The Dressmaker of Dachau

by Mary Chamberlain

  ‘I’ve booked the room under Mr and Mrs von Lieben.’

  ‘The room?’ Her voice was weak.

  ‘Of course. What else did you think?’

  She wasn’t that kind of a girl. Didn’t he know that? She wanted to save herself for their wedding night. He wouldn’t respect her otherwise. But she couldn’t run away. She had no money. He was paying for all of this, of course he’d expect something in return. Mrs B. had hinted as much.

  Stanislaus was laughing. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She leant over the side of the ship, hoping the breezes would sweep out the panic lodged inside her head like a cannon ball. She was not ready for this. She thought he was a gentleman. Those society women, they were all loose. That’s what her father always said. Stanislaus thought she was one of them. Didn’t he see it was all a sham? The way she dressed, the way she spoke. A sham, all of it. She took a deep breath, smarted as the salty air entered her lungs. Stanislaus placed his arm round her shoulders. Free spirit. He pulled her close, cupped her face in his hand, tilted it towards him, and kissed her.

  Perhaps this was what it took, to become a woman.

  The hotelier apologized. They were so busy, what with all these artists and musicians, refugees, you know how it is, Monsieur, Madame … The room was small. There were two single beds, with ruched covers. Two beds. What a relief. There was a bathroom next to the bedroom, with black and white tiles and a lavatory that flushed. The room had a small balcony that looked over Paris. Ada could see the Eiffel Tower.

  By night, Paris was as dark as London. By day, the sun was hot and the sky clear. They wandered through the boulevards and squares and Ada tried not to pay attention to the sandbags or the noisy, nervous laughs from the pavement cafés, or the young soldiers in their tan uniforms and webbing. She fell in love with the city. She was already in love with Stanislaus. Ada Vaughan, here, in Paris, walking out with the likes of a foreign count.

  He held her hand, or linked her arm in his, said to the world, my girl, said to her, ‘I’m the happiest man.’

  ‘And I’m the happiest woman.’

  Breeze of a kiss. They slept in separate beds.

  Left bank. Right bank. Montmartre. Rue D'Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès. Ada caressed the silks against her cheek, embraced the soft charmeuse against her skin and left traces on velvet pile where she’d run her fingers over. Stanislaus bought her some moiré in a fresh, pale green which the monsieur had called chartreuse. That evening Ada crossed the length across her breasts, draped the silk round her legs and secured it with a bow at her waist. Her naked shoulder blades marked the angles of her frame and in the bathroom mirror she could see how the eye would be drawn along the length of her back and rest on the gentle curve of her hips.

  ‘That,’ Stanislaus said, ‘is genius.’ And ordered two brandy and chartreuse cocktails to celebrate.

  Ada stared with hungry eyes at the Chanel atelier in the rue Cambon.

  ‘Bit of a rough diamond, she was,’ Stanislaus said. Sometimes his English was so good Ada forgot he was foreign. ‘Started in the gutter.’

  He didn’t mean it unkindly, and the story Stanislaus told gave Ada heart. Poor girl made good, against the odds.

  ‘Mind you,’ Stanislaus winked, ‘she had a wealthy male admirer or two who set her up in business.’

  Distinctive style. A signature, she thought, that’s the word. Like Chanel. A signature, something that would mark out the House of Vaughan. And help from an admirer, if that’s what it took too.

  ‘Paris,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they strolled back arm in arm through the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘is made for me.’

  ‘Then we should stay,’ Stanislaus said, and kissed her lightly again. She wanted to shriek Yes, forever.

  *

  On their last morning they were woken by sirens. For a moment Ada thought she was back in London. Stanislaus pushed himself off his bed, opened the metal shutters and stepped onto the balcony. A shard of daylight illuminated the carpet and the end of her bed, and Ada could see, through the open doors, that the blue sky was no longer fresh and washed. They must have overslept.

  ‘It’s very quiet out there,’ Stanislaus called from outside. ‘Unnatural.’ He came in through the open door. ‘Perhaps it was the real thing.’

  ‘Well, we’re leaving today.’

