Work Text:
"And nothing new has come up, so you should get Christmas at home this year," Raymond said. "Oh, have you heard from von Stalhein lately?"
Biggles turned. "I haven't heard from him at all, not since I took Fritz out to join his mother in Bonn. Why do you ask?"
"Ah. Nothing particular. You surprise me, that's all. I would have expected you to keep in touch."
Biggles drew on his cigarette, choosing his words carefully. "On the contrary. I need it to be quite clear to him now that he owes me nothing, and I can hardly convince him of that if I'm always bumping into him. This is a fresh start for him, without all the, the difficulties of the past hanging around his neck."
"I see. Well, I can quite understand your caution there, but all the same, I need someone to take this parcel around to him, and he doesn't care for me using messengers, he doesn't want his address leaking out, but you know it already. It's not exactly on your way home, but--"
"I'll take it round. I do have a matter I need to speak to him about."
Raymond raised an eyebrow, and Biggles explained, "As you recall, I flew Fritz to West Germany myself, and Frau Lowenhardt gave me something to give to von Stalhein at Christmas. Some of his possessions, I understand, which she managed to bring from East Berlin when we got her out. I can arrange to deliver them when I take your parcel. More work, is it?"
"Nothing urgent, but I would be grateful if you took it along. You can tell him I don't need it until the New Year."
Biggles took the parcel of papers and went out to find a taxi. After half an hour of London traffic, he reached the building in Kensington, climbed up to the top floor and knocked. There was a long delay before the door was answered, long enough that Biggles was starting to wonder if von Stalhein might be out, but then he heard footsteps on the other side and the door opened on the chain. The room was in darkness, but Biggles could hear von Stalhein's breathing on the other side of the door.
"Sorry to bother you," Biggles said. "It's me, Bigglesworth."
Silence from the other side of the door. Then the chain was drawn off, a light flicked on and the door opened. "Come in."
Von Stalhein was looking better after several months in London, his frame now merely thin rather than emaciated, his steps less hampered and his bearing more like his usual proud stance. Biggles smiled a little and entered.
"Good evening," he said, and glanced around the room. He had collected Fritz at the bottom of the stairs for the flight back to Germany; this was the first time he had been inside. He was not displeased at what he saw. The flat was clean and neat and modern. A new 'Sunbeam' gas fire in the old coal hearth heated the room beautifully, there was a carpet in a complicated pattern of reds and greens and browns on the floor, and the furnishings, while mismatched and a little battered, were dusted and polished. Biggles wasn't sure whether von Stalhein's income ran to domestic help, and had an unexpected image of von Stalhein himself, duster in hand, hard at work. For all the incongruity of the image, Biggles liked it: tranquil domesticity was surely an improvement on vicious crimes and horrific punishment.
But there was nothing of von Stalhein in the place apart from the cleanliness, no signs of his personality, nothing that transported the room from lodgings to a home. There were also no signs of Christmas, only two days away, apart from three cards arranged above the gas fire: one Biggles had sent himself, one that matched the one Biggles had from Raymond, and a third which was almost certainly from Fritz. Biggles suddenly had a flash of the flat at Mount Street, with its enormous lavishly decorated tree with a gradually growing pile of presents underneath it, the paper chains and garlands and cards strung up on the walls, the fluffy red Father Christmas hat that Ginger kept putting on top of a large and ugly vase that Algy's mother had given him, the bowl of nuts and tangerines and the steady supply of mince pies and cake from Mrs Symes.
"I trust you are well?" von Stalhein said, as formally as if they were total strangers.
"Very well," Biggles said. Responding to von Stalhein's obvious wish to avoid complication, he went straight to the point. "I came to see you about two matters. First to deliver this from Air Commodore Raymond." He handed over the packet. "It's nothing urgent, he says he doesn't need it until the New Year."
Von Stalhein took it gingerly and opened it, pulled out a sheaf of papers written in the Arabic script, and slid them back again. "I see. Thank you for delivering them yourself."
"Yes, Raymond mentioned that you didn't like spreading your address too widely. I quite understand that."
A short nod from von Stalhein. "And you said there was another matter?"
