The Rabbit Girls(41)

‘Just saying how complicated most relationships are,’ Eva says. ‘Nothing is ever as straightforward as people say it is: books and movies, people are just skimming over the edges. I suppose that is because most commercial art is made by men.’ Eva smiles, a twinkle in her eye.

‘My mother once said to me, when I was contemplating what to do in life, Men make art and women make babies. I failed at both,’ she says. Then adds, ‘At the time I thought it was stupid, but maybe she was trying to caution me.’

‘Caution you?’

‘To know my place.’ Miriam tries the coffee again and scalds her lip in the same place. She takes a bite of the biscuit instead.

‘Can I ask you about the letters?’ Eva asks. ‘How did you come by them?’

‘They come from a dress, a uniform I think. I found it when I was tidying Mum’s things.’

‘Is it your mother’s?’ Eva asks.

‘I don’t think so. One of the letters mentions Ravensbrück, maybe Mum went there, but the letters? Mum never spoke French, let alone read or wrote in it . . .’

‘Is she not around to ask?’

Miriam shakes her head at the same time as taking a sip of coffee. The cream splashes up on to her face. She wipes at her mouth with a napkin.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. How long?’

‘Three years. From cancer,’ she says. Her hands shake and the coffee spills over her fingers.

The music is quiet and the voices swarm around the café like bees as Miriam waits for the shattering feeling she has grown used to when thinking about Mum. But the feeling doesn’t come. She waits for it as she sips her coffee, the cream sweet, she licks her top lip as the warmth of the café seeps into her.

Eva rustles in her bag. ‘Would you like one?’ She offers a clementine. They sit eating and watch the cars and people wash by.

‘And your father?’ Eva says eventually.

A man in leather shoes walks past her, Miriam springs up.

‘I have to get back,’ she says.

‘And I thought I was jumpy. Are you okay?’

‘I have to get back to Dad, before it’s too late.’ She consults her watch. Time has passed.

The noise of the café becomes deafening. Happy faces, laughter, perfume, couples sitting face to face. Guilt crawls and takes hold in her throat. The crushing, banging and bashing of the coffee machine. The grinding sharpens her senses.

The door opens, a bell tinkles and the weather intrudes with the sweep of a wet umbrella, held by a man in a long black coat.

The man is as tall as Axel, but it isn’t him.

The coffee turns bitter. A spiderweb of fear she cannot swallow past.

‘Sorry,’ Eva says. ‘I apologise if I said something out of turn.’

‘Oh no,’ Miriam says, putting on her coat. ‘But I must get back to my father now.’

They leave the café together. ‘Can you come back? I left the letters on the table for you.’

‘I came with a few more for you too.’ Eva gently takes Miriam’s arm and slows her pace to match her own. The weight of Eva on her arm is comforting and eventually the panic Miriam felt on leaving subsides.

They walk together in silence, watching their footing on the leaf-strewn street.

The house is still and as she stands by her father, she whispers, ‘Eva is here, Dad, she’s helping me. To find Frieda for you.’ She squeezes his hand tight.

‘This is the dress,’ Miriam says in the dining room where she has put the bag with the dress in it. She opens the clasp and pulls the sheet out, offering it to Eva, who steps back.

‘You do it,’ she says.

Miriam flattens the dress out on the table.

‘A miracle,’ Eva says. ‘Where did you find the letters?’ she asks.

‘Here.’ She points to the pockets and the frayed seams, the collars and cuffs.

‘They used to adjust the dresses,’ Eva says, her fingers trace the bottom of the dress. ‘The uniforms, so they could carry their own spoons and sometimes a photo of a loved one, a letter.’

‘I read that in the letters. Bunny sewed secret pockets or something?’ As Miriam says her name aloud she realises that these letters are real. Bunny is real. These are letters depicting lives that have been lived and lost. Miriam feels an overwhelming sense of inadequacy at reading something so personal, and wonders how Eva feels about translating them. Sharing this with Eva brings a comfort, a shared experience, maybe even a friend.

Eva walks along the table, smoothing her hands along the fabric as she goes.

‘Can I get you a glass of water?’

Eva doesn’t answer.

Miriam goes into the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.

Eva seems to have aged, her face is still wrinkled in the same places, but the lines have deepened. Her lips narrowed. Her fingers smooth the pocket. Miriam hands her a glass and she takes a sip, swallowing hard.

‘It’s incredible such a thing exists. So many members of my family died in camps,’ Eva says quietly.

‘I’m so sorry. The dress got to me too,’ Miriam says. ‘Especially the smell.’

Sitting abruptly in a chair, Eva seems to shrink in front of her. She places her hands together and shakes her head, looking at the dress.