A Feather on the Water(47)

“I’m worried I’ll get the words wrong,” she said. It was true—there were a lot of responses she would have to make, in Polish. It was a big responsibility. But there was another reason why Martha felt uncomfortable. She hadn’t been in a church since she was a teenager. Grandma Cecile had gone every Sunday, but that had been as much about business as spirituality. Her grandmother had earned a living making cassocks and surplices for choristers, and it was her close connection with the church that had secured a place for Martha at the best school in the neighborhood. As soon as that was accomplished, Grandma Cecile stopped making a fuss if Martha said she didn’t want to go to Mass.

“I can help you.” Stefan opened the door for her to get into the car. “We can practice what you have to say.”

They were going to the army base to pick up medical supplies for the hospital. Martha had planned to drive there alone, but when she read through the list Delphine had given her, she realized she was going to need help.

It was fun, rehearsing with Stefan. She hadn’t brought the written responses with her—Stefan seemed to know them by heart. When she asked him how he knew all the words, he told her that, before the war, he’d stood as godfather to his niece and nephew.

Martha longed to ask him about where these children and their parents were now. Had they survived the war? Had he been searching for them in the Red Cross lists? But she and Stefan had established an unspoken pact. Martha never asked him about his family and he never asked about her life before the camp. He’d never commented on the fact that she was Mrs. Radford—nor had he questioned why she was living half a world away from her home. If he ever wondered if she was a wife or a widow, he didn’t let on.

“There’s going to be a party after the church service.” She slowed down as she drove over a bridge with chunks missing from its walls.

“Yes, I know.” He grunted. “Have you been to a Polish wedding?”

She shook her head.

“You like to dance?”

“Well . . . yes. I suppose so.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced.

“You like vodka?” There was a smile in Stefan’s voice. “At a Polish wedding, there is plenty of dancing—and plenty of vodka.”

Martha didn’t want to ask where the vodka was likely to be coming from. She’d heard rumors that new stills had been made to replace the ones the army had confiscated. So far, she hadn’t done anything about it—given the circumstances, the DPs deserved whatever enjoyment they could get—but she worried about the consequences if they overdid the hooch. She didn’t want the GIs on guard duty going back to base with tales of wild behavior at the camp. No doubt Major McMahon would respond with a very heavy hand.

“Will you come to the party?” She tried to make it sound casual. But the truth was that she wanted him to come. She couldn’t shake the memory of the way he’d looked at her in the old house in the forest. Replaying it had become addictive. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about him that way. But telling herself that didn’t seem to help.

He shrugged. “If they ask me. They will want people they know, people who came on the train with them.”

“You could come as my guest,” she said. “To translate for me,” she added, in case that sounded too forward.

When he didn’t reply, she glanced across at him. He was looking out the passenger window, at the trees whizzing by. She caught his face momentarily reflected in the glass. If she’d asked him to go and empty one of the cesspits, he couldn’t have looked more unhappy. Had she stirred up painful memories? She shouldn’t have pressed him like that. She wished she could think of some way of apologizing—but she sensed that anything she said would only make things worse.

Martha brought the car to a stop outside the gates of the army base. Stefan nodded to the soldier who emerged from the guardhouse. His mask was back on now—a poker face, revealing nothing. He hadn’t said if he would come to the wedding. Whatever memories the invitation had triggered had been locked away. She wondered if, like Kitty and Delphine, there would be a breaking point: a time when whatever he was holding inside would have to come out.



Kitty locked the office door when the last of the morning’s passes had been issued and made her way to the guardhouse. She wanted to get into the weaving shed to find some fabric suitable for making a wedding dress.

Sergeant Lewis was on duty at the guardhouse. His smile at the sight of her lit up his face. When she explained what she’d come for, and the reason why, he said it was a shame he’d be stuck in the guardhouse on the day of the wedding. “Take a picture,” he said. “I’d like to see what you’re planning to make.”

“I would—if I had a camera,” she replied.

“I’ve got one. You can borrow it if you like.” He said he’d drop it off at the office next time he was on duty.

As she took the keys from him, their fingers touched. It was only for a fraction of a second, but she felt the warmth of his skin. Walking away, she couldn’t help thinking of Fred, whose hands had been cold and clammy. The first time he had touched her, she had flinched at the feel of them. She’d struggled to overcome the disagreeable sensation, telling herself that all men’s hands must be like that when they got excited about touching a girl.