"Yes, not business this time." Biggles smiled. "When I took Fritz over, I was given something to transport back. Your sister asked me to give it to you at Christmas. I have it at Mount Street; it's quite a large box. I don't know what it contains. It's under our Christmas tree right now."
"A box?" He'd startled von Stalhein. "She gave you--I had no idea--" He took a deep breath. "I will come and collect it whenever is convenient for you."
Biggles hesitated. "Perhaps you should come at Christmas. You would be most welcome to join us for Christmas dinner."
Von Stalhein went still. "Oh. No, I'm afraid I couldn't."
"I would be very happy to have you there," Biggles said sincerely. "Nobody should be on their own at this time."
The faintest of smiles touched von Stalhein's face. "You need not worry on that account. I have a different engagement."
It was Biggles's turn to be startled. "Oh, I see."
"There is a group that aids resettlement for displaced persons," von Stalhein explained. "Air Commodore Raymond put me in touch with them when I arrived; they were most helpful in the matter of furnishings and so forth, and while I cannot repay them, I have been able to assist... some new arrivals here struggle to read English, and there are many forms to complete. There was an elderly Hungarian couple, and they were very insistent that I and some others join them for Christmas after I was able to... so no, I am afraid I cannot."
Biggles had felt his smile grow broader throughout this halting speech. "That sounds lovely. Perhaps you might come on Christmas Eve instead. It's normally just the four of us then, you can stay and have a drink if you like, and collect your box. Come around seven, if that's convenient?"
Von Stalhein gave a slight bow. "I will come."
***
It was no surprise that von Stalhein was strictly punctual. Biggles had told the others to expect him, and after an afternoon of listening to the wireless and drinking mulled wine even Algy had agreed that it was reasonable for him to come and collect his box.
"So long as he doesn't expect me to give him a present too," had been Algy's final word on the topic.
"Peace and goodwill to all men," Bertie said, cracking a hazelnut.
"I heard it was 'peace to men of good will'," Algy retorted, "and I'm not convinced Erich falls into that category."
Bertie passed Algy the hazelnut and bent to stir the fire. "Don't set the skipper off again," he said plaintively.
Biggles, who had glanced out of the window overlooking the street casually six times in the past ten minutes, said with slightly less force than earlier, "Stow it. He's just coming now." Von Stalhein was walking rather than taking a taxi, as Biggles would have, and Biggles wished he'd offered to call for him. It was cold, windy and drizzling, a typical London December, and almost three miles from von Stalhein's building; the walk across Hyde Park would be pleasant enough in good weather but not in the cold and dark.
A minute later Biggles heard a halting step on the stairs, then a long pause as if for a man to collect his wits and nerve, and then a knock at the door. Biggles opened it at once. "My dear fellow, come in," he said. "It's a chilly night, don't stand in the doorway. Give me your coat."
Von Stalhein held a small package in his hands, and he surrendered damp coat and hat to Biggles, who handed them off in turn to Ginger. "Happy Christmas," Biggles greeted him once von Stalhein was properly in the sitting room and unable to retreat; from his tension Biggles could see he was tempted, but he gave a little betraying sigh as Biggles shepherded him in the direction of the fire.
The others had stood and come over to greet him as well, Algy hanging back a little but Bertie offering a handshake with no hesitation. That, Biggles noted, left the armchair closest to the fire vacant, and he immediately gestured von Stalhein towards it.
"Come and get warm," Biggles went on. Von Stalhein sat stiffly on the chair. Algy, who had previously occupied that seat, gave Biggles a mock-glare, but went to fetch more mulled wine instead of saying anything.
Von Stalhein had lived in closer quarters with all of them than this on the journey back from Sakhalin, and while he was clearly uneasy in Mount Street, they did have some familiarity to draw upon. Algy passed him a glass of mulled wine and von Stalhein seemed to recall the package in his hands. He offered it cautiously to Biggles. "For you all."
It was a biscuit tin, claiming to be shortbread, tied up with a ribbon. Biggles untied it and opened it, and a pleasant spicy aroma came out. Looking inside he saw it was not shortbread but something dark and spiced, cut in small star shapes and glazed white.
