The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 de Lourdes?’

      Ada nodded again. Her lips trembled. She had never been so alone, or so frightened.

      ‘Remind me,’ Good Mother went on, ‘what was your aunt’s name, before she took Holy Orders?’

      ‘Auntie Vi,’ Ada said. She corrected herself. ‘Violet. Violet Gamble.’

      ‘And when did she enter?’

      ‘I 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 СКАЧАТЬ