The Dressmaker's War by Mary Chamberlain

Author:Mary Chamberlain
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2016-01-12T05:00:00+00:00

HER HAIR HAD grown and she had put on weight. Ada had been in bed for two weeks before she was allowed to stand, shaky at first, two feet on the floor, push off from the bed, easy does it, like a child learning to walk. She went a little farther each day, round their dormitory, down the corridor, into the conservatory. Ada grew rigid with terror at the thought of seeing Herr Weiss there. Come, my dear. Sit by my side. Sister Brigitte had said that he was dead. Suicide. Slit his wrists with a cut-throat razor. Left a note addressed to his nephew, Obersturmbannführer Martin Weiss. In accordance with the Führer’s plans. Ada kept walking. Into the garden. The weather was cold for May, but the midday sun held the promise of warmth. Sister Brigitte brought some clothes for her, a pair of shoes, an old-fashioned skirt that was too long and too large, a blouse of brushed cotton.

“Frank bought them. Paid good cigarettes for them, so he said.” Her face was serious. “No one has food. They’re desperate. They’ll sell anything. Cigarettes are money.” She pointed to the sewing machine gathering dust under the bed. “You can use that. Take them in, make them fit.”

“Did I bring that with me?” Ada said. “What was I thinking?”

“You weren’t,” Sister Brigitte said. “You were deranged.”

Ada lifted the machine onto a table. It still had thread from the house in Dachau. It could do with a little oil, but it worked like a dream. Nip and tuck.

“And a mirror?” Ada said. “You promised.”

Sister Brigitte led her down the corridor to a storeroom. A large cheval mirror stood in the corner, covered in dust. They wheeled it into the center of the room, and Sister Brigitte wiped it with the edge of her sleeve.

Ada stood before it. She couldn’t see so well now; the sewing had made her eyes bad. Things far away blurred. She stepped closer. Her face was gaunt, the cheekbones sharp. She could see the shape of her skull beneath her skin. But her eyes were no longer hollow, haunted craters, her skin was pink and healthy, her hair thick, chin-length. She pulled it free of her face, tucked it behind her ears, piled it on top. She turned, to the left, to the right. Ada Vaughan. Thin as a rake. But lucky. Lucky.

Sister Brigitte stood behind her and pulled out a small tube from her pocket. “We found this in your tunic,” she said, pressing it into Ada’s hand. The lipstick. Ada twisted it, leant forward to the mirror, traced it over her lips. “Thank you,” she said, taking Sister Brigitte and pulling her close, kissing her on the cheek, leaving a large red imprint of her mouth.

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