.

  ‘Don’t go anyplace, Stan,’ she murmured.

  ‘You two know each other?’ Eddie asked, as Hartmut continued chattering.

  ‘Stan is our projectionist at the famous agency,’ she replied, aiming the camera and shooting.

  ‘You’ll have to pay her big bucks for that picture, Stan,’ Eddie taunted. One of the other photographers aimed and shot Edith at work.

  ‘Will you please excuse us? Britain’s Lord Beaverbrook has arranged a special meeting downtown with his American agents, and we’re late,’ she lied, ploughing through the sea of reporters and taking Hartmut by the arm, the feel of his steel flesh comforting against her fingers. With amazing speed she was able to scoop up her bags and scramble amongst stationary aircraft, winding a path to the rear of the terminal building. The reporters chased after the pair, but came to a halt when Edith found her favourite secret dirt passageway leading to the main street.

  ‘Believe it or not, we are going to have to hike all the way to West Philly,’ she said, hurrying the German along. Now stripped down to his white long johns, he looked thoroughly comical.

  ‘What the hell did you tell those guys?’

  ‘I said I was a pilot and that I had come as your chaperone from Lord Beaverbrook.’

  ‘Gott in Himmel – wait until that appears in his own newspapers.’

  That day Edith and Hartmut traversed the outskirts of Philadelphia, not wishing to accept offers of transport from curious drivers, and by evening she was in a daze. It was with dread that she turned the final corner into Florence Avenue, having forgotten the magnificent Oxford the British had allowed her to fly, and from which its native girls were still banned. She had forgotten the remarkable transatlantic crossings and the meeting with Valerie Cobb. In Florence Avenue she was just a worried girl coming home to people who could no longer comprehend her, the eccentricity of her life more an embarrassment than a source of pride within the ethnic ghettos. She had become an uncontrollable leviathan growing bigger all the time, and Edith hoped her German guest would defuse hostilities and make her appear more containable. Guilt had begun to creep in once more, but she knew that debilitating sensation would have to be fought, or she would never again leave the Avenue, let alone play Queen of the Skies.

  Lights were burning in her parents’ living room.

  Edith and Hartmut were cold and hungry, her stiffened fingers tapping on the front door. They could hear voices within.

  ‘It’s open,’ Kitty Allam shouted.

  When Edith walked into her house she was greeted by bewildered looks and by a huge hug from her mother. Sitting uncomfortably in the corner chair was Burt Malone. In a fleeting instant Edith recalled her last encounter in this room.

  ‘Has anyone heard from Errol?’ she asked boldly, Hartmut hiding behind her.

  ‘We don’t discuss him here,’ her father growled. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Hartmut Weiss – he’s a German Jew.’

  The men exchanged handshakes in silence.

  ‘Where the hell is that film?’

  Edith fumbled in her huge bag and handed Burt a British-made copy of Raine’s film.

  ‘It’s old hat by now, of course,’ he said, laying it on the floor.

  ‘Isn’t anybody going to congratulate me on crossing the ocean safely?’

 
Unmoved, Burt demanded:

  ‘What about the camera film you said you’d snitched from Fischtal?’

  Bending over, she reached into a pocket of her bag and withdrew the leather pouch she had acquired what seemed an eternity ago. She searched, thrusting her fingers into the bag and then going back to the larger one, her breathing becoming heavier.

  ‘It’s not here – Christ.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you lost it.’

  ‘Let the girl have some rest, Mr Malone, and then she can bring it in to work tomorrow.’

  ‘I wrote to Burt and told him I was bringing hot camera film, and I keep promises,’ gasped Edith, wanting to cry because she knew the film had disappeared.

  ‘Perhaps it fell out inside the Oxford,’ offered Hartmut.

  ‘We’ll search you in a minute, buddy,’ Burt said, taking in the long johns.

  ‘Your friend needs a shower,’ Kitty whispered, bending down to a crouching Edith.

  ‘I know. He peed in his pants and he stinks,’ she shot back.

  ‘Hartmut, come with me,’ cooed Kitty, leading him up the stairs.

  Edith straightened up, facing the two men she feared most in her ghetto.

  ‘I’ll find it, Burt. I promise.’

  ‘When you do, you’ll have your job back.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Malone?’ Julius Allam demanded, suddenly animated.

  ‘I’ve spent the past week handling nothing but aggravation caused by you, young lady. You have an exclusive contract with us. Now you’re carrying on with Beaverbrook and that Cobb lady, while I’m left here without any help. Why have you double-crossed me? That’s all I want to know.’

  ‘Raine and I met up and decided I ’d fly her home – if I hadn’t done so, you wouldn’t have even had that copy. No film at all. Nothing. Don’t kid yourself, Burt – she knows it’s explosive. If it pleases you, she’s still in England, under what they call house arrest.’

  ‘Speaking of that,’ Burt said calmly, ‘I bailed Carnaby out of jail – he’s a good kid.’

  ‘Errol?’ she blurted. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘He’s tried to join up, is what he’s done,’ said her father, smirking.