The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain
can’t remember,’ Ada said. She knew she was being tested. She could be an impostor. If she gave the wrong answer, they’d send her away, back out to the street. ‘I was only little when she left but it must have been about fifteen years ago. Maybe ten.’ She added, ‘I think she was here.’
‘And where did she come from?’ The other red-faced nun said. She spoke in English, with an Irish accent. She sounded strict, as if Ada was telling a fib.
‘London,’ Ada said. ‘Walworth. 19 Inville Road, Walworth.’
This red-faced nun nodded at the Good Mother.
‘Please help me,’ Ada said.
‘How?’ the Good Mother said. ‘We look after old people. We must think of them.’
‘I’ll work for you.’ Auntie Vi had said they always have lay people in to do the cleaning, wash the dishes, make the beds. Ada could do that. They had to keep her. ‘Let me stay, please. I’ll do anything. I have nowhere to go.’
The Good Mother patted Ada’s hand, stood up and walked to the corner, beckoning the other nun to follow. They turned their backs to Ada and leant their heads close. Ada couldn’t hear what they were saying, nor was she sure she would understand if she did. The Good Mother spoke fast.
They returned after a few minutes. ‘We can shelter you.’ She shrugged. ‘But for how long?’ she rolled her hands so the palms faced upwards. ‘Je ne sais pas. If the British help us, drive the Germans out, a few days perhaps. And then, you must leave.’
Ada nodded. She’d be safe here, safer than at the pension. Besides, she’d never find the pension, not now, with the bombs and the smoke.
‘Thank you, Bonne Mère,’ Ada said. ‘Thank you so much.’ The British would be here soon. It would be all right. They’d send her back to London, to Mum and Dad.
The Good Mother nodded, and tucked her hands behind her scapular. ‘Sister Monica,’ she said, tilting her head towards the other nun who was scowling at Ada, ‘is in charge of our novitiates. I shall leave you with her. I have much to do now.’ She turned on her heel and marched down the corridor.
‘She’s not the only one with much to do,’ Sister Monica said in a tight voice. ‘And no time to do it.’
‘I can help,’ Ada said, though all she wanted was to sleep.
‘You? How?’
‘I can sew. And clean, and—’
Sister Monica snorted, and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder. ‘Well, come on then. Follow me. Good Mother says I’m to make a nun of you.’
Ada stood up, nestling her handbag under her arm. ‘Make a nun of me?’
‘She said to dress you up like one of us.’ She hissed, ‘A sacrilege. Not to mention the danger. What if the Germans win? Eh?’
There were two tall doors at the end of the corridor marked ‘Privé’. Sister Monica led the way through them, up a long flight of wooden steps, down another corridor and into a large room full of open shelves on which were stacked folded piles of garments, linen and towels.
‘You need a bath,’ Sister Monica said, thrusting a towel into Ada’s arms and pointing to a door opposite. ‘But don’t bother dressing when you’re done. Wrap this round you,’ she handed over a long, white shift, ‘and come back in here. Don’t take all day. No more than two inches of water in the bath, and mind you clean it after you.’
A large tub on claw feet, tiled floor and walls. No mirror. Just as well. She wouldn’t want to see what she looked like. She turned the tap. The pipes screamed as steaming water belched out. The bath wasn’t run that often, Ada thought. The pipes were full of air, like the pump at home. She undressed and lowered herself into warm water, wincing as it hit the raw of her blisters, watching as it dissolved the dirt. She lay back, wetting the ends of her hair. If she shut her eyes, she could sleep.
Sister Monica was hammering at the door. ‘Come out now. I don’t have time to wait for you.’
Ada rubbed her body with the towel, pulled the shift over her head. It rucked on her damp skin. She felt better for the bath, and the food, more herself.
‘Sit there,’ Sister Monica said, pointing to a chair. She held a large pair of scissors in her hands. Ada stared at the shears.
‘Don’t even argue,’ Sister Monica went on. ‘I’ve got the measure of you, Ada Vaughan.’
She sat on the chair and Sister Monica tugged at her hair. She heard the scratch of the blades as they sliced and watched as a chestnut lock floated past her to the floor. She’d known that nuns shaved their heads, but if it was only for a few days, why did she have to? She’d be back in England soon enough and she’d look ridiculous. Clumps of hair swilled from her shift and onto the floor.
‘Now,’ Sister Monica said, ‘stand over there.’ Ada felt her head. It wasn’t shaved, but the hair was short. It felt dry and sharp, like stubble. Her hair lay below her, long waves of rich amber like fallen leaves. Cruel. A cruel cut. She’d have to wear a hat while it grew back. She could have made a turban from one of the samples she’d left in Paris, that would’ve been all right. But now she’d have to go out with tufts, unless she found a scarf to cover her head.
Sister Monica was rifling through the shelves, pulling out items of folded clothing. ‘You’ll wear Sister Jeanne’s habit,’ she said. ‘She died last week. These are your drawers. They go on first.’ She held up a large square of calico, divided halfway down. ‘You step in and pull the tapes. Waist. Legs.’
Ada stepped in. The drawers were vast. ‘Do you have a smaller pair?’
Sister Monica snorted. ‘I suppose you’ll want tailored French knickers next.’ Ada said nothing. ‘Now this.’
Bodice and underskirt, tunic and scapular, belt and rosary. Serge, black. Sister Jeanne had been a large nun and Ada was lost in her clothes. The shoes and stockings were several sizes too big.
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