‘Get in.’
She climbed inside, the leather seat chill against her bare legs. Stanislaus pulled at the starter handle until the car chugged to life, climbed in beside her and drove off, the shaded lights throwing narrow triangles on the road in the pitch-black midnight. Her stomach tightened in a ball and her mouth tasted of metal, of fear.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Belgium.’
‘Belgium?’
‘Belgium’s neutral.’ She was right. They thought he was a German. She wanted to say how sorry she was. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but she knew his lips were closed and tight and he was not going to talk to her about it. He was a brave man.
‘Where did you get the car?’
‘I borrowed it.’
Then she remembered. ‘My samples,’ she said. ‘I left my samples. We have to go back.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Please, Stanislaus.’
He laughed, a cruel, mocking ‘Ha, ha’. She had never known him like this.
There was no traffic on the road and they sped through Paris, the unlit streets and suburbs unfolding behind them. Maybe they could go back later, when this crisis had blown over. Madame Breton would keep them for her. That’s what concierges did.
‘Do you know the way?’ Ada said.
‘I’d better.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Five hours, six. Who knows?’
Six hours was a long time. He was driving fast.
‘Will they catch us?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever is after you.’
He said nothing. They sat in silence. She closed her eyes. She was tired. The burr of the engine and the rocking motion of the car were soothing, even though her stomach churned and her head spun with questions. Something had happened, something serious. What if they were caught? She’d be in for it too.
She must have fallen asleep because it was dawn, a soft, grey light that mottled through tall trees and drew faint stripes across the road.
‘Glad you slept,’ he said in a bitter tone.
Ada stretched her legs and arms, clenched and unclenched her hands. The road ahead was straight, the countryside flat. ‘Where are we?’
‘Picardy,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’
Her father used to sing, Roses are shining in Picardy. It was one of his favourite songs. That and Tipperary. She wanted to hear it now, a longing so acute it lunged like a knife. She could hear him singing, his voice sweet and tender, and she began to sing with him in her head, a soft, mournful duo, in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flowering in Picardy, but there’s never a rose like you.
Stanislaus turned and faced her. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘It was a wartime song,’ she said. ‘The soldiers sang it in the trenches. I expect you Germans sang the same kind of songs.’
His knuckles tightened on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw flexed. ‘I am not a German.’
‘I know.’ She was cross, tired. A silly mistake. But still, he didn’t have to speak so sharp. She wasn’t the enemy.
‘Do you think they’ll fight again here?’
‘Shut up.’
She slunk back in her seat, stared out of the window, tears pricking her eyes. She had no idea where they were and there didn’t seem to be any road signs. They passed a platoon of troops, dressed in khaki, helmets and rifles at the ready.
‘They’re British,’ Ada said. ‘Stop, I want to talk to them.’ Ask where they were going, what they were doing. Perhaps they’d look after her. Take her home.
‘Please stop,’ she said again.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, adding, ‘you’re a fucking liability, you know that, don’t you?’
He’d never sworn before. She turned in her seat and watched them disappear through the rear window.
The car began to slow down.
‘No.’ His foot pumped the pedal on the floor and he shifted the gears on the dashboard, making angry grinding sounds. The car spluttered and stopped.
‘No.’ He was screaming.
He got out and slammed the door. Ada watched him open the boot, felt the car shudder as he banged it shut again. He walked round to her side, and flung open her door.
‘Out,’ he said.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We have no petrol.’
‘What will we do?’
‘Walk,’ he said.
Ada stepped onto the running board and jumped to the ground. She looked down the road behind her, but the soldiers were out of sight. She could run, catch them up.
He grabbed her hand and began to pull.
‘My case,’ she said. ‘I need my case.’
‘No time for that. It’ll slow us down.’
‘But my shoes,’ Ada said. ‘I can’t walk in these shoes.’ She only had the shoes that she had travelled in to France, all that time ago, simple courts with high, stacked heels. She had worn them constantly and there was a hole in one of the soles. They were comfortable enough, but not for walking.
‘Then take them off,’ he said. He would not let go of her hand and his pace was fast.
‘How far is it?’
‘Ten kilometres. Fifteen.’
‘What’s that in miles?’
‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Roughly. Ten.’
Ten miles. Ada had never walked so far in her life, and here she was, trotting to keep up with him.