"We always ate these at Christmas when I was young," he explained.
Biggles took one and passed them around, and smiled. "They're very nice. Thank you."
"Did you bake these?" Ginger asked as he bit into one with a grin. "I've never seen them before."
"I've had them in Germany once, between the wars," Bertie offered, raising his glass of mulled wine in toast to von Stalhein.
"You cannot buy them in England," von Stalhein said. "Yes, I did make them."
Algy hesitated with his second halfway to his mouth, then shrugged and ate it. "I'd never have guessed you cooked," he said around a mouthful of crumbs.
"Anyone who wishes to eat should be able to cook," von Stalhein said sententiously. "And it has been useful over the years."
Bertie responded with a lengthy story about a time he had tried to catch and cook a lobster, with cheerful ragging from Ginger and Algy, and the conversation became general. Von Stalhein's biscuits were passed around repeatedly and supplemented with mince pies and cheese straws, his glass of mulled wine was refilled, and Biggles watched with pleasure as he slowly relaxed, to the extent of joining Ginger in roasting chestnuts on the fire while Algy put an album of Christmas carols on the gramophone.
An hour had passed like this and the album came to an end. Then Algy said, "So, what are you going to do with your box? Open it here or cart it away with you for tomorrow?"
Biggles had not been intending to push, but he did not quash Algy this time. Von Stalhein finished peeling a chestnut. He had been glancing at the travel-stained wooden crate under the tree every so often, and now he said, "It is traditional to open gifts tonight. If that is acceptable to you?" he added with a glance around.
"I'm positively dying to know what's in it," Bertie said cheerfully. "It's been sitting there since we put the tree up. Go right ahead."
Biggles found some tools to prise open the lid, and handed them to von Stalhein, then ended up kneeling with him under the tree when the crate proved difficult to open. At last they pulled off the board across the top, and Biggles set it to one side. Inside, the contents were packed in straw, and the warm grassy smell immediately filled the room, mingling with the pine of the tree and the smoke of the fire and their cigarettes. Biggles moved back a little to let von Stalhein look inside, and so he had a good view of von Stalhein's face when he pulled back the straw and saw something. Biggles couldn't see what it was, but he could see the way von Stalhein's lips parted, he drew a short breath and with wide eyes drew out a hard case, narrower at one end than the other.
Algy gave a whistle. "That's worth waiting for."
Von Stalhein laid the case down reverently on the carpet. Biggles watched his hands, his face. As gently as if he were delivering a baby, von Stalhein opened the clasps on the case and pushed up the lid. Inside was a violin.
The only sound was the crackling of the fire as von Stalhein lifted the instrument out of the case and examined it intently, the neck, the body, the strings, then the bow. Algy glanced at him, then crossed to the piano and lifted the lid. Von Stalhein's eyes flicked to him, and he gave a nod. Algy played a note, and von Stalhein coaxed a matching note from the violin.
Partway through tuning the instrument, von Stalhein seemed to realise he was still kneeling by the Christmas tree, watched by the others, and he lowered the violin abruptly, saying, "I'm sorry, I am interrupting the party--"
"No," said Algy firmly from across the room, "keep going, I want to hear it."
Murmurs of agreement from Bertie and Ginger followed. Von Stalhein looked up, and Biggles extended a hand. Von Stalhein gave him the violin to hold with the air of a mother passing over her infant to a stranger, then got stiffly back to his feet. He went over to the piano and carried on his painstaking work, adjusting each peg with the tiniest of turns. Biggles couldn't perceive the difference in the sounds the violin was making, but to von Stalhein it was clearly as meaningful as the changes of an engine's pitch in different weather conditions.
He watched and listened as Algy and von Stalhein worked together to tune the violin. "The strings need replacing, really," von Stalhein said after a while. "But it should hold for a little bit." He raised his bow and began to play Silent Night, the notes singing out around the room and filling the space completely. With the familiar melody, Biggles could hear what von Stalhein meant about the imperfections, but nonetheless it was beautiful. Von Stalhein segued into a second Christmas carol, one that was less familiar to Biggles, then lowered the bow, his gaze averted. Algy glanced up at him and then deliberately moved away; Bertie and Ginger took their cue from Algy and found other things to occupy themselves while von Stalhein recovered his composure.
