The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain
must have fallen asleep because it was dawn, a soft, grey light that mottled through tall trees and drew faint stripes across the road.
‘Glad you slept,’ he said in a bitter tone.
Ada stretched her legs and arms, clenched and unclenched her hands. The road ahead was straight, the countryside flat. ‘Where are we?’
‘Picardy,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
Her father used to sing, Roses are shining in Picardy. It was one of his favourite songs. That and Tipperary. She wanted to hear it now, a longing so acute it lunged like a knife. She could hear him singing, his voice sweet and tender, and she began to sing with him in her head, a soft, mournful duo, in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flowering in Picardy, but there’s never a rose like you.
Stanislaus turned and faced her. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘It was a wartime song,’ she said. ‘The soldiers sang it in the trenches. I expect you Germans sang the same kind of songs.’
His knuckles tightened on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw flexed. ‘I am not a German.’
‘I know.’ She was cross, tired. A silly mistake. But still, he didn’t have to speak so sharp. She wasn’t the enemy.
‘Do you think they’ll fight again here?’
‘Shut up.’
She slunk back in her seat, stared out of the window, tears pricking her eyes. She had no idea where they were and there didn’t seem to be any road signs. They passed a platoon of troops, dressed in khaki, helmets and rifles at the ready.
‘They’re British,’ Ada said. ‘Stop, I want to talk to them.’ Ask where they were going, what they were doing. Perhaps they’d look after her. Take her home.
‘Please stop,’ she said again.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, adding, ‘you’re a fucking liability, you know that, don’t you?’
He’d never sworn before. She turned in her seat and watched them disappear through the rear window.
The car began to slow down.
‘No.’ His foot pumped the pedal on the floor and he shifted the gears on the dashboard, making angry grinding sounds. The car spluttered and stopped.
‘No.’ He was screaming.
He got out and slammed the door. Ada watched him open the boot, felt the car shudder as he banged it shut again. He walked round to her side, and flung open her door.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We have no petrol.’
‘What will we do?’
‘Walk,’ he said.
Ada stepped onto the running board and jumped to the ground. She looked down the road behind her, but the soldiers were out of sight. She could run, catch them up.
He grabbed her hand and began to pull.
‘My case,’ she said. ‘I need my case.’
‘No time for that. It’ll slow us down.’
‘But my shoes,’ Ada said. ‘I can’t walk in these shoes.’ She only had the shoes that she had travelled in to France, all that time ago, simple courts with high, stacked heels. She had worn them constantly and there was a hole in one of the soles. They were comfortable enough, but not for walking.
‘Then take them off,’ he said. He would not let go of her hand and his pace was fast.
‘How far is it?’
‘Ten kilometres. Fifteen.’
‘What’s that in miles?’
‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Roughly. Ten.’
Ten miles. Ada had never walked so far in her life, and here she was, trotting to keep up with him.
They stopped once when Stanislaus needed to relieve himself. Ada was glad for the pause. She had a stitch, and sat down on the side of the road, slipping off her shoes. They were old and worn, but at least they weren’t rubbing. She wiggled her toes. She had no idea what time it was, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had passed several platoons of soldiers. She wanted to call out to them, Good luck, boys! To ask them for help, to take her home, but Stanislaus told her to keep quiet, threatened to silence her, once and for all, if she made a sound. There were other people on the road, walking like themselves, or on bicycles, men with their girlfriends or wives sitting on the crossbar. One couple had a baby, and another a young child strapped into a chair over the rear wheel. From time to time a car passed, piled with luggage. Well-to-do people, she thought, who had found a way round petrol shortages. She wondered who Stanislaus had borrowed the car from.
He was tense, but then he had responsibilities. He was doing his best. He had to protect them. They’d be all right, she knew. She was lucky. They were lucky. Nothing would happen and it was exciting, in its way, running away like this. She regretted having to leave the samples behind, but there was nothing much else in the suitcase that she really wanted to bring back to England with her. The clothes she’d packed – Stanislaus had packed – were worn and stretched. If they were going home, she’d be on her feet again in no time, could make herself some nice new outfits. That’s if Mrs B. gave her her old job back. And if she didn’t? She’d get another job, just as she had in Paris. Or maybe they’d stay in Belgium. She didn’t know anything about Belgium. She pulled out her hankie and wiped her nose. At least she still had her handbag and had had the foresight to slip in her lipstick and comb before they left. Her purse and passport were always there, in the side pocket.
‘Not far,’ Stanislaus said. He looked happier now, held out his hand to help her up. His moods didn’t last long.
‘Perhaps,’ he went on, ‘when we get to the border, you could do the talking? Your French is better than mine.’
‘What do I have to talk about?’
‘I got rid of my passport, remember? You’ll have to say it got lost, or was stolen, or mislaid in our rush to leave. Something. I have to get out of France.’
‘But it doesn’t say I’m married on it. It’s not a married woman’s passport. I’d be on yours if I really was your wife.’
‘You’ll think of something.’
The crowds were thickening now and Ada could see what looked like a queue ahead that snaked away to two officers whom she could see standing in the distance by a sentry box.
‘Is this it?’ she said. ‘Belgium?’
Stanislaus nodded, put his arm round her waist, pulled her close.
Most people were speaking French, but there were some other languages Ada had never heard before. Soldiers walked up and down, making sure the line was orderly and calm. French soldiers, Ada thought. They moved slowly, inch by inch. Stanislaus fished in his pocket, and handed over a franc to a young boy pushing a trolley with baguettes and a steel churn that glinted in the sun. She was thirsty, and hungry, grateful for the bread and the water, even though she wished the metal cup for the water had been a little cleaner. But then the French never thought about those things.
The line moved slowly. More people came up behind them. There must be hundreds, Ada thought, thousands. It was as if half of Europe were escaping. Her shoes were pinching now. She longed to sit down, or better, lie flat with her head on a soft, feather pillow. They’d be here all day at this rate, all night. The guards took their time, inspecting the paperwork, asking questions, eyeing the refugees. They were opening suitcases, pulling out a cotton dress, a cummerband, the snatched relics of a former life. Stanislaus stood beside her, worry creased in his forehead.
They inched forward. She’d say Stanislaus was her brother. A bit simple. She’d