The Dressmaker of Dachau

by Mary Chamberlain

  Ada gasped, raised her hand to slap him, but Stanley grabbed her arm and pulled her back on the bed. He roped his hand through her hair, pulling it hard so Ada yelped with pain.

  ‘You bastard,’ she shouted, hurt and anger and bewilderment ricocheting in her head, her words wrenched from the deep. ‘I thought you loved me. I stayed with you. Then you left me. Why? You told me your name was Stanislaus. Stanislaus von Lieben. Why?’

  ‘Fancy you remembering that,’ he said. ‘We had a nice time in Paris, didn’t we?’ He was nodding, grinning. ‘Yeah, I was Stanislaus that time. I had lots of names, all foreign Johnnies. Good run, mind,’ he said. ‘Papers, all that.’

  He had her pinned to the bed.

  All of her blood and warmth drained away, leaving a cold, empty imprint of hate. She had never felt such loathing. ‘You abandoned me,’ she said, ‘and our son. His name was Thomas. Thomas.’

  ‘Son? Nothing to do with me. You should have used a rubber,’ he said, pulling her close, ‘like the professional you are. Besides,’ He began to kiss her, clumsy wet lips that smelled of whisky and wine, tobacco and stale breath, ‘I thought you girls knew how to take care of things like that.’ She tried to push him away, but he rammed her down harder on the bed. She squirmed beneath him, pressing her hand against his chin, digging her nails in his cheeks. He slapped her hard on the face, and forced himself into her.

  Namur. It was Namur. He didn’t wear a rubber.

  He lay on his stomach, one arm sprawled over her, out cold. She wriggled free from beneath it. He didn’t stir. She pulled on her dressing gown, opened the door, holding the handle tight, turning it so it didn’t click and wake him, and padded down to the lavatory.

  Stanley Lovekin. Stanislaus von Lieben. She had the measure of him all right. Abandoned her in the middle of a war. Every man jack for himself. Didn’t care about her. Had never cared about her. And she thought she had loved him. She yanked the lavatory chain so hard it spun back out of her hand. She wrapped the dressing gown round herself and pulled the belt tight. And Gino. Cut from the same cloth. They controlled her, she could see now. Scarlett was right. Was that what Stanislaus had planned for her in Paris, or Namur? White slave trade? Was he going to set up a brothel? Had he known the Germans would invade? Ein wunderschönes junges Mädchen, Herr Beamter. He had been lining himself up to be her pimp. Of course. All that niceness, sucking her in so she needed him. Like Gino, now. Him and Gino. He said they went back a long time. Paris. Perhaps he’d gone to meet Gino in Belgium, in Namur.

  She went back into the bedroom. She’d tell him to get out. Yell at him, scream, Never come back. Had a mind to report him to the police. He was out for the count. She went over to the sink for some water. Throw it over him. Bring him to.

  Or leave him. He wouldn’t wake for hours. She slipped off her dressing gown, grabbed her dress from the end of the bed and pulled it over her head. Stanislaus fidgeted in his sleep. Ada froze. He settled back into a steady state and began to snore, an oily rumble from his throat. She pushed her feet into her shoes, balancing on one foot, then the other, pulling up the ankle strap, placed her bag on the bed. He coughed, and twitched. She held the bedpost for balance and watched.

  He lay there sleeping, as if nothing had happened. She had suffered beyond all reason, all because of him. Always a man, she thought. It’s always been a bloody man. Stanislaus. Herr Weiss. Gino. If she were shot of the lot of them, what then? She could be her own woman, the master of her fate. She snorted. A long time since she’d thought of that poem. I am the captain of my soul. Yes. The mistress of her fate. Sweet revenge. She deserved it, for all her suffering over the years. Now it was their turn to suffer. She was sweating, her armpits clammy. She stared at Stanislaus, his face silver in the moonlight. The jagged edges of memories began to grind, filling her head with their frenzied clamour. Thomas, lying still as a dream in the priest’s brown bag. Ada, alone in Dachau, starving, as her skin flaked away and her flesh devoured itself. Bombs falling round her, blasting the skies and hammering the earth. She felt the bitter gall of terror burst and spread like poison through her veins and nerves. Stanislaus had destroyed her life, and Thomas’s. An eye for an eye. Her mouth tasted the tart tin of blood. He was still asleep, snuffling like a baby. She would be free of him forever. Ada Vaughan. She’d find Tommy then, bring him home, start her life afresh.

