The Dressmaker's War

by Mary Chamberlain

  “Mr. Weiss,” she said. “Mr. Professor Weiss. If I help your English, you could teach me German.”

  He grabbed his stick and stomped it hard on the floor. “You forget, my dear. You are the prisoner. I am your jailer. You don’t bargain with me.”

  Ada had been sure he would say yes. She turned to walk away, but her tunic snagged again. This time, she felt the stick slap against her leg. She stopped.

  “But if you ask me would I teach you German, then perhaps the answer would be different.”

  He was used to having his way, Ada could see. A man in charge, but a man, nonetheless, who found her pretty. Humor him. Let him look big.

  “Would you teach me German, please?”

  He leant forward, squeezed her hand. “Sister Clara, it would be my pleasure. And you will improve my English.”

  The guard who had been smoking outside entered the conservatory. Ada wasn’t sure, but he looked like the one who had found her on the stairs a few nights ago. She hadn’t noticed how young he was. He didn’t shave yet, and his skin had the smoothness of a boy’s. He could have been her younger brother. She pulled her hand away, rested it on Herr Weiss’s shoulder, as if she had been soothing him.

  “Hans,” Herr Weiss said, “you will order her to teach me English. Every day.”

  Ada could not look the soldier in the eye. She began to tremble, clenched her fists so her hands stayed still. It was dangerous to want, even something as ordinary as a conversation. He could say no. Scream in German. She might not know the words, but she would grasp their meaning: I have the power of life and death.

  The soldier shrugged, said something, Herr Weiss replied. The soldier pulled his heels together, raised his arm. “Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler.”

  “He has to confirm with the commandant,” Herr Weiss said. “But you will come to me in the evenings, after your work, Sister Clara. My little hobby must not interfere with your duties to the Reich.” He thrust his arm into the air. “Heil Hitler.”

  Ada swallowed. She was sure he expected her to reply “Heil Hitler.” She couldn’t, wouldn’t. And the evenings, after work. She was too tired then, far too tired. But this, she knew, was an order. He took her hand again, squeezed it, rubbed his thumb inside her palm.

  CHRISTMAS 1940 HAD long passed. Remember the date, Sister Brigitte had said. We must remember the date. Now it was another year, 1941. Ada was glad Sister Jeanne had been plump. She was eight months pregnant now, filling the ample habit, although she couldn’t imagine how. She wasn’t even eating for one, let alone two. Cabbage soup. Once or twice a little cheese that Herr Weiss slipped her. But where was the goodness in all of that? Herr Weiss had slid his hand round her waist two evenings ago as they walked towards the sitting room, telling her about the Luftwaffe, bombing London, the City. Cold, clear January nights when the stone churches gleamed like ghosts and the pilots let free their explosives, illuminating the streets below. The British will surrender, he said, after this. The City was close to her home, though she couldn’t tell Herr Weiss that. One wayward bomb, that’s all it would take. Just one. Did they come up the river to the City? Or down? Herr Weiss didn’t know.

  Did he guess, fingering her body? She wasn’t big. Sister Brigitte said that the first time you never are. You don’t show. Thank the Lord. Ada had wriggled free from Herr Weiss as her baby kicked out.

  Was her baby hungry, too? He must want to live, this little boy. Clinging on for sheer life. He had survived so much in his short, unborn existence. Worry hammered in her head, devoured her like a devil at the Last Judgment.

  “God will provide,” Sister Brigitte said.

  Ada didn’t have Sister Brigitte’s faith. She wasn’t brave like her either. She wished she had more courage. Each day could be her last, and it terrified her. She could irritate a nervous guard, let something slip with Herr Weiss. He could be tetchy. The British had bombed the docks in Bremen, he told her, and an aircraft factory. We will avenge. He could also be tender. Uncomfortable, his hand lingering on hers, his stick brushing her leg, a little higher. She had to watch herself. Life and death. They never let them forget.

