The Dressmaker of Dachau

There was a soft knock on the door – their signal – but Stanislaus barged in without waiting for her to reply. ‘There’s going to be war.’ His face was ashen and drawn.

Her body went cold, clammy, even though the room was warm. War wasn’t supposed to happen. ‘It’s been declared?’

‘Not yet,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But the officers I spoke to in the hotel said they were mobilized, ready. Hitler’s invaded Poland.’

There was an edge to his voice which Ada had never heard before.

War. She’d batted off the talk as if it were a wasp. But it had hovered over her all her life and she had learned to live with its vicious sting. It was the only time her father wept, each November, homburg hat and funeral coat, words gagging in the gases of memory, his tall frame shrinking. He sang a hymn for his brother, lost in the Great War. Brave enough to die but all they gave him was the Military Medal, not good enough for the bloody Cross. He had only been seventeen. Oh God, our help in ages past …

War. Her mother prayed for Ada’s other uncles whom she’d never met, swallowed in the hungry maws of Ypres or the Somme, missing presumed dead, buried in the mud of the battlefields. A whole generation of young men, gone. That’s why Auntie Lily never married, and Auntie Vi became a nun. That was the only time her mother swore, then. Such a bleeding waste. And what for? Ada couldn’t think of a worse way to die than drowning in a quagmire.

‘We have to go home,’ she said. Her mind was racing and she could hear her voice breaking. War. It was real, all of a sudden. ‘Today. We must let my parents know.’ She hoped now they hadn’t got her postcard. They’d be worried stiff.

‘I sent them a telegram,’ Stanislaus said, ‘while I was downstairs.’

‘A telegram?’ Telegrams only came when someone died. They’d go frantic when they saw it.

‘They’re invalids,’ Stanislaus said, ‘they must know you’re safe.’

She had forgotten she’d told him that. Of course.

‘That was,’ she stumbled for the word, ‘that was very kind. Considerate.’

She was touched. Stanislaus’s first thought had been of her, in all of this. And her parents. She felt bad now. She’d told him they were house-bound. She might even have said bedridden. She’d really be in for it now, when she got home. All those lies.

‘I sent it to Mrs B. The telegram. I didn’t have your address. She can let your parents know. I trust that’s OK,’ Stanislaus said and added, before she could answer, ‘Who’s looking after them? I hope you left them in safe hands.’

She nodded, but he was looking at her as if he didn’t approve.

They packed in silence. Officers in blue uniforms milled round the hotel lobby. There were soldiers too. Ada had never seen so many. The other guests, many of whom Ada recognized from the restaurant, argued in groups or leant, waving and shouting, against the reception desk. Ada was aware of the musk of anxious men, the lust of their adrenalin.

‘Follow me.’ Stanislaus took her bag. They pushed their way through the crowded lobby and out through the revolving doors.

‘Gare du Nord,’ he said to a bell boy, who whistled for a taxi. The once deserted street with its eerie silence was now full of sound, of scurrying people and thunderous traffic. There were no cabs in sight. Ada had no idea how far it was to the station. She could feel her head begin to tighten. What if they were stuck here in France? Couldn’t get home? At last, a taxi hove into view, and the bell boy secured it.

‘You didn’t pay,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they pulled away from the hotel.

‘I settled earlier,’ he said. ‘When I sent the telegram.’ She shut her eyes.

A solid wall of people filled the street, men, women and children, old and young, soldiers, policemen. Most of them were carrying suitcases, or knapsacks, all heading in the same direction, to the Gare du Nord. The people were silent, save for the whimper of a baby in a large pram piled high with bags, and the shouts from the police. Attention! Prenez garde! No one could move. All of Paris was fleeing.

They had to walk the last kilometre or so. The taxi driver had stopped the cab, shrugged, opened the door, ‘C’est impossible’.

‘It’s hopeless,’ Ada said. ‘Is there another way?’ People were crowding in behind them now. Ada looked quickly at a side street but saw that that was as thick with people as the main avenue.

‘What shall we do?’

Stanislaus thought for a moment. ‘Wait for the crowds to pass,’ he said. ‘They’re just panicked. You know what these Latin-types are like.’ He tried to smile. ‘Excitable. Emotional.’

He used their bags as a ram, beat a path to the side. ‘We’ll have a coffee,’ he announced. ‘Some food. And try later. Don’t worry, old thing.’

