The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 tap her head. Muddled. Would he mind? Or perhaps he could be deaf and dumb? My brother can’t talk. Someone stole his passport. Would he snap at her afterwards, What do you take me for? Or would he say, Well done, Ada, I knew you’d think of something. She rehearsed the lines in her head, in her best French. What if she forgot them? Or they saw through her? He’s not your brother. Come with me, monsieur, mademoiselle. She’d have to warn him, Don’t say a word. She worried that he looked suspicious with his face cut and bruised like that.

      Slowly, slowly. Most of the people were let through but some were turned away. There was a large family, a grandmother and her two sons and a daughter, or perhaps a wife, grandchildren. There must have been around ten of them all together. The children were knock-kneed with socks scrolled down their skinny legs, the boys in grey flannel shorts, the girls in smocked dresses. They stood still, eyes wide, watching, while one of the fathers pointed to their documents, to the children. The guard shook his head, beckoned over another man with braid on his uniform. Ada couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the sons took the guard’s hand, pumped it, smiling and they walked to the other side, to Belgium. Ada breathed with relief. If that family could get through, she and Stanislaus would be all right. She followed each refugee, one by one, as the guard let them pass, smiling with them, for them. Families, single women, old men. Edging forward. They were two away from the border post. An elderly couple was ahead of them. He was wearing an overcoat tied round the middle with string, and she wore a black skirt with an uneven hem that draped at the back over her thick, fat ankles. Everyone looked dowdy in the war, dressed in old clothes, patched and darned. Perhaps they were saving their best for the armistice. The guard stamped their documents and Ada watched as they shuffled away.

      Almost their turn. A young man was in front of them. He looked about her age. His cheeks were flushed and smooth, unmarked by whiskers. Close-up, the guard looked stern, bored. A hard man. If they didn’t let Stanislaus through, she thought, what would happen? Would they arrest him? Take him to prison? If he started talking, they’d know she had lied. She’d be in for it then, too. Perhaps they’d have to stay in France. They could hide. Change their names. No one would know. They should never have come anyway. They could turn around, now, go back to Paris.

      Ada shifted her weight to relieve the pressure off her blister and stepped on a small, brown teddy bear lying on the ground. It was woollen, soft, stuffed with kapok, sewn together down the side, smooth even stitches. Perhaps someone had made a pullover for her husband, knitted a toy for the baby with the leftover two-ply. Ada looked around. There was no baby in sight. She’d keep it, a good luck charm. She put it in her bag.

      The guard had taken the young man’s documentation, was studying it, twisting it upside down, to the side. He returned the papers and pointed left, to a small bureau a few yards along.

      ‘Mais—’ the young man began, his shoulders slumped. He was close to tears. But the guard wasn’t listening, was beckoning to Ada and Stanislaus. The youth picked up his knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards the office.

      They stepped forward. Ada ran through the lines in her head. My brother, someone stole—

      ‘Nationalité?’

      She wasn’t sure if she should show her passport. It was right here, in her hand, a small, dark blue book. She squeezed her bag instead with the soft teddy inside, Wish me luck.

      ‘Nous sommes anglais.’

      The officer lifted his chin, studied their faces. She dared not look at Stanislaus. Her armpits were wet. She began to sweat behind her knees and in the palms of her hands.

      The guard said nothing, waved them through with a flick of the wrist, summoned the next in line, a large family with five children.

      Walked through, just like that. The strain had made her dizzy, but she was almost disappointed too. No one had given her the chance to say the words she’d practised over and over in her head. Stanislaus wouldn’t know how clever she could be.

      ‘We made it,’ he said.

      They were in Belgium.

      The relief brought with it exhaustion. Her legs ached, her back hurt, another blister had formed on her heel. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to go home, to open the door, Hello, Mum, it’s me. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk another yard, and she had no idea where they were.

      ‘Are we far from the sea?’ she said.

      ‘Sea?’ СКАЧАТЬ