CHAPTER 7
The Airfield stood abandoned, retired after the War. Located two miles south of his village, Ben reached it desperately fast. The speed at which he could travel crumpled space before him and brought questions to his mind. Could he cross the English Channel, find a route through France and Germany to Hamburg and beyond? Yes, he could, he could struggle through, but instinct gave an easier option, go to the Airfield and steal a ride.
Peacefully deserted, the Airfield was bedding into the undergrowth. The runway and several brick buildings remained, and all were fraying at nature's edge. The vast A-shaped runway was surrounded by a horizon of fertile hills and trees. The once military-neat grassed areas were now wild meadows standing easy in the wind. A perfect summers day made lavish the green.
Ben stood, a spectator, but wanted more, he wanted to play. For this was his stage, the light that vanished the dark, the English countryside, which, when living, had given him space to vanish. For as long as he dared be still, he stood and watched the stillness. Everything was in its own time. Nothing was harried by anything else. Birdsong trickled past, wilting on the wind. But no more than a minute passed before he lunged back into time.
Ben knew that Hamburg was a major German city, and like all such cities, was bombed heavily during the War. The Airfield was a wartime base for a squadron of Lancaster Bombers. Ben reasoned that Hamburg would at some time been the squadron's target. Pre-mission briefings would reveal the nightly targets. If Ben could discover the room where the briefings took place, with time on his side, he could find the right mission and join it.
The Airfield worked once more. The day was still blessed bright with summer. Dozens of Lancaster Bombers basked beneath a blazing Sun. Their earthy tones brushed them into nature's growth. Ben saw them as dragons, magnificent cold-blooded beasts, that had rallied to our side. Teams of uniformed men worked to prepare the planes for war. Nothing was hurried. Laughter joined the birdsong. Ben watched from a distance but still the bombs looked massive. One, twice as long as a man, and several times as thick, was winched, fed into the cavernous bomb bay of a Lancaster, and still its belly looked starved. Bomb trolleys, laden with bombs of several different sizes, waited to fill the space.
Other men lazed on the grass or lounged in parked vehicles watching the Lancasters being revived for another raid. And why not, Ben thought, why not watch and dream of the other end where the bombs would bounce back the misery the enemy had already sent.
Away from the maintenance crews towards the brick buildings and half-round corrugated iron huts, all seemed strangely quiet. The flight crews must be asleep, Ben thought, for he knew the RAF worked their bombs into Germany at night, whereas the Americans took the day.
From the fuel tanker, which had kept him hidden, he sped towards the buildings. The briefing room, he reasoned, would need to accommodate many men so must be fairly large. A wooden hut seemed size enough, but the curtained windows denied him a view inside. He then tried the door, which was locked.
He slipped through time, forward no more than an hour, time which passed clearly by, clear enough for him to see a rush of uniformed men arrived at the hut on cycles and in trucks. As the last man took the door, Ben returned to normal time, a ghostly presence, and entered the hut behind him. Once inside, he leapt an hour forward so that the hut stood empty again. This, he was sure, was the briefing room. Rows of tables and chairs faced forward, a classroom for men to learn more war. At the front, a large map of Europe was flanked by two equally large blackboards. Smaller maps and various charts decorated the walls.
The large map took his attention. He moved in close and found a route plotted in straight, angular lines that went from the Airfield to Berlin and back again. Next, he moved to and studied a large blackboard. The grid table painted on to its surface contained various coordinates that followed a sequence of times written in the 24-hour clock format. A heading read 'Target: Berlin - 18 July 1943'.
He slipped forward through time, almost exactly one day. His ability to travel specific amounts of time especially hours and days was becoming evermore accurate. He looked at the map and blackboard together they confirmed a different target, Kassel, another German city.
Another day, another target. Then ever onwards until map and blackboard revealed Hamburg, condemned, selected. The day was quickly found, 24 July 1943.
Through time and space he weaved. Where to hide, to stow away? The only sound place was the bomb bay, the only place he could be alone. If he went in with the crew, he risked being seen, and they had fear enough to hide. No need of a ghost to remind, what becomes of the living. Their mission must be their focus; their war, his dad's war, still valid, still right. They, together, comrades, at one in war and hate. A hate Ben felt alive and well and saw no reason to temper.
So in with the bombs, clamped between two. The bombs themselves clamped in place, jailed to release, to reek revenge. With a quick twist forward, he watched as the bomb bay doors closed. Darkness itself now clamped inside. Another twist forward, to hear four mighty engines rip into life. All space filled with noise. The Lancaster taxied, then stopped. The engines dimmed. Stillness let fear stir. The crew, silent with theirs, duty bound and ready with hate. Ben, dizzy with speed, his thoughts wild and free. Future battles swarmed his mind. Do men without fear lack imagination? Do they not see all that can fail? He snatched time; the engines roared again, pushed to full throttle. The Lancaster powered forward and defied the pull of the ground. Three hours of time to cross. Stares fixed on the darkness, waiting to beat whatever jumps out.
