The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain
crowd pushed against her. She recognized where they were, close to the train station. The people must be heading there. She wanted to be free of them, to think. She tried to turn and stand against the force. No one noticed her, no one cared. She was alone in the middle of a thousand frightened, fleeing people. There was no Stanislaus. She had no idea where to go, or what to do. She had no one to turn to. She let the crowd carry her with them. Perhaps they knew where they were going. Perhaps they knew where it was safe.
Paris. She could go back to Paris. Monsieur Lafitte, Madame Breton. They would take care of her. She’d explain why she left without warning. Bit of bother that Stanislaus got himself into. They thought he was a German.
And then a truth smacked her hard across the face. What if Stanislaus was German? What if Mrs B. had been right all along? He was a spy, and she his alibi. She tried to turn again but the pressure of the crowd was too strong. Move to the side, she thought, to the side, forward and to the side. The crowds were thinner there.
A man trod on her toe and she yelped.
‘Excusez moi, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Excusez moi.’ He didn’t linger, his eyes hard focused on the space ahead.
Ada reached the edge of the square and stood beneath an arcade away from the crowd. What had he been doing in London? She never asked. Took her to Paris. Said there’d be no war, said he couldn’t go back to England. She promised him she’d stay. They were a nice young couple and she was his cover. Where did he get his money from? What sort of business was he in? Did he love her?
She had been a fool. Taken in. And then Belgium, Namur. No more. Of course. He knew the Germans were coming, he must have. That was who he went to join, not his wife, he had no wife. That was a codeword. Spies used them. Of course she’d never seen his passport, he couldn’t show it to her. He’d give himself away. You do the talking, Ada, when we get to the border. Left her here, discarded her, after he was done with her. Purpose served, mission complete.
An aircraft overhead emitted a steady rhythmic drone, like a giant wasp. It flew low enough that Ada could make out a swastika on its tail, the cross on its side, and the ghostly shape of its pilot in the cockpit. Moments later there was an explosion, close enough to make the ground shudder. The crowd screamed and scattered. She heard the frightened whinnies of the horses, the cries of children, could see people falling, trampled on the ground. She stood at the edge of the square, frozen. Another aircraft came into view and Ada realized that it had spotted the crowds, was lining up to attack them. She pushed her way through the arcade, into a side street. Ran and ran as another bomb hurtled down, closer this time, its force rocking the ground so she tripped and fell. Get up, get up. She knew she had to run, get out of the open streets and find protection. She heard a heavy rumble. Ahead of her a building was crumbling down, a giant with shattered knees, falling in a thick fog of grit. She must go back to Madame, to the cellar, shelter.
She pushed herself onto her feet and looked round. The sky was filled with dust, sticky, grey grouts that clogged her nose and fell like ash on her hands and in her mouth. She tried to push them out but they coated her tongue and sat like blotting paper, mopping up her spittle. She had no idea where the pension was or what it was called or which street it was on. She had lost her bearings. Her foot was sticky. She had cut her knee when she fell and blood was trickling down her calf and into the side of her shoe. Her blister throbbed. She pulled off her shoes. Have to run. Get away. Perhaps the pension was to the right. She had cut across the square. Up the road, first on the right, but the street veered back on itself and twisted round again. She was going round in circles.
The crowds had fled for shelter. Another plane droned off in the distance and there was a sharp crack of gunfire. The plane came into view and Ada watched, transfixed, as the long, black bomb fell behind a row of houses nearby. The ground juddered. She heard the tinkle of shattered windows, felt a shard of glass brush her arm, watched a cloud of thick, black smoke billow from a neighbouring street. There were more planes now, and more bombs, coming faster and faster. Nowhere was safe. There was broken glass all round and her feet were bare. She slipped her shoes back on, wincing at her blisters, and ran away from the blast, down another street she didn’t recognize, away and away, her mind racing in time with her legs, praying for the first time for months. Please God, please God …
Round a corner. Two of them. Standing there, in full view, staring at her.
Les Soeurs de la Bienveillance. Heavy black cloaks and white starched wimples. She recognized the habit. It was the same order that her Auntie Vi had joined fifteen years ago.
‘Please,’ she said. She could feel the words tumbling out, pushing for space, begging to be heard over the roar of the bombers. ‘Please. Help me. Aidez moi. My name is Ada. My aunt is a Sister, one of you, Sister Bernadette of Lourdes, perhaps you know her? She served her novitiate here, in Belgium.’ Or was it France? Ada couldn’t remember. She was only little at the time. ‘I’m lost. My husband—’ What could she say? ‘I’m alone.’
‘Your husband?’ One of the nuns said.
She had to stick with her lie. ‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly. The gunfire and explosions had stopped. Smoke and dust clung like a shroud, and the smell of broken masonry and burning filled the air. This might be her only chance. ‘I’ve lost my husband.’
She felt sick, and her head began to spin. When she came to, she was sitting on the ground, her head held down between her knees.
‘Madame,’ one of the sisters was saying. ‘Madame, you cannot stay here. It isn’t safe.’
‘Help me,’ Ada said. Her voice was far away, a distant rap in her head. ‘I have nowhere to go.’
The nuns lifted her to her feet, one on each side, a firm grip on her elbows. ‘Come with us.’
She leant on them for support, legs moving, one before the other, but her bones had turned to sponge and she had no strength left.
She was aware of an eerie quiet, clouds of rising smoke in the clear blue sky, a river gleaming in the sunlight, and a castle high on the hill. She was aware, too, of uneven cobbles and broken glass and, beyond, an archway with wrought iron writing, La Résidence de Saint-Joseph. The nuns led her inside, into a large hall with a marble chequerboard floor and a life-size statue of St Joseph standing in the centre. He balanced a lily in the crook of an arm and held the other up in a blessing. One nun went off down a corridor and the other led her to a long wooden settle.
‘Asseyez-vous,’ she said. ‘Attendez.’
Ada sat. She was still dizzy and faint. The noise of the bombs and the falling debris echoed in her head. She hadn’t had a proper meal for days, not a meal with meat and potatoes; nor had she had a good night’s sleep. She eased off the first shoe, and then the second. Her feet were filthy, bloodied and black from the road. She clutched her handbag close to her. It was scuffed and dusty and bulging from the teddy bear stuffed inside. The bear was bringing her luck, had kept her alive so far. She fished inside for her compact and lipstick. Must look a fright.
She heard the rattle of beads, the swish of heavy skirts, and smelled the bland talcum of nuns. One from this morning was carrying a tray. Another nun, tall and thin, walked with an air of authority. She must be the head. What did Auntie Vi say they were called? Reverend? Mother? Good Mother. There was an older nun behind her with a stern, red face and round, horn-rimmed glasses. The nun who rescued her this morning placed the tray beside her on the settle. There was a glass of water and some bread. The tall nun approached Ada, her arms outstretched in greeting.
‘Je suis la Bonne Mère,’ she said. Ada tried to stand but her knees buckled. The Good Mother sat next to her, pointed to the tray. Mangez. Ada drank the water, felt it soothe her throat. She broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth.
‘You are English,’ Good Mother said. ‘You have lost your husband.’
Ada nodded.
‘Your name?’
‘Ada Vaughan.’
‘And you are the niece of our beloved Soeur Bernadette