  She picked up her handbag and tiptoed across the room. She pulled the curtains, holding the sliders high on their metal tracks so they didn’t squeak, tucking the ends of the fabric into the window sill and folding the sides together so no chink of light came through.

  Ada paused to let her eyes became accustomed to the dark. Stanley was snoring, the bed frame trembling with his breath. She stepped closer, waiting for his hand to come and grab her but he lay still. She waited, counting, one, two, three. She stepped to the fire, four, five, six, took a deep breath, seven, eight, nine. She turned on the gas, heard its hiss, smelt the sour sulphur of its fumes. She picked up her bag, tiptoed out, closing the door behind her, and pushed the sausage hard against it so the gas didn’t seep through into the hallway. Ten.

  Down the stairs, four flights, out. She’d been holding her breath and now she let the air rush in hard and fast so it hurtled round her lungs and crashed against her ribs. She heaved across the pavement.

  ‘You all right, love?’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I just winded myself.’

  Stand up. Walk away. Like nothing happened. Walk.

  Her legs were strings and tendrils, one foot flailing in front of the other. She stumbled to the end of Floral Street and into Garrick Street, pausing for breath on the corner, one hand steadying herself on the wall of a building. She was shaking, her frame rattling beneath her skin. But she was free, at last. She could go with whoever she wanted. Beholden to no man. Never again. No more. Namur.

  She glanced at the clock in the Strand. Eleven o’clock. Not too late. The flunkey at Smith’s opened the door, raised an eyebrow. Clip-clopped to the powder room. Her hair was a mess. She took the comb from her bag, teased it back into shape, roll on the top, underneath, down the sides. She rummaged for her lipstick, dabbed it on, smacked her lips together. Good as new. Like nothing happened. Up the stairs. She had her money ready.

  The maître d’ was still there, the same one from before.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been busy.’ Ada slapped the sixpence on the lectern.

  The maître d’ picked it up. ‘It’s gone up,’ he said. I have spies, you know, she could hear Gino saying. ‘Silence is golden, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ada said, ‘not anymore.’

  She swept past him into the bar, took her usual seat, ordered a White Lady. She brought out her cigarettes, laid them on the table, took one out and rolled it between her fingers. She hadn’t forgotten.

  She lit it, sucked, a deep drag that stirred her lungs. She drank her cocktail in two gulps, the bitter alcohol burning her throat as she swallowed.

  ‘Would you like another?’ The voice was soft. She tried to focus on the man by her side in a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. He must be sweltering in that outfit. He was looking down at her, smiling, a pipe in one hand, its stem resting on his lips. There was something homely about him, fatherly. A kind man. A man to come back for, warm slippers by the fire. ‘You look like you need it.’

  Ada stared at him in a daze, said nothing as he called the waiter over. Another one.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he went on. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It helps to talk sometimes. You’re such a pretty woman. I can’t bear to see you looking troubled.’

  ‘You don’t know me,’ Ada said. ‘Why should you care?’

  ‘If the war taught me one thing,’ he said, ‘it was that we need to look out for each other. I’m not trying to pick you up,�
�� he added. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea.’

  Ada laughed, an angry, bitter ha ha.

  ‘Please yourself,’ he said, moving away, ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘No,’ Ada said, ‘stay.’

  He pulled out the chair and sat down. ‘I’m Norman,’ he said.

  Ada looked at him.

  ‘Ada,’ she said, ‘Ada Vaughan.’ It felt good. Ada Vaughan. Modiste.

  The waiter brought her another drink, and a martini for the man.

  ‘Cheerio, Ada,’ he said, raising the glass. ‘Down the hatch.’

  A wave of weariness swept over her. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want company. She wanted to be by herself.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘would you mind leaving me alone?’

