Lilac Girls

by Martha Hall Kelly

  The guest room was a curious combination of Mother and Father, for it had once been his study and retained a masculine air with its striped wallpaper and ebonized partners desk, but had later become Mother’s sewing room and bore the remnants of her projects: tissue-thin amber dress patterns flung about; padded Wolf dress forms of assorted sizes, unfortunately growing less wasp-waisted over the years.

  I hauled out Mother’s rummage sale bags and our winter woolens, scrounging for soft scraps of material. I’ve never shown aptitude for sewing, and it’s just as well since it’s ruinous to good posture, but Mother was a brilliant seamstress. She sat at her sewing machine, head bent over the old black Singer, her hair white in the lamp’s arc of light. Once Father died, her dun-colored hair had turned the color of Epsom salts almost overnight. She had cut it short, started wearing mostly riding clothes, and put her rouge away. She’d always loved her horses and was more comfortable with a currycomb than a silver one, but it was sad to see such a beautiful woman give up on herself.

  We listened to war news on the radio as we worked.

  April 19, 1941. While Belfast, Northern Ireland, sweeps up after a heavy Luftwaffe raid, London has suffered one of the heaviest air raids of the war to date. As German troops advance into Greece, Greek Prime Minister Alexandros Koryzis takes his own life, and the British evacuate Greece.

  “Oh, do turn it off, Caroline. There’s so little hopeful news.”

  “At least we’ve stuck a toe in the war.”

  Though still officially a neutral nation, the United States had finally begun sea patrols in the North Atlantic.

  “To think of Hitler running about what’s left of the Parthenon,” Mother said. “Where will it stop?”

  I slipped a seam ripper into the tin sand pail Mother used as a catchall for bobbins and scissors and felt metal meet grit. There was still sand at the bottom of it, from the beach at Mother’s family’s Gin Lane cottage in Southampton. Such a lovely beach. I could see Mother and Father there—she in black bathing costume, he in suit and tie, wrestling with his newspaper in the wind, the salt air pricking at my lungs. At night, in the chiaroscuro of the vast living room, I would pretend to read, one cheek to the cool linen sofa, and watch them play gin rummy, laughing and drinking each other in.

  “Let’s go out to Southampton, Mother. A change of pace will do us good.” We had sold the Gin Lane cottage by then, but Betty still kept a house there.

  “Oh no, it’s full of New Yorkers now.”

  “You’re a New Yorker, Mother.”

  “Let’s not bicker, dear.” She avoided the beach. It brought back memories of Father for her too.

  “I suppose we can’t leave now anyway. The orphanages will be desperate for warm clothes once the weather turns colder.”

  “You can still post your comfort boxes through the mail?”

  “The Germans encourage people to send help for the orphans and even to those in transit camps. Keeps costs down for them.”

  “How kind of the Boche.” Mother used the French word Boche, meaning “square-headed,” when referring to the Germans, her small act of defiance.

  I turned to the bed and gathered an armful of Father’s woolen jackets.

  She pulled the sleeve of one toward her. “We can cut those down—”

  “We’re not cutting up Father’s things, Mother. And besides, we need fabrics that children can wear next to their skin.”

  I pulled the jackets away from her.

  “It has been over twenty years since he died, Caroline. Camel hair is moth candy.”

  “I’ve been having Father’s jackets cut down for myself, actually.”

  Father’s jackets fit me well after alterations. They were made with the best two-ply cashmere, vicuña, or herringbone, each leather button a work of art. The pockets were lined with satin so thick putting a hand in one felt like dipping it in water. Plus, wearing Father’s jackets kept a piece of him near me. Sometimes when I was standing on a street corner waiting for a light to change, I found crumbles of cigar tobacco in a deep crease or an old peppermint in cloudy cellophane in a hidden pocket.

  “You can’t keep every old thing of his, Caroline.”

  “It saves money, Mother.”

  “We’re not in the poorhouse yet. The way you talk you’d have us all lashed together singing ‘Nearer My God to Thee.’ We always make do.”

  “Maybe we should cut back on staff.”

