The Dressmaker's Gift

by Valpy, Fiona

  When they were roused from their bunk by the day shift workers who’d returned for the evening, the block senior made Vivi and Claire carry out the bodies of those who hadn’t made it to another night shift. They would add them to the piles on the wooden carts which did the rounds of the camp each morning and each evening, delivering stacks of corpses to the crematorium.

  At last, the day came when the sun climbed a little higher above the razor wire surrounding the electrified perimeter of the camp, and patches of bare mud began to show through the snow covering the ground. As they trudged to their shift in the munitions factory one evening, Claire whispered to Vivi that they had done it: they’d survived the Dachau winter. Surely there wouldn’t be another one, she told her friend – the war would end and they’d be free by the time the next snows fell on the camp. Vivi had smiled and nodded but couldn’t speak, as a coughing fit seized her and convulsed her bones, rattling them like the bare branches of the trees outside the gates of the camp that shook and shivered in the wind.

  New prisoners continued to arrive at Dachau, in greater numbers than ever. Some of the trains that pulled up alongside the camp pulled open-topped trucks filled with rubble and coal and raw materials for the factories. But others drew long chains of those wooden-sided cattle-cars, and when the guards drew back the bolts that fastened the sliding doors another human cargo was discharged. In the barracks, the new arrivals would tell of the head-high piles of dead bodies, which had to be unloaded from the train and stacked beside the tracks. Some of the prisoners said they had been brought to Dachau from other camps which were being evacuated as the Allies advanced. Wherever they came from, they all had stories to tell of torture and murder and starvation and slave labour. And every one of those camps seemed to have a tall chimney at its centre which breathed the stench of death into the skies over Europe.

  The new arrivals also brought with them fresh outbreaks of lice and fleas and disease that spread quickly in the already squalid barracks. The women did their best to help each other, cleaning one another’s heads, offering water and tending the sick as best they could. But survival was becoming an impossible challenge. As the population grew, dysentery filled the barracks with its sickening stench and the milder winds of spring brought with them a resurgence of the deadly kiss of typhus.

  It was April. Still cold enough to cause a frost to form on the roofs of the barracks overnight and to freeze Claire’s hands and feet as she and Vivi walked back to their block after another night shift in the armaments factory. Every bone in her body ached with cold, exhaustion and hunger, the Holy Trinity of the concentration camp. The sky beyond the watchtower glowed red as another dawn broke over Dachau, but the column of grey smoke rising from the tall brick chimney in the centre of the camp stained the beauty of the sunrise with its grim pall.

  Vivi’s cough was dry and painful-sounding as she lowered herself wearily on to the bunk. Claire brought her a tin cup filled with water, but Vivi had already sunk into a deep sleep by the time she came back from the tap, so she set it carefully beneath the bed for later. She drew the edge of her blanket over her friend’s wasted, angular body, noticing a rash of dark bites on her chest where the blue and white striped over-shirt hung loose from the concavity beneath her collarbones.

  Later that day, as Claire drifted in and out of a troubled slumber, a sudden commotion in the hut forced her fully awake.

  Some of the women who were supposed to be out working the day shift had returned to the barracks and the noise of their boots hurrying back and forth across the floorboards made the hut walls reverberate.

  ‘If you have a blanket, bring it with you,’ shouted the block senior. She strode the length of the long room, shaking awake the exhausted inmates who’d worked the night shift and telling them to get up. ‘Hurry. You will be leaving shortly. Assemble on the square as quickly as possible.’

  Claire gently tapped Vivi’s arm, but there was no immediate response. She nudged her more firmly and Vivi coughed, that dry, rasping sound that was so painful to hear. Then Claire realised that her friend’s body was burning. She sat up, as best she could in the confined bunk, and drew back the collar of Vivi’s shirt. And she saw what she’d been dreading: the dark rash had spread to cover Vivi’s chest. It was a sight that she was familiar with from trying to help other women in the block. It was the sign of typhus.