The tick of real-time: slow when you want it fast, fast when you want it slow. Only when lost in the present does time match your speed.
Ben's thoughts swirled and swelled like an angry sea; the constant threat of The... always ready to pounce; the fear of the future, all unknown; the fear of truth, of being exposed a simple fool who thought he could and dared to try.
The only calm was his Dad, the only anchor to catch, and together they crossed enemy lines. Ben's eyes and mind were closed to the War, but his heart was open to hate. And now, they, the people below, their hands soiled with the blood of his Dad, a man who stood against them, a man who knew they were wrong, who used the word evil, which is what Ben believed them to be, these people here, now, below.
'These bombs are for you, Dad. I'll see them right.' Ben said.
Machine gun fire loud enough, close enough, to cut through the engine drone. Was it ours, Ben thought, or theirs? Would one be without the other? Another burst, from behind. Then another, from above. Then nothing, deaf and blind behind the engine roar.
'To endure, is to be a woman.' And now to be a boy, thought Ben, as he remembered his Aunt, never with anything light to say.
Time continued, and in Ben's bubble nothing knowable changed.
Suddenly a blink of light passed into the bomb bay through a gap between the doors. Searchlights, Ben, knew - great beams of light that probed the sky to hunt for enemy planes, to prize them from the darkness, to fix them, speared, for the gunners kill.
Explosions, barely audible, but constant. Hollow sounding thuds then rattled against the airframe. Shrapnel, Ben thought, from exploding flak shells. We, the defenders, are being attacked!
The doors, which had clamped in dark, began to open wide. Colour flushed in. Briefly, it was beautiful. Red, white, orange, green and yellow in multiple hues flashed and glowed, mute beneath the engine roar. Ben felt freed. The black of night displaced. But then, all he could see was war. Flak shells, red-hot and glowing, endless and insatiable, poured from the ground into the sky. Legions of searchlights, their white cone-shaped beams stabbed into the air to devour the night. Vast flares, which gave way to the bombs, spewed bright green. And beneath it all, a city that bubbled, as it boiled with fire and explosion.
The silhouette of a Lancaster appeared below, like a shark cruising the shallows. Ben looked. A searchlight followed, chased by another. Streams of flak honed in. A blinding flash, then a
shower of brilliantly coloured sparks rejoiced at the kill.
Ben wished the bombs to fall, and they did, as did he, taken down with one bomb held. Hard, hateful noise encased him. Intense white flashes glazed the sky. Strips of silver foil glittered all around - the devil's confetti or had the stars fallen, shaken to the ground? Twists and puffs of smoke loitered like evil spirits come to cheer. And beneath him, the cries of a city pleading for water near.
A fireball erupted, a Lancaster felled, but a swarm of hundreds continued the raid. Their bombs designed to burst all into flame whether built or born, grown or made.
Ben watched in awe as a firestorm skinned and burned the city alive. All air was fire. A monster lived with a hateful rage. Released to rule for a single night, savage and demented, it destroyed all it conquered, and it conquered all with ease. Its power horrified Ben. He snatched his hand away from the bomb. It plunged ahead. He watched as the bomb was delivered, made right. The monster swelled, cackled high, fuelled with another fix. Then, still ravenous, continued to gorge on the bones that remained, the rubble carcass of a city slain.
Ben took the chance to turn away, back through time to a peaceful night just hours before. He drifted down towards a deserted, blacked-out street. Tenements, homes, loomed over him. His feet reached the asphalt road. He looked up. The sky was cloudless; the stars dazzled alone. Silence. No people. Where were the people? Where they hidden, sheltered, safe? Should he now know? Should he not see?
As the air is a world, and the sea is a world, here the world was fire. The wind itself burned and was solid with speed and debris. Buildings crumbled. People fled. Great gusts of wind sucked up people from the ground, even those whose hands and feet were stuck in the boiling, melting asphalt. The scorching air was impossible to breathe; one breath would incinerate a person's lungs. Faces merged, set with looks of pain and horror. Breathless, no one could scream. But what need of air, when so many bodies were lumped ablaze? People, here were the people, all types of people, except for men of a fighting age.
A minute in time was all Ben could last. Shock kept him sane, kept his thoughts muddled. He went forward, hours to daylight, but none could shine through the pall of smoke that covered the city. And yet, all was still clear, the night's shadows remained, smoldering dead or broken. Questions sickened his mind. What shadows reside in man? How is this victory? He knew he had to move, to keep busy with his mission, that he had his own shadows to, rightly, fear. He went, jumped to stride a decade.
Quiet with the break of day, the city once again stood tall. Ben rushed away in search of 'Catherine's spire and the day's date. A maze of streets kept him lost. He thought them narrow, trench like, dug into the city as warrens and dens for the working people. At least the farm labourers who lived in his village had gardens and views to cast away dreams. Here the views went splat into walls or followed the smoke from chimneys up into a flat grey sky.
He passed no people, saw no ghosts but something, he felt, watched him. A silent menace that rustled the Nazi flags hanging proudly from windows. Flags that looked so stark, so clean and new, the red so vibrant when set against the decay of the buildings that gave the flags a footing.