  After Father died, Mother collected mouths to feed the way some people collect spoons or Chinese export porcelain. It wasn’t unusual to find some poor soul from a hobo den living in the guest room, propped up with a goose-down sham reading The Grapes of Wrath, cordial glass of sherry in hand.

  “It’s not as if we keep liveried footmen, dear. If you’re talking about Serge, he’s family. Plus, he’s the best French chef in this city and doesn’t drink like most.”

  “And Mr. Gardener?” I said.

  That question needed no answer. Our gardener, oddly enough called Mr. Gardener, was practically family as well. With his kind eyes and skin brown and smooth as a horse chestnut seed, he’d been by our side since we planted our garden up in Bethlehem just before Father died. It was rumored his people had come to Connecticut from North Carolina by way of the Underground Railroad through a stop once located in the old Bird Tavern just across the street from The Hay. In addition to having a genius for cultivating antique roses, Mr. Gardener would have taken a bullet for Mother and she for him. He would be with us forever.

  “And a few day maids don’t break the bank,” Mother said. “If you want to pinch pennies, have the consulate pay shipping for your orphan boxes.”

  “Roger’s been splitting the cost with me, but I won’t have much to send this time. There isn’t a scrap of wearable material to be bought.”

  “Why not arrange a benefit performance? You may enjoy being onstage again, dear, and you still have the costumes.”

  The costumes. Yards of material, disintegrating in an old trunk, of no use to anyone, perfect for every sort of children’s clothing.

  “Mother, you’re a genius.”

  I ran to my bedroom and dragged the trunk from the closet. It still wore the souvenir stickers from every city I’d played in. Boston. Chicago. Detroit. Pittsburgh. I hauled it back to the guest room, winded. I had to stop stealing Pia’s cigarettes.

  Mother straightened up in her sewing chair as I entered. “Oh, no, no. Don’t do it, Caroline.”

  I threw open the lid of the trunk and released a lovely scent of cedar, aging silk, and stage makeup.

  “It’s brilliant, Mother.”

  “How can you, dear?”

  We’d collected props and costumes from all over, a nineteenth-century silk bodice here, a silk and bone Tiffany fan there, but Mother had sewn most of the costumes I’d worn onstage, from Twelfth Night at Chapin to Victoria Regina on Broadway. I wasn’t allowed to keep every ensemble, but I still had my high school costumes, and Mother often sewed a backup of the Broadway ensembles. She used the best velvets and the richest, most vivid silks and soft cottons. She finished each with mother-of-pearl buttons she made from mussel shells she’d scavenged from the beach at Southampton. A button once put on by Mother was put on forever.

  “Merchant of Venice,” I said, pulling out a periwinkle blue velvet jacket and pants, both lined in mustard silk. “Two toddler shirts right there. What can we do with the lining?”

  Mother withered. “Underpants?”

  “Genius, dear.” I held up a coral pink satin gown, the bodice embroidered with seed pearls. “Twelfth Night.”

  “Are you not the least bit nostalgic?”

  “Not at all, Mother, and if you resist, I’ll cut them myself.”

  She grabbed the dress from me. “Certainly not, Caroline.”

  I pulled out another velvet dress the color of Amontillado sherry, a white faux ermine pelerine, and a scarlet silk robe.

  “All’s Well That Ends Well,” I said, holding up the dre
ss. Had my waist ever been that small? “We can get six nightshirts from the robe, two coats from the dress. The fur will line mittens.”

  We worked into the night. I ripped seams and cut, the teeth of my pinking shears biting through velvets and satins.

  “Any news about your friend Paul?” Mother asked.

  “Not a word. Not even getting French newspapers at the office anymore.”

  Though Mother was on a need-to-know basis about my relationship with Paul, she somehow understood how important he’d become to me. With all the developments in France, she seemed almost as concerned about him as I was.

  “His wife has a dress shop?”

  “Lingerie shop, actually. Called Les Jolies Choses.”

  “Lingerie?” Mother said, as if I’d told her Rena juggled flaming hatchets.

