Page 10 of Never Tear Us Apart
Chapter Nine
Our supremely uncomfortable journey comes to an end in what I learn is the heart of Valletta, or at least what’s left of it.
It’s almost impossible to understand what I’m looking at. The last thing I remember in the waking world is looking at the black-and-white photos in the book Kathryn gave me. But those grainy, distant images have nothing to do with this shattered landscape. This is no repurposed memory.
This is Valletta. And it is on fire.
The sun is covered by clouds of smoke and dust; the air is so thick with oil that I can taste it.
Grief surges upwards from my gut into my mouth – that, and the horror of total devastation.
For me, this loss is happening now . This whole place ravaged in an instant.
I want to cry for a city I have only recently learnt to love as it will be, rebuilt, decades from now.
But that has been swept away by rewinding time, and in this hour, we can’t know if Malta will survive.
Memories of reality are no protection against the fear and tragedy of now.
As soon as I step out of the jeep, I start racing towards the Upper Barrakka Gardens, running from Christina and the sergeant, just needing to see.
The elegant arches that once framed the perfect blue of the harbour are broken and shattered.
The lush planting and colourful flower-beds are gone, replaced by rubble and heavy artillery.
The military policeman shouts at me to stop, but I run on through the drifting clouds of debris.
I need to see the harbour and the sea beyond.
I need to know that that , at least, is still there.
Christina hurries behind me, calling for me to come back. I’m not doing very well at convincing her that I’m not a spy.
We stop dead against what’s left of the wall looking out over the harbour. The pale rock is scorched by fire.
Dust rises in clouds. Smoke permeates all.
Ships burn, giving off noxious black fumes.
The three cities across the harbour, Vittoriosa, Senglea and Cospicua, are smouldering craters, torn open for the world to gape at.
Ruin is everywhere I look. I can taste the dust on my tongue, smell the fumes of a thousand fires. I can see and touch the devastation.
‘How did this happen?’ I find myself asking no one in particular, because here in this moment, it is all too real.
‘I ask myself that again and again,’ Christina says; she’s caught up with me and is leaning over the balcony to survey the scene.
This isn’t new to her. She has that world-weary look of a person who is exhausted by survival.
‘You know, I arrived here by ship in ’37.
I had never seen anything as beautiful as this harbour at night.
I felt like Titania being sailed into fairyland.
The moon was full, and its light turned each of the towers and bastions silver.
And the sky was full of twinkling, golden lights, from the stars in the sky to the thousands of lanterns on the anchored ships.
I felt that Malta was a timeless, magical place where knights still fought for the hand of fair ladies and where history had stopped.
I never would have dreamt then that I would still be here now and that all that splendour would have been smashed to smithereens.
It seems that history never stops for anyone, doesn’t it?
’ Then Christina thinks for a moment. ‘But you must have seen this before?’
‘I only just arrived in Valletta,’ I tell her, which is true in a way.
The sight of this devastation has fired something in my racing heart: a furious, passionate anger. This is my land, whether I have known it or not. And I can’t stand to see her bleed when the future is so very far away.
‘I heard of the destruction, but this is . . .’ I expand my hand across the panorama in a hopeless gesture. Looking over my shoulder I see the MP waiting for me, arms crossed.
‘I know,’ she says. ‘I have never loved a place or a people as fiercely – its borders are etched on my heart. The Maltese have shown me how to fight a battle against the odds; it’s for them that we battle on together.
What else can we do? Come on – I’d better take you back, or the sergeant will have us both shot for insurrection.
’ She purposefully takes my arm and nudges me to follow her back towards the jeep.
‘Sergeant,’ Christina says when we reach it, addressing the flustered soldier.
‘No need to trouble yourself any further here. I’ll escort Maia for her interview.
Now, Maia, you said you are staying with a cousin? ’
‘Yes,’ I say slowly. ‘Professor Kathryn Borg.’
‘Oh, I know a Professor Borg – a delightful gentleman,’ Christina says. ‘I wonder if it’s the same one. Oh no, how silly. A lady professor? That is marvellous.’
‘A woman professor – don’t sound likely,’ the sergeant says.
‘More likely than you knowing the sum of two plus two,’ Christina tells him sweetly. ‘Run along now – there’s a good fellow.’
The sergeant harrumphs, mutters ‘four’ under his breath, but nevertheless turns on his heel and goes off to do her bidding.
‘This way.’ Christina leads me up the steps of a grand-looking building.
‘Ordinarily, you’d be taken off to the prison to be interrogated, but as you are a woman, we have brought you here to see General Gort himself .
. .’ Christina has taken a few steps when she realises that I’m not following her.
‘Come along, now,’ she says, beckoning me. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Considering the nature of what constitutes reality,’ I tell her honestly.
‘Come on, you silly goose.’ She beckons me impatiently. ‘The general is a busy man, and I expect he has hardly the time or the ammo to muster a firing squad for you, even if you are a spy. Besides, I’ll look after you. Promise.’
A promise from Christina seems like a solid thing, so reluctantly, I walk to her side.
‘All you need to do is tell the general that you are here staying with your cousin the professor, and when your cousin arrives, all this will be cleared up.’
‘Right,’ I say.
Except, of course, there is no cousin to vouch for me here.