  They were going home and Stanislaus hadn’t proposed, nor had he taken advantage of her. That would count for nothing if she had to tell her parents. She would lie. She had it worked out. Mrs B. had sent her to Paris with one of the other girls, for work. They’d shared a room. The hotel was ever so posh.

  ‘Get up,’ Stanislaus said. His voice was clipped, agitated. He was pulling on his clothes. Ada swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said. She heard him open the lock, shut the door behind him. She sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the taps and watched as the steaming water fell and tumbled in eddies in the bath, melting the salts she sprinkled in. How could she go home to a galvanized tub in the kitchen? A once-a-week dip with the bar of Fairy?

  An hour passed. The water grew cool. Ada sat up, making waves that washed over the side and onto the cork mat on the floor. She stepped out, reached for the towel, wrapped herself in its fleece, embracing the soft tufts of cotton for the last time. Paris. I will return. Learn French. It wouldn’t take long. She had already picked up a few phrases, merci, s’il vous plait, au revoir.

  She stepped into the bedroom and put on her slip and knickers. She’d organize a proper trousseau for when she and Stanislaus married. He’d have to pay, of course. On her wages, she could barely afford drawers. She’d buy a chemise or two, and a negligee. Just three days in Paris and she knew a lot of words. She glanced at the bedside clock. Stanislaus had been gone a long time. She flung open the wardrobe doors. She’d wear the diagonal striped dress today, with the puffed sleeves and the tie at the neck. It had driven her mad, matching up all the stripes, so wasteful on the fabric, but it was worth it. She looked at herself in the mirror. The diagonals, dark green and white, rippled in rhythm with her body, lithe like a cat. She sucked in her cheeks, more alluring. She was grateful that Stanislaus left the room when she dressed in the morning, or undressed at night. A true gentleman.

  There was a soft knock on the door – their signal – but Stanislaus barged in without waiting for her to reply. ‘There’s going to be war.’ His face was ashen and drawn.

  Her body went cold, clammy, even though the room was warm. War wasn’t supposed to happen. ‘It’s been declared?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But the officers I spoke to in the hotel said they were mobilized, ready. Hitler’s invaded Poland.’

  There was an edge to his voice which Ada had never heard before.

  War. She’d batted off the talk as if it were a wasp. But it had hovered over her all her life and she had learned to live with its vicious sting. It was the only time her father wept, each November, homburg hat and funeral coat, words gagging in the gases of memory, his tall frame shrinking. He sang a hymn for his brother, lost in the Great War. Brave enough to die but all they gave him was the Military Medal, not good enough for the bloody Cross. He had only been seventeen. Oh God, our help in ages past …

  War. Her mother prayed for Ada’s other uncles whom she’d never met, swallowed in the hungry maws of Ypres or the Somme, missing presumed dead, buried in the mud of the battlefields. A whole generation of young men, gone. That’s why Auntie Lily never married, and Auntie Vi became a nun. That was the only time her mother swore, then. Such a bleeding waste. And what for? Ada couldn’t think of a worse way to die than drowning in a quagmire.

  ‘We have to go home,’ she said. Her mind was racing and she could hear her voice breaking. War. It was real, all of a sudden. ‘Today. We must let my parents know.’ She hoped now they hadn’t got her postcard. They’d be worried stiff.

  ‘I sent them a telegram,’ Stanislaus said, ‘while I was downs
tairs.’

  ‘A telegram?’ Telegrams only came when someone died. They’d go frantic when they saw it.

  ‘They’re invalids,’ Stanislaus said, ‘they must know you’re safe.’

  She had forgotten she’d told him that. Of course.

  ‘That was,’ she stumbled for the word, ‘that was very kind. Considerate.’

  She was touched. Stanislaus’s first thought had been of her, in all of this. And her parents. She felt bad now. She’d told him they were house-bound. She might even have said bedridden. She’d really be in for it now, when she got home. All those lies.

  ‘I sent it to Mrs B. The telegram. I didn’t have your address. She can let your parents know. I trust that’s OK,’ Stanislaus said and added, before she could answer, ‘Who’s looking after them? I hope you left them in safe hands.’

