A Feather on the Water(76)

The same thing was happening across the camp. Once the doors were freed up, the leaders of each blockhouse organized teams to clear the paths. Within a couple of hours, the hospital and the kitchens were accessible. By lunchtime it was possible to get from one building to another with relative ease.

Kitty went to find Charlie, who had been on duty at the warehouse during the night. She took him a pan of soup swathed in cloths to keep it warm.

“Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes!” He grinned as she came through the door.

“Me? Or the soup?” She arched one eyebrow as she laid the pan on the desk-cum-table in the corner of the cell-like room where he’d spent the night. “Does this snow mean I’m going to have to put up with you being here all the time?” she teased him.

“I guess so.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be going back to base anytime soon.”

“What on earth will you do, cooped up here, all on your own?” She sidled up to him and nuzzled his cheek. He slid his arms around her waist. There was no need to worry about being seen; the window was covered with snowflakes. They’d become much closer since the trip to Vienna. He hadn’t been pushy—she had been the one who’d taken the initiative. Their first proper kiss had been a revelation: she’d never felt that way with Fred.

“Hey! Your soup’s going cold!” She broke away, laughing.

“That’s not fair,” he murmured. “Making me choose between hunger and . . .” He trailed off, pulling her back.

“I can’t stay—I’ve got to go and help get more logs from the woodshed.”

“I’ll come with you,” Charlie said. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be trying to break into this place anytime soon.”

She waited while he padlocked the door, then let him lead the way along the path—on purpose, because she couldn’t resist the temptation to throw a snowball at him. She made a direct hit in the middle of his back. In a flash he threw one back. It caught her right in the solar plexus, which made her cough and laugh at the same time. She chased after him. Soon they were rolling around in the snow.

“We’d better go,” she panted. “They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

He almost fell over as he got to his feet. He held out his hands to pull her up. “Will you come back tonight and keep me company?”

“I have the English class at seven,” she said, batting away the white clumps that clung to her coat and scarf. “And I’ve promised an art session afterwards.”

“Come after that, then. I’ll build us a campfire.” He tilted his head toward the warehouse. “We have twelve hundred tins of Spam in there. We can break open a can and barbecue it.”

“Mmm! Charred Spam! You really know how to treat a girl, don’t you? What will it be for dessert? Toasted fir cones?” She took a handful of snow and stuffed it inside his collar. He got his revenge by grabbing her ankles and dangling her upside down so her hair swept the ground like a mop.

“Put . . . me . . . down!” Kitty could hardly get the words out, she was laughing so hard.

He fell back onto the snow, pulling her on top of him. Neither of them noticed Martha coming down the path that led to the warehouse. She stopped dead when she saw them. It wasn’t a surprise—she’d seen the look that had passed between them when they were waiting to board the train to Poland. But it didn’t stop her from feeling as though an icicle had pierced her chest.

She was glad for them—of course she was: if anyone deserved a bit of happiness, Kitty did—but it was a bittersweet feeling because of the startling clarity of the memories it triggered. No matter how much she tried to push those intimate moments with Stefan to the back of her mind, the pain she felt at losing him was as raw as the day when he’d stepped onto that train.



Kitty was walking around the mess hall, looking at the images forming on the sheets of paper. She’d managed to beg paint and brushes from the army base, so now the children could put color into their artwork. There was a lot of red being used, she noticed. All the pictures had a vivid, alarming quality about them: not one child was painting anything that could be described as pastoral, tranquil, or pretty.

She stopped by Wolf’s chair, leaning over his shoulder. “I like the way you’ve drawn that. Is it a real place?” She asked the question in English. As the art session followed the English class, she thought it would help to get them to put what they’d learned into conversation.

“Yes, miss,” Wolf replied. “I live here with my father.” He dipped his brush into a pot of yellow paint and mixed it with red. Then he smeared it across the top of the paper, above the building he had drawn. “This is fire,” he said. “When bomb fall on it.”

“And who are these two people?” She pointed to a stick figure wearing a hat with a red cross on it, holding a protective arm around a smaller figure.

“This Madame Fabius—and this one, me.” He jabbed the brush toward his chest. “She not there when this happen. But she love me now.”

She love me now. The words played back on a loop as Kitty moved silently around the room. The bond that had developed between Delphine and Wolf was plain to see. He was helping to heal the gaping wound that losing her husband and son had inflicted, and she was doing the same for the boy.