The Dressmaker's War

by Mary Chamberlain

  “She’s not the only one with much to do,” Sister Monica said in a tight voice. “And no time to do it.”

  “I can help,” Ada said, though all she wanted was to sleep.

  “You? How?”

  “I can sew. And clean, and—”

  Sister Monica snorted and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder. “Well, come on then. Follow me. Good Mother says I’m to make a nun of you.”

  Ada stood up, nestling her handbag under her arm. “Make a nun of me?”

  “She said to dress you up like one of us.” She hissed, “A sacrilege. Not to mention the danger. What if the Germans win? Eh?”

  There were two tall doors at the end of the corridor marked PRIVÉ. Sister Monica led the way through them, up a long flight of wooden steps, down another corridor, and into a large room full of open shelves, on which were stacked piles of folded garments, linen, and towels.

  “You need a bath,” Sister Monica said, thrusting a towel into Ada’s arms and pointing to a door opposite. “But don’t bother dressing when you’re done. Wrap this round you”—she handed over a long, white shift—“and come back in here. Don’t take all day. No more than two inches of water in the bath, and mind you clean it after you.”

  A large tub on claw feet, tiled floor and walls. No mirror. Just as well. Ada wouldn’t want to see what she looked like. She turned the tap. The pipes screamed as steaming water belched out. The bath wasn’t run that often, she thought. The pipes were full of air, like the pump at home. She undressed and lowered herself into warm water, wincing as it hit the raw of her blisters, watching as it dissolved the dirt. She lay back, wetting the ends of her hair. If she shut her eyes, she could sleep.

  Sister Monica was hammering at the door. “Come out now. I don’t have time to wait for you.”

  Ada rubbed her body with the towel, pulled the shift over her head. It rucked on her damp skin. She felt better for the bath, and the food, more herself.

  “Sit there,” Sister Monica said, pointing to a chair. She held a large pair of scissors in her hands. Ada stared at the shears.

  “Don’t even argue,” Sister Monica went on. “I’ve got the measure of you, Ada Vaughan.”

  Ada sat down, and Sister Monica tugged at her hair. She heard the scratch of the blades as they sliced, and watched as a chestnut lock floated past her to the floor. She’d known that nuns shaved their heads, but if it was only for a few days, why did she have to? She’d be back in England soon enough and she’d look ridiculous. Clumps of hair swilled from her shift and onto the floor.

  “Now,” Sister Monica said, “stand over there.” Ada felt her head. At least it hadn’t been shaved, but the hair was short. It felt dry and sharp, like stubble. Her hair lay below her, long waves of rich amber like fallen leaves. Cruel. A cruel cut. She’d have to wear a hat while it grew back. She could have made a turban from one of the samples she’d left in Paris; that would’ve been all right. But now she’d have to go out with tufts, unless she found a scarf to cover her head.

  Sister Monica was rifling through the shelves, pulling out items of folded clothing. “You’ll wear Sister Jeanne’s habit,” she said. “She died last week. These are your drawers. They go on first.” She held up a large square of calico, divided halfway down. “You step in and pull the tapes. Waist. Legs.”

  Ada stepped in. The drawers were vast. “Do you have a smaller pair?”

  Sister Monica snorted. “I suppose you’ll want tailored French knickers next.” Ada said nothing. “Now this.”

  Bodice and underskirt, tunic and scapular, belt and rosary. Serge, black. Sister Jeanne had been a large nun, and Ada was lost in her clothes. The shoes and stockings were several sizes too big.

  “And now,” Sister Monica said, “the wimple.” She rammed it on Ada’s head, pulling it hard so it sat tight round her skull. “And you button it here.” Her fingers scratched at Ada’s chin as she forced the padded button through a tight hole in the starched linen.

  “One more thing,” Sister Monica said. “When you have your monthlies, you come to me and ask for the padding. And is that a wedding ring I see?” She pointed. Ada nodded. “Give it to me.”

  Ada slipped the ring off and handed it to the nun.

  “And will you tell me why it’s left a green mark on your finger?”

  Ada knew it hadn’t been real gold.

  “You see,” Sister Monica said, her eyes drawn tight into that knowing I’ve got the measure of you. “Sister Bernadette told me all about your family. I remembered. Vaughan is your maiden name. Married indeed. You’re a fallen woman, a harlot, and I told the Good Mother as much.”