"I thought this was lost, after--after everything," he said quietly to Biggles as he replaced the violin in its case, then kept the case in his hand. "How did they... I thought my sister could bring nothing but the clothes she stood up in?"
As he had done. "She was able to bring a few parcels. I understand from Fritz that she brought some things of theirs, some mementos of her late husband--and some things of yours."
"I meant to try to save my earnings, and purchase an instrument in a few years," von Stalhein went on, his voice still a little hoarse. "But I could not have found one of this calibre... thank you."
"All I did was take a box on my machine," Biggles said. "I am glad you have something of yours here now. And I believe there are some other things in the box, when you're ready."
Von Stalhein laid the violin case under the Christmas tree and knelt again by the box. He removed a large book with a battered leather cover and opened it briefly, swallowed and said, "She did find the important things." When Biggles glanced curiously at it, von Stalhein handed it to him. It was a photo album. The first page displayed a very old studio portrait of a numerous family, father in a military uniform from three wars ago, mother in an elegant dark silk dress, and six children of various ages from a baby in a white lace gown to a stern-faced youth also in uniform. Biggles studied them, wondering which was Erich. The eldest had a different shape to his face, but there was something familiar about the second son wearing a neat suit and tie. Biggles did not look through the whole album, feeling that would be prying, but set it down with the violin.
After that von Stalhein produced a handful of small jeweller's boxes all folded neatly inside a lace tablecloth as if to keep them together; Biggles recognised them as military decorations. Those von Stalhein laid aside with a wary glance at Biggles, who smiled. He had some similar boxes mostly rammed in the back of a drawer; still, he would have been a little sorry to lose them altogether. "My mother worked the tablecloth," he added, smoothing it down neatly. "It always covered a particular table in our home."
Then, packed and carefully padded in straw, he produced a silver coffee-pot and part of a tea set in a fine porcelain, four cups with their saucers and a milk jug and sugar bowl. There was a scribbled note inside the jug which von Stalhein read and smiled ruefully. "My sister writes that the teapot did not survive the journey from East Berlin, but she knows I prefer coffee anyway. The set is English," he added. "My mother's family was from England originally. Perhaps it will like to be back in its native land." He replaced each article in the box, then found the final item, another book.
"The family Bible," Bertie said as he saw it. Von Stalhein nodded.
"It will go on to Fritz after me, I suppose," he said. "There's nobody else now."
Biggles pictured that family photo again, and did not ask after the fates of the other four children. Von Stalhein finished repacking the box and Biggles offered him a hand to get to his feet again. He looked tired now, drained, and when he said it was time he was going, Biggles nodded.
"I'll run you home," he said. "You won't get that box there any other way." He looked at the others. "You might help get the box down the stairs while I bring the car around."
By the time he had the Bentley in the road outside their entrance, Algy and Ginger were holding the box between them on the pavement while von Stalhein stood by it watchfully. They put it in the boot and von Stalhein took the seat beside Biggles.
"You fellows can stay here and keep the fire going for when I get back," Biggles said hastily as Bertie took a step towards the car, and Algy drew him back again. The streets were quiet, though he saw groups of families in Sunday best making for various churches, and the Christmas lights and wreaths made a pleasant show even in the wet. Von Stalhein was silent on the short drive, lost in thought, though now and then his gaze stole sideways to Biggles and then away again.
"I am not sorry you brought me here," he said finally, as Biggles turned off Kensington High Street and made his way along to von Stalhein's building, "but it surprises me what a difference it makes to have these things. I was prepared for all my past to be gone when I came here, and I know I am more fortunate than many, but... I feel more whole with these things."
"It's not something I've ever had to face," Biggles answered. "But I'm glad." He pulled up outside the door and went with von Stalhein to collect the box. The staircase up to the top floor was steep and winding, and Biggles took the climb deliberately slowly, pausing on each landing to rest and regroup. Unbearable if they dropped the box and damaged its treasured contents now. At the top they set the box down while von Stalhein unlocked his door, then carried the box inside. Automatically, von Stalhein secured the door again as soon as they'd set the box down on a table. Biggles switched on a light. Von Stalhein turned immediately back to the box and pulled open the lid again, then stopped himself.
