The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain
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Название: The Dressmaker of Dachau
Автор: Mary Chamberlain
Издательство: HarperCollins
isbn: 9780007591541
isbn:
‘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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