They stopped once when Stanislaus needed to relieve himself. Ada was glad for the pause. She had a stitch, and sat down on the side of the road, slipping off her shoes. They were old and worn, but at least they weren’t rubbing. She wiggled her toes. She had no idea what time it was, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had passed several platoons of soldiers. She wanted to call out to them, Good luck, boys! To ask them for help, to take her home, but Stanislaus told her to keep quiet, threatened to silence her, once and for all, if she made a sound. There were other people on the road, walking like themselves, or on bicycles, men with their girlfriends or wives sitting on the crossbar. One couple had a baby, and another a young child strapped into a chair over the rear wheel. From time to time a car passed, piled with luggage. Well-to-do people, she thought, who had found a way round petrol shortages. She wondered who Stanislaus had borrowed the car from.
He 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 w
hom 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?’ He laughed. ‘We’re a long way from the sea.’
‘Where do we go?’
‘Namur.’
‘Why?’
‘No more,’ he said, winking. ‘Get it?’
‘Where is it? Is it on the way?’
The family that had been behind them in the queue jostled forward, scratching her legs with the buckle of a suitcase, pushing her closer to Stanislaus. She leant towards him.
‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘To England. Can’t we go back now?’
‘Maybe.’ His voice was distant. ‘Maybe. But first Namur.’
‘Why? I want to go home.’ She wanted to say, this minute. Stamp her feet, like a child.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Namur.’
‘Why Namur?’
‘Business, Ada,’ he said. She couldn’t imagine what business could be taking them there.
‘Promise me.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘After. We go home.’
He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. ‘I promise.’
They hitched a lift to Mons and caught a crowded train to Namur that stopped at every station and red light. It was evening by the time they arrived. The baguette was all Ada had eaten since they’d left Paris eighteen hours ago and she felt faint and weak. Stanislaus took her by the elbow, guided her away from the station, down the side streets. She had no idea where they were going, or whether Stanislaus knew the way but they stopped by a small café above which was a painted sign, ‘Pension’.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll organize it.’
She sat at a table and chair outside. This side of the street was in the shade but she was too tired to walk to the other side, where the last of the May sun was shining. Stanislaus came out.
‘Everything,’ he said, ‘is organized. Madame will give us a simple meal, and while we’re eating her daughter will arrange the room.’ As he spoke, Madame appeared with two glasses of beer which she placed in front of them.
Stanislaus picked up his glass. ‘To you, Ada Vaughan. Namur.’
She touched her handbag with the teddy bear, and held the glass so it chinked with his and smiled at him. Lucky.
Paté and bread, sausage. The beer was cloudy and sweet, and she drank two long glasses. It made her
light-headed, and she was glad for it. She hadn’t been tipsy since before the war. The early days with Stanislaus seemed like another age now, at the Café Royal, a Martini or two, with a cherry on a stick. Content and flushed with love, they’d sashayed down Piccadilly to the number 12, where he’d kiss her under the lamp-post, tender lips to hers. She’d suck peppermints on the way home so her breath didn’t smell. It was like that just now. Stanislaus’s mood had evaporated, his worries – their worries – over. Namur. No more. No more temper or brooding silences. He was in good heart again, but he swung so quickly from light to dark. It worried her. His moods made her change too. When he was sunny so was she, nimble toes and bubbling breath. But when his mood turned cold it choked her like a fog.
They went upstairs after dinner. She was unsteady on her feet, could smell herself tart and musty from the day, her hair sticky with dust and sweat. Madame had left a jug of water and a wash bowl on the table and had laid out a towel and a flannel.
‘I must,’ her words slurred, ‘wash.’
Stanislaus nodded and walked to the window, looked out over the street with his back to her. Ada wet the flannel and rubbed. She heard her mother in her head, saw herself as a child standing by the sink in the kitchen at home. Up as far as you can go, down as far as you can go. She giggled into the cloth, and found herself crying, a lunge of homesickness and fear, as if she was tumbling deep into a canyon and couldn’t stop herself.
She was aware of Stanislaus catching her as she fell, laying her on the bed and fumbling with the buttons on his flies. Her head was spinning, her eyes heavy. She just wanted to sleep. She felt him open her legs, enter her with an impatient thrust, sharp rips of pain that made her cry out. He lifted himself off her and lay by her side. Her legs were wet. He’d kept his shirt on, she could see, even through the blur of beer.
It was dark when she woke. Then she heard it. The distant blast of an explosion, the boom of heavy guns. The curtains had been left open and through the window the night sky streaked white and vermilion.
‘Stanislaus.’ She groped for him next to her. The bed was empty, the sheets cold and smooth. She sat up, awake, panic gripping her body, short of breath.
The Dressmaker of Dachau Page 6
