Frau Weiter came into the scullery. ‘Nun,’ she said, ‘what’s your name?’
Ada thought a moment. ‘Sister Clara.’
‘Sister Clara,’ she said. Frau Weiter had lost weight, they all had. She had loose skin on her cheeks and chin, the dirndls gaped at the waist. ‘You have had no complaints here, have you? We have treated you well, Obersturmbannführer Weiter and I, don’t you agree? Fed you, kept you warm? You are a nun. We have respected your calling. You have nothing against us, do you?’
Ada said nothing.
That night the whole house shook. Ada lay on her bed, wrapped the habit tighter round her, pulled the scapular over her eyes. Tremor after tremor, like an earthquake. Would the walls stand up? The roof hold? The glass in Ada’s windows cracked, and a pane fell to the floor, smashing into small crystals. Ada could smell mortar dust and burning. She lowered the scapular and saw livid, scarlet flames shooting into the sky. It’s close, Ada thought. A relentless boom, boom, boom. The ground shuddered round her and Ada heard the house crack.
Then it stopped. The aeroplanes droned into the distance, and faded from her hearing. The house was stiff and empty. The slow grey of dawn crept up and the lights from flickering fires backed off.
The April sun was low and frail, cast splindly shafts of light onto the thick slubs of black silk, turning it into a sea of ebony and jet, silver and slate. Ada watched as Anni ran her hand along the fine, crisp edges of the jacket, tracing the rich, warm threads and fingering the corsage as if the petals were tender blooms crafted from the filaments of nature. She was wearing it over a thick wool jumper and her cook’s apron, so it pulled tight round the shoulders. No, Ada wanted to say, not like that. It won’t fit. But she kept her mouth shut. She could see from Anni’s face that the jacket was the most beautiful thing she had ever possessed.
She was holding the key to Ada’s room in one hand, and a suitcase in the other.
‘Goodbye, nun,’ Anni said, throwing the key on the floor and kicking it towards Ada. ‘Auf wiedersehen.’
She walked away, leaving the door open.
Ada pushed herself up from her bed. It was a trick. They were testing her, waiting for her to run. Frau Weiter would be outside, ready to grab Ada as she rushed past. You thought you’d escape, did you, nun? The room was cold. Ada shuddered, could feel her heart pushing at her chest, churning her blood through her veins. She stumbled to the doorway, leant against the frame and looked towards the kitchen. It was silent now. No clang as Anni filled the kettle and heaved it to the stove, no slap of the wooden spoon against the blackened pot, no squeal of the larder door as it swung on its hinges. She looked towards the corridor. Anni had left the door to the hall ajar. Beyond it Ada could see that the big wooden front door was open, and beyond that, the outer door. The house was empty.
She tiptoed into the corridor and crept towards the hall, touching the walls as she went, ready to freeze if she heard anything. She peered over the threshold. There was no one there. It was as if a ghost had passed through and sucked the breath from the house. There was an unfastened bag at the foot of the stairs, scraps of clothing strewn across the floor, a hairbrush, one of Frau Weiter’s shoes. Empty files lay on their sides and there were glowing ashes in the fireplace. Ada couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. They had left in a hurry, all of a sudden, run out of the door, no time for that, no time for that. Paris. Stanislaus. Leave it. It’ll slow us down.
Something had happened. She could taste metal in her mouth, her stomach tightened. Her hands and armpits began to sweat. She was alone. They had gone. Her jaw was juddering, and her teeth clip-clopping together. Her body was shaking. They could come back. She was going to cry again. Her nerves. They staggered and lurched, threshed round inside her, locked in a macabre waltz, left two three, right two three.
She took another step. Her foot brushed a small tube on the carpet which glinted as it rolled away. Lipstick. She twisted the base. A thin, flat tip of red came through. She looked up at the vacant stairs, at the deserted corridor behind her. There was no one here. She dabbed the stick on her lips and rubbed them together, smelling the sweet wax of the cosmetic. She dabbed again, pushing the lipstick from side to side, smacking her lips. Her breath came in short, frantic puffs. She pressed the back of her hand to her face, brought it down across her mouth, saw a smudge of red on her fingers.