Voices crept into the street, like the final bounce of an echo. Words and tone seemed harsh and accusing. Curtains and shutters gave eyes a chance to linger. A large mongrel dog, with a wild, maddened stare, sat in the middle of the road, panting. A cat stalked by. They shared a look, but neither made a move. Ship horns hummed in the distance as if to warn of a coming fog. Horse hooves clapped over cobbles with a regular, exacting beat.
Ben cut into an alley between two craggy brick buildings that bent towards each other to almost touch at the top. Once through, he turned left, stopped, paused for a second, then looked back into the ally. The ally was empty; the presence he felt was not seen.
He turned, to continue forward, but his motion ceased. An unmanned road block, hastily built from timber and barbed wire coils, stood before him. In the centre of the blockade, a sign, in German, was displayed prominently. As he cast his stare over the words, a woman's voice in a heavy German accent whispered,
'No Jews allowed!'
Shocked, he turned to look, to find the voice, but she who had spoken was gone.
He sped away, away from the voice and road block. Shops, taverns and cafes began to dominate at street level, with residential apartments rising four storeys above. On one shop front, something seemed wrong. Graffiti marked the windows: The Star of David along with the word 'JUDE' daubed in white paint. A board with writing on had been propped against the door. Ben stopped to look.
'Jew! Protect yourself don't buy from Jews!'
Again, the voice, The Presence, spoke in a quick, sudden tone. Ben looked around, but nothing claimed the voice. On he went. He turned a corner and came to a sudden stop. Male mannequins, stripped of clothes, were strewn dumped on the road, their limbs broken and smashed. An elderly man, floored by shock and blows that had bloodied and bruised his face, sat on the path outside a vandalised tailors shop. His body shivered, his eyes wept tears. The windows had been smashed, but remaining fragments of glass revealed the Star of David had once marked the shop. Inside, nothing of value remained. A cash register, scissors and folds of cloth lay wasted on the ground. Ben continued to stare. The man began to mutter a single word, 'Wer.' Ben looked around expecting the woman's voice to translate, but her silence remained. The man's voice grew louder,
'Wer! Wer! Wer wille hilft me?'
'Who will help me!' The Presence spoke then vanished.
The man shouted, his pleas more desperate. He fell forward onto his hands and knees then crawled into the middle of the road. Ben thought the man was about to collapse, but a rush of anger fueled his body, and he rose quickly to stand defiant. Ben stood, fixed, but wanted to move, to continue his search. The man raised his hands towards the sky, looked up at the many homes above, and then, with a passionate, fearless shout, demanded,
'Wer! Wer wille hilft me?'
Bang - single shot from a single gun. The man fell to the ground, dead. The mannequins took his fall. Ben looked up. Blank, emotionless faces: men, women, boys and girls, stared from windows. Finally, his stare found a girl, aged about ten, but only when she saw him looking at her did horror fill her face, and a scream erupt released
Ben took no pause he fled, ever more desperate to leave the city. Once free of the street and out of sight he leapt onto the wall of the nearest building and clawed his way up to the roof. A view of the city opened up, flecks of people gave it movement, and the warrens and hovels gave way to reveal the city as monument, built to last, to house the egos of the great and good. Here people fought for history, not the next available meal. Three spires rose above the skyline. Could one be St. Catherine's? The open space of a large public square drew Ben forward. He skipped over rooftops and jumped between buildings to reach this clean, well-tended space. A display box: a public notice board with a glass cover, caught his eye. He moved to it. Inside, several pages of a newspaper were on display. Every page showed hate for the Jews, twisted, ugly caricatures of Jewish men and women, all acting against the German people, but all smashed by the Nazi fist leered from every page, as did the date, which read, '12 September 1934'. With a glance at the front page, he read, to himself, the name of the newspaper, 'Der Stürmer'.
'The Attacker! How true! So very true!'
The voice of The Presence displaced his own. He looked.
'Who's there?! Who are you?' he asked.
His voice fell lost to the air, to vanish behind The Presence. Good riddance, he thought, as he twisted back through time and beyond her ghostly reach.
The display box remained. A different edition of Der Strumer was shown inside, its date of publication, 22 November 1933. He continued, back through time to find another edition, to learn another date, until the date before him read, '4 Oktober 1933' - Der Stürmer, he had learnt, was published weekly, so this was the closest date to Albert's death i
t could show. After finding the day this edition was first displayed, he went back two full days, to the 2nd October 1933.
He stood alone as a cold winter's day began to break. Three church spires stood black against the sky. With one selected, from a simple guess, he went to discover Albert.
As free as the wind, he climbed and conquered the green copper spire, two tiers of which were constructed of stone arches to create internal viewing galleries. He chose to take the highest, which gave a dizzying view of the city. The sprawling port and docks dominated. Massive ships and liners where stoking into life. Skinless cranes towered above all. Black smoke smudged the sky. The drone of industry came on the wind. Canals and waterways bled the sea into the city. Suddenly, The Presence's voice leapt out from behind.