  She nodded, but he was looking at her as if he didn’t approve.

  They packed in silence. Officers in blue uniforms milled round the hotel lobby. There were soldiers too. Ada had never seen so many. The other guests, many of whom Ada recognized from the restaurant, argued in groups or leant, waving and shouting, against the reception desk. Ada was aware of the musk of anxious men, the lust of their adrenalin.

  ‘Follow me.’ Stanislaus took her bag. They pushed their way through the crowded lobby and out through the revolving doors.

  ‘Gare du Nord,’ he said to a bell boy, who whistled for a taxi. The once deserted street with its eerie silence was now full of sound, of scurrying people and thunderous traffic. There were no cabs in sight. Ada had no idea how far it was to the station. She could feel her head begin to tighten. What if they were stuck here in France? Couldn’t get home? At last, a taxi hove into view, and the bell boy secured it.

  ‘You didn’t pay,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they pulled away from the hotel.

  ‘I settled earlier,’ he said. ‘When I sent the telegram.’ She shut her eyes.

  A solid wall of people filled the street, men, women and children, old and young, soldiers, policemen. Most of them were carrying suitcases, or knapsacks, all heading in the same direction, to the Gare du Nord. The people were silent, save for the whimper of a baby in a large pram piled high with bags, and the shouts from the police. Attention! Prenez garde! No one could move. All of Paris was fleeing.

  They had to walk the last kilometre or so. The taxi driver had stopped the cab, shrugged, opened the door, ‘C’est impossible’.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ Ada said. ‘Is there another way?’ People were crowding in behind them now. Ada looked quickly at a side street but saw that that was as thick with people as the main avenue.

  ‘What shall we do?’

  Stanislaus thought for a moment. ‘Wait for the crowds to pass,’ he said. ‘They’re just panicked. You know what these Latin-types are like.’ He tried to smile. ‘Excitable. Emotional.’

  He used their bags as a ram, beat a path to the side. ‘We’ll have a coffee,’ he announced. ‘Some food. And try later. Don’t worry, old thing.’

  Ada would have preferred a cup of tea, brown, two sugars. Coffee was all right, if it was milky enough, but Ada wasn’t sure she could ever get used to it. Far from the station, the crowds had finally thinned. They found a small café, in the Boulevard Barbès, with chairs and tables outside.

  ‘This is where we were,’ Ada said, ‘when I bought the fabric. Just up there.’ She pointed along the Boulevard.

  Stanislaus sat on the edge of his seat, pulled out his cigarettes, lit one without offering any to Ada. He was distracted, she could see, flicking the ash onto the pavement and taking short, moody puffs. He stubbed out the cigarette, lit another straight away.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Ada wanted to soothe him. ‘We’ll get away. Don’t worry.’

  She laid her hand on his arm but he shook it off.

  The waiter brought them their coffee. Stanislaus poured in the sugar, stirred it hard so it slopped on the saucer. She could see the muscles in his jaws clenching, his lips opening and shutting as if he was talking to himself.

  ‘Penny for them.’ She had to get him out of this mood. ‘Look on the bright side, maybe we’ll get to stay in Paris for another day.’ She didn’t know what else to say. It was not what she wanted, her parents going out of their minds, Mrs B. livid. She could picture her now, gearing up to sack her. She’d done that with one of the other girls who didn’t come back from her holidays on time. Do you think I run a charity? Right pickle they were in but they were stuck, for the time being. She had no one to turn to, only Stanislaus. The waiter had left some bread on the table, and she dipped it into her coffee, sucking out the sweetness.

  ‘Is there anyone who can help us?’ she said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Get us home.’ The French wouldn’t do that, she was sure, they had enough of their own kind to look after. Stanislaus turned in his seat, put his elbows on the table, and leant towards her. His forehead was creased and he looked worried.

  ‘The truth is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I can’t go back. I’ll be locked up.’ She drew a breath. Mrs B. had said something like that and all. Ada corrected herself, Mrs B. had said something like that too. Mustn’t drop her guard, not now, in case Stanislaus left her. You’re not who I thought you were.

  ‘Why?’ Ada said. ‘You’re not a German. You only speak it.’

