A Feather on the Water(46)

There was an edge to Kitty’s voice; she sounded almost angry. She plonked down on the chair and grabbed a sheet of paper from one of the piles on the desk.

“Why don’t you take a break,” Martha said. “You’ve had one hell of a morning. This stuff can wait.”

“And do what?” Kitty huffed out a breath. “Go for a walk around the camp? Paddle my feet in the river? Pick wildflowers? Don’t you see? I’m the same as Delphine—I don’t want time to think! I just . . .” She broke off, burying her face in her hands. “God, I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “That was so rude of me. Unforgivable.”

Martha pulled the other chair around the desk and sat down beside her. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You’ve worked so hard and handled an impossible situation so bravely. I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep a lid on your feelings all this time. Every day, you’re dealing with people who are desperate for news of their families—that must be torture.”

“I thought I could do it.” Kitty nodded. “It was that kid this morning. It made me feel so ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Of what?”

“Of not doing enough. I’ve felt that for years. Ever since the war started. If I’d tried harder, learned English quicker, I could’ve got my parents to Britain. I used to dream about writing to the prime minister. I’d fall asleep composing letters in my head.”

“You were so young,” Martha murmured. “It must have been terrifying, arriving in a foreign country, not knowing anyone, not speaking the language.”

“I was scared at the beginning,” Kitty replied. “By the end I felt angry—and guilty. I knew how lucky I was to have survived when so many people hadn’t, but the thought of what had probably happened to my parents . . .” She clenched her hands into fists. “I had a boyfriend in Manchester. He asked me to marry him. I told him I couldn’t do that until I’d found out about my mother and father. He thought I was a fool, to carry on hoping. He said I should just accept the fact that I was an orphan.”

“I guess he had his reasons,” Martha said. “But that’s a pretty cruel thing to say to someone you love.”

“That’s how he was,” Kitty said. “If I ever mentioned how hard it was, growing up in England without my family, he’d say something like ‘Everyone had a lousy childhood.’”

“It sounds to me as if he didn’t want to understand you.” Martha felt as if she were talking to her younger self. Kitty’s description of her boyfriend reminded her of Arnie. “Will you go back to him?”

“He didn’t come to the station to see me off. I think he’ll find someone else.”

Martha thought she’d probably had a lucky escape. But Kitty didn’t need to hear that—she already had more than enough heartache to deal with.

“Who’s that?” Someone was tapping at the window. Kitty got up. “It’s Mrs. Grabowska from the sewing school.”

Martha went to open the door. Mrs. Grabowska came in, beaming. Kitty chattered away with her for a few minutes, then, with a little bow to Martha, the woman left.

Kitty was smiling. “She wanted to know where she could get fabric to make a wedding dress. The couple whose baby was born in the back of your car are getting married.”

“Oh, how lovely!”

“It’s going to be next Saturday—the mother should be out of hospital by then. Father Josef’s going to baptize the baby at the same time. And you’ll never guess what . . .”

“What?” Martha shook her head.

“They want you and Delphine to be godparents.”





CHAPTER 13


That evening, Martha went to the hospital. Aleksandra was lying down, her face as white as the pillow. In a cot beside the bed, her baby, wide awake but making no sound, was opening and closing his little mouth. Martha leaned in to look at him, watching a bubble form between his lips. He was so perfect. It seemed incredible that this tiny new person had started life on the back seat of her car.

Aleksandra opened her eyes, smiling when she caught sight of Martha. She murmured something in Polish.

“May I pick him up?” Martha mimed cradling with her arms.

The girl nodded.

Martha’s hands trembled as she went to lift him out of the cot. He was so light in her arms, his skin so delicate and transparent that she could see the blue veins at his temples. She’d held babies before when she’d visited families on the Lower East Side. But he was so much smaller—probably because his mother hadn’t had enough to eat when she was carrying him.

She turned away, not wanting Aleksandra to see the tears prickling her eyes. His pale fragility brought back agonizing memories—images she’d shut away in a dark, silent corner of her mind. She swallowed hard. She could see through her tears that his eyes were fixed on her face. There was a curious depth to those eyes, as if he knew what she was thinking. His mouth turned up at the edges. Was that a smile? Surely he was too young for that. And yet . . . Martha felt a surge of something she couldn’t name as she gazed down at him. And when she laid him back in his cot and walked away, she felt different. Lighter.



Martha was nervous about the christening.

“Why?” Stefan said when she told him.