The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain

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