The Dressmaker's War

by Mary Chamberlain

  She could be bombed, suffocated in the rubble, buried alive. She sat up, screaming, but her cries bounced back. She lay down again. Her head lolled off the cushion, pulling her onto the icy stone floor. Her stomach hurt. She was going to die here, locked away in a workroom, lost forever. Who knew she was here? Her leg cramped, and she jumped up, walked round until the spasm passed. She would hang herself, cut her wrists. She could do it this time. She would have to. Starvation was a painful death.

  Please don’t bomb me. Let me live. She wondered what could be left of Munich now. She guessed the Germans must be doing the same to England. She tried not to think of her family. They would survive. Like her. Lucky.

  —

  IN THE MORNING the lock turned with a noisy wrench and a portly woman in a dull black skirt and brown twinset entered the room. Ada had never seen her before.

  “You,” she said, pointing at Ada. “Stand when I talk.” Ada pushed herself off her bed. She felt unsteady, a little faint. “I am Frau Weiter. I give the orders now. Empty that.” She pointed to the bucket.

  Ada was glad to get out, to breathe the crisp, fresh autumn air, to see the latest prisoner in the striped jacket. But there was no one in the scullery as she walked through, nor in the yard. The water from the cistern gushed down, splashing the floor and tiles. She peered round the rosebush, but the lawn was empty. Had Frau Weiss left, taken Thomas?

  His bike was gone. In the mud, next to where it used to be, was a small knitted teddy bear.

  —

  “YOU,” FRAU WEITER said as Ada returned, “get out of that nun’s habit.” She threw a limp gray shift on the floor and pointed at it. “You’re no different from the other prisoners. Why should you have privileges?”

  Ada picked up the shapeless drag of cotton. It was thin, its fibers lifeless.

  “From now on,” Frau Weiter said, “I am in charge. My husband is the new commandant here. You help the cook. You launder and you iron. You mend and sew. You do whatever we ask. You do not talk. Put that on, then go.” She pointed towards the open door and the scullery beyond, and left the room.

  Ada wondered what had happened. She stepped out of her habit and pulled the dress over her head. This flimsy, soulless garment frightened her. It was what the Polish prisoners had worn. Was that what she had become? Like them? They came from the camp. She folded her habit, laid it on the bed, and walked towards the scullery.

  The cook was not a prisoner, Ada could see. She was well fed, a round woman with a thick waist, gray hair, and beads of sweat on her forehead and nose. The armpits of her blouse were wet and dark.

  Frau Weiter called her Anni. They had long conversations. Ada understood that she had been Frau Weiter’s cook for many years. She understood, too, that Obersturmbannführer Weiss had been sent to Poland. The woman and child had wanted to stay on in the house. Frau Weiter tutted. Why should she be allowed special treatment, when it was obvious that Obersturmbannführer Weiter and she needed the commandant’s house? When there was such pressure on decent housing now? Of course the woman had to find accommodation elsewhere, go back to her own people.

  Anni never smiled, but she made good food, which Ada helped prepare, peeling, chopping, shredding. Liver soup. Roasted boar. Cabbage rolls. Sauerkraut. Apfelstrudel. Topfenstrudel. Auszogne. No wonder Anni was so round and Frau Weiter so stout. And her husband, Obersturmbannführer Weiter. A vast man with a meaty gut that hung over his belt. His jacket puckered at the buttons; the sleeves strained on their seams. Ada had never met a really fat person, had never known what gluttony was until now, or why it was a sin. Glands, her mother used to say. It’s because of their glands. They can’t help it. The Weiters ate five times a day in the dining room, a fresh tablecloth for every meal.

  Linen, with broderie anglaise borders twelve inches deep. The stitching was harder even than buttonholes; the eyelets were small and needed fine threads and needles. The work made Ada’s eyes sore and her head pound. Monogrammed initials on the towels, EW, hand-sewn and hemmed, sheets and pillowcases. Drawn threads on the guest towels and tray cloths, whitework embroidery on the coasters and place mats. The Weiters were messy eaters and sleepers. They demanded fresh linen every day, and Ada had to boil up the stained sheets and tablecloths in the copper, scrub them with borax and carbolic until her hands were raw, wring them out and hang them to dry on the washing lines in the yard, vast sails that billowed in the wind. The bombing and the war meant that soap was hard to come by, fuel, too, to boil the water, but the Weiters refused to go without fresh laundry, screamed at Ada if she missed a day, threatened to send her to the camp, get someone else to do her work.