"Sorry. I just wanted to check--"
Biggles had already joined him and finished removing the lid. "Of course."
They unpacked it together, Biggles removing each item and brushing it clean of straw and dust while von Stalhein placed them about the room, spread the cloth on his little battered table and then stood with the silver coffee pot in his hand. "May I offer you some coffee?"
Biggles smiled and helped him carry the china through to his little kitchen. Von Stalhein busied himself with kettle and coffee pot while Biggles arranged the other items in a cupboard. There was a second biscuit tin sitting open on the kitchen table.
"It took several rounds of attempts before I succeeded," von Stalhein said. "They taste fine, mostly, but they weren't quite right."
Inside were a number of stars with cracked and crumbling tops, slightly underbaked stars, broken stars and similar culinary mishaps. Biggles ate one anyway. "As you say, they taste fine. I see the secret of your success is persistence."
"It's the only secret of success," von Stalhein said seriously, "as you well know. Come and sit down." He unearthed a tray, set coffee pot and two cups on it along with the tin of irregular biscuits, and went back to the sitting room. There was a somewhat elderly sofa and coffee table there, and Biggles and von Stalhein sat side by side. Biggles watched von Stalhein's hands on the fine silver and china as he poured out their coffee, how his fingers brushed the delicate surfaces and the scrollwork on the coffee pot, and was reminded suddenly of the elegant young officer he had first met.
"Most of my past, I was more than happy to leave behind," von Stalhein said. "A modest life here, in peace, is more than I ever dreamed of, once. Or deserved. This feels--" he gave a sudden laugh, "this feels typical of you, Bigglesworth, surpassing any expectations I ever had. Tell me, what part did you really play in it? I know what the original plan was for extracting my sister, and there was to be no chance to bring possessions." His sharp blue eyes fixed Biggles over his cup.
"I have some friends stationed in Berlin," Biggles admitted. "You see, it was arranged for the feast of St Nicholas at the start of the month, and he carries sacks of gifts, does he not? Your sister left East Berlin with a long white beard and several cushions under her red robes, and two large sacks, carefully packed. It wasn't my idea," he added. "But the group of soldiers was visiting several homes for orphans delivering gifts, and there were several St Nicholases already; an additional one was not too hard to smuggle back. And the Russian border guards received some gifts of a liquid nature which disposed them well towards the charitable mission."
Von Stalhein eyed him doubtfully. "Are you serious?"
"You will doubtless have the opportunity to ask your sister yourself one day," Biggles said. "But I believe she was very pleased. Fritz said that her main difficulty in leaving the East was the sentimental attachment to those things she had left of her husband, and I wanted to make it easier for her to start fresh in a new place." He ate another misshapen biscuit and finished his coffee, then stood up. "I look forward to hearing you play again when you've got your violin back in good order. It's much better that it should be here with you than abandoned."
"Of course." Another smile crossed von Stalhein's face. "You will find that this is, I think, one area in which I can finally best you... unless you too have kept musical skill well hidden over the years?"
"Me? No. Algy plays the piano a bit, and you don't want to get between Bertie and a trumpet, but I know when to sit quietly and listen. Your victory will be unchallenged there." He put his coat and hat back on. Von Stalhein accompanied him out onto the landing and down to the ground floor, then halted just inside the door, glancing upwards. Some wag, Biggles observed, had tied a bunch of mistletoe to the simple light fixture just inside the entrance, and he was standing directly beneath it.
"A traditional Christmas," he said mildly. He glanced around to check he was not going to embarrass von Stalhein in front of his neighbours, then embraced him. "Merry Christmas, my dear Erich."
Von Stalhein did not freeze or withdraw, as Biggles had half feared he might, but instead leaned against Biggles, so close that their faces brushed together. "Bigglesworth... I cannot express..."
Biggles's arms tightened around him. "It is good to see you happy."
In the distance there were bells ringing. Very lightly, von Stalhein turned his head and kissed Biggles on the cheek, then stepped back. "Merry Christmas."