  She had called the baby Thomas in her mind. Thomas, the Germans spelled it the same, though they pronounced it different. Little Thomas, Tommykins. She tried not to love him, little Tomichen. If he was born sickly, or even dead, she’d grieve, but she wouldn’t be sorry. But if he was alive, what then? She tried not to think about that. But how could she avoid it? She felt the shape of his elbow or knee at night as she lay in bed, breathed his hiccups as her own, knew when he slept, when he woke. Despite herself, she was falling in love with this unborn baby. It’s all right, she whispered to him, her hand rubbing circles on her stomach. It’ll be all right. I’ll look after you. Her child, another life that would carry hope and love in his songs. In all this death and darkness, he was joy, and the future. He was all she had. She couldn’t just sweep that away, brush it under the carpet like dirt. She loved this child, Stanislaus’s child, their child.

  SHE HADN’T FELT right that February evening.

  “Something I ate,” she said. “My stomach’s rumbling.” She’d had nothing since breakfast. Uncomfortable. The baby was asleep, lay well down in her stomach, pressed against her bladder. He’d been asleep for nearly two days now, while her stomach had churned round him. He’s getting ready, Sister Brigitte had said. Saving his strength.

  Sister Brigitte checked her. “No pain?” she said. “Remarkable. You’re almost fully dilated.” Ada felt her scratching round inside. “Let’s help it along.” Her waters broke, ran and ran, dripped over the side of the bed. What if they dripped through the floor, flooded the ceiling below?

  “Slowly, slowly,” Sister Brigitte said. Sister Agatha stood with her ear pressed to the door on the lookout. She’d wedged a chair against the handle, was saying a prayer, Blessed Virgin Mary, let the guards play cards, let them stay away. They never checked the nuns. What could nuns get up to at night, by themselves, upstairs in the attic? But you never knew. They might hear something.

  “Shhh,” Sister Brigitte said. “Scream quietly.”

  The pains came fast now, like a storm surge, one after the other. Sister Brigitte had told her to breathe through the pain, sing a song in your head, sing anything.

  She was as beautiful as a butterfly and proud as a queen.

  “Push.”

  Was pretty little Polly Perkins of Paddington Green.

  “Push.”

  He eased out of Ada in the early hours of that cold February morning and lay puny and purple on her breast. Sister Brigitte wrapped him in an old towel she had smuggled out, put the placenta in the slop bucket to be flushed away in the morning, and cleaned Ada up as best she could.

  She also baptized the baby. “To be on the safe side,” she said. Thomas. Tomichen. Tommykins.

  “A nice saint,” Sister Brigitte said.

  “And now?” Ada said. She would have to own up. Take me, not them. Kill me, not them. Spare the baby. Please spare my baby.

  My baby. Ada had not expected this rush of love, this avalanche of passion. She stroked his temple, watched the soft valley on the top of his head, the pucker of his lips and the up-down of his jaws as he lay against her. He was asleep, so delicate, so quiet. Sister Brigitte took him from her, swaddled the towel round him, laid him on the edge of the bunk, and left the room. Sister Agatha took Ada’s bloodied shift, helped her dress and sit up on the bed, next to Thomas.

  Sister Brigitte returned a little later, with Father Friedel. He entered the attic, his rheumy eyes adjusting to the gloom.

  “A baby. We found a baby. Sister Clara,” Sister Brigitte said, nodding at Ada, emphasizing the words she had to repeat. “Your German’s better than mine. Tell Father how we found this newborn baby. Just outside the back door. Tell him how we took him in. Ask him to take the baby in his bag. Say he found it in his baby box, at his church.”

  Ada knew that Sister Brigitte had dreamed up t
his plan. Sister Agatha was in on it, too. She had to give her baby up. Give him to the priest. Send him away. Hope and pray that someone kind found him. Her baby, her Tomichen.

  She swallowed. Her German was basic, but Herr Weiss had taught her how English was once German, so if she didn’t know a word, she should try the English.

  “Baby,” she began. “Wir haben gefunden. Vor der Tür.”

  Ada pulled the edge of the towel away from his face. She had to remember this tiny detail. “Baby box.” Her voice was frail, the words too difficult to say.

  Father Friedel looked confused. Her mother had told her about them once, how you opened a flap and put the baby inside. Ada drew the motion of a hatch opening in the air, of a bundle being deposited, of the hatch closing.

  “Ja, ja,” Father Friedel said. “Eine Babyklappe.”