Ada would have preferred a cup of tea, brown, two sugars. Coffee was all right, if it was milky enough, but Ada wasn’t sure she could ever get used to it. Far from the station, the crowds had finally thinned. They found a small café, in the Boulevard Barbès, with chairs and tables outside.

‘This is where we were,’ Ada said, ‘when I bought the fabric. Just up there.’ She pointed along the Boulevard.

Stanislaus sat on the edge of his seat, pulled out his cigarettes, lit one without offering any to Ada. He was distracted, she could see, flicking the ash onto the pavement and taking short, moody puffs. He stubbed out the cigarette, lit another straight away.

‘It’s all right.’ Ada wanted to soothe him. ‘We’ll get away. Don’t worry.’

She laid her hand on his arm but he shook it off.

The waiter brought them their coffee. Stanislaus poured in the sugar, stirred it hard so it slopped on the saucer. She could see the muscles in his jaws clenching, his lips opening and shutting as if he was talking to himself.

‘Penny for them.’ She had to get him out of this mood. ‘Look on the bright side, maybe we’ll get to stay in Paris for another day.’ She didn’t know what else to say. It was not what she wanted, her parents going out of their minds, Mrs B. livid. She could picture her now, gearing up to sack her. She’d done that with one of the other girls who didn’t come back from her holidays on time. Do you think I run a charity? Right pickle they were in but they were stuck, for the time being. She had no one to turn to, only Stanislaus. The waiter had left some bread on the table, and she dipped it into her coffee, sucking out the sweetness.

‘Is there anyone who can help us?’ she said.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Get us home.’ The French wouldn’t do that, she was sure, they had enough of their own kind to look after. Stanislaus turned in his seat, put his elbows on the table, and leant towards her. His forehead was creased and he looked worried.

‘The truth is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I can’t go back. I’ll be locked up.’ She drew a breath. Mrs B. had said something like that and all. Ada corrected herself, Mrs B. had said something like that too. Mustn’t drop her guard, not now, in case Stanislaus left her. You’re not who I thought you were.

‘Why?’ Ada said. ‘You’re not a German. You only speak it.’

‘Austria, Hungary,’ he said, ‘we’re all the enemy.’

Ada put her hands in her lap and pulled at her cheap ring, up, down, up down. She was stranded. She’d have to go back alone. She wasn’t sure she could do that, find the right train. What if they made an announcement and she didn’t understand? They did that all the time on the Southern Railway. We regret to have to inform passengers that the 09.05 Southern Railways train to Broadstairs will terminate at … She’d be stuck. In the middle of a foreign country, all by herself, not speaking French. And even if she got to Calais, how would she find the ferry? What if it wasn’t running anymore? What would she do then?

‘What will you do?’ Her voice came through high and warbling.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

It was already late in the afternoon. The waiter came out and pointed at their cups.

‘Fini?’

Ada didn’t understand so she shook her head, wished he’d leave them alone.

‘Encore?’

She didn’t know what it meant, but nodded.

‘I can’t abandon you,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here. We’ll be all right.’ For a moment, she saw them, hand in hand, sauntering through the Tuileries.

Stanislaus hesitated. ‘The thing is, old girl.’ His voice was slow and quavering and for a fleeting moment he didn’t sound foreign, she’d got so used to his accent. ‘I have no money. Not now. With the war. I won’t be able to wire.’

Ada couldn’t imagine Stanislaus without money. He’d never been short of a bob or two, always flashed it round. Surely they wouldn’t be poor for long? And anyway being poor in Paris with Stanislaus would be different from being poor in Lambeth. She felt a surge of love for this man who had swept her off her feet, a warm, comfortable glow of optimism.

‘We don’t need money,’ she said. ‘I’ll work. I’ll look after us.’

The waiter reappeared with two more cups of coffee and placed them on the table, tucking the bill under the ashtray.

‘L’addition,’ he said and added, ‘la guerre a commencé.’

Stanislaus looked up.

‘What’s he say?’ Ada said.

‘Something about the war. Guerre is French for war.’

The waiter stood to attention. ‘La France et le Royaume-Uni déclarent la guerre à l’Allemagne.’

‘It’s started,’ Stanislaus said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I may not know much French, but I understood that.’

He stood up abruptly, knocking the table so their coffee spilled in the saucers. He stepped to the side, as if he was leaving, then turned and sat back down again.

‘Would you stay with me?’ he said. ‘Here, in Paris? We’d get work, the pair of us. Won’t be short of money for long.’