  Ada was helpless. Why had she lied? She couldn’t tell the truth now, no one would believe her, no one would sympathize. She wanted to get away from Sister Monica, find the Good Mother. Ada could explain herself to her. She had been kind.

  “Give me your passport,” Sister Monica said. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Ada opened her handbag, pulled out the teddy bear and her passport. Sister Monica tucked it in her pocket.

  “We’ll have to burn the bag,” she said. “In case the Germans come.”

  Ada wanted to protest, but she didn’t dare. She handed it over.

  “And the teddy,” Sister Monica said.

  This was a lucky bear, though Ada dare not say that to this nun. She shook her head, groped in the side of her tunic, found the pocket, and shoved the bear inside.

  The floor juddered, and moments later Ada heard the boom. The Germans were bombing again, nearby. Sister Monica crossed herself and grabbed Ada’s hand. They ran down the corridor. The thick skirts made moving difficult. Through the privé doors, along and into a large dormitory smelling of disinfectant, with what must have been two dozen old men lying on their backs or sitting on the sides of their beds. The room opened at both ends, and through the far doors Ada could see a nun pushing a bed out and, beyond her, another. They were evacuating the ward, lining up the beds to be wheeled into the lifts.

  “Help them,” Sister Monica said. Ada took her cue from a young woman who was assisting one of the old men to walk. She went to the nearest bed, put her arms round the back of a fragile man, felt his weight as he leant on her for support. He smelled of urine and had the fusty breath of morning teeth. He groped for a stick and shuffled away. She went to the next bed. This man was larger, and Ada almost buckled under his weight. She held his elbow as he walked. They followed the others, making slow, painful steps down the steep, stone staircase to the vaults beneath.

  SOMETIMES THE EXPLOSIONS were so close the ground shuddered with their impact. At other times, there was silence, punctuated only by the rat-a-tat of distant gunfire. Ada slept in the deceased Sister Jeanne’s bed, followed her routine. Up at five, Angelus, prayers, Mass. The scab on Ada’s knee stung when she knelt. She’d been here four days now, ticking off time. Work all day. Washing the old women, combing their thin, white hair, shaving the men and cleaning their privates. The bedpans were the worst. Sometimes the old men wet the bed and Ada had to pull off the sodden sheets and mop up the mess. Please God, let the Germans go away. Let me go home. She was grateful to the Good Mother for taking her in, but she knew she couldn’t do this for much longer, especially not with Sister Monica. Sister Spiteful, Ada called her.

  Most of the time they spent in the basement of the building. The Good Mother said it was for the best, until the Germans left and the explosions stopped. She told them what was happening every day after the Angelus, picking up the news from the priest, who heard it on his wireless. Ada counted the days. Five. The Germans had broken through the Allied defenses in the Ardennes. Ada didn’t know where that was, but she knew it was serious. Six. Eight. Brussels had fallen. Nine. Antwerp had fallen. Ada clamped her hands over her ears. Ten. Heavy fighting. Fourteen. Sixteen. More than two weeks. It might go on forever. Let it stop. Let it go away. What if their boys couldn’t hold the Germans? What would happen? She didn’t want to live in a basement as a
nun, to listen to the Good Mother every day, leading them in prayer when they could be out there doing something, fighting back, like the soldiers she’d passed, those British lads, though she wasn’t sure she would be brave enough.

  The stiff, hard linen of the wimple scratched her head and chafed against her chin. Once she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass of a window. Black and shapeless. The habit was hot, and Ada was tempted to take off one of the underlayers, but she dared not in case Sister Spiteful found out. There were a number of English nuns in the convent, Ada thought, but they all had to speak French, so she wasn’t sure how many there were, or who was who. She had no one to talk to. She missed Stanislaus.

  Then the Good Mother told them that the King of Belgium had surrendered, and the army, too, after eighteen days of brave resistance. The country was now under German rule. They must carry on with their vocation to care for the poor, the sick, and the old, regardless. Ada was about to ask What about me? but the doorbell rang, and rang again. Its clamor bounced round the little makeshift chapel in the basement where they were gathered. The stations of the cross trembled, and the candles beneath them flickered.

