The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

France would be none the wiser. She knew it was wrong, but what else could she do? She’d get her likeness taken tomorrow, in her lunch hour. There was a photographer’s shop in Haymarket. It would be ready at the weekend. She’d go to the public library on Saturday, fill in the form, take it in person on Monday. It would be ready in a few weeks.

      ‘Then it has to be the Lutetia,’ Stanislaus said. ‘There is simply no other hotel. Saint-Germain-des-Prés.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Have you ever been on a boat?’

      ‘Only on the river.’ She’d been on the Woolwich ferry.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘August is a good month to sail. No storms.’

      *

      Ada had it worked out. She’d have to tell her parents, but she’d do it after she’d gone. Send them a postcard from Paris so they wouldn’t call the police and declare her a Missing Person. She’d have hell to pay when she got back, but by then Stanislaus and she would be engaged in all likelihood. She’d tell Mrs B. she was going to Paris on a holiday and would she like her to bring back some fabric samples, some tissus? She’d say it in French. Mrs B. would be grateful, would tell her where to go. That’s kind of you, Mademoiselle, giving up your holiday. It would give her something to do in Paris, and she could pick up ideas. In the meantime, she’d bring the clothes she planned to take to Paris with her to work, one at a time. She sometimes brought sandwiches for lunch in a small tote bag. It was summer, and the dresses and skirts were light fabrics, rayon or lawn. She knew how to fold them so they wouldn’t crease or take up space. She would hide everything in her cupboard at work, the one where she hung her coat in winter and kept a change of shoes. Nobody looked in there. She would need a suitcase. There were plenty in Mrs B.’s boxroom which was never locked. She’d borrow one. She had the keys to the shop. Come in early on the day, pack quickly. Catch the bus to Charing Cross, in good time to meet Stanislaus by the clock.

      ‘Paris?’ Mrs B. had said, her voice rising like a klaxon. ‘Do your parents know?’

      ‘Of course,’ Ada had said. She had shrugged her shoulders and opened her hands. Of course.

      ‘But there’s going to be a war.’

      ‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ Ada said, though she’d heard the eerie moans of practice sirens along with everyone else, and watched the air-raid shelter being built in Kennington Park. ‘We don’t want war. Hitler doesn’t want war. The Russians don’t want war.’ That’s what Stanislaus said. He should know, shouldn’t he? Besides, what other chance would she have to get to Paris? Her father had a different view about the war but Ada didn’t care what he thought. He was even considering signing up for the ARP for defence. Defence, he repeated, just so Ada wouldn’t think he supported the imperialists’ war. He even listened now as her mother read aloud the latest leaflet. It is important to know how to put on your mask quickly and properly …

      ‘But they’re going to evacuate London,’ Mrs B. said. ‘The little kiddies. In a few days. It was on the wireless.’

      Three of her younger brothers and sisters were going, all the way to Cornwall. Mum had done nothing but cry for days, and Dad had stalked the house with his head in his hands. Pah! Ada thought. This will blow over. Everyone was so pessimistic. Miserable. They’d be back soon enough. Why should she let this spoil her chances? Paris. Mum would come round. She’d buy her something nice. Perfume. Proper perfume, in a bottle.

      ‘I’ll be back,’ Ada said. ‘Bright and early Tuesday morning.’ Engaged. She had been dreaming about the proposal. Stanislaus on one knee. Miss Vaughan, would you do me the honour of … ‘We’re only going for five days.’

      ‘I hope you’re right,’ Mrs B. said. ‘Though if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. War’s coming any day now.’ She waved her hands at the large plate-glass windows of her shop, crisscrossed with tape to protect them if the glass shattered, and at the black-out blinds above.

      ‘And your fancy man,’ she added. ‘Which side will he be on?’

      Ada hadn’t given that a thought. She’d assumed he was on their side. He lived here, after all. But if he spoke German, perhaps he’d fight with Germany, would leave her here and go back home. She’d follow him, of course. If they were to be married, she’d be loyal to him, stay by his side, no matter what.

      ‘Only in the last war,’ Mrs B. went on, ‘they locked the Germans up, the ones who were here.’

      ‘He’s not actually German,’ Ada said. ‘Just speaks it.’

      ‘And why’s he over here?’

      Ada shrugged. ‘He likes it.’ She had never asked him. No more than she had asked what he did for a living. There was no need. He was a count. But if they locked him up, that wouldn’t be so bad. She could visit and he wouldn’t have to fight. He wouldn’t die and the war wouldn’t last forever.

      ‘Perhaps he’s a spy,’ Mrs B. said, ‘and you’re his cover.’

      ‘If that’s the case,’ Ada said, hoping her voice didn’t wobble, ‘all the more reason to enjoy myself.’

      ‘Well,’ Mrs B. said, ‘if you know what you’re doing …’ She paused and gave a twisted smile. ‘As a matter of fact, there are one or two places you might care to visit in Paris.’ She pulled out a piece of paper from the drawer in her desk and began to write.

      Ada took the piece of paper, Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès.

      ‘I haven’t been to Paris for so long,’ she said. There was a wistfulness in her voice which Ada hadn’t heard before. ‘These places are mostly in Montmartre, on the Right bank.’ Stanislaus had talked about the Seine. ‘So be careful.’

      Their hotel was on the Left bank, where the artists lived.

      *

      Charing Cross station was a heaving tangle of nervy women and grizzling children, cross old people, worried men checking their watches, bewildered young boys in uniforms. Territorial Army, Ada guessed, or reservists. Sailors and soldiers. The occasional ARP volunteer elbowed his way through the crowd, Keep to the left. People took them seriously now, Air Raid Precaution, as if they really did have a job to do. A train to Kent was announced and the shambles surged forward, a giant slug of humanity. Ada stood her ground, shoved back against the crowd, banged her suitcase against other people’s shins. Watch out, Miss. The frenzy of the scene matched her mood. What if he wasn’t there? What if she missed him? She realized that she had no way of contacting him. He didn’t have a telephone. He lived in Bayswater, but she didn’t know his address. A woman pushed past her with two children, a boy in grey short trousers and a white shirt, a girl in a yellow, smocked dress. In fact, Ada thought, she knew very little about Stanislaus. She didn’t even know how old he was. He was an only child, he’d told her. Both his parents were dead, as was his much-married aunt. She had no idea why he had come to England. Maybe he was a spy.

      This was daft. She shouldn’t go. She hardly knew him. Her mother had warned her. White slave trade. Stick a pin in you so you fainted and woke up in a harem. And all these people. Soldiers. ARP. There really was going to be a war. Stanislaus was wrong. Maybe he was a spy. The enemy. She shouldn’t go.

      She spotted him. He was leaning against a pillar in a navy blue blazer and white slacks, a leather grip at his feet. She took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her. She could turn round, go home. There was time.

      But then he saw her, grinned, pushed himself forward, lifted his bag and swung it over his shoulder. A spy. A sharp prickle of heat crept up Ada’s neck. She watched as he wove his way towards her. It would be fine. Everything would be all right. He was a handsome man, despite his glasses. An honest man, anyone could see that. A man of means too. Nothing to worry about. Silly of her. His face was creased in a broad smile. He walked faster, pleased to see her. This, Paris, was happening to her, Ada Vaughan, of Theed Street, Lambeth, just by the Peabody buildings.

      *

      The Gare