A Feather on the Water(23)

He smiled when she asked him if he’d had any news from home lately. “You have a good memory, ma’am.”

“Not that good,” she replied. “I’m afraid I can’t remember your name.”

“Corporal John Brody, ma’am.”

“Well, Corporal, I’d like to see inside the warehouse.”

The door was secured with the biggest padlock Martha had ever seen. Corporal Brody led her through a maze of stacked boxes.

“Everything on this side comes from the States,” he said. “You got sugar in this pile; coffee’s over there; salt, pepper, oil, and vinegar over by the wall.” He waved his hand to the left, where wooden racks were piled with potatoes, cabbages, and onions. “The stuff on that side comes from the farms around here. We got meat in the cold storage through that door. Fresh milk, too, though we’ve got plenty of cans of it if we run out.”

Martha was jotting it all down in a notebook. “What’s the meat allowance for the DPs?”

“Twelve ounces per adult per week. Six ounces for children under fourteen years old.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound too bad.” She added the figure to her notes. “But I’ve heard there’s an illicit trade in meat in the camp, with DPs stealing livestock from the farms.”

He nodded. “Problem is what we get is often substandard. The Germans hate that we make them give to the DPs, so they give us the lousy stuff—more bone than meat, sometimes.”

Martha recorded this comment and marked it with an asterisk. Something else that would need tackling, she thought. “What’s in these boxes?” She walked over to a stack near the door. “Oh—I can see—it says soap powder.”

“Cigarettes, actually,” the corporal replied. “We put them in those boxes to keep them from walking out of here.”

“But the place is padlocked . . .”

“Not all the time: when we get a big delivery, it’s all hands on deck—everyone but the patients in the hospital comes to help unload. You have to have eyes in the back of your head.”

Martha clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Okay, I think I’ve seen enough. Thank you, Corporal.”

When she came outside, she saw Stefan Dombrowski waiting for her. He was leaning against a car whose bodywork gleamed in the sunshine. As she drew closer, she saw that there were holes in the rear door, and tape across the window above it.

“Dzień dobry.” She hoped she’d pronounced the words properly. Kitty had written out a list of basic Polish phrases, with a phonetic version beside each one. Martha had been practicing them during her walk around the camp.

“Good morning.” Dombrowski smiled. “I have a car for you.” He held out keys on a leather fob.

“For me?” Martha’s eyes widened. “Where’d you get it?”

“It was left here by the Germans,” he replied. “Bullet holes here, see? From when they tried to get away. But I will fix that. Opel Kapit?n—good car.”

“It runs okay?”

He nodded. “Some damage to the electrics. But I can get new parts.”

“How?”

“In the forest are tanks, also left by the Germans. I will find what I need.” He opened the door. “You want to drive?”

“I . . .” Martha hesitated. It had been a long while since she’d driven a car. Arnie had sold the Model T Ford he’d owned when they met to raise the money for the deposit on their apartment in Brooklyn. Would she even remember what to do?

“I will start the engine for you,” Dombrowski said. “You can drive around the camp. Then we will go on the road. Yes?”

She smiled as he climbed into the car, realizing that he would probably have been more than happy to drive it himself. But he had figured out how important it was going to be for her to get around the local area, and he wasn’t going to let her chicken out. When the engine chugged to life, he jumped out and stood aside for her to get behind the wheel. She could feel the warmth where his hands had been. It triggered an odd sensation, almost like a memory: something from long ago and far away, when she had still been in love with Arnie.



After breakfast, Delphine went to blockhouse number nineteen, where Wolf lived. Martha had told her what she’d seen when she’d visited the place. The younger orphaned children had been absorbed into family groups, with one or two adults caring for up to six boys and girls. But the older ones had formed a family of their own. Ranging in age from eleven to fourteen, they occupied their own section of the blockhouse and, from what Martha had found out, pretty much took care of themselves.

Delphine could see curls of smoke drifting across the roof of number nineteen. She wondered if the older children had to heat their own water for washing and bathing on the potbellied stove Martha had described. Wolf was a very capable boy—watching what he did in the hospital had filled her with admiration—but he was still a child. It pained her to think of him and the others having no one to provide the most basic home comforts.

The door to the place was open. Two girls, about the same age as Wolf, were sitting on the step, one braiding the other’s hair.

“Dzień dobry.” Delphine couldn’t remember any of the other phrases Kitty had given her. “Wolf?” She pointed through the doorway.