  As the hut emptied, the block senior hurried over to the corner where Claire was trying to get her friend to take a sip of water from the tin mug. Vivi’s eyes were glazed with the fever that was blazing within her wasted body. ‘Get up! Be quick! You need to be on the square now for a roll call.’

  ‘She can’t . . .’ Claire said, turning frantically to the senior. ‘She’s ill. Look at her.’

  After a cursory glance, the senior snapped, ‘Well, you’ll have to leave her then. Those who are too sick to go will be left here for the guards to deal with.’

  ‘Go?’ Claire asked. ‘Go where?’

  ‘The Allies are advancing. They’ll be here any day. My orders are to evacuate the camp. We’re to march west, to the mountains. Bring what you can and get outside now.’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I won’t leave her,’ she said.

  The senior had already started to walk away. She turned to glare at Claire. ‘In that case,’ she snapped, ‘you can stay for all I care. You two have been nothing but trouble from the very start. But I’m warning you, the camp is being destroyed. The SS are disposing of anyone left behind, the sick and the dying. If you stay, you will die with her.’

  Claire’s voice was quiet, but determined. ‘I won’t leave her,’ she repeated.

  The block senior shrugged. Then she turned on her heel and left the hut, slamming the door behind her.

  Claire lay back down next to Vivi and tried to cool her fever by wetting a corner of her shirt and gently stroking it over her burning forehead.

  ‘I’m here,’ she whispered. ‘We’re together. Everything will be alright.’

  The sounds from beyond the hut walls were muffled: running footsteps gathering in the square, then silence for what seemed like hours while the headcount took place, she assumed, and then the sound of shuffling feet as a few thousand prisoners began their long march out through the metal gates, beneath that grotesque slogan, towards the Vosges Mountains where the beleaguered German forces were trying to consolidate one of their final strongholds.

  As dusk dimmed the light that filtered through the grimy windows of the hut, the camp beyond fell silent. Claire continued to bathe Vivi’s forehead and to sponge down her skin, which seemed as fragile as tissue paper and so hot it might burst into flames. Her friend muttered and coughed and groaned, as the pain and the fever consumed her. All through the long darkness of the night, Claire kept trying to get her to drink a little water and continued to whisper reassurances – ‘I’m still here. We’re together. I won’t leave you, Vivi.’ – until at last she, too, fell into a troubled sleep.

  At daybreak, Claire woke to find Vivi’s eyes on her. They were still glazed with the fever, but she was awake. Claire smoothed the halo of sweat-soaked hair back from Vivi’s face, praying that it was a sign that the fever was breaking and that she might pull through.

  The sound of heavy boots running past the door of the hut startled Claire. Was this it? Were these the guards, coming to dispose of the sick and the dying as the senior had predicted?

  But the footsteps faded away round the end of the barracks. And then suddenly a rattle of gunfire sounded, close by. A shouted command made Claire sit up. The voice wasn’t German; it was American.

  ‘Vivi,’ she whispered, ‘they’re here! The Americans. We’ve made it.’ But Vivi seemed to have sunk back into unconsciousness, each gasping breath making her chest rattle.

  ‘I’m going to get help, Vivi,’ Claire told her. ‘They’ll have medicine. Hold on, I’ll be back very soon.’

  She staggered to the door and pushed it open, blinking in the April sunlight. Her legs
felt so weak that she could scarcely stand, but she knew she needed to go and find someone who could help Vivi. Every minute counted. Holding on to the walls of the hut for support, she made her way to the open space of the square in front of the rows of barracks.

  From force of habit, she glanced up nervously at the nearest watchtower in the fence that enclosed the camp. But instead of the silhouette of a Nazi soldier with a machine gun trained on the camp interior, an empty square of sky was framed beyond the abandoned tower. Leaning against the side of a hut for support, she stumbled towards the central square.