  ‘Austria, Hungary,’ he said, ‘we’re all the enemy.’

  Ada put her hands in her lap and pulled at her cheap ring, up, down, up down. She was stranded. She’d have to go back alone. She wasn’t sure she could do that, find the right train. What if they made an announcement and she didn’t understand? They did that all the time on the Southern Railway. We regret to have to inform passengers that the 09.05 Southern Railways train to Broadstairs will terminate at … She’d be stuck. In the middle of a foreign country, all by herself, not speaking French. And even if she got to Calais, how would she find the ferry? What if it wasn’t running anymore? What would she do then?

  ‘What will you do?’ Her voice came through high and warbling.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  It was already late in the afternoon. The waiter came out and pointed at their cups.

  ‘Fini?’

  Ada didn’t understand so she shook her head, wished he’d leave them alone.

  ‘Encore?’

  She didn’t know what it meant, but nodded.

  ‘I can’t abandon you,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here. We’ll be all right.’ For a moment, she saw them, hand in hand, sauntering through the Tuileries.

  Stanislaus hesitated. ‘The thing is, old girl.’ His voice was slow and quavering and for a fleeting moment he didn’t sound foreign, she’d got so used to his accent. ‘I have no money. Not now. With the war. I won’t be able to wire.’

  Ada couldn’t imagine Stanislaus without money. He’d never been short of a bob or two, always flashed it round. Surely they wouldn’t be poor for long? And anyway being poor in Paris with Stanislaus would be different from being poor in Lambeth. She felt a surge of love for this man who had swept her off her feet, a warm, comfortable glow of optimism.

  ‘We don’t need money,’ she said. ‘I’ll work. I’ll look after us.’

  The waiter reappeared with two more cups of coffee and placed them on the table, tucking the bill under the ashtray.

  ‘L’addition,’ he said and added, ‘la guerre a commencé.’

  Stanislaus looked up.

  ‘What’s he say?’ Ada said.

  ‘Something about the war. Guerre is French for war.’

  The waiter stood to attention. ‘La France et le Royaume-Uni déclarent la guerre à l’Allemagne.’

  ‘It’s started,’ Stanislaus said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I may not know much French, but I understood that.’

  He stood up abruptly, knocking the table so their coffee spilled
in the saucers. He stepped to the side, as if he was leaving, then turned and sat back down again.

  ‘Would you stay with me?’ he said. ‘Here, in Paris? We’d get work, the pair of us. Won’t be short of money for long.’

  Ada had been so sure a few moments ago, but now a wave of panic tightened round her head and fear clawed at her stomach. War. War. She wanted to be home. She wanted to sit in the kitchen at the back of the house with her parents and brothers and sisters. She wanted to smell the dank musk of the washing as it dried round the cooking range, to listen to the pots boiling potatoes for tea, to hear her mother thumb the rosary beads and laugh at her father as he mimicked her, Hail Marx, full of struggle, the revolution is with thee, blessed art thou among working men …

  But there was no way she could get home, not by herself. She nodded.

  ‘Would you mind,’ Stanislaus said, ‘if we used your name?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My name’s too foreign. The French might lock me away.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll get rid of my passport,’ he was talking fast. ‘Pretend I lost it. Or it was stolen. I could be anyone then.’ He laughed and the gold in his tooth glinted in the evening sun. He fished in his pockets for some coins to pay the waiter and picked up their bags.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We have to find somewhere to stay.’

  ‘The hotel,’ Ada said. ‘We’ll go back there.’

  Stanislaus put his arm round Ada, and rested his chin on top of her head. ‘They’re full. They told me. We’ll find somewhere else. A little pension house.’

  *

  The room had a bed with a rusty iron frame and sagging mattress covered in stained ticking, a small table, a chair with a broken seat, and some hooks on the wall. The wallpaper had been torn off at some point, but stubborn shreds stuck in corners and above the wainscoting, bumping and rippling with the slumbering bugs beneath.

  ‘I can’t stay.’ Ada picked up her case and stepped towards the door. Stanislaus had never been poor, didn’t understand how low they had fallen.