A Feather on the Water(51)

“No, I don’t mind.” She smiled as she took it from him. If he hadn’t been there, she would have poured some of the water on her head.

“It’s hot out here,” he said. “We can sit under the trees if you want.”

She followed him to a log pile at the edge of the forest boundary. Beneath the canopy of branches, it felt much cooler. “Sorry,” she said, looking at the half-empty jug. “You haven’t had any.” She wiped the rim with the sleeve of her dress.

“You are funny.” He grinned as he took it from her.

“Why?”

“You wiped the jug. Like you have a bad disease.”

She huffed out a chuckle. “I hope not!”

He set the empty jug down on the ground. “Why did you come here?” he asked. “Why did you want to leave a nice place like America?”

She saw that he was looking at her hand, at the ring glinting in the dappled light that penetrated the trees. She thought that perhaps the vodka had melted his reserve. He’d never asked her why she wore it, but he must have wondered. What would he say if she told him she’d walked out on her husband? She didn’t like the idea of him knowing that about her. And the realization that she cared so much what he thought sent a frisson of something through her, like a nettle sting or a mild electric shock.

“Why do you ask?” It was all she could say—a delaying tactic to give her time to think.

“If I lived in America, I would never leave.” He kicked at a loose chunk of bark on a log that had fallen from the pile.

“I came here because I wanted to do something to help. There was a report in the newspaper; it said they needed people to work in the camps. There was nothing to stop me from coming, so . . .” She ended the sentence with a shrug. Nothing to stop me. It wasn’t really a lie—just not the whole truth.

“Not easy for you, to come to a place like this.” His eyes searched her face. She wondered if he could see the thin scar on her cheek beneath the dusting of powder. “You are a good person.”

His words shamed her. She couldn’t look at him. It felt as though the trees were closing in on them, wrapping them in a cocoon of branches. She could smell his skin, warm and earthy, overlaid with the scent of the forest. All she could think of was how it would feel to lay her head on his shoulder and trace the hollow of his neck with her lips.

Are you insane? Grandma Cecile was hissing in her ear. But Martha didn’t want to listen. All she wanted was to lose herself—to forget, just for a moment, that she was the boss of this place, that Stefan was one of her charges, and that she was still married to somebody else.

“Mrs. Radford!”

Someone was shouting her name—someone real. She leapt off the log pile. Sergeant Lewis was running down the path toward them.

“Mrs. Radford.” He paused, catching his breath. “They’ve found something in the river. Can you come?”



The two fishermen on the riverbank were among the men who had gone on strike when the army left the camp, depriving them of the extra cigarette ration. Now they stood awkwardly, hands thrust in their pockets, next to a small bundle wrapped in a scrap of blue checked cloth.

“I told them to leave her there until you came, but he’s wrapped her in his neckerchief.” Sergeant Lewis glanced at the taller of the two men. “He found her in the weeds by the mill wheel. The other one came running to tell me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I followed him down here and saw her—just lying there on the grass.” Sergeant Lewis shook his head. “I think she must have been there for a while.”

Martha didn’t trust herself to speak. The cloth covered everything, giving no clue to what lay beneath the folds of fabric. It could have been a hunk of cheese wrapped up against the melting rays of the sun, or a trout destined for the dinner table. But it was a baby. A little girl. And she was dead.

Stefan knelt down on the grass. He looked at her as she crouched on the other side of the tiny shrouded body. She nodded, relieved that he had the guts to do what she could not. Very gently, he peeled back the cloth, revealing a face so white and perfect it looked like a china doll. As more of the fabric came away, she saw faint purple marks on the baby’s neck.

Stefan turned to the two men and said something in Polish. They shrugged and shook their heads.

“They say they did not make these marks,” Stefan said. “The baby had them when they found her.”

Martha’s stomach turned to ice. She pictured a woman giving birth in the woods, alone and desperate—so desperate that she had taken her baby’s life when it had barely drawn breath.

“We’ll take her to the hospital.” Martha struggled to keep her voice level as she addressed the sergeant. “She’ll be properly examined there. I’ll notify the major.”

Stefan carried the baby through the camp. Neither of them said anything as they walked. It felt like a funeral procession. When they reached the hospital, they found Delphine sitting with Wolf at the entrance to the maternity ward. He had Rodek in his arms, singing a lullaby to the little boy in Polish. It was a heartbreaking sight. Martha could barely speak, she was so choked up. Delphine quickly took command of the situation, ushering Martha and Stefan into a side room.

“She couldn’t have been more than a few hours old when she went into the water,” Delphine said, as she examined the tiny body. “The cord had only just been cut.”