  Ada had no idea if that was right, but she nodded.

  “Tell him,” Sister Brigitte said, “that no one must know. That he must take the baby now, while he sleeps. Put him in his bag. Say nothing.”

  If Father Friedel was discovered, that would be the end for them. And Thomas. Ada pointed to the baby, and the bag. “Still,” she said, pressing her fingers on her lips. “Nicht ein Wort.” She motioned to the door.

  “Ja, ja,” Father Friedel said. Ada wasn’t sure he understood, wasn’t sure he would ever understand, but he was their only hope of smuggling Thomas out, of giving him some chance of life.

  Ada pushed herself off the bed. She knew she must not show how exhausted she was, that she had just given birth to this baby boy. Sister Brigitte stepped forward and took the priest’s bag. She placed it on the bunk and opened it, pushing the stole to one side, the crucifix and oil to the other. She lifted Thomas up and placed him inside. Father Friedel looked on, smiling. He’s demented, Ada thought. Doolally. Dear God. Sister Brigitte shut the case.

  “Wait,” Ada said. She fished deep inside her pocket and pulled out the little teddy bear. Opening the case, she tucked the bear inside the swaddled towel and leant over and kissed Thomas on his forehead, smooth as wax.

  “This is for luck,” she whispered. “I will come back, my little Tomichen. I will find you.” She lifted the stole out from the side, and the crucifix, and laid them across the baby. Perhaps if the soldiers made Father Friedel open the bag, they’d see the cross and the stole and look no further.

  “We called him Thomas,” she said.

  “He must go,” Sister Brigitte said.

  “Please,” Ada said in English. “Please. Take care of him.” She couldn’t say that in German. The most important words and she couldn’t make herself understood. He was only three hours old. Her precious child. She knew she couldn’t linger now. She’d have a lifetime for that. She snapped the lock and handed the bag to the priest.

  The priest shrugged, adjusted his grip on the handle with his left hand, and held up his right in a blessing. In nomine Patris…

  Sister Brigitte followed him out. Ada heard their footsteps on the stone stairs. Fifteen to the landing, fifteen down again. They faded in the distance. A door clicked shut. She threw herself on the bunk, buried her face in the coarse mat, and howled.

  —

  THE NEXT MORNING, Sister Brigitte fished out the winding cloths from where she’d hidden them under her mattress and bound them round Ada’s stomach.

  “You will not talk about this,” she said, pulling the cloth tight. “Is that understood?”

  Sister Brigitte had never had a child wrenched from her, never had to watch as her baby was swaddled and smuggled away. She would never understand Ada’s anguish, not knowing where Thomas was, whether he was alive or dead. She would never know her desolation. Ada had never felt so alone.

  “You must offer it up,” Sister Brigitte was saying, “as atonement. And besides”—she yanked the cloth round again—“our lives depend on your silence.”

  “But Father Friedel—” Ada said.

  “Father Friedel knows nothing,” Sister Brigitte said. “Not a word.” She slipped her arm behind Ada. “Can you stand?”

  Ada pushed her feet to the floor, leaning on Sister Brigitte for support.

  “You should’ve been in bed for ten days,” she said, as if Ada was the one insisting on walking. “To rest and recover. But these”—she patted the bands round Ada’s stomach—“should make sure you don’t have a prolapse.”

  A prolapse. That was what old women got, why they smelled of piss. Ada shuddered.

  “I can’t hide you away anymore. Are your breasts sore? Has your milk come in?”

  Tomichen. Tommykins. Ada tried to conjure his face, puckered and pink with swollen eyelids, but the detail had faded even though it had only been a day. She’d know his scent, though, she was sure. He smelled of her, of the inside cushion of her flesh. She shut her eyes, clawing back the lost memory of him.

  “Sister Clara, will you answer me please?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ada said. “I just can’t help thinking.”

  “You have to stop thinking,” Sister Brigitte said, her voice sharp, “or you’ll go mad. Now, take my arm and we’ll try the stairs.”

  Ada’s legs had lost their gristle, and her knees buckled. She had never known a fatigue so profound. She stood at the top of the flight. If she fainted now, she’d pull Sister Brigitte with her. She gripped the rail on the side and sidled her foot forward.

