Riptide

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It was an irrational moment. A surrender of logic to the perilous joy of common nonsense. When the train stopped between stations on the S-Bahn, Stahl felt exposed, fearful for his life in a way that made no sense. High on the creaking metal latticework, the train tortured the tracks and juddered to a halt. Then the lights went out and Stahl knew that there was an air raid on. Yet again the RAF had got through to a city that the Fuhrer had told them would never see a British plane or hear the crash of a British bomb. Berlin the impregnable, some of whose citizens now trembled and wept in the darkness, packed into a swaying train, high above the streets.

It was irrational. He was no more at risk here than on the ground. It just seemed that way-as though to be stuck on the elevated tracks like a bird on the wire made him into… a sitting duck. He recalled a phrase of his father’s from the last war, one every old Austrian soldier used occasionally-every old British soldier too, he was certain-‘If it’s got your name on it…’ which meant that death was inevitable, and urged a grinning stoicism on those about to die.

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