Not a bird, not a dog. No cars, no aeroplanes. No voices, no words. No shutter swinging in the breeze, no door slamming shut. The wind held its breath, mute, lulled. She heard her bare feet on the floor as she walked towards the door. The sideboard was on her left. She reached out to steady herself, and paused. A large mirror hung on the wall above it.
An unknown face stared back at her, hollow-eyed and drawn, with a livid, red smudge across the centre. A dirty grey cloth bound the head, a scrawny neck like a giblet stuck from a shabby nun’s habit. Ada lifted her hand and touched her cheek, saw the reflection do the same. She sank to the floor, her arms tight round her knees. She stared through the open door, into the void beyond. She was trembling, unable to stop, and from deep within her she heard a soft, palsied keening.
There were two soldiers in the doorframe pointing rifles into the house. Ada had watched them approach. She should get up and run, but her legs were heavy, like felled logs. It didn’t matter anymore. She felt nothing. She was dead. How long had she been sitting here? All day? All night? She’d heard gunfire. The ratatatat of machine guns, the boom of explosions echoing in the distance. The soldiers stepped into the hall, syncopated, guns left, guns right. Their heavy boots scrunched on the floor and their webbing squeaked. They came closer. She smelled the metal of the muzzle as it pressed against her temple.
‘Get up.’ Was he speaking English? It sounded strange, foreign. It didn’t belong. Not here, in the Commandant’s house. She stared ahead, unblinking, her hands and legs jiggling, her lips quivering.
‘Can you stand, lady?’ This voice was closer, gentler. American. She opened her mouth, Who are you? She wasn’t sure if the sound came out, if it was in English. The first soldier walked behind her. She flinched, felt his arms under hers as he hauled her to her feet.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘Americans,’ the soldier said. ‘Sixth Army. You speak English?’
She looked from one to the other, at the drab, olive uniforms. Americans.
‘I’m British,’ Ada said. She leant on the soldier, feeling the coarse wool of his jacket. His body was firm and warm. She had forgotten what another body felt like. She pressed herself closer. ‘Is it over?’
‘What are you doing here?’ The other soldier spoke.
‘Is it over?’ Ada said. ‘Is it over?’
‘Almost,’ the first soldier said.
‘What are you doing here?’ the other one said again.
What was she doing here? She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘Take me home.’ Her thoughts were confused, scrambled. Her hands were still trembling, her legs numb, her voice feeble, like a child’s.
‘Who are you?’ the soldier said.
‘Please, take me home.’
‘You have to come with us.’
‘Please.’ She wanted to howl.
The first soldier spoke again. ‘What’s your name?’
She fingered the crucifix round her neck. Who was she? ‘Sister Clara,’ she said, biting her lip, tasting the sweet marzipan of the lipstick.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘They kept me,’ she started to sob again. ‘Frau Weiss. And the baby. My baby. Thomas. Where is he?’
‘Who was Frau Weiss?’
‘His wife. The Commandant’s wife. And Frau Weiter. Thomas, I must find Thomas.’ She pushed against the soldier, struggled to free herself from his grip. ‘Let me go.’
The soldier’s hand tightened round her arm. ‘No, lady,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with us. Now.’
He pushed her towards the door.
&
nbsp; ‘My shoes,’ Ada said. ‘I need my shoes. And my dress. I must get them. It’s not allowed.’
She struggled, pointing behind her, but the soldier held firm.
‘It’s a trick,’ he said.
‘Go with her,’ the second soldier said, pointing his rifle at Ada. ‘She can get her clothes.’
He released his grip, walked towards the corridor, rifle at the ready, checking it was clear before he entered and beckoned Ada to come after him. She sidled into her room, and the soldier followed. Her unmade bed was still on the floor, the blanket and Sister Jeanne’s old habit in a dishevelled heap on the cushions. The glass from the shattered window lay in shards across the tiles.
‘You can’t come in,’ she said. ‘It’s not permitted. Es ist nicht gestattet.’
The soldier came closer. ‘You speak German,’ he said, ‘you’re a fucking Nazi.’ He gripped her chin in his hand, yanked her face close to his. He hadn’t shaved that day, his stubble was coarse and there was a fleck of food on his cheek.
‘You’re a fucking Nazi,’ he said. ‘We’ll get you for this.’ He began to shout, waving his free arm in the direction of the camp. ‘All of it.’ Ada could hear him choke, almost sob. ‘You did this. Fucking German. Fucking bitch.’ He pinched her chin and pushed her away.