  “Yes, Mother. Brassieres and—”

  “I know what lingerie is, Caroline.”

  “Don’t judge, Mother, please.”

  “Well, even if Paul comes out of this war in one piece, there’s no accounting for men.”

  “I just want to hear from him, Mother.”

  Mother ripped the seam of a lavender satin lining. “And the French, you know how that goes. Friendships with married men are quite common there, but—”

  “All I want is another letter, Mother.”

  “You’ll see. This war will blow over, and he’ll be knocking at your door. The Germans probably have him someplace special. He’s somewhat famous, after all.”

  I hadn’t considered that. Would the Nazis treat Paul specially given his celebrity?

  By morning, we had stacked the guest bed with an exquisite assortment of children’s wear. Soft coats and trousers. Jumpers and hats.

  I lugged it all to work and left it on Pia’s desk, though she was nowhere to be found.

  —

  WEEKS LATER, I HAD three generations of the LeBlanc family camped out in my office and taking turns bathing via the consulate ladies’ room sink when suddenly, Roger rushed to my door and swung into my office, one hand on the doorjamb, face the color of his dove-gray shirt. My stomach lurched. His bad news face. The knit brow. Mouth set in a tight line. As long as he didn’t close the door, I would be fine.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Caroline—”

  “Just tell me, Roger.”

  “I have some news.”

  I held on to my wooden file cabinet. “Just do it—”

  “It is bad, I’m afraid, C.”

  “Should I sit?” I said.

  “I would imagine so,” Roger said as he closed the door.

  1941

  The train doors opened, and we stood as if frozen there inside the car.

  “Out, out!” the woman guards on the platform shouted. They poked and swatted us with their sticks and leather truncheons. If you’ve never been hit with a leather truncheon, it stings like you cannot believe. I’d never been struck with anything before, and that sting was a terrible shock, but the dogs were the worst part, snapping and barking at us, close enough for me to feel their warm breath on my legs.

  “You stink like pigs,” one guard said. “Poles. Of course, covered in shit.”

  This made me madder than anything. They give us one small bucket to use and then complain that we smell?

  We marched at a quick pace through Fürstenberg in that Sunday’s first light, five abreast, Matka on my one side, Mrs. Mikelsky and baby Jagoda on the other. I glanced back and saw Zuzanna and Luiza one row behind, their eyes glassy with that special kind of terror we would grow used to. Fürstenberg seemed like a medieval village out of a storybook, the buildings with sod roofs and window boxes overflowing with red petunias, windows shuttered up tight. Were the Germans still asleep in warm beds? Dressing for church? Someone was awake, for the scent of toast and fresh coffee was in the air. A second-story shutter opened a crack and then closed.

  Those who could not keep up had a time of it, for the guards beat the slowest, and the dogs nipped at their legs. Matka and I held Mrs. Mikelsky to keep her from stumbling. She massaged her baby’s feet, blue from the cold, kneading them like bread dough as we hurried along.

  They rushed us along a cobblestone road by the banks of a lake.

  “What a pretty lake,” Luiza said behind us. “Will there be swimming?”

  None of us answered. What would they do with us? This was Germany, after all. As a child, a trip to Germany had always been entertaining, as long as one did not have to stay too long. With most things you knew what to expect. Like when you went to the circus for the first time, you had some idea. Not with this.

  Soon we saw an enormous brick building at the end of the road. It was only September, but the trees turned early that far north, orange and flame-red among the pines. Even the salvia planted along the foundation of that brick building was Nazi red.

  As we marched closer, German patriotic music blared in the distance, and the smell of cooking potatoes filled the air, which sent my stomach growling.

  “It’s a KZ,” the woman behind me said to no one in particular. “Konzentrationslager.”

  I’d never heard that word. Nor did I know what a concentration camp was, but the sound of the word sent ice water down my spine.

  We approached the high, smooth walls that surrounded the camp and stepped through green metal gates, to an open plaza surrounded by low wooden buildings. Even through the music, I could hear the wire atop the wall buzz with high voltage.