  Ada took her time putting out the laundry, or taking it in, watched as the autumn swelled and mellowed in the garden and the flowers died back into the soil, the leaves rotted on the ground. Another year had passed. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes. There were berries on the trees and shrubs, which the birds feasted on. The climbing rose by the lavatory had a fine crop of hips, garish orange, which made her smile. She picked some and stuffed them into her pocket. She’d look at them in the evenings when she was alone. They would remind her of the garden, of a place where life carried on, hopeful and oblivious.

  Frau Weiter wore dirndls, woolen ones for winter, velvet for best, cotton for summer, with tailored bodices that emphasized her fleshy bosom. Fussy blouses with tie pulls round the neck and sleeves. She liked them embroidered from top to hem with edelweiss and gentian and other mountain flowers. She was a dirty, piggish woman, soiled her clothes every day, soup on the skirt, gravy on the blouse, fat on the bodice. She had sweaty feet, which made her stockings stiff, dribbled piss and worse in her knickers. Washing and mending, sewing and ironing, tough, fiddly work to smooth the gathers in her dirndls without pressing them flat. Up at dawn and not asleep before the early hours. Do this. Do that. Frau Weiter’s clothes, which made her look like one of Anni’s bread dumplings. Or a pantomime dame. Ada laughed inside. Hair pulled back in a bun, Frau Weiter. She could be a man, dressed up. Widow Twanky.

  Anni spoke to Ada only to give orders. But she left good scrapings in the saucepans, turned a blind eye if Ada licked the spoon or ran her finger round the mixing bowl before she washed them up. Little treats that broke the monotony of the watery soup that Ada had to eat every day. Anni had flushes, surges of fire that turned her neck red, exploded under her arms. She’d fling open the doors and windows, fan her face with her hands. There had been an American client at Mrs. B.’s who wore pads under her arms. The change, she’d mouthed to Mrs. B., as if Ada was too young to understand this conspiracy of age, that time of life.

  Ada thought of that. She had some toweling and scraps of soft cotton, remnants from her dressmaking. It didn’t take her long. Two semicircles. Ribbon. She had some brassiere buckles left over from Frau Weiss and attached them to the tapes, enough for two pairs.

  Anni let her out in the morning, and Ada gave her the shields, pointing to her armpits, fanning her face in a pretense of heat. She mouthed, For the sweat. Anni took the pads. Who knows, Ada thought, if she’ll report me to Frau Weiter for this. Ada didn’t care. It made her feel alive, a kindness, just returning the favor, dear. She was peeling potatoes when Frau Weiter appeared, still in her nightdress.

  “Nun,” she said, “bring a bucket and come with me.” Ada followed, through the doors into the hall. It was the first time she had been back there since her arrival, nearly two years ago. It was Christmas 1943, and a tall fir tree stood in one corner with small candles attached to its branches. There was a carpet on the floor now, and a heavy, carved oak sideboard with two ugly low wooden chairs, one on either side. Frau Weiter marched Ada up the stairs, past the large window, along the corridor, and into their bedroom. The smell hit Ada before she saw its cause: Herr Weiter lay naked on the bed, surrounded by vomit.

  “Clean him,” Frau Weiter said, pointing to the mess on the floor. “And then the rest.”

  It wasn’t just vomit. He lay moaning in his own excreme
nt. Ada dry-heaved and gagged as she cleaned him up, Frau Weiter hovering behind her.

  “There,” she said. “And there. More there.” Prying open every fold and crease of flesh, wiping away the stinking remains, feeling his skin clench back over her fingers like vast, pulsing gums. Pig, Ada thought. Ate so much Christmas dinner it had made him ill. Served him right.

  The bedding. The bedroom. The bathroom. She cleaned all morning, washed all afternoon. Frau Weiter didn’t hit Ada the way Frau Weiss had, but Ada despised her more. She was a slut and a slob, a glutton and an idler. Ada hated the way her wrists hung in rings over her lumpy hands, the way she humped her body across the room like a slug over grass, the way she laughed with Anni, ho ho, and pinched her cheeks—We are so good to you, Annerl—the folds on her chin wobbling in their own free time.