‘No,’ Ada said, rubbing her face. ‘Nein. I’m not a German. I’m British. Britische.’
‘Yeah?’ The soldier was snarling, flecks of spit appearing on his lips. ‘Then you’re a fucking collaborator. A traitor. You’ll swing for this.’
‘I don’t understand.’ What was she saying? She couldn’t speak English. She had forgotten the words. ‘Ich verstehe nicht.’
The soldier pulled a pistol from his waist and pointed it at Ada. She stared at the gun, at the soldier. His arm was straight and steady, the muzzle aimed at her head.
‘It’d be so fucking easy,’ he said.
These weren’t Americans. It was a trick. They were guards. From the camp. Impostors. They had come to get her. Frau Weiss had threatened it.
‘My dress,’ Ada said, ‘I must wear my dress. Frau Weiter won’t let me wear this habit.’ She lifted the dress off the table, began to pull it over her head but the thick serge of the tunic bunched it up. She tore it off, heard it rip and flung it onto her bed on top of Sister Jeanne’s crumpled habit.
The soldier stepped forward, his pistol closer.
‘I’ll sew it,’ she said, bending down to retrieve it. ‘I’ll do it. Sister Jeanne’s bag. I must find it. I must give it back.’ She lifted up the habit, and the torn shift, rolled them with shaking hands and tucked them under her arm.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ The gun clicked.
Ada winced. ‘Help me,’ she said. ‘You must help me find it. I have to take these back.’ She could hear her words spilling out. She hadn’t spoken English for so long, not out loud. The war was over. Der Krieg ist vorbei. The end. Das Ende. Over, for good? She had to think. Her head felt muzzy, her words drunk and slurred. She held out to the table to steady herself. She was dizzy.
‘Get your shoes, Kraut,’ the soldier was shouting.
Ada flinched. ‘Yes, my shoes. I need my shoes. They’re by my bed. Right here. Here.’ She lifted them up to show the soldier, then put them on the ground. They had no laces, and the backs were broken. Ada slipped her feet into them.
‘My mending,’ she said. ‘I have to mend my dress. Where did you put the mending? I must clear up the mess, and Frau Weiter’s washing. Sister Jeanne’s bag. I can’t find it.’ She heard herself whimper. It was under the table. Of course. She used it to store the remnants of material. She pulled it out, turned it upside down so the fabric fell free.
‘Sister Jeanne’s habit,’ she said. ‘I hope she won’t be cross.’ What was she thinking? She must sound mad, deranged. She couldn’t stop herself. She shoved it into the bag but the bag was too small and the tunic bulged over the opening. The fabric was greasy. Ada hadn’t noticed that before.
‘Stop fucking me round,’ the soldier screamed. ‘German whore.’
Ada jolted at the words. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’m not. Britische.’
‘You better be telling the fucking truth, so help me God.’
‘Where are we going?’ she said, looking round, spotting the sewing machine by the window. ‘I need that. I can’t go without it.’
‘Leave it,’ the soldier said. He clamped his arm on Ada’s elbow.
She shook it free. ‘I can’t,’ Ada said. ‘I must put on the lid. Here it is. Here’s the lid.’ She slammed it over the machine, adjusted its fit, closed the catches.
‘Leave it.’ He was shouting, waving the pistol at her.
‘No,’ Ada said, ‘you don’t understand. I have to take it.’ She lifted the machine off the table. Its weight pulled her over. She pushed herself up, grabbed the handle, dragged it towards the door.
The other soldier had entered the room. Ada hadn’t seen him come in. He put his finger to his head and twisted it. ‘She’s gone crazy,’ he said, adding, ‘the Sarge is here.’
This soldier picked up the sewing machine and walked towards the hallway. Ada followed. There were two more soldiers there now.
‘She’s a Kraut,’ the first soldier said. ‘Speaks fucking German.’
They began to talk among themselves. Ada didn’t know what they were saying. She picked up words that made no sense. They thought she was German. An enemy. Would they lock her away? Shoot her? She had to tell them who she was, why she was here. I’m not German. They took me. I couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t she find the words? Make them see the truth?