'You have found St Catherine. Now wait, eleven tonight.'
So she, too, could travel time. Ben turned to look. A pair of arms, outstretched towards him, protruded through a wall between two arches
'Who are you? What do you want?' he demanded to know.
'To help. To interpret. Please!' Her hands came together, as if in prayer. 'I will help you.'
Before Ben could answer, her arms withdrew and he felt her vanish. He went forwards into time, which when moving through hours he could do with ever more accuracy. Eleven o'clock exactly, the first strike of Michael's bell rang hard and fast through a mist soaked air. He scoured the view, but the puny street lighting was no match for the night. He remembered, 'in reach of Catherine's spire.' Why even think that? What could it mean? A plea, of a dying, desperate man? A call for help, for God? The eleventh strike faded into silence. Ben strained to hear any hinting sound. The faint pull of a woman's scream rose up from the streets below but passed too quickly to leave a trail. Back he went, barely a minute, then waited ready to pounce. It came, he saw. He jumped from the spire to land on the church's roof, and a thin layer of ice-encrusted snow. Off he went, ever so close to flight, skimming rooftops and bounding through the air straight towards the scream. Another twist, to hear the scream again, made precise its location.
To reach street level, he jumped from the rooftop and sank down into a dark, dank alley. The raucous cheers of a crowd, lost in the delights of a near-by tavern, were hushed by the sound of footsteps, harsh and stabbing, that swelled rapidly towards him. He moved to the alley's exit and peered out to glimpse the noise. A woman, dressed well for the night but not for its chill, ran towards him as fast as her tight fitting skirt would allow. In an instant, he drew her stare, and another terror slammed against her. A scream jolted through her body, she slipped on ice and fell. Ben backed away, two minutes through time. The side street was empty. He sped away, towards the fright that had caused the woman to flee.
Balls of mist glowed around, thinly spaced, gas street lamps. Somewhere ahead, a brief commotion, hidden in the darkness, coloured the air with sound: a thud, a splash, a gasp, a desperate burst of movement against, to fight, water. Michael's bell began to ring.
The street opened up. A thin walkway led to a fall, two metres down to the still, ice cold waters of a sticking canal. Boats and barges skinned the surface. The commotion fell silent as the last strike of Micheal's bell rang out. Distant footsteps, the woman scurrying lightly along. Had she seen a ghost rise from the water? Ben jumped back, two minutes behind. Footsteps ran towards him but not those of a woman in heels. He looked along the walkway; in the murk, the figure of a man moved quickly his way. After stepping a minute back through time, Ben raced to where the man had been. A moment later, the man appeared from up above. Panicking, he rushed down a flight of stone steps to reach the walkway. He glanced at Ben but saw no ghost. Ben stood and watched, Albert, for the man was he - hidden beneath his grey military-style coat, a packed duffle bag slung over his shoulder - as he set off into the darkness, so keen to go, to get fast away.
Ben climbed to the top of the steps then moved back through time to watch as time itself rewound. Albert, walking backwards, came up the steps then continued to walk away into the street ahead until a turning took him from view. Ben rushed to the turning - from which Albert appeared, as once again time moved forwards - then moved to watch time rewind and Albert walk, backwards, past and beyond him. Finally, Albert turned and disappeared into an adjoining city street. Ben rushed to this vanishing point to repeat the process, over and over, to follow Albert into the city, to witness the beginnings of, this, his final night alive.
Time became a giddy blur. The world a spinning room, and Albert, the anchor point on which to fix a stare, to temper the spin, to stop it overwhelming. Fortunately, the space they travelled did not seem far. Albert returned to an apartment building. As he opened the door to leave, Ben took his chance and entered. On the top, fifth, floor, Ben took his chance again, as Albert left an apartment, Ben stepped beyond the closing door to let himself inside. The space was black. In need of a pause, he jumped back many hours to reach the light of day.
Was this where Albert lived, was this his home? Ben moved quickly around to see if anyone was in. He thought how nice the apartment was. Clean, ordered and spacious. Not a place for mend-and-make-do. Shiny, polished dark wood furniture. Plush comfortable chairs. Large patterned rugs covered buffed wooden floors. All was harmonious as if all had grown naturally into its space. The only jolt of difference were several pictures, some to make a boy blush, that hung from the walls, the bastards of the family, but still made to feel welcome. Two bedrooms, five star hotels to Ben, without a spec of damp. And bookcases, not only piled full of books, but also with music records. Just as he thought himself alone, the voice of The Presence spoke,
'He returns this evening at 6 o'clock.'
Ben looked but saw only the distressed hem of a blackened dress disappear through a wall. He looked towards the archway, which led to the room she had fled to, but refused to give chase.
'Show yourself or go away for good!' he shouted.
'Please, you must not fear me,' she replied.
'You? To fear you would be relief indeed!'
'Then accept my help. I can interpret, guide you. I know this city so completely.'
'I hate this city.'
'Its people too?'
'I didn't say that.'
'A city is its people!'
'And I come to learn of only one.'
