The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

if she was tumbling deep into a canyon and couldn’t stop herself.

      She was aware of Stanislaus catching her as she fell, laying her on the bed and fumbling with the buttons on his flies. Her head was spinning, her eyes heavy. She just wanted to sleep. She felt him open her legs, enter her with an impatient thrust, sharp rips of pain that made her cry out. He lifted himself off her and lay by her side. Her legs were wet. He’d kept his shirt on, she could see, even through the blur of beer.

      It was dark when she woke. Then she heard it. The distant blast of an explosion, the boom of heavy guns. The curtains had been left open and through the window the night sky streaked white and vermilion.

      ‘Stanislaus.’ She groped for him next to her. The bed was empty, the sheets cold and smooth. She sat up, awake, panic gripping her body, short of breath.

      ‘Stanislaus.’ His name echoed round the empty room. Something was wrong, she knew. She fumbled for her clothes, pulled them on, please God let him come back. There were steps outside. It must be him. Just went out for a cigarette. She opened the door but it was Madame who was walking up the stairs, her way lit by a small oil lamp.

      ‘Mademoiselle,’ she was panting from the climb. ‘The Germans are here. You must come, to the basement.’

      ‘My husband,’ Ada said. ‘Where is my husband?’

      ‘Follow me,’ Madame said, lighting the way for them both. She held up the long skirt of her nightdress with her free hand.

      ‘But my husband.’ Dread clamoured, a shrill, persistent klaxon. ‘My husband. He’s not here.’

      They had entered the café now. The room was dark. Ada could make out the tables and chairs, the glisten of bottles behind the bar. Madame opened a trap door and began to lower herself down.

      ‘Come,’ she said.

      Ada looked for Stanislaus in the gloom, listened for his breathing, smelled the air for his scent, but her nostrils filled with the tang of stale beer and burnt sugar.

      ‘Mademoiselle. Now. You must come now. We are in danger.’ A hand tugged at her ankle. Stanislaus wasn’t in the room. He was out there, in the night, by himself, in danger. A boom thundered in the distance. The hand tugged again at her foot so Ada lost her balance and had to steady herself on a chair.

      ‘I’m coming,’ she said.

      She looked for the glow of his cigarette in the cellar, his shadow in the vaults. You took your time, Ada. Madame closed the trap door, and switched on a single bulb which shed a dim light through the darkness. The cellar was full of barrels stacked five high, and a pair of porters’ trolleys. The earth floor smelled of mushrooms. Madame had brought down a sheet of linoleum and two hard-backed chairs. There was a hamper next to one, with bread and cheese. She had prepared for this day, knew that war was coming. Ada should have known too.

      ‘My husband,’ Ada began to whimper. ‘He’s not here.’

      ‘Your husband?’

      ‘Yes. Where is he?’

      ‘Your husband?’

      ‘Yes. Mon mari.’ Ada wondered if Madame was deaf, or simple. ‘The man who was with me last night. Moustache, glasses. My husband.’

      ‘Yes, yes,’ the woman said. ‘I know who he is. He left yesterday evening.’

      Ada limped to the chair and sat down, blood thundering through her head. ‘He left?’ Her voice was frail.

      ‘Oui,’ Madame said. ‘He went to meet his wife. They were going to Ostend, for the ferry, to England. I said I thought he’d be lucky, the transport’s not what it was. Can’t get the fuel, see? But he insisted.’

      ‘No,’ Ada said. ‘There’s some mistake.’

      ‘No,’ the woman sounded almost cheery. ‘He was adamant. Said he had to get back to England.’

      Stanislaus had left? To meet his wife? England, where he’d face jail? It made no sense.

      ‘But what about me?’ Ada said.

      ‘He said you had other plans. You would know what to do.’

      The strength left her body, flesh slumped and numb. This had to be some other person Madame was talking about. In the morning, when it was light, she’d go and look for him. He was out there, lost. Perhaps he was hurt. She’d find him. The German guns were still far away, although they sounded near enough.

      *

      The road ran above the cellar. She could hear cars rolling by, footsteps clipping the cobbles, the squeak of a barrow and the brisk bell of a bicycle. There was a wooden trap door to the street through which the delivery men lowered the barrels. Ada could see daylight through the joins.

      ‘You must not go out,’ Madame said. ‘The last war … the Germans. Such horrors.’ She held her down, gnarled hand on Ada’s arm, corrugated fingers round her wrist.

      Ada shook her off. ‘He may be waiting,’ she said. ‘Outside. We have to let him in.’

      ‘He has gone.’ Madame was shaking her head. She doesn’t know Stanislaus, Ada thought. Or she misunderstood him. He spoke terrible French.

      She could hear voices, muffled, urgent speech which she couldn’t quite catch. The town was awake and alive and Stanislaus was part of it.

      She freed herself from Madame’s hold, grabbed her handbag, climbed the stepladder and pushed open the trap from the cellar into the café. The morning light flooded in, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight. Ada glanced back at Madame standing by the chair, holding a cloth napkin across her lap.

      ‘Vous êtes folle!’ Madame said, shaking her head.

      Ada pulled the bolts on the street door and slipped outside. The light was fresh and the sun glowed low and warm. On this side of the house the street was silent and empty, as if an army of ghouls had passed through and cleared the souls away. There was a smell in the air, a sweet balsam from a tree which overhung the road with newborn foliage. She thought of Stanislaus, so long ago, the smell of trees making love. Her blister still hurt, and she plucked some leaves and shoved them into the heel of her shoe, clip-clopped round the corner with a limp.

      The buildings were tall, redbrick walls with roofs that soared and curled. Ada turned and walked down another street. Empty. There was no sign of the Germans anywhere. A man on a bicycle was coming towards her and for a moment Ada was sure it was Stanislaus. He cycled by, a fair-haired man with a leer, turning round as he passed to stare. Ada clutched at her collar. She had buttoned it askew in her rush last night, the top gaped open, her slip showed. Dressed in a hurry. Woman of the night. She waited until the man had passed, re-organized her dress, began to run in case he returned, her blister rubbing raw as her shoe jolted on the cobblestones.

      The street opened into a large square filled with hundreds of people. Ada stopped, drew her hands to her face, covered her nose. The smell of fear she first learned in Paris filled this square too, its dread tasted sour on her tongue, its keening echoed round her ears. Faces cast with determination, eyes fixed ahead, elbows out, dragging suitcases and children. They shouted and cried, pushed bicycles or prams laden with possessions. There was an old lady in a wheelbarrow, her hair straight and white, her face gaunt and drawn, tears draining down her hollow cheeks, bony knuckles clutching the sides as her son struggled to keep the barrow steady. Cars honked in irritation as they tried to push through the crowds. A dray horse breathed in the terror, straining on the creaking shafts of the cart. Tempers were short all round. She’d seen it before, in London, in Paris. Only now it was real. The Germans were coming. Belgium should have been safe.

      She’d never find Stanislaus in this crowd. Perhaps he did get away or perhaps he had been caught, shot, his body already festering behind enemy lines. She shut her eyes and tried to rid herself of the thought, tried to make sense of everything, of him. How could he have a wife? They had spent every day together since they left London. He always came home, however late it was.