  The Good Mother signaled for the nuns to sit. There were voices in the distance, coming closer. Boots on the floor above, one two, one two, thudding on the stone stairs and along the corridor. The Good Mother stood by the altar looking above their heads, waiting. The chapel door was thrown open and banged back against the wall. Two German soldiers entered, boots gleaming, gray uniforms pristine and pressed, their collars closed tight and studded with insignia. Ada was sure there must be more outside. They marched up to the altar. One of them took off his cap and tucked it under his arm. He turned to face them, spoke in French.

  Ada’s throat was dry, and it was difficult to swallow. Here she was, a British woman, with the Nazis so close she could touch them. The enemy. Her legs were quaking, and she pressed her hands down hard on her thighs to keep them still. The nun next to her thumbed her rosary beads, her face ashen. Another, in front, was quivering, and Ada wondered if she was crying. She couldn’t understand what the German was saying; he spoke good French, but she couldn’t follow it all. He talked about passports, strangers, enemies. British. For their protection. Safety. Gather their belongings. Assemble out in the front.

  He nodded to the Good Mother, held up his arm. “Heil Hitler,” he said, and with his colleague turned and marched back through the chapel between the lines of pews. The steel caps on their boots sparked on the cold flagstone floor.

  The Good Mother waited until they had left the chapel and shut the door behind them. It gave a soft, reverend click. She took a deep breath. “Let us pray.”

  The nuns bent to their knees, heads bowed in their hands. Silent prayer. Ada liked prayer time as a chance to daydream, but today she prayed in earnest, in desperation. This was war. Proper war. Not the phony war she’d had in Paris with Stanislaus, as if nothing could happen. Now it was here, and she was alone in a strange country, for no reason except her own stupidity. She should have gone back to England at the start, when it was possible. Now Stanislaus had left, and she was a long way from home. Please God, please God, save me. She added, Save us all. The Good Mother pushed herself away from the altar rail and stood up.

  “Sister Brigitte, Sister Augustine,” she said, her voice softer than Ada had ever heard it. She signaled for them to stand. “Sister Thérèse, Sister Josephine, Sister Agatha, Sister Clara.”

  One by one the nuns stood.

  “Sister Clara,” the Good Mother repeated, looking at Ada. She had forgotten. She had been given a name. Clara. She hated it. It wasn’t her.

  “We have five nuns who are British,” she said, “and Sister Clara, who has a British passport. The Germans are our masters now. For everybody’s sake, we must obey them. We cannot lie to them, pretend you’re Belgian.” She took another deep breath, staring at the closed door. The nuns sat still, save for the swish of their wimples as they brushed against their chests with every breath they took. It was a while before she spoke. “God bless you, and may God look after you.”

  Sister Monica walked down the aisle to Ada. “You too,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Ada said.

  “The Germans are rounding up the British.” Sister Monica’s voice was breaking, and Ada could see she was biting her lip, fighting back tears. She hadn’t thought Sister Spiteful was capable of feeling. “They are making you prisoners of war. You must go with them. Do nothing that will betray you or the others. Do you understand? Their lives depend on you keeping silent.”

  Ada shook her head. “Why me?”

  “We lied, may God forgive us. Told them you are a nun. If they find out—” Behind Sister Monica’s glasses her eyes looked small and plaintive. Such horrors, Madame had said. Her father, too: The Germans ate babies, you know that? “The consequences would be fatal and on your conscience forever.”

  “And you?” Ada said. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “No.” Sister Monica shook her head. “I have an Irish passport.” She took Ada’s hand and squeezed it, an unexpected gesture of tenderness. “You can use Sister Jeanne’s bag and Holy Bible.”

  Ada followed her out of the chapel, one hand on her rosary, the other pressed against the good-luck teddy bear deep inside her pocket.

  HER OLD WORRIES—HOW to get home with no money, no clothes—were small and trifling now. New ones had arrived, weighty sacks of anxiety that Ada carried on her back, heavier by the day. She was trapped. They were trapped. Escape was out of the question. This would be her life forever, living as Sister Clara under the Nazis, looking after the old, in this geriatric home in the middle of Munich.