Ada had been so sure a few moments ago, but now a wave of panic tightened round her head and fear clawed at her stomach. War. War. She wanted to be home. She wanted to sit in the kitchen at the back of the house with her parents and brothers and sisters. She wanted to smell the dank musk of the washing as it dried round the cooking range, to listen to the pots boiling potatoes for tea, to hear her mother thumb the rosary beads and laugh at her father as he mimicked her, Hail Marx, full of struggle, the revolution is with thee, blessed art thou among working men …

But there was no way she could get home, not by herself. She nodded.

‘Would you mind,’ Stanislaus said, ‘if we used your name?’

‘Why?’

‘My name’s too foreign. The French might lock me away.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll get rid of my passport,’ he was talking fast. ‘Pretend I lost it. Or it was stolen. I could be anyone then.’ He laughed and the gold in his tooth glinted in the evening sun. He fished in his pockets for some coins to pay the waiter and picked up their bags.

‘Come,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘We have to find somewhere to stay.’

‘The hotel,’ Ada said. ‘We’ll go back there.’

Stanislaus put his arm round Ada, and rested his chin on top of her head. ‘They’re full. They told me. We’ll find somewhere else. A little pension house.’

*

The room had a bed with a rusty iron frame and sagging mattress covered in stained ticking, a small table, a chair with a broken seat, and some hooks on the wall. The wallpaper had been torn off at some point, but stubborn shreds stuck in corners and above the wainscoting, bumping and rippling with the slumbering bugs beneath.

‘I can’t stay.’ Ada picked up her case and stepped towards the door. Stanislaus had never been poor, didn’t understand how low they had fallen.

‘I don’t know where you’ll go then,’ Stanislaus said. ‘With no money. The hotels will be full. The army have commandeered them.’ He sat on the bed, releasing a small cloud of dust. ‘Come here.’ His voice was soft, tempting. ‘It’s just till we get back on our feet. I promise you.’

They’d find jobs, move up in the world. She’d done it before, she could do it again.

‘What will you do?’ she said. ‘What job will you look for?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not used to working.’

‘Not used to working?’

‘I’ve never had to,’ he said. She had forgotten. He was a Count. Of course Counts didn’t work. They were like Lords and Ladies. Bloody parasites, her father called them. Getting rich on the backs of the poor. For a moment Ada saw him from a different angle, as someone alien. She saw something else too: he was lost, didn’t know what to do. He was an innocent and she the streetwise urchin. She felt sorry for him. Pity. She could hear her father snorting. Pity? Would they ever take pity on you? Did the Tsar pity the peasants? Got what he bloody deserved.

Ada stood up. She was still wearing the striped dress. A bit crumpled, but she pulled it taut over her body and fished in her handbag for her lipstick. She dapped some on, rubbed her lips together.

‘I’ll be back,’ she said. She had to take charge. She knew where she was going.

*

Walked into the very first establishment, and landed herself a job. Ada couldn’t believe her luck. But she supposed that’s what she was: lucky. The wages weren’t much, but the work was plentiful. Monsieur Lafitte ran a thriving business. Wholesale, retail, and tailor. He was a congenial man who reminded her of Isidore. He spoke French very fast, but slowed down for Ada, took pains to help her learn the language. Ada filled the vacancy left by Monsieur Lafitte’s apprentice, who had enlisted in the army, leaving him with more work than he could handle himself. Although Ada longed to invent new drapes and cuts, and from time to time would suggest a new detail – the twist of a collar, the turn of a pocket – he’d frown and wag his finger. Non.

Within a week she and Stanislaus had moved from the filthy room to a small attic, closer to the shop and the better end of the Boulevard Barbès. Between Monsieur Lafitte and the concierge, Madame Breton, her French became passable and she was talking to customers even.

Ada couldn’t quite believe there was a war. It was too quiet, didn’t seem real, even though there were more soldiers on the streets and in the bars and cafés. There were stockpiles of sandbags on the corners, and shelters built in the parks and squares. Men and women walked about with gas masks slung over their shoulders.

‘Even the prostitutes,’ Stanislaus said. ‘I wonder how they do it, with those on?’

They hadn’t been issued with masks, but Stanislaus conjured two for them, tapping his nose, ask no questions. ‘I’m in business.’ She loved him, with his mystery and his charm and his strange, foreign accent that waxed and waned depending on how excited he was.