  A wide road cut through the middle of camp, officially called Lagerstrasse or Camp Road, but which we soon came to call Beauty Road.

  That road really was beautiful. It started at the vast cobblestone plaza known as the platz and ran straight back through camp, covered in black, shiny sand and chunks of black slag that glinted in the sun. A honey-sweet scent caught my nose and drew my attention to the trees, which lined the road as far as the eye could see. Linden trees. What a comfort it was to see this, the favorite tree of the Virgin Mary. The linden is revered in Poland, and it’s bad luck to cut one down. In front of each block was planted a cheerful little garden of flowers, and at each block window hung a wooden flower box, planted with geraniums. How bad could such a neatly kept place be? Oddest of all, an ornate silver cage stood at the beginning of Beauty Road, filled with exotic animals—yellow-winged parrots, two brown spider monkeys who swung about the cage playing like children, and a peacock with an emerald-green head who fanned out his feathers. The peacock shrieked, and a shiver went through me.

  Matka gathered us close, as we took it all in. Across the platz, rows of women in striped dresses stood at attention, five to a row, not one looking in our direction. A female guard pulled a revolver from the holster at her hip and asked the guard next to her a question about it. Matka spied the gun and quickly looked away.

  A girl in a striped dress passed near me.

  “Polish?” she said, her voice almost drowned out by the music.

  “Yes,” I said. “All of us.”

  The spider monkeys stopped playing and watched us, fingers fisted around the cage bars.

  “They will take any food you have, so eat it up quickly,” she said and walked away to line up.

  “Give us everything you have—you won’t need it,” said an older woman passing by, her hand out as she walked the length of the column.

  We clutched our coats around us tighter. Why would we give up the few things we had? I glanced at Matka. She reached out, and her hand trembled as she squeezed mine. I wanted only a bed for sleep and something to end my terrible thirst.

  The guards herded us into the utility block: two big open rooms with low ceilings and a shower room off to one side. A tall blond guard we later learned was named Binz stood at the door, as frantic and exercised as Hitler himself.

  “Hurry, hurry!” she cried, as she stung my bottom with her crop.

  I came to a desk, and a woman sitting behind it in a striped dress took down my name. In German she told me to empty my pockets, and she dumpe
d the few possessions I had—a handkerchief, my watch, some aspirin, the last vestiges of normal life—into a yellow envelope and placed it with the others in a file box. Next I was ordered to strip while a prisoner-guard watched.

  “Move along!” she said once I was naked.

  I saw Matka, behind me, stop next at the table. They wanted her ring, but she was having trouble twisting it off of her finger.

  “Her finger is swollen,” said a woman doctor standing nearby, tall and blond in her white doctor’s smock. Binz lifted Matka’s hand, spat on the ring, and tried to work it off. Matka turned her head.

  “Try petroleum jelly,” the woman doctor said.

  Binz spat on the ring again and finally twisted it off. The woman behind the desk dropped it into a yellow envelope and placed it in the file box.

  Matka’s ring was gone. How could they just take a person’s things with no feeling at all?

  I saw Janina Grabowski, far ahead of me in line, wrestling with a guard and crying out. She was undergoing the hairdresser’s exam. A second guard came to assist the first and held Janina by the shoulders.

  “Stop, no—please,” she said as they tried to cut her hair off.

  A guard pushed me along, and I lost Matka, who was swallowed up in the crush of women. I tried to cover my nakedness as a prisoner with a green triangle on the shoulder of her striped jacket pushed me to a stool. Once I felt a toothpick touch my scalp, I knew I was about to follow Janina’s fate, and my heart tried to escape my chest, it thumped so.

  The scissors were cold against the back of my neck, and the woman swore in German as she hacked through my braid. Was I to blame for my thick hair? She threw the braid onto a pile of hair so high it reached the windowsill and then, as if in payment for making her work harder, shaved my head roughly. I shook all over as every click of the trimmers sent hunks of hair sliding down my bare shoulders. She pushed me off the stool, and I felt my head—smooth, with just tufts of hair here and there. Thank God Pietrik wasn’t there to see that. How cold it was without hair!