  It was the smell that hit her first. Overlying the background stink of death and decay, the usual wisp of acrid, grey smoke still hung in the air above the brick chimney behind her. But as she neared the square a more pungent stench filled her nostrils. As she rounded the corner of the last hut, she choked as a thick pall of smoke enveloped her, eddying around her on a gust of breeze. As it cleared, she could make out a smouldering heap of what looked like railway sleepers in the middle of the parade ground. A charred hand reached from the top of the pile, pointing towards a heaven that she no longer believed could exist, as her numbed senses told her that this was a hastily assembled funeral pyre. The crematorium was too slow: the camp staff had tried to burn as many bodies as possible before the camp was liberated, in an attempt to destroy the evidence of what had gone on there.

  Lined up on the parade ground, where once they had forced the prisoners to stand for hours on end in all weathers as headcounts were made or punishments meted out, were some of those same camp guards. American troops, wearing rounded helmets and khaki uniforms, held them at gunpoint. A prisoner staggered on to the square, his legs barely able to hold him up, and launched himself forward, trying to attack one of the SS guards. He screamed as he did so, uttering inarticulate, agonised cries, giving voice to the outrage that the guards’ inhuman treatment of so many innocent people for so many years warranted. His weakness made his attack ineffectual, though, and two of the American soldiers caught him and held him off the SS personnel, gently helping him away.

  Relinquishing the support of the hut wall, Claire stumbled across to where a soldier wearing a white armband emblazoned with a red cross was stooping over the body of a collapsed prisoner. ‘S’il vous plaît’ – she clutched at his sleeve – ‘my friend. You have to help her. Please.’

  The medic straightened up, realising that the prisoner on the ground was beyond help. She tugged on the sleeve of his jacket again. ‘Please, come with me.’

  His voice was kind, even though she couldn’t understand the words he said. He tried to make her sit down but she found the strength to resist, to pull him towards the hut. Realising her intent, he went with her, following her in through the door and over to the corner of the bunk that she and Vivi shared.

  Claire knelt down and seized her friend’s hand. ‘Vivi, help is here!’ she cried.

  But there was no answering squeeze of her fingers, no flutter of eyelids opening to display a pair of clear hazel eyes.

  And then she realised that the rattle of Vivi’s breathing had fallen silent and the blue and white striped shirt hung in motionless folds over her heart.

  A heart that had been so filled with courage and strength.

  A heart that beat no more.

  The medic laid a tender hand on Claire’s emaciated shoulders as she knelt by the wooden bed.

  She sobbed into the soft halo of Vivi’s copper-coloured hair, lit by a shaft of sunlight which crept though the dirty windows to illuminate the two women huddled together in the empty hut.

  Harriet

  I’d never even heard of Flossenbürg, so I go online to research it. I’m horrified to find that there were hundreds of so-called work camps like it scattered across Nazi-occupied Europe, from France in the west to Russia in the east. The numbers are horrendous, a grotesque record of what happened in the concentration camps. I discover that Claire and Vivi were just two of the literally millions of people who were imprisoned, enslaved and killed. Disease, malnutrition and exhaustion caused the deaths of many; still more were murdered by firing squads or in the gas chambers of the extermination camps like Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen. Dachau, where Claire and Vivi ended up, was one of the biggest and longest-established camps.

  My research is interrupted by a tap on my bedroom door. ‘Come in,’ I call.

  Simone pushes the door open, tentatively. ‘Harriet,’ she says, ‘come out with me this evening. A group of us are going to watch the Bastille Night fireworks on the Champ de Mars. It’s always spectacular.’

  I shut my laptop and rub my neck to release the tension. The things I’ve just read have made my head throb. ‘That’s really kind, but I think I’ll stay in.’

  Instead of retreating, Simone takes a step forward, coming closer. ‘Harriet . . .’ She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. ‘I heard about you and Thierry. I’m sorry. Really I am. You were good together.’

  I smile and shrug. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry too. I’m just not in the right place at the moment, I guess. But actually I don’t think I’ve ever been very good at relationships.’

  She sits down on my bed and shakes her head emphatically, her curls bouncing. ‘That’s not true. You are one of the best-liked people in the office. You’ve been a good friend to me. And you are a good granddaughter to Claire, you know, continuing the search for her story. She’d be so proud of you. But you need a night off. It will be a good distraction. Please, come out with me. After all, it’s France’s biggest night of the year! Thierry won’t be there, by the way, if that’s what’s stopping you,’ she adds. ‘He’s working at a gig tonight.’