From time to time a siren wailed, but nothing came of it and at night the neighbourhood was black and impenetrable. Cloth was scarce, good cloth at least, and Ada began to cut the garments with a narrower fit and a shorter length, and a seam allowance that skimped and scraped.

*

‘What do you do all day when I’m not here?’ She and Stanislaus were sitting in the Bar du Sport. They’d been in Paris two months now and were regulars, had taken to having a glass of red wine at night before they ate dinner there. It was a far cry from cocktails at Smith’s, but Ada made an effort to dress up. Monsieur Lafitte let her have the remnants and offcuts and, with the new vogue for plain styles and shorter hems, Ada had run up a presentable winter frock for going out and some simple skirts and blouses. Monsieur Lafitte had given her some old clothes that, he said, had belonged to an uncle of his, now deceased, which Ada had remodelled for Stanislaus. Madame Lafitte had given her a winter coat which she had adjusted. Stanislaus would need a coat soon and Monsieur Lafitte had hinted that he might be able to lay his hands on some surplus army fabric. They made ends meet, and Stanislaus had money again.

They had recaptured something of the old days, but with a difference. Now they were man and wife. Not legally, but as good as.

‘I’ll be gentle,’ he’d said the first time, ‘and wear a rubber.’

‘A what?’

‘A johnny. What do you call them?’

Ada didn’t know. She’d heard bits and pieces from the girls at Mrs B.’s, but nobody had ever sat her down and said this is what happens on your wedding night. Her mother had talked about the sacrament of marriage and Ada thought it something so holy that babies could be made in ways they couldn’t if you weren’t married. Stanislaus had laughed. This bit is for this, and that for that. She knew it was wrong, not being married, but it seemed natural, sidling close so her body soaked up his male smell and her flesh rippled and melted in his warmth. She knew he’d propose, once the war was over in a few months, make an honest woman of her.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go home?’ Stanislaus said. Ada shook her head. She was in Paris, with him, and wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else in the world. Besides, she hadn’t heard from home, even though Stanislaus had said he’d sent another telegram. All safe. Working in Paris. Telegrams cost money, she knew, but even so, they could have sent something.

After they had eaten, once the evenings had drawn in, there wasn’t much to do. There was a blackout, and the streets were empty, the cafés hidden behind closed doors and shuttered blinds. They played rummy, and pontoon. Ada tried to read French, but it was hard-going. The newspapers, as far as she could make out, were full of news about Germany and Russia, speculation about the Americans and complaints about the behaviour of British troops in France. They didn’t have so much to talk about now. Stanislaus said she wouldn’t understand his business, so she stopped asking. He wasn’t interested in her work. What was exciting about turning up a hem and economizing on a cut? She missed home at those moments, her brothers and sisters. Mum and Dad. She even missed the girls at Mrs B.’s. At least they could have had a laugh.

In December, Stanislaus’s business began to take him away for the night. Two or three times a week. Long, lonely evenings with nothing to do. The old iron radiator in their room creaked and tapped. Ada never got used to it, was sure an intruder was there, padding around, waiting to strike. It was all right when Stanislaus was with her, but on those nights when he was out late, she went to bed early to keep warm, with a small candle by the side, go away, don’t come near me, until she fell asleep. The radiator didn’t give much heat and was turned off at ten, so the room grew bitter and cold by dawn. Sometimes a fine layer of ice formed overnight on the bowl of water they kept on the table.

She hoped one day they could afford better lodgings, with a small kitchen, so she could prepare their own food and not always have to eat at the Bar du Sport. She’d have to learn to cook. She knew how to make a mutton stew but it needed pearl barley and Ada wasn’t sure you could buy that here. There was other food she could try to make, French food. Omelette, for instance, or a soufflé. She could see herself whisking the eggs, the way she’d seen the cook at the Bar du Sport do.

The kitchen would have an airer too, so that when she did their laundry she could hang it up to dry, and not drape it over the bedstead. Perhaps they’d have a little parlour, with a table and a red chenille cloth, and a mirror. She’d keep it pretty, with fresh flowers, if she could get them, in a jam jar. Her wages weren’t much, but with both of them earning money, they’d live a simple life.

But something was changing.

‘The thing is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I need to be in the mood.’

She respected that to begin with, but now it didn’t seem right. She touched his face, ran her fingers along his nose to the tickle of his moustache, tapped a rhythm on his lips.

Stanislaus shoved her hand away. ‘No, Ada,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

She heard his breathing, heavy and hard, felt the air squall from his mouth.