'Albert.'
'How do you know? Why are you bothered by us?'
'I am nothing but a means to help you learn!'
'Do you know the dangers we face?'
'Yes. Everything.'
'Is that why you help?'
'I help because I must! Because what if you win, people will still be people, me, still me?'
'I may win?'
'I know time, I know you, but only here, here in this
city.'
'You're German, how can I trust you?'
'Oh Ben, what enemy can I be to you now?'
He could only believe her. There was too much sadness in her voice for him to think any other way.
'You'll translate?' he asked.
'Yes. Albert's words, and those of the men who visit tonight.'
'What men?'
'Follow me to 6 o'clock. Let me inside you and you will hear all you need.'
Her hands extended through the wall.
'Inside me?' he asked, both shocked and little repelled.
'You will hear me think, my words, their words. None of them can see us, but all can hear. This way, together, we are completely vanished.'
Ben hesitated. She sensed this, so continued.
'You will hear no cries of mine, no echoes of me.'
'Why do you hide yourself?'
'We are cowards. We look away. I am right to hide. Right to be afraid, so very afraid.' Her voice honoured her words. She continued. 'You have so little time.'
Her hands then vanished. Ben knew she had travelled to six o'clock. He followed. The apartment was dark, the only light, the faint ghostly haze.
'Are you there?' he asked.
/> 'Yes.' Her voice came from behind, 'Don't look! Let me be still.'
He fought instinct and refrained from looking, but the creep of her presence continued to tug on his stare.
'We will hear each others thoughts,' she said.
'How deeply?' he asked.
'He is coming. We are ready'
Ben looked behind, but the presence was gone. He glanced at his body as if to see inside. The fog of self hid all within. His ghostly haze was twice as bright. A door shuddered open. The scuffle of feet. The door clicked quietly shut. Heavy breathing burst free until brought quickly under control.
Footsteps hurried towards Ben and The Presence inside. A ceiling light glowed. Albert had entered the room. Ben felt exposed, captured. Albert paced around - a desperate search for stillness - with fear and anger beyond release. From the pocket of the raincoat he wore, he pulled out a small magazine and slammed it down onto a desk as if trying to smash it from reality.
'Fool! Madness!' he spat through gritted teeth. The translation played effortlessly in Ben's mind, without pause or delay.
Albert fell into a chair, his hands pressed against his face as if to plug the tears and rage. A firm three wraps knocked on the door. Albert sprung, alert. Stood. Froze. Another three knocks. He stepped forward, his body still stiff. A creaking floorboard brought pain to his face. Again, his body froze. Another three wraps, which forced him to yield, he rushed from the room. Ben moved to watch.
Albert stood with his hands pressed lightly against the door, his body poised weak with dread.
'Who's there?' he asked, with a forced, broken calm.
'Julius,' came the reply.
Anger flushed the dread; defense turned to attack. Albert grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. In stepped Julius - a small, but sturdy looking man, several years older than Albert. A slight, knowing grin furnished his face. He glanced at Albert, unimpressed by his emotion.
'Good evening, comrade.,' Julius spoke
'Comrade?' Albert snapped, outraged, although his voice was hushed. He closed the door. Julius looked at him, his stare showing little respect.
'If ever proof was needed!' Albert continued, his voice still hushed.
'Of?' Julius asked.
'Madness! Stupidity!' Albert replied.
'Then the masses and I, finally, united.'
'United? Now? Never!'
Albert stormed past Julius and returned to the living room. Julius followed. Albert went straight to the only window in the room and pulled the curtains shut. He then turned to confront Julius, who stood still and calm, solidly composed.
'Where have you been? I've been trying to find you,' Albert asked, as he paced towards the desk, his voice now raised.
'Preparing to leave,' Julius answered.
'To leave?'
'You're surprised?'
Albert grabbed the magazine from the desk and held it aloft.
'After reading the journal, I'm surprised you still have the chance!'
'You have a copy, good. Keep it. Who knows, one day it may mean something.'
'How could you publish it?' his voice loud, demanding.
'How could I not?'
'To directly criticise,' he voice forced to a hush, 'Hitler! To call him a monster!'
'Am I wrong?'
'What does our opinion matter now? We've lost!' His voice, again, raised.
'You give in. Don't speak for me.'
'You condemn us all!'
'Myself, I condemn myself! My editorial, my opinion, clearly stated as a personal view.'
'A view that now defines the whole journal and all those who have contributed to it!'
'Our politics were no secret.'
'But who took notice? Now, they listen!'
'To me and to others, yes. But to you? Tell me the last time you wrote anything with the power to offend?
'I review,'
Julis interrupted,
'Books and music!' he gestured to the collections of books and records that filled the shelves. 'Should books and music never offend?'
'Offence, is an offence! The law is nothing but the will of the SA mob! Journalists are being arrested!
'I know'
'Executed.'
'Rumours, which I believe.'
'Us!'
'Us? And the Jews? What of my people?'
Albert gave no answer. Julius continued.
