The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

done, Ada, I knew you’d think of something. She rehearsed the lines in her head, in her best French. What if she forgot them? Or they saw through her? He’s not your brother. Come with me, monsieur, mademoiselle. She’d have to warn him, Don’t say a word. She worried that he looked suspicious with his face cut and bruised like that.

      Slowly, slowly. Most of the people were let through but some were turned away. There was a large family, a grandmother and her two sons and a daughter, or perhaps a wife, grandchildren. There must have been around ten of them all together. The children were knock-kneed with socks scrolled down their skinny legs, the boys in grey flannel shorts, the girls in smocked dresses. They stood still, eyes wide, watching, while one of the fathers pointed to their documents, to the children. The guard shook his head, beckoned over another man with braid on his uniform. Ada couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the sons took the guard’s hand, pumped it, smiling and they walked to the other side, to Belgium. Ada breathed with relief. If that family could get through, she and Stanislaus would be all right. She followed each refugee, one by one, as the guard let them pass, smiling with them, for them. Families, single women, old men. Edging forward. They were two away from the border post. An elderly couple was ahead of them. He was wearing an overcoat tied round the middle with string, and she wore a black skirt with an uneven hem that draped at the back over her thick, fat ankles. Everyone looked dowdy in the war, dressed in old clothes, patched and darned. Perhaps they were saving their best for the armistice. The guard stamped their documents and Ada watched as they shuffled away.

      Almost their turn. A young man was in front of them. He looked about her age. His cheeks were flushed and smooth, unmarked by whiskers. Close-up, the guard looked stern, bored. A hard man. If they didn’t let Stanislaus through, she thought, what would happen? Would they arrest him? Take him to prison? If he started talking, they’d know she had lied. She’d be in for it then, too. Perhaps they’d have to stay in France. They could hide. Change their names. No one would know. They should never have come anyway. They could turn around, now, go back to Paris.

      Ada shifted her weight to relieve the pressure off her blister and stepped on a small, brown teddy bear lying on the ground. It was woollen, soft, stuffed with kapok, sewn together down the side, smooth even stitches. Perhaps someone had made a pullover for her husband, knitted a toy for the baby with the leftover two-ply. Ada looked around. There was no baby in sight. She’d keep it, a good luck charm. She put it in her bag.

      The guard had taken the young man’s documentation, was studying it, twisting it upside down, to the side. He returned the papers and pointed left, to a small bureau a few yards along.

      ‘Mais—’ the young man began, his shoulders slumped. He was close to tears. But the guard wasn’t listening, was beckoning to Ada and Stanislaus. The youth picked up his knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards the office.

      They stepped forward. Ada ran through the lines in her head. My brother, someone stole—

      ‘Nationalité?’

      She wasn’t sure if she should show her passport. It was right here, in her hand, a small, dark blue book. She squeezed her bag instead with the soft teddy inside, Wish me luck.

      ‘Nous sommes anglais.’

      The officer lifted his chin, studied their faces. She dared not look at Stanislaus. Her armpits were wet. She began to sweat behind her knees and in the palms of her hands.

      The guard said nothing, waved them through with a flick of the wrist, summoned the next in line, a large family with five children.

      Walked through, just like that. The strain had made her dizzy, but she was almost disappointed too. No one had given her the chance to say the words she’d practised over and over in her head. Stanislaus wouldn’t know how clever she could be.

      ‘We made it,’ he said.

      They were in Belgium.

      The relief brought with it exhaustion. Her legs ached, her back hurt, another blister had formed on her heel. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to go home, to open the door, Hello, Mum, it’s me. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk another yard, and she had no idea where they were.

      ‘Are we far from the sea?’ she said.

      ‘Sea?’ He laughed. ‘We’re a long way from the sea.’

      ‘Where do we go?’

      ‘Namur.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘No more,’ he said, winking. ‘Get it?’

      ‘Where is it? Is it on the way?’

      The family that had been behind them in the queue jostled forward, scratching her legs with the buckle of a suitcase, pushing her closer to Stanislaus. She leant towards him.

      ‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘To England. Can’t we go back now?’

      ‘Maybe.’ His voice was distant. ‘Maybe. But first Namur.’

      ‘Why? I want to go home.’ She wanted to say, this minute. Stamp her feet, like a child.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘Namur.’

      ‘Why Namur?’

      ‘Business, Ada,’ he said. She couldn’t imagine what business could be taking them there.

      ‘Promise me.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘After. We go home.’

      He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. ‘I promise.’

      They hitched a lift to Mons and caught a crowded train to Namur that stopped at every station and red light. It was evening by the time they arrived. The baguette was all Ada had eaten since they’d left Paris eighteen hours ago and she felt faint and weak. Stanislaus took her by the elbow, guided her away from the station, down the side streets. She had no idea where they were going, or whether Stanislaus knew the way but they stopped by a small café above which was a painted sign, ‘Pension’.

      ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll organize it.’

      She sat at a table and chair outside. This side of the street was in the shade but she was too tired to walk to the other side, where the last of the May sun was shining. Stanislaus came out.

      ‘Everything,’ he said, ‘is organized. Madame will give us a simple meal, and while we’re eating her daughter will arrange the room.’ As he spoke, Madame appeared with two glasses of beer which she placed in front of them.

      Stanislaus picked up his glass. ‘To you, Ada Vaughan. Namur.’

      She touched her handbag with the teddy bear, and held the glass so it chinked with his and smiled at him. Lucky.

      Paté and bread, sausage. The beer was cloudy and sweet, and she drank two long glasses. It made her light-headed, and she was glad for it. She hadn’t been tipsy since before the war. The early days with Stanislaus seemed like another age now, at the Café Royal, a Martini or two, with a cherry on a stick. Content and flushed with love, they’d sashayed down Piccadilly to the number 12, where he’d kiss her under the lamp-post, tender lips to hers. She’d suck peppermints on the way home so her breath didn’t smell. It was like that just now. Stanislaus’s mood had evaporated, his worries – their worries – over. Namur. No more. No more temper or brooding silences. He was in good heart again, but he swung so quickly from light to dark. It worried her. His moods made her change too. When he was sunny so was she, nimble toes and bubbling breath. But when his mood turned cold it choked her like a fog.

      They went upstairs after dinner. She was unsteady on her feet, could smell herself tart and musty from the day, her hair sticky with dust and sweat. Madame had left a jug of water and a wash bowl on the table and had laid out a towel and a flannel.

      ‘I must,’ her words slurred, ‘wash.’

      Stanislaus nodded and walked to the window, looked out over the street with his back to her. Ada wet the flannel and rubbed. She heard her mother in her head, saw herself as a child