  He raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled and hurt. He shrugged, stood up and walked away, without saying a word. The scent from his pipe drifted towards her. St Bruno. Her father smoked that. Rough cut. Norman was a good man, Ada thought, any other time and I could have had him. Why do the nice men always come at the wrong time?

  She was the last out of the bar at four in the morning. The maître d’ held her elbow as she walked down the stairs.

  ‘No tricks tonight, eh?’ he said. ‘You’re not in a good way. Have you far to go?’

  ‘No,’ Ada said. ‘No.’

  She stumbled past the doorman. The maître d’ was shaking his head. No cut this time. Through the heavy revolving doors, into the soft, fresh light of early dawn. The lemon sun cast shadows and the pale topaz sky promised moisture.

  ‘Need a storm,’ the doorman said, ‘clear the air.’

  Her head was light. She leant a hand against the glass of the shop on the corner. Fairy light. She giggled, retched, vomited on the pavement. She stepped aside. It had splashed on her shoes and the hem of her dress. She’d have to wash it. Plunge it up and down in her tiny basin. Organza may be feeble but it fought for its life. She’d have to punch it to stay still, push it under till it drowned. Her feet were slipping in her shoes, so she tried to take them off, hopping on one foot, then the other, pulling at the straps and kicking them free. She picked them up. Tiptoe, through the tulips.

  There was a policeman standing on the doorstep to her building, a right old bluebottle. I know a fat old policeman, he’s always on our street. Her father used to sing this to them when they were kiddies. Fat, jolly red-faced man, he really is a treat.

  She swung close to him, ‘Constable.’

  ‘You can’t go in there, miss,’ he said. ‘There’s been a fatality.’

  ‘And what’s that, when it’s at home?’

  ‘A murder,’ the policeman said, ‘in plain English.’

  ‘Oo-er.’ Ada blinked hard. ‘But I live there.’ She took a step back and pointed in the air. ‘Up there. Right at the top.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Ada,’ she said, her mouth open wide so the sound came loud and clear, all elocuted, electrocuted. Pissed as a newt. Language, Ada, language. ‘Or Ava.’ Her teeth bit into her bottom lip. ‘You pays your money,’ she hiccupped, ‘you takes your choice.’ She staggered and grabbed the policeman for balance.

  He gripped her wrist. ‘Surname?’

  Ada blinked. He wasn’t friendly, this copper. ‘Vaughan,’ she said, ‘Ada Vaughan.’

  ‘Well, Ada Vaughan,’ he said, ‘I think you’d better come with me to the station.’

  ‘Station?’ He was still holding her with one hand, fishing in his pocket with the other. He produced a pair of handcuffs, and clapped them over Ada’s wrists.

  ‘Ada!’ Scarlett was rushing towards her. ‘Oh, Ada, plead guilty,’ she said. ‘Makes it easier. You just get a fine.’

  Ada was confused. Then a sober slash of memory cut through her mind. Stanislaus. She’d left the gas on. He would be dead.

  ‘I did it,’ she said. ‘I killed him.’

  The policeman walked her across the road and into the police van. She sat on the hard bench, her head spinning. Had he thrashed round, gasping for air as his lungs burned to a cinder and his throat clinched tight? Did he try and claw his way up the wall, block the jets of gas? Would the stench of his flesh linger in the chimneys?

  ‘De-li-ber-ate-ly,’ she added.

  He got everything he deserved.

  THREE

  London, November 1947

  She’d had to wait months after the arraignment for her trial date, cooped up in that cell with its white tiles and sooty grout and the barred window high in the wall. She was let out once a day to empty slops and walk round the yard. She’d almost rather be busy in the Commandant’s house than numbed in prison here, no one to visit her, not even Scarlett because Mr Wallis said she might be a witness so she couldn’t.

  ‘Not guilty,’ she’d said to her barrister, Mr Wallis. She’d done it, confessed to it and all, but she wouldn’t want to swing for Stanley Lovekin, give up her life for his. He wasn’t worth it.