'Silenced! It shall soon be the law that no Jew can work as a journalist. And that is only the beginning. So yes, I took my chance, and I shouted as loudly as I could.'
'And now you run away.'
'I retreat, to regroup, to return. But you call it what you will. If I stay in Germany, we both know my fate.'
Albert looked slightly embarrassed, it tempered his anger.
'Where will you go?' he asked.
'France, where the fight shall continue.'
'With Anya?'
'Of course, my wife, my comrade, and also a Jew, who has spoken just as loudly as I.'
'You should have brought her. I would have liked to have said goodbye.'
'It was risk enough for me to come. She is safe. We will spend tonight with Max Kull, and in the morning, we drive from the city. If you want to say goodbye,' he looked towards the desk, on which their was a telephone, 'you have a telephone, as does Max. I am sure she, too, would like to say goodbye.'
'I will. Do you have money? I can help.'
'We have enough...But you, what of you, what do you do now?'
'I stay.'
'You feel safe?'
'I am cautious. Hopeful. My father left me money, and connections.'
'He was well respected.'
'Yes, he was.' Hope, a desperate need to believe, brought pain to his voice, 'He did much for the city. There is goodwill, I am sure.'
'Enough for them forgive?'
'Forgive?'
'Your choices, cultural more than political. The books you read, the music you love, the art on your walls. Your passions! All enough to get you arrested now.'
'No! If I was a Jew, or a communist, maybe! But I am not! That much is known about me.'
'It is also known that you are no Nazi.'
'Most people are nothing. Most people are the middle. Most people, when pressured, do what they must! I am most people!'
'Most people don't listen to jazz.'
'Then I won't listen to jazz!!'
'Or read, or write?'
'I will do what I have to do to survive!'
'At any cost? What life is that?'
'Enough for me! For now at least.'
'Then so be it. Happy birthday, by the way.' He held the package towards Albert.
'No, really, not necessary.'
'Take it. A gift from a friend, who you may never see again.'
Albert softened. He stepped towards Julius.
'Of course. Thank you.'
'Open it later.' Julius placed the parcel on a sideboard.
'It's a record, jazz,' said Albert.
'It is.'
They shared a smile.
'Thank you. I will enjoy it.'
'Do with it as you must. Of course, it's on the banned list, but then much of your collection already is.'
'I know,' Albert replied, impassively.
'You drew the curtains, but soon, if you open them, you should be able to see a bonfire lighting up the sky. Beneath the flames will be the books and records you cherish. Thrown to the flames by people, most people, ordinary, everyday people. People who don't listen to jazz.'
'I know.' Albert replied, coldly.
'Good bye, Albert.'
'Goodbye.'
'Let us part as the friends we have always been.'
'Yes, as we have always been.'
They shook hands. For a moment, a genuine warmth flared-up between then, until fear returned to Albert's stare. He pulled his hand away.
'You must go now,' Albert said.
'Yes, I should.'
Julius walked away
, Albert followed. They left the room and reached the door. Julius placed a hand on the handle, but before he opened the door, he turned to speak to Albert.
'One last thing,' he said. 'I know your mother, although a Christian in death, was born a Jew.'
Albert looked devastated.
'Who told you?' he asked.
'What does it matter?'
'Everything!'
'No one you should fear.'
'Who else knows?'
'In Hamburg, only me.'
'You!' his tone was hard and accusing.
'Your friend, who takes your secret as his own, and always will!' Julius replied with absolute certainty.
'Why tell me this now?'
'To let you know your secret wasn't buried as deeply as you hoped.'
'You must go!'
Julius opened the door.
'Bury your secrets, bury yourself. Embrace your secrets, embrace yourself...Let us hope for another time.'
Julius walked away. Albert closed the door immediately. A flood of panic swept over him. He paced into the living room and circled space, lost and confused. With a jolt of remembrance, he rushed to the window and peered through the curtains. When he looked back into the room, decision relieved his stare. He hurried to a bookshelf, looked for and found six books, all of which he removed.
They followed him, The Presence and Ben, still locked together as one. He went as if summoned by the fire, called by this higher authority. In the stairwell of his building, as he passed a neighbour, an elderly woman, he held up the books for her to bare witness.
'We burn them! We shall free Germany!' he proclaimed.
A silent nod delivered her approval.
Outside, all dark was sucked towards the light. The bonfire called all to ritual. He joined a crowd of ordinary people: men, women and children. The bonfire fed warmth and belonging into their cheering faces. Ben and The Presence watched from above, hidden on a rooftop.
Members of the SA, who were the paramilitary wing of the Nazi Party, a bunch of street-fighting thugs who gave protection to Hitler and other Nazis, and who now basked in the power and the glory of Hitler's rise, policed the crowd. Every one seemed vain with power as if guarding the gates to their own fantastical legend.
In a controlled and ordered fashion, people took their turn to throw books onto the fire. Ben watched, amazed and bewildered. What power the books must possess, he thought, what fear they must instill. Each book must be alive, he knew, for here were men setting war upon them. He scoured the smoke drifting skywards convinced no cowards would rise.