‘Do you love me?’ she said.

‘Stop it, Ada.’

He threw back the bed covers and stood up. Ada heard him pull on his trousers, swearing at the buttons in the dark, yank his shirt from the back of the chair, pick up his shoes with an angry slap and slam the door. She lay still on the bed. She shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have thrown herself at him. Her mother said no man respects that. Men like to do the chasing. She’d say she was sorry. He’d come round.

The Stanislaus she met in London had thrilled her with his honeyed talk and feathered touch. He had changed. The war had changed him, the business had changed him. He was out, night after night. She’d have to make more of an effort, make herself more alluring. A new lipstick, if she could afford it. She looked young for her age, she knew. Her cheeks still had the plumpness of youth. She’d try to look older, more mature. Perhaps that’s what Stanislaus wanted, an older woman, an experienced woman. Her hair had grown long. She’d roll it in a pleat round her head, like some of the sophisticated women she’d seen in Paris. He’d love her then. Nobody said marriage would be easy.

Christmas-time she bought Stanislaus some new handkerchiefs and a pipe. Wrapped the presents in newspaper and tied them with a ribbon from Madame Lafitte.

‘Thank you, Ada,’ he said, putting the gifts on the floor beside the bed. Stanislaus had made her a stocking, one grey sock bulging with walnuts and a small bottle of perfume.

‘L’Aimant,’ she read. ‘Coty.’ Loving. She knew it. He just couldn’t say it. Some men were like that. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. It was too sweet for her taste, but she liked that he’d thought of her, had taken the trouble to make a stocking, even if it was only full of nuts. Dad did the stockings at home. Brussels sprouts more likely, and a couple of spuds. Ha ha, got you there. But he made sure there was an orange in the toe, or a spinning top, and Mum always made them a new outfit for Christmas.

She’d never spent Christmas away from home. She’d have given anything to be back in Theed Street today. Go to Mass, while Dad cooked breakfast. Bacon and egg and fried bread. Then he and the boys would go to the King’s Arms for their jug of porter while she and Mum got the meal ready.

Lunch in the Bar du Sport didn’t feel or taste like Christmas dinner at home. They’d splashed out on a bottle of wine. Vin du Pays. It was thick and heavy, a dark, ruby red. It reminded her of Ribena, and Ada didn’t much care for it, but Stanislaus knocked it back as if it was fruit juice and then had a couple of brandies to chase it down.

He patted his stomach, winked at her. ‘Nothing like a good meal, is there, Ada?’ he said. ‘Fancy a game of rummy?’

‘That would be nice, Stanislaus,’ she said, pushing herself away from the table. Mum would be bringing in the Christmas pudding now. If Dad had got his bonus, he’d get a drop of brandy from the chemist and pour it over. Turn out the lights. Put a match to the brandy and bring the pudding to the table in a ball of flaming blue.

‘You smell good,’ Stanislaus said, opening the door to their room and pulling her towards him. The alcohol was fusty on his breath.

‘Are you tipsy, Stanislaus?’

‘Just merry, Ada. Merry,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t a man get merry at Christmas?’

He crossed his arms around her, squeezed her close. Maybe she should have worn perfume before.

He released his grip and flopped on the bed, patting the place next to him. Ada took off her dress and stockings and lay down beside him. His eyes were shut and he’d fallen asleep, put-putting through velvet lips, one arm raised above his head. Ada watched him as the daylight faded. She should get up, pull the curtains, turn on the light. But the room was quiet, soft in the twilight, and Stanislaus was sleeping. She ran the back of her hand down his cheek, caressing the soft flesh of his skin, the sharp scratch of his whiskers.

He grabbed her wrist, pinching it tight so she yelped. ‘Lay off, Ada,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before.’ He looked at her as if she was a stranger, then shoved her onto her back. ‘Is this what you want?’

He reached for the rubber, fitted it with clumsy fingers, thrust himself into her and pulled away without a sound. He rolled over and fell asleep.

Ada buried her head in the pillow. This wasn’t love, not like it used to be.

*

Winter filtered into spring, fizzing flecks of green in the parks and on the trees. Despite the bitter cold, there had been something safe about the winter, tucked beneath the long thick blanket of the blackout. Now the later evenings and brighter days were like a searchlight illuminating everything and Ada jumped whenever an aeroplane droned above. There were more planes flying overhead, and soldiers on the move along the streets and boulevards, boots, boots. Ada picked up a newspaper almost every day and Monsieur Lafitte brought his wireless into the shop. Madame Lafitte said that she’d seen British tanks near the Belgian border when she went to visit her sister, lumbering monsters that churned up the roads. Her sister said that the British had sent thousands of men, so they were expecting trouble. Ada couldn’t imagine that number. So many young men in uniforms. Who had made them all?