  That evening, when Anni locked Ada up for the night, she slipped a package in Ada’s pocket. There was a glass of milk on the table. Ada pulled out the package. A slice of stollen, wrapped in greaseproof paper. Danke. Frohe Weihnachten. Happy Christmas.

  Ada sat on the easy chair, holding the cake, and sobbed.

  —

  SHE KEPT THE rose hips in a drawer. They had dried and shriveled; the color had lost its luster. She hadn’t done this since she was a child and they’d nicked the rose hips from the posh houses in West Square, but she remembered. She spread out the greaseproof paper from the cake, split open the haws, and laid out the fine hairs inside. Frau Weiter wore a slip next to her skin, gathered at the waist and secured with hooks at the side. Each gather formed a pouch, and Ada poked the tiny hairs deep inside them. She held up the slip. Nothing showed. She reached for the next one.

  She rolled the last hip in her hand. There were plenty more on the bush. More than one way to fight a war, she reminded herself.

  FRAU WEISS’S FRIENDS still came to see her, fabric over their arms, photographs in their hands. Ada had to make their clothes on top of all her other chores. She knew if she refused they’d send her to the camp. Frau Weiter didn’t need Ada, not the way Frau Weiss did. She wanted to ask the women what had happened to Frau Weiss and the child, but knew she must not say a word. She listened to their talk. Obersturmbannführer Weiss was now in charge of another camp, Majdanek, from what Ada could make out. But they never mentioned Frau Weiss by name, or little Thomas. Germany was doing well. The war would be over soon.

  THE TREES BEGAN to glow with tiny green buds. Ada put away her tweed mittens, which she still used for the night, and the cashmere gloves for the day. The moths had eaten holes in the palms, and the edges were beginning to fray. The wool had felted with dirt. How long would this war go on? She scored off another month on her calendar under the table. March 1944. She had been in this house for over two years. Her headaches were bad, and sometimes she couldn’t see her stitches. The buttonholes and eyelets were the worst. She had to hold them close to her eyes so she caught the loops and returns in straight, even rows.

  Early one morning in April that year, before she’d had time to change out of her habit that she still slept in at night, there was Herr Weiss. Sometimes she wondered—hoped—that he had died. She had stopped listening for his tread along the corridor in the evenings, the steely tap-tap of his cane. With his nephew gone, she thought he would not return. But now he stood there, his mouth set in a crooked smirk, nodding. He had come for his reward. She had been hemming a sheet and allowed it to fall to the floor, the scissors on her lap clattering behind.

  “Herr Weiss,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I said I would be back.”

  He fished inside his jacket and pulled out a diary. “I made a note,” he said. “Do you know what day it is?”

  Ada shook her head.

  “It is the Führer’s birthday. April twentieth, 1944.”

  He smiled again and tapped his way across the room. His limp was more pronounced, and he grimaced as he moved. His breath came in sharp gasps. He had been ill, Ada could see.

  “You do good work,” he said, pointing his cane at the dresses and suits hanging from the picture rail round the room. “Do you know what they call you here?”

  Ada shook her head.

  “They call you the Dressmaker of Dachau,” he said. “You are the talk of the town. It is quite a society we have here. Influential, you know. Not just Dachau. But Munich, Berlin. I am told that word has even reached the Führer himself.” He laughed, a gruff wheeze that ended in a film of spittle on his lips. “I exaggerate. The Führer is too busy to bother with such trivialities.”

  He fluttered the dresses up with his cane, revealing their faultless seams and flawless whipping underneath. He smiled at Ada, as if she were a child. “I have a friend,” he said. “She is looking for a new dressmaker. Someone who has to be discreet. So I think, who is more discreet than my Nönnlein?”

  He sauntered over to the armchair and lowered himself into it, placing the cane on the floor by his feet. “Come,” he said, patting his knee. “You should be pleased to see me.”

  Ada knew what was to follow. She picked up her stool.

  “No, my dear,” he said. “Leave your stool. Come, sit close to me.”

  She could sit on the floor, grab his cane if he tried something. She drew near, and he grasped her hand and pulled her so she was forced to sit on his lap. She swallowed hard. He had never done this before. They had always sat side by side. But they were alone, and Ada knew her screams would not be heard, would not matter.