'Why are they doing this?' Ben asked The Presence.
'They?' She replied, 'Me.'
As one - her thoughts became his instinct - they lunged through space and time to watch as a young girl, of about twelve years old, fed books to the flames with a genuine, heartfelt relish. Ben had seen the girl before. She was the one who stood in the window, whose passive stare had welcomed murder.
'You!' Ben said to The Presence.
'Once it was me,' The Presence replied.
'The past is forever.'
'We have both known hate.'
Before the girl could scream again they returned through time and space.
Albert queued for his turn. Keen for all to see his face, he missed no opportunity to greet, to congratulate, all around him. Finally, he took his turn, like a man born again, purified by destruction, set free by the act of the crowd.
They followed him home. An uneasy calm befell him. He fought his fears, denied their touch. He sat at his desk, smoked a cigarette, drank some tea. Twice he opened the top desk draw to briefly glance at a handgun. The telephone rang. He ignored it. It rang again. He covered it with a fur hat to muffled the sound. Another cigarette returned his stillness until three loud knocks pounded on the door. Roused by their urgency, he stood and moved quickly into the hall but stopped, afraid to reach the door. Six knocks, impatient and demanding. He complied, opened the door. A man, armoured in the uniform of the SA, stood before him.
'Albert Becker,' the man spoke with a cold, flat tone.
'Albert Becker?' Albert forced an innocent air.
'It wasn't a question. I know who you are. Now let me in.'
Before Albert could reply, the SA Man barged his way inside.
'Are you alone?' The SA Man asked, as he loomed over Albert - older, taller, stronger.
'Yes. What can I do for you?' asked Albert.
'Shut the door!'
Albert followed the order. The SA Man walked into the living room. Albert dragged himself behind. The SA Man circled the room, his snooping, contemptuous stare eying all it contained.
'You live well. Why? Should you? Do you think you have the right?'
'I..' Albert's words were lost to nerves. The SA Man laughed at his weakness, a brief burst before the venom returned.
'You live well while good, patriotic Germans suffer beneath you.'
'I wish no one to suffer.'
'I require information.'
'I see.'
'I chase a prize, one bigger than you, for now at least. You worked for him. You know who, and you know why!'
'I do.'
The SA Man pulled a record from a shelf. He looked at the paper sleeve and read the composers name.
'Duke Ellington. How can you listen to such deviancy?'
'I listen to all sorts of music. I review music. I must listen to all sorts of music.'
'You're a critic?'
'I was.'
'So you think your opinion has value. Why? Do you think it better than mine?'
'No. I am simply a voice, a single voice'
'Am I allowed an opinion?'
'Of course.'
'Do you value my opinion?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Then listen,' he pulled the record from the sleeve, his stare fixed on Albert, 'this is rubbish.' With a casual flick of the hand, he discarded the record. It fell to the floor and smashed. With his stare drilled into Albert, he took another record, 'and this, is worse,' with a burst of force, he threw the record to the floor. The sleeve held its shattered remains. 'Where is Julius?' he demanded.
'I,' words failed him.
'Where is his wife?'
'I,'
The SA Man paced towards him.
'Be useful! Be correct! Let me have a reason to tolerate you!'
'I give you no reason not to.'
'You went looking for him today.'
'To tell him of my opposition.'
'To the filth he had written?' He passed Albert and circled behind him. Albert continued to look forward.
'Yes.'
And you found him, where?'
'No where.'
'I will arrest you.'
'No! Why?'
'To make you vanish.' He flicked a light switch. The room went black. 'To make you mine.'
'He came to visit me.' A grave clarity controlled his voice.
'Where is he? You know!'
'Yes.'
'And his wife?'
'With him.'
'Where?'
'At a friends, Max Kull.'
'You know the address?'
'Yes.'
The light returned. The SA Man held a gun aimed Albert's head.
'Write it down, quickly!'
Albert rushed to the desk, his body shaking. He fell into the chair and fumbled for a pen and a piece of paper. The SA Man walked to the desk and stood over him. As soon as Albert had finished writing the address, the SA Man swooped a hand down and snatched the piece of paper. As he checked the address, a smug, self-satisfied grin deformed his face.
'Be pleased,' he continued, 'you have assisted in the removal of two traitors. For this you can take some credit, if of course the traitors are found. If not, well, we shall see, won't we?'
As he folded the piece of paper in half then put it into a pocket, his stare remained fixed on Albert.
'Your mother and father?' With a nod of his head, he gestured tow
ards a framed photograph on the desk.
Albert looked, then replied.
'Yes.'
'Your father was once a prominent man, very well respected in the city.'
'Yes,' replied Albert with a sigh of relief.
'And your mother, she was always a pure, filthy Jew!' he said the word as if it contaminated him.
Albert was trapped in his stare, deadened. His body seemed to crawl deeper into the chair. He was owned, cheaply. His master stood over him, aroused by hate.
'As long as you are useful and provide information, you will be kept safe. I am sure you have many friends and colleagues who we will also deem appropriate to remove.'