  Sister Brigitte had managed to prize open the tiny skylight in the attic, but now it wouldn’t close. It didn’t matter, Ada thought, the room was hot and stuffy, just below the roof. You could hear the pigeons in the early morning scratching for a foothold, cooing to their mates. The six nuns shared the room. There were two sets of bunk beds, and they took it in turns to sleep. It worked out all right, since half of them worked at night and swapped beds with the others, who worked by day.

  Ada had never known such weariness. It made her jumpy and tearful, like her Auntie Lily, who’d suffered with her nerves ever since the zeppelins in the First War gave her alopecia. She dared not think of home, even though Sister Brigitte said to focus on the happy things before the war, to cheer themselves up. Sister Brigitte had become their leader, their new Good Mother. They’d even started calling her that. She wasn’t very old. Ada guessed she couldn’t be much more than thirty. But she was calm and wise and a clever negotiator. She held her ground when she needed to, gave way when it was prudent. She had got them mats for their beds and permission to hear Mass when the priest came. Father Friedel was ancient. He should have been in this geriatric home, too. He could just about remember the Latin, In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, shuffling round after the doctor with his big priest’s bag, unable to distinguish the quick from the dead.

  Ada and Sister Brigitte and the mousy nun called Sister Agatha worked the day shift in the geriatric wards. That was the hardest, when the old people were awake and needed feeding and cleaning, medicines administered, ulcers drained. The patients smelled musty, lay in their cots with bony knuckles and wormy hands. Ada had to cut their toenails, tough horn that curled into their flesh. She had to lay their bodies out when they died, pallid and gray without the pulse of blood. She’d lift up a stiffened arm till it cracked against the shoulder blade and wipe the soapy rags against the grain of sagging skin. Left arm. Right. Tilt the body forward, scrub the back, lay it down, right leg pried free of the groin, scrubbed in the privates, left leg. In between the toes. Cut the nails, toes and fingers, straighten flat, ready to meet their Maker.

  Ada didn’t know how much longer she could stand it. Living with cadavers with stiffened limbs and congealed blood, with the smell of putrefaction and formaldehyde all round her. She wanted to run he
r fingers along beating tendons, to gaze into sparkling eyes, not close the lids on lusterless voids. She wanted soft tissue and pulsing blood and the hope that comes with life and breath. She had just turned nineteen. She was young, wanted to live in the world, but death surrounded her, imprisoned her. So many dead, feeble, demented. Father Friedel at the gravesides, sprinkling holy water on the coffins.

  Eight in the morning until eight at night, day after day, week after week. Supper. Rest. Rest? That was when they did their own laundry, calico drawers and underskirts, weighty with water, mildewed before they dried, draped over the ends of the bunks, their monthly paddings stained and brown, wimples limp and gray. Ada mended the stockings. Sister Brigitte had got some four-ply yarn from the guard and a needle, and Ada was glad to weave the stitches, weft and warp, in, out. It took her mind off things, reminded her of the work she used to do, of a life she once had. And prayers. Always prayers. She’d shut her eyes and try to sleep while they prayed, blocking out Sister Brigitte’s pious drone, rocking on her knees, thinking of Stanislaus.

  SHE HADN’T THOUGHT they’d last the journey in that cattle car, all the way from Namur, through France and into Germany. The June air had been thin, the light poor, and it had grown hotter by the day. She had been wedged between Sister Brigitte and a man from Glasgow who swore and fidgeted, his elbow digging into her when he turned. More people were pushed in every time the train stopped. In the end no one could move. Ada tried to shift her feet, up on tiptoes, down, could feel her ankles swelling even in Sister Jeanne’s outsize shoes. There was a tall man in the corner of the car who took command. He was English, spoke posh, and Ada could imagine him in another life back home, a big boss, perhaps an army man, or a doctor.

  “We’re off to the seaside,” he bellowed, “in a charabanc. Let’s have a singsong. All together now, Ten green bottles sitting on the wall.” It cheered Ada at first, “and if one green bottle should accidentally fall.” But as the days went on, the voices grew frail and the carriage silent, the quiet broken by fretful tears and a screaming baby. Fear swung like a gibbet, questions rotting unanswered in its stark steel frame. The man tried to get them to move, keep the blood circulating, to make space for the infirm, to let some sit or lean against the side. They’d shove to the back or the front. Ada’s toes were stepped on, painful pinches that she stopped feeling after a day. They had no water, had to sleep standing while the wheels screeched and the brakes screamed.