  He stroked her hand. “Have you missed me?”

  Ada said nothing.

  “I’ve missed you.” He pulled her hand towards his groin and grinned like a rutting goat. “You can tell.”

  Ada tried to ball her fist. That way she wouldn’t feel him.

  “Nönnlein,” he said, prying open her fingers. “I have some news.”

  He took his hand away and, placing his arms round her, pulled her close. He had a cluster of white bristles on his cheek and another below his bottom lip. She could smell alcohol on his breath, and saw the veins threaded on his cheeks, his faded eyes a smoky absinthe. His lips were cracked. She hoped he wouldn’t kiss her.

  “I am leaving,” he said. “Today. I will go away. I may never see you again.”

  Her muscles slackened. Thank goodness.

  “But before I go,” he said, stroking her face with the back of his hand, “I want what is owed me.” Ada swallowed. “For all of this”—he waved his arm at the surroundings, pointing to the dresses hanging round the wall—“and what may yet pass.”

  He was squeezing her waist, his fingers splayed wide so they brushed against her breast. “I just have to say the word,” he went on, “and this could vanish. Have you heard of Ravensbrück?” He was pulling at her habit, lifting it higher, touching her leg. “It is for women. Criminals. Jews. Poles. Gypsies. Lesbians.” He spat the word. She felt drops of spittle on her cheek. He was groping her thigh. Ada tried to cross her legs, but he forced them apart. “A long way from here.”

  “Please,” she said. “I have taken Holy Orders.”

  “I know,” he said. “I would not violate a nun,” he added, his words dragging across his teeth, “if that is who you are.” The blood hurled itself through her body, forcing her heart to pump it round. Stay calm, calm. How could he know? He had to believe she was a nun.

  “Then don’t do this.”

  He pushed her free of his lap but held on to her arm, gripping it tight. He was surprisingly strong, too strong for Ada. “You haven’t learned, have you? You don’t tell me what to do. Nun.” He shook her arm, looked at her through bitter eyes. “Take your clothes off.”

  “Please,” Ada said. “Please, no.”

  He squeezed her wrist, licked his lips. “On second thought,” he said, “your naked body would disgust me.”

  He let go of her.

  “You are too thin. There is no woman about you. Take off everything except your shift.”

  Ada’s fingers shook as she pulled th
e scapular over her head and unhooked her habit. He was watching her, his skin tight across his face in a rictus of craving. He’d discover she wasn’t a virgin, and then what? Would he send her to Ravensbrück, put her in a brothel? He picked up his cane.

  “And leave on your wimple. Your hair will not be your crowning glory.” He laughed, a smutty rumble in his throat.

  “Now, come closer.” He leant forward and seized her arm, pulling her on top of him once more. She froze while he fumbled with his fly, rubbed himself against her, fingered her through the shift.

  “Help me.” He yanked her hand close to his penis and groaned. It was over.

  He pushed her away as the gong sounded for breakfast. “I will have an appetite now,” he said. “Anni provides an excellent spread for Obersturmbannführer Weiter and his charming wife. Schlackwurst. Liverwurst. Cheese. Fresh rolls. Honey. Coffee. Sekt. Goodbye, Sister Clara.” He stood up, tucked his shirt in his trousers, buttoned his fly, and picked his cane off the floor.

  “I will put in a word for you with my friend.” He walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

  He had soiled her shift. She picked up a remnant of cloth and rubbed at the stain. She was shivering. She reached for her habit, pulled it over her head. She would never see him again. She was hungry.

  IT WAS A deep, rotten fatigue that drilled into her muscles and emptied her brain. Ada would sink onto her makeshift bed in the early hours and drag herself up at dawn, too tired to weep or dream. She still kept tabs on the time, but the rest of that spring and summer passed by in heavy, tedious work. Frau Weiter made her wash their Federbetten, thick eiderdowns stuffed with feathers that they used in the winter. Ada had to beat out the clumps of down with a stick while Frau Weiter sat and watched. More. It needs more. Put your back into it. She barely had the strength to pick up the stick. She had to take down the curtains in every room, heavy brocades that kept out the winter drafts, and wash them free of years of dust, hang them out so they could dry and air in the summer sun, gather them in and press them smooth, ready.