He gave the Nazi salute, 'Heil Hitler!' then turned his back on Albert and walked way. Albert watched, freed from the power of his stare. He turned to look at the top desk draw. The gun. Could he? Should he? How he wanted to. The image played in his mind, a fantasy. The SA Man left the room. Albert waited to hear the door open then close. It did. He snatched the hat from the telephone.
'He only has to call them,' thought Ben.
'Yes...But only?' The Presence replied.
Albert broke down. Tears began to pour. He let the hat fall from his hand, back to cover the phone.
Ben and The Presence went forward several minutes. Albert, in a desperate daze, was preparing to leave. With a clumsy struggle, he put on a grey military-style coat. From the floor, he picked-up a well packed duffle bag then paced full of intent towards the door until, suddenly, he reconsidered.
'No!' Hesitating, he stopped, dropping the duffle bag. 'No! Go! Go!' he demanded to himself.
He grabbed the duffle bag from the floor then hurried out of his bedroom. At the desk, he snatched his wallet as the photo of his parents snatched him. Tears reformed in his eyes. He touched the photo delicately with his hand, and spoke to his parents,
'Next time bravery. Next time valor. Next time honour.'
He pulled himself away, to run to the door, but suddenly stopped and lunged back towards the desk. An envelope stuffed full of money and a pile of jewellery - the portable valuables he had gathered from his home - waited to be taken. He brushed the jewellery into the cupped palm of his other, trembling, hand as if cleaning crumbs from a table. The money followed. He filled the two inside coat pockets with the bounty then ran to the door and left his home.
Ben and The Presence remained as one as Albert led them down to the waters edge. The quiet, virtually deserted streets, provided space for his fears to echo and rise. A ship's horn, the call of something live in the dead of night, spurred him on - the promise of another life or, at least, somewhere else to hide. No one real followed him, but in his mind, all threat was tipped towards him; the slightest sound rushed an attack towards him. He had fought himself and lost. He was naked, stripped of all defenses. The lightest wind could bruise him.
On the walkway, Ben and The Presence followed him, close enough to touch. He kept turning to look, to check the shadows he had left behind. A cloud released the Moon. Its light spread and opened the view. Albert looked at the river and the crust of anchored boats that skimmed its surface. Suddenly, in a fit of panic, he jumped off the walkway and boarded a boat. He scrambled to its bow then jumped to reach another - stepping stones, a path to cross the river. The Moon withdrew its light. Albert jumped, slipped and fell. The icy water stunned his body. The bell began to toll. What final truth went before his eyes?
Ben stood, his stare stretched into darkness. He felt shocked and sickened.
'We, the cowards,' he muttered to himself.
'There is worse,' he felt The Presence say.
'Is there? Is this us?'
'We, him, have another chance?'
'His ghost must not see us.' He said as he remembered the task that lay ahead and how he was desperate to leave.
'It won't. His ghost takes no pause. He continues fast away, possessed to leave.'
Her words came to him from the outside. She had left him. He turned to look, but she had moved away. The footsteps. The scream. Ben looked. The woman, her stare and his, fixed on The Presence. The Woman turned and ran. The Presence turned to face Ben. How little of her, a woman now, remained. Much of her human form had been erased using rough, crude strokes. Her legs were gone, her face in part was skinned to the bone. What was she, a carcass now? Her black ruined dress hid nothing Ben dared to examine. But her eye, a single eye that told so much of the human.
'Don't be shocked. Don't look away,' she said.
Ben had no urge to do so. He had seen such horrors before, but fresh from the fire, dead.
'I am as you would have me, as I would have myself, punished!' she continued.
'I don't want this for anyone!' Ben replied.
'You came with bombs, they found their target.'
Now he looked away. She continued.
'But know this, it wasn't the bombs that taught me.'
'Then what?'
'To see.'
He looked at her, and she at him.
'Please, believe one thing of me,' she continued.
'What?'
'I no longer hate.'
'I believe you. And I, not so completely.'
A smile was beyond her form, but her eye gave reflection to one felt inside. He returned it, fully and truthfully.
'Do you have what you need? Do you know him enough?' she asked.
'I hope so.'
'Then go. Goodbye, and good luck.'
She turned, to leave.
'Wait!' Ben called out. She stopped and faced him. 'You can come with me? We can help each other!'
'Would you like me to?'
'Yes.'
'I can't.'
'Why?'
'My face, it is the face of war, and it shall haunt all those who think otherwise! Now go, save us. Oh, and Julius, he did reach France, safely.'
'How?'
'He lied. He knew Albert well.'
She stepped into time and vanished, although the image of her face remained vivid in Ben's mind.
He wanted to go, to quickly return. He went forward and found a daytime bombing raid. Using the Allied warplanes as a guide, he then travelled back to England. Great swarms of them filled the sky, both day and night. He pushed through time and space, his speed unrestrained.
He crossed the sea like a skimming stone, great waves he hurdled with the legs of a giant.
His Dad, he thought, lost at sea, but not, to him, lost in time. At least, not yet, not now he had some hope.