A Feather on the Water(56)

Charlie nodded. “I don’t talk about it much. Only to Father Josef—I think he talks to me because I saw Dachau, but I wasn’t a prisoner.” The desk creaked as he shifted his weight. “I can’t imagine how awful it must be for you, wondering if your parents wound up in a hellhole like that.”

“He told me there were Jews at Dachau, but they were kept in a separate section, so he never got to see them. I know there were people from Vienna in the camp, so my parents could have been sent there.” She felt her throat constricting with emotion. Talking about them was like swallowing broken glass.

“There were Jewish survivors—men and women.” Charlie was looking at the floor. Kitty could only guess what images had come into his mind’s eye. “They were taken to other camps. I don’t know where they would be now.” He glanced up. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You have helped, just by letting me talk. I didn’t mean to rattle on—it’s just that I’ve been keeping it in for so long . . .”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. It helps me, too. The guys at the base, you know, they don’t like it if you go on about things you’ve seen. They say: ‘We all had a lousy war—what makes you so special?’”

Kitty gave him a rueful smile. How strange, she thought, that those men sounded just like Fred.



The next morning, Martha was on the phone to Munich for more than half an hour. She was eventually put through to a lawyer who acted on behalf of UNRRA—and who, thankfully, spoke good English. After listening to Martha’s description of what had happened to Jadzia, the lawyer told her there was a statement she could enter on the incident report that would result in the military taking no further action: she was to say that Jadzia had ended her baby’s life due to temporary derangement caused by the agony of giving birth.

After she’d put the phone down, Martha stared at what she’d jotted down—just a handful of words that would, hopefully, change the course of Jadzia’s life. The lawyer had promised she would not be arrested or imprisoned. Once she had recovered physically, she could make a fresh start. Quite how that could be achieved was another matter. Perhaps, like the mothers of the babies fathered by Nazi officers, the best thing would be for Jadzia to be transferred to another camp where no one knew what had happened in the past. It remained to be seen whether she would be mentally strong enough to cope with such a move. Meanwhile, Martha thought, all they could do was keep a close eye on her.

When she left the office, Martha went to look for Stefan. She found him in the woods behind the chapel. He was carving something from a tree branch. A spade was stuck into the ground a few yards from where he was sitting.

“It’s a cross,” he said when she asked him what he was doing. He tilted his head toward the spade. She saw the pile of earth and pine needles beside it. “And then I will make . . . a box—how do you call it in English?”

“A coffin.” She stared at the place where the grave would be. The image of the baby, so pale and still on the hospital table, was etched inside her head. It would remain there always, paired with the memory of that other tiny body, Cecile—the baby girl she had named after her grandmother—who had come into the world too soon.

“Coffin,” Stefan repeated. He gave a broken sort of sigh.

“Stefan?” Martha caught her own pain reflected in his eyes, as if, somehow, he’d read her mind and understood her sorrow.

“It’s a terrible thing, no? To make this for a baby?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “The most terrible thing.”

“Don’t cry.”

She rubbed her hand across her face, ashamed of the tears that had escaped and given her away.

“Come, sit here.” He put his arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the woodpile in the trees.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I . . . it’s just . . .”

“A baby died—that is a sad thing.” She felt the warmth of him as he held her close.

“Yesterday, when we saw her, lying there on the riverbank . . . it brought back memories for me.” Martha had never talked about it to anyone. Not even Arnie. For him, the death of their child had been a taboo subject. “I had a baby,” she whispered. “A little girl. But she died.”

“You have this.” He took a piece of cloth from his pocket—white cotton with ragged edges. It felt soft against her skin. When she looked up, she saw that he was crying, too. Instinctively she hugged him to her, cradling his head against her shoulder, stroking his hair. For a moment they clung to each other. It was as if they were frozen in time. He murmured something she couldn’t make out.

“What is it?” She cupped his face in her hands.

“I feel the same way—like you.” His voice was husky with grief. “I have a little girl. I think she is dead.” He gazed at the trees above her head as he told her about his daughter, Lubya, who had been three years old when he was arrested by the Nazis and transported to Germany.

“And your wife . . . ?” The word felt uncomfortable, like gristle in a piece of meat.

“I wrote letters when I worked at the airplane factory,” he said, “but nothing came from Poland.” He closed his eyes. “I made a mark on the wall for every day that passed. It grew—like a child grows. Sometimes when I looked, it broke my heart.”