She stood in the centre of the hall, fingering her crucifix with one hand, holding Sister Jeanne’s overflowing bag with the other. One of the new soldiers came towards her. He didn’t have a rifle but Ada noticed he had a gun in a holster round his waist and three beige stripes sewn on his arm. A Sergeant.
‘Say,’ he said. ‘You speak English?’
She nodded.
‘Are you some kind of nun?’
No. Yes. Ada stared at him, her mouth open. ‘What are you going to do with me?’ she said. ‘I’m not German. I’m not.’
‘Well,’ he said, stretching the word. ‘We met a whole bunch of you nun folks in Munich yesterday.’ He stepped closer. ‘So, Sister, what’s that red on your face?’
Ada’s heart was pumping, a hard da-dum against her chest. She was light-headed, floating. The soldiers weren’t real, they couldn’t be. This couldn’t be the end of the war. Just like that. Americans. She wasn’t a German. She reached out and touched the Sergeant’s hand, felt the hairs on the back of his fingers and the soft lie of his skin. The red on her face. Did she have red on her face?
‘You want to tell me how you got here?’ he said, not waiting for her answer. Ada jerked her head. It jarred against her neck, a surge of pain shot through her skull. She began to stagger. The Sergeant caught her before she fell.
‘When did you last eat?’ He called over his shoulder. ‘You got one of those D-bars?’ His corporal fished out a small packet from his pocket and passed it over. ‘Chocolate,’ he said, pressing one in her hand.
Ada smelled the sugar and cocoa, sweet and bitter. She shook her head.
‘It’ll make you feel better,’ the Sergeant coaxed. She stared at him. ‘You want to tell me how you got here?’ he said again.
‘I’m not a German,’ she said, ‘believe me.’
‘Tell me what you’re doing here.’
She had never told anyone, not the full, true story, not even to herself, in her head. She wasn’t sure how to, where to begin. It was so very long ago.
‘The Germans came,’ she began.
‘Where were you?’ the Sergeant said.
‘In Belgium, Namur.’ No more. Stanislaus.
‘And?’
‘They took us. The British nuns. Sent us here, to look after old people. Only Herr Weiss—’ She could feel his arthritic hand clench over hers, pressing it do
wn on his groin. ‘—sent me here.’
‘Cushy number, here. Nice house.’ he said. ‘You sure you weren’t a volunteer?’
‘Volunteer?’ Ada said. ‘They made me.’
‘You see, Sister,’ he said. ‘I gotta be sure you’re telling the truth.’
‘And my baby,’ Ada said. ‘I’ve lost my baby.’
The Sergeant stepped back. ‘What she says figures,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty much what the story the other nuns told.’
‘Frau Weiss has my baby,’ Ada said.
‘Sure, Sister,’ the Sergeant said, his voice smooth and gentle. ‘You’re a little confused.’
‘They’ve gone,’ Ada said. ‘They’ve all gone.’
The Sergeant looked at her hard, then he smiled. ‘What’s your name again?’
‘Sister Clara.’
‘Well, Sister Clara,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a hunch on you. We should haul you in, make sure you’re a bona fide prisoner and not some Kraut pretending, or some traitor with the shits under them, excuse my language, Sister.’ He fished out the chocolate from his pocket and offered it again to Ada.
‘You change your mind?’
Ada shook her head.
‘That camp is no place for a nun,’ he said. ‘I can’t send you there, with the other prisoners. Believe me, lady, you don’t want to go there.’ He paused, screwing his eyes in concentration. ‘Now, those other nuns—’ He bit his lip. ‘Say, can you give me some of their names?’
‘Sister Brigitte,’ Ada said. ‘Sister Agatha, Sister—’
‘Sister Brigitte. Yeah. She’s like the boss one, who speaks for you?’
Ada nodded.
‘Well, Sister Brigitte says they’re staying where they are. They can’t abandon their old people. War or peace, makes no difference. They serve God, and their vocation.’
He held up both his hands and rolled his eyes. ‘So why don’t I restore you to your flock? We’ll register and classify y’all later.’
‘When can I go home?’ Ada said. ‘I must find my baby. Frau Weiss has my baby.’
‘Sure,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Sure.’ He turned to one of the soldiers. ‘Get the jeep, and drive her there.’ He pointed to the sewing machine on the floor. ‘And take that, if it keeps her happy. I’ll get Battelli to go with her.’
The Dressmaker of Dachau Page 16
