David John
Flight from Berlin
He, the blind one, always had a map before him in spirit, and created or destroyed kingdoms by a single word.
Prologue
He landed hands first on the wet, sandy soil and rolled over on his side. Wind roared inwards towards the blaze, sucking the air from his mouth. His skin was paper; his hair tinder.
Run, for God’s sake.
Richard Denham moved to get up, but the next blast flattened him, sending a huge jet of flame over his head.
He crawled forwards through showers of brilliant white stars. Some fifty feet away a man in a sailor’s cap was beckoning, shouting through the rippling glow.
‘Over here, buddy, come on.’
I’m coming, friend, he thought, seeing in his mind that first day on the Somme twenty years ago. Which way are the Jerry lines, pal?
He staggered up and began to run, but a roll of burning diesel smoke engulfed him. Stumbling, he hit his head against something metal.
The next thing he knew he was being carried away at a run, jiggled over the sailor’s shoulder like a sack of oats, the man’s lungs heaving under the load.
The sailor swore as he lowered Denham to the ground.
A light drizzle was falling. He touched the swelling lump where he’d hit his head.
People were moving, dark figures silhouetted against the glare of the fire. He caught the obscene reek of roasted flesh.
Suddenly he thought, Where is it?
‘Can’t hear what you’re saying, buddy. We’re giving you morphine, you understand? You’re burned.’
Bundles of paper, he knew, had a knack of surviving blazes. He remembered that from crime reporting. Eleanor would have made it safe.
A needle pricked his arm. He felt the cool flow of the injection.
Where was Eleanor?
How strange, how small the things that change history, turn it from its darkened course, send it eddying off down new, sunlit streams.
He lay back on the wet grass, feeling the ropes that tied him to consciousness begin to loosen. In the blackness above, embers traced the air like fireflies.
How strange.
Part I
Chapter One
New York City, July 1936
Eleanor Emerson arched her body through the air and broke the surface with barely a splash. In the world below she glided through the veils of sunlight, the bubbles of her breath rumbling past her ears. She surfaced, and air, sound, and light burst over her again. Her muscles were taut, ready for speed.
Weekday afternoons were quiet at Randall’s Island, the periods when only the dedicated furrowed the lanes, marking lengths as mechanically as electric looms. But today the pool seemed far from the world. She was the only swimmer in the water.
At each fifty-yard length she tumble-turned back into her wake, cleaving the water, faster, beginning to warm up. After all the training was she close to her peak? Lungs filled; legs thrust. Steadily she was rising through her gears, reaching for full steam, when something tapped the top of her bathing cap, causing her to stall and choke.
For a second she hoped it was Herb, coming to surprise her, but a lady with a rolled parasol stood at the pool’s edge, the sun behind her, so that all Eleanor could see was the light shining through a floral-print dress and a pair of Ferragamo shoes.
‘Jesus, Mother. What are you doing here?’
‘It came, sweetheart,’ the woman said.
Eleanor stood, dripping, shielding her eyes, and saw that her mother was holding out a Western Union envelope. Only now did her heart start to race.
‘Oh no, Mother dear. Read it to me.’
Mrs Taylor began an exploration through her handbag for a pair of reading glasses, ignoring the mounting agitation in the pool. Finally: ‘On behalf of AOC am pleased to confirm your selection for US team congratulations Brundage…’
Eleanor had started screaming before her mother had finished, her wet hands fanning her face as if there weren’t air enough.
‘Really, sweetheart…’
She screamed again as she did riding the chute at Luna Park, breaking into a high, girlish laugh and smacking the water with both hands, splashing and kicking with her feet, so that her mother opened the parasol.
‘You’re soaking me.’
‘Mom, I made it!’
‘Well, did you think you wouldn’t? You’d better break the news to your father. I’m certainly not going to.’
J oe Taylor handed the telegram back to her and looked out of the open window. It had turned sultry. The breeze moving the flag next to his desk carried the smell of traffic fumes, coffee, and a promise of rain. Below, a fire engine wailed up Madison Avenue.
‘I see,’ he said eventually. He stood still, his shoulders rising in a sigh. His back towards her, he said, ‘Do you intend going?’
The question filled the room.
‘I’m going,’ Eleanor said.
‘Well, my girl, I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed.’
‘Dad, please-’
‘It’s all right.’
He looked tired. With a pang of sadness she noticed that his hair had completed its change to white, making him seem much older. And there was a lack of vitality about him, an incipient infirmity. He turned to face her and smiled in the worried way he had with her, hands in his waistcoat pockets with his thumbs sticking out, a posture she knew usually signalled a speech. If only he’d lose his temper, shake his fist, and rave like a Baptist. Then at least she could shout back. This was the worst thing about the whole business. His tolerance. His disappointment.