  ONCE THE SUMMER came, Herr Weiss took to waiting for Ada in the conservatory. It was a large lean-to structure facing the garden, with wicker chairs that lined the wall. During the winter they’d met in the communal sitting area, but Herr Weiss had complained that it was too noisy, even though, as far as Ada could hear, nobody spoke but themselves.

  “But here,” he’d said, patting the seat next to himself, “we are alone. You and I.” He’d reached over and squeezed her hand like he always did.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” he asked her one night. “Before you entered your convent. I like to imagine you then.”

  She could barely remember what she had been like in London or Paris, or that she’d ever been happy. She’d grown even thinner than she was before she was pregnant. Sister Jeanne’s habit hung in long, loose swathes. If she had a needle and thread, she could have taken it in, fitted it more closely, but now she didn’t care. She knew she must look a fright. She could feel her skin had become scaly, her face blotchy and lined.

  “I was a tailor,” she said. “Ladies’.”

  “And what did you make?”

  “Ball gowns, and day dresses, suits and skirts, blouses and collars.” She tried to recall the splendor of her creations, but the list came out flat and dogged, like a lie that had fallen out of grace.

  He took her hand and placed it in his groin. “Did you ever wear those gowns?”

  Ada tried to pull her hand away, but he pressed it harder to himself.

  “I would sometimes act as a mannequin,” she said, heaving and swallowing her phlegm. He was doing this, this revolting thing.

  “You must have looked lovely.”

  His hand was clenched tight over hers, and beneath it his penis grew hard.

  “Tell me how you looked.”

  “Herr Weiss,” she said. “Please. Bitte.”

  He laughed. “You don’t enjoy it?” he said, squeezing her knuckles so hard that she cried out. “I want to see you in a ball gown, the crack of your cleavage, the dip of your back. I want to watch you as you slink towards me. Talk to me.”

  That world, that other Ada, was a long way away. She shut her eyes. The elemental beauty, its drama and grace, fell from her memory like flesh from a cadaver. All she had now were the rattling bones.

  “Talk to me,” Herr Weiss was shouting now.

  “Pink,” she said, panic gripping like a vise. “One was pink.” She thought of her and Stanislaus together reflected in the mirrors at the Café Royal in London. They had looked good together.

  “Cerise. Cut on the bias. Do you know what I mean?”

 
He shook his head, no. His eyes were shut, and he was rubbing himself against the palm of her hand.

  “You cut at an angle to the selvage.” Her breath was thin, her words short and strangled, suffocated by what he was making her do. “Forty-five degrees. Precise. It gives it a stretch. Makes it drape. Accents the body. Folds over the hips, pauses on the stomach.”

  Herr Weiss gave a groan, panted, and released his grip. Ada slipped her hand free, leant back in the seat away from him.

  “Go,” he said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  She stood up and backed away, groping behind her until she found the door. Her mouth tasted of iron, and every pulse in her body hammered. She couldn’t tell Sister Brigitte about this. She’d accuse Ada of leading him on. Ada wasn’t a real nun after all. Had she encouraged him? She couldn’t see how. What kind of old man would want to do this filthy thing? It was disgusting.

  But what if he made her do more? If she refused, he would punish her. He had the power. She was the prisoner. The thought made her shudder. An old man. It was repulsive. And she a nun, or supposed to be one. Perhaps she could play on that. Herr Weiss, I have taken a vow of chastity.

  She had to sit next to him every evening now; he insisted. She had no choice. Ada maneuvered herself as far away in her seat as was possible, kept her hands taut and hidden behind her scapular.

  “You see,” he said, a few weeks later, pulling her hand free and pressing it deep into his groin, “while I have vigor, I am alive.”

  Ada shut her eyes, tried to ignore what she could feel.

  “The old men,” he said, “without vigor, without manhood”—he tapped his head, spiraling his finger—“a little twisted up here. That happens, you know. When you get old.”

  You warped old man, Ada thought. As if this would keep you from going demented.

  “They aren’t productive,” Herr Weiss was saying. “They just take. They don’t give. Nothing more than parasites. Just like the imbeciles. And Jews. And queers.”