  Her dark eyes glow with such genuine friendship that I can’t refuse her. ‘Okay, then. Just give me ten minutes to change,’ I say.

  The streets are filled with a river of people making their way towards the Champ de Mars. The grassy slopes that flank the wide sweep of space in front of the Eiffel Tower are already almost completely covered with spectators as we approach. But Simone is an old hand at this and she quickly spots her group of friends who’ve spread a blanket out to keep enough room for us to join them. The sky is just beginning to darken and there’s a buzz of anticipation in the air as the tower’s metal frame is lit in stripes of blue, white and red and the music starts. The fireworks will only begin at eleven, creating a spectacular end to the national holiday, but they are preceded by a concert. I settle back, leaning on my elbows, and let the sights and sounds wash over me. Simone was right, it is good to be out. And I might not have another chance to see this again. I wonder where I will be this time next year, when my internship will be a thing of the past.

  The crowds are good-natured, everyone out to enjoy themselves, and there’s a great deal of friendly banter. Suddenly, though, something changes. I can’t put my finger on it, at first; it’s subtle, an atmospheric shift. The light show continues on the Eiffel Tower and the music plays on, but the sounds of the crowd become muted, somehow; I glance around, the all-too-familiar sensation of anxiety gripping the pit of my stomach. Around us, people are checking their phones. Ringtones are drowned out by the music, but more and more people appear to be listening to messages, or making calls. I turn and look towards Simone, who sits just behind me. She has taken her phone out of her pocket and is studying it. The smile has gone from her face.

  I reach out and tap her ankle to get her attention. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  She shuffles down a little so that she’s sitting next to me. ‘There’s been an attack. In Nice. Reports are just coming in. No one seems to be quite sure what’s happened. But it sounds bad.’

  Our eyes meet in the darkness and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Florence? And the others? They’re still there, aren’t they?’ As far as I can remember, the product launch was scheduled to end two days ago but the team had planned to stay on to pack up and enjoy the Bastille Day holiday there.

  Simone nods, busily composing a text. ‘I’m j
ust sending them a message now.’ She bites her lip, pressing send and then anxiously checking for a reply.

  After a couple of minutes, her phone pings and I watch her face, which is still creased into a frown, as she scans the screen. ‘They’re okay,’ she says. ‘They’re stuck in a bar just off the beachfront and there’s been some sort of incident. The police have sealed off the city centre, apparently. But they’re all safe.’ She and I both breathe again.

  We try to concentrate on the show as the sky lights up with fireworks. But there’s an air of tension and distracted preoccupation all around us. As soon as the last sparks fade against the black of the sky, we begin to make our way home. Simone checks the news reports that repeatedly light up the screen of her phone and she relays them to me as we walk. ‘A truck has hit a number of bystanders on the Promenade des Anglais. They’re saying there are some injuries, perhaps some deaths. It sounds bad.’

  Subdued, we climb the stairs to the apartment on the fifth floor and retreat to our rooms in silence.

  The next morning I wake early. Simone is already up, watching the television in the sitting room. She glances up as I join her on the sofa and I can see she’s been crying. As the news reports continue, I understand why. A terrorist drove a truck down the main road along the Nice beachfront last night. The promenade had been blocked off for the Bastille Night festivities and it was crammed with holidaymakers. But the lorry had been driven into the crowds, deliberately targeting people on the pavement, carving out a swathe of destruction and devastation. The early morning reports estimate that over eighty people have been killed and more than four hundred injured, some critically.

  ‘Is there any more word from Florence and the others?’ I ask, when I can speak.

  Simone nods. ‘They are at their hotel, packing up to leave. They’ll be back later.’

  We sit in silence for a moment, feeling thankful that the people we know are safe, but unable to get out of our minds the thought of so many others whose lives have been brutally ended or changed for ever.