  Mr Wallis was young, looked like a schoolboy. He couldn’t pronounce his ‘s’s and they came out thick and dribbly. He licked his lips, sucking back the spit, looked at Ada. This was his first murder case, he told her, but he was the only one who’d do her for free. She had to come to court in her prison uniform, a grey skirt that sagged at the back and a limp green blouse. She’d liked to have worn her own clothes, but Mr Wallis said her landlady had cleared everything out as soon as the police were done. The only thing she had was the blue organza dress she had been wearing, and the coppers took that as evidence. Right pair they looked, Ada and Mr Wallis. Him barely out of short trousers, and her in her prison uniform and ugly lace-up shoes. Not even a dab of lipstick.

  The gallery was packed even though it was November. The fog outside so thick the conductors had to walk in front of their buses. So many people there to watch the case, as if it was some public spectacle. Her mother must know she was up for trial. Mr Wallis had said it was all over the papers. She wondered whether she’d be there, had forgiven her. Come what may, Ada, you are my daughter and I love you through thick and thin. More likely her mother would disown her. No, you’re mistaken. It’s another Ada Vaughan. My Ada went missing, before the war. Perhaps her father could see her from above, It’s all right, Ada girl, I had a word with your union rep up here. Grinning, winking. She thought of Thomas. Nearly seven years old. The gallery was on a mezzanine above her, and she couldn’t see who was there, not from where she stood. If she got off the charge of murder, and Mr Wallis said she had a good chance, she’d do her time and then go to Germany, find Thomas, finally.

  The jury sat to her left. Twelve men, middle-aged judging from the grey in their hair. They’d have to be somebody, these men, own property, or have a decent lease, a good address. Mr Wallis said it was helpful to have men. Women hardly ever did jury service but they could be bitchy, especially to another woman. She could charm men, easy, togged up in glad rags and heels. Her blue moiré, her black crepe. Would these men consider her beautiful, in her flat shoes and green prison blouse? No powder, no lipstick? Her hair had grown out and three inches of brown roots made the blonde ends brassy and common. She had styled it into a victory roll, pinned with Kirby grips. At least from the front it looked neat, wholesome. She’d do her best. Stand tall.

  She’d had to go to the lavvy three times already today. Mr Wallis had told Ada the case would be difficult. The jury would need a lot of persuading. He’d do his best, but he couldn’t make promises. This judge was hard, and Mr Wallis was young and inexperienced. He said no one had ever used this sort of defence for a case like hers. Provocation, he called it. Except the provocation wasn’t a single blow, one violent act that hit like a see-saw, down and up, but instead a long, slow fuse that burned like a taper across years, the powder keg invisible until finally one spark set the place ablaze, triggered a fire-storm that sucked reason into its vortex.

  They rose as the judge came in, the same one as at the arraignment three months ago. He was old, had a face like a skull, sunken
eyes and jagged cheeks. Half-glasses toppled on the end of his nose, two craggy hands hovered beneath his gown. He looked like a cadaver. Ada wondered if he was ill, crabs eating his soul, gnawing at his heart. She curled her hands round the wooden rail of the dock, fingers on the top, thumb underneath. It was rough, splintered by other people’s thumb nails, clawing for their lives. She was going to be sick.

  ‘Please give the court your full name.’

  ‘Ada,’ she said. ‘Ada Margaret Vaughan.’ Margaret, after her mother.

  The clerk read out the charge: ‘… in the Central Criminal Court, Rex versus Ada Vaughan … on the charge of unlawfully killing Stanley John Lovekin, on the night of the 14th June 1947 …’

  The ceiling pressed down and the panelled walls closed in. She felt frail and small, the judge high on his bench and the jury on theirs, Mr Wallis in the pit and Mr Harris-Jones, the prosecutor, swaggering as if he’d won the case already. Harris-Jones was older than Wallis, more experienced, you could tell, the way he rocked on his heels and his grown-up hands collared the edge of his gown.

  She began to quiver, legs like she needed callipers to keep them strong and straight. She wasn’t sure she could stand up. She understood what that phrase meant now, the weight of the law. Not the copper’s heavy hand on your shoulder, You’d better come along, miss, but the gravity of justice crushing her into the ground and grinding her to dust. She looked up at the windows in search of earth and sky and the horizon in between, but the windows were set high in the wall and all she saw was the thick, green phlegm that blew in smelly squats through the lanes and round the towers of the City.