Stanislaus shrugged. ‘What will be, will be,’ he said. ‘We can’t stop it.’ He was back to his old self, relaxed, happy.

But Ada fretted. War marched with hobnail boots, left right, left right. The streets around the Boulevard Barbès filled with refugees, haunted faces in shabby clothing pushing their possessions in a child’s pram. Stanislaus didn’t seem to notice. Nothing worried him. He was a continental, that’s why. Continentals were relaxed. He looked foreign, neat ears close to his skull, short fair hair, his clipped moustache in the centre of his lip, a bit like Hitler, she often thought, though that was the fashion these days. Milky eyes framed by his glasses. He always wore them. She couldn’t imagine his face without them. It must have been such a come-down for him, living like this.

‘For you, madame.’ He pulled a round box from behind his back and presented it to her. She undid the ribbon and pulled out a hat, a lemon straw pillbox with a spotted black veil. ‘Your Easter bonnet.’

It didn’t go with her winter outfits, and the weather wasn’t warm enough yet to put on her summer dress, but Stanislaus had gone out of his way to purchase the hat when goodness knows this kind of raffia was hard to come by now.

She put it on, the veil drawn across her face. A grown-up hat, a woman’s hat. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Shall we, as the French say, faire une promenade?’

Ada giggled. Stanislaus rarely spoke French, at least not with her. It was always English and even so he often got his ‘v’ and ‘w’ muddled, and could never pronounce ‘th’, however many times she tried to show him. Sometimes he was in a good mood, sometimes not. He’d taken to putting the bolster down the middle of the bed, his side, hers.

Two weeks after Easter, Germany invaded Norway, neutral Norway. There was news of resistance and fighting, of British troops sent in to help. Endless blah blah on the wireless about the Maginot Line and what to do if Germany invaded France. Refugees needed to be vetted. Sympathizers would be shot. It was the duty of France to stand up and fight back.

Her neighbours’ faces were pinched and Monsieur and Madame Lafitte looked gaunt and frail. A smell began to permeate the Paris air. It oozed from the pores of women and mouths of screaming babies, from grown men and from the hairs of dogs pissing on the lamp-posts. Ada sniffed it in her nostrils, on her clothes, from Stanislaus as he lay on his side of the bed at night. Ada knew it now, the stale onion of fear.

There was talk of rationing. She wondered whether Stanislaus would change his mind, if she could persuade him to leave. They should go home, find a way to England. Monsieur Lafitte was hinting that it was time he retired, now the work was getting thin, and he didn’t want to start making army uniforms, not at his age. What if she lost her job? What then?

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said one day. ‘A young girl like you. It’s too dangerous. Go home. While you can.’

She thought of where her parents lived, close to the river with its docks and ports, of her younger brothers and sisters, living goodness knows where in the country, of her Mum, thin with worry, and Stanislaus out till late, leaving Ada with nothing to do but gnaw at her anxieties like a fox in a trap.

*

Stanislaus came back one night in May with a bloodied nose and broken lip, his spectacles twisted and crooked on his nose.

‘Pack,’ he said. ‘We have to leave.’

‘What happened?’

He splashed water from the basin on his face. Drops fell onto the table, washed pale and pink. There was blood on the towel he dried himself with.

‘What happened?’ Ada said again. ‘Did someone hit you?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Just pack. Now.’

She moved to dab at his cuts with the cloth but he grabbed her hand and forced it away.

‘Pack,’ he shouted. ‘Now.’

She knew he only raised his voice when he was worried. Perhaps someone had thought he was a German.

‘Are you listening? We must go.’

He took her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and flung it on the bed. She opened it, took out a dress from the cupboard, started to fold it. He snatched it from her, threw it into the case.

‘No time for that.’ He scooped up the rest of her clothes, grabbed her hat and shoved it in, yanked her underwear from the bedpost where it had been drying, tossed it on top and slammed the case shut. ‘Come on.’

He hadn’t packed a thing. She followed him down the stairs, racing, two at a time. She’d trip if she tried to keep up. She held the banister to steady herself. ‘But where—’