“It’s all right,” I said. “I’d rather your honesty than Colonel Mabry’s pabulum speeches. Go on.”
“When I was well enough, I made inquiries,” Martin said. “I had a few contacts, and I begged for favors. Alex was my beloved cousin, a heroic officer. I wanted to find answers for my family—et cetera, et cetera. There are certain phrases one can use when asking favors. I wrote letters from my hospital bed and used the hospital telephone a few times. I finally got the ear of someone in the RAF who found the file with the crash report. He had no authorization to send me a copy, but he read it to me over the telephone line from Berne.”
“For God’s sake, what did it say?”
“Not much,” Martin replied. He was looking off at the woods again now, though it had grown nearly too dark to see. The wind was blowing cold down the back of my neck. “It was the most frustrating thing. Alex’s flight that day was listed as a reconnaissance mission, though the objective was not recorded. He was not listed to fly with a gunner, which was a strange oversight—a pilot without a gunner can get into combat without being able to shoot back. Even on reconnaissance, a pilot should have been assigned a gunner, since it gave him a better chance to get back in one piece.”
“So he flew alone?”
“Yes. Odd, though not unheard of, especially at Alex’s level. He’d flown enough missions that I expect he could go without a gunner without question.”
I tried to picture Alex flying a plane, as I often had. I pictured him in a pilot’s heavy coat and gloves, in the hat and goggles. He’d been good, of course; he was good at everything he did. He’d passed pilot school easily.
Still lost in his own memories, Martin continued. “No one saw his plane shot down, at least no one on record. When he didn’t return, a second team, of two reconnaissance planes—this time with gunners—was sent to look for him. They found the plane crashed in the trees just beyond enemy lines, and one of them managed to get aground to look for him. They found his parachute gone, but no other sign of him.” He looked at me. “And there was no blood in the cockpit—that was specifically noted.”
“So he was shot at, and he parachuted out when his plane started to go down.” Though it had been three years, I had never spoken in detail to anyone about Alex’s disappearance, and to do it now was a massive relief, as if a pressure around my rib cage had started to ease. “If there was no blood, then he was not injured when he jumped.”
“Perhaps,” Martin agreed. “There was no one else in the plane to use the parachute. But I have to say, Cousin Jo, that it’s possible he was injured without leaving blood in the cockpit. Broken bones, bruises. A head wound can knock a man so hard he’s helpless as a baby.”
I was quiet, staring into the dark.
Martin continued. “And if he jumped in broad daylight in the middle of the German woods, where the hell did he go? Why didn’t he turn up anywhere? He’d be a valuable prisoner for the Huns—an RAF officer like him. His name should have appeared on prisoner lists.”
“Alex had German blood,” I said. “He knew the language.”
“Which just means he could have negotiated better treatment at one of their prisons if he was taken up. I had my contact do a thorough search, Cousin. Alex’s name does not appear in the records anywhere.”
I pressed my fingers lightly to my forehead. The pressure from my rib cage seemed to have migrated there. “Alex could have been killed in those woods,” I said. “The enemy could have found him and shot him, buried him in an unmarked grave. If he had a head wound, he couldn’t have defended himself. For all I know, he took the chance to—” I clamped my mouth shut, my cheeks heating.
“Took the chance to what?” Martin asked.
To switch sides and join the German army. The words had been on the tip of my tongue, impulsive—I had almost spoken them aloud. I was shocked that I had even thought them. Stupid words, shameful words. Words I did not mean and could never say, especially to a man who had given his health and nearly given his life fighting for England.
“I’m upset,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
He looked bemused. “Of course you’re upset. You needn’t apologize.”
I shook my head. I was losing my perspective, letting the dark conversation I’d had with Dottie get to me. He went off to live with Germans. Germans! And he looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to go. Alex was fluent in German. He had family there—family he was loyal to. He had never spoken in detail to me about his father’s family, but I knew his time with them had been important to him, that he had been grateful they’d taken him in.
He told you nothing.
If he’d joined the enemy’s army, his name wouldn’t come up on any lists. If he’d even used his own name, that was—
Hans Faber.
I sat still, my head in my hands, my heart stopped in my chest, my breath going still.
“Jo?” Martin asked.