A Feather on the Water(10)

“Looks like we’re quite close,” Kitty said to Martha. “We’ve overshot the place. We need to turn back, then take a left, which should lead us to this fork in the river.” She pointed to where two blue lines met. “He says the camp’s half a mile downstream.”

“Danke sch?n.” It was the only German phrase Martha knew. She hadn’t realized how useless she would feel, how difficult it would be to communicate with people. Thank goodness Kitty knew the language. Never make assumptions. Martha heard her grandmother’s voice as they made their way back along the forest path. She’d had Kitty pegged as an overgrown child in lipstick: someone too young and inexperienced for the kind of work she’d been recruited for. That’ll teach you, Grandma Cecile whispered.

Less than half an hour later, the truck’s headlamps picked out an enormous mill wheel. The water tumbling underneath reflected the light, like streams of molten silver in the dark river. A little way farther on, they crossed a wooden bridge and saw the gates of the camp. A brightly lit stone guardhouse stood just beyond them. A young soldier in the familiar uniform of the US Army emerged from the building and waved the truck to a standstill.

Shining a flashlight at a clipboard, he checked the women’s names before ushering them into the guardhouse.

“Where are you from?” Martha asked. She thought how young he looked.

“Salem, Oregon, ma’am,” the guard replied.

“Long way from home, huh?”

“Sure is.” He returned her wry smile.

There was a crunch of tires outside. Through the open door they saw their driver executing a swift three-point turn.

“Au revoir! Merci beaucoup!” Delphine called out. Her words were drowned out by the revving of the engine as he pulled away. Clearly, the man didn’t want to hang around a moment longer than he had to.

“Major McMahon will be along shortly,” the guard said. “He’ll show you to your billet.”



Major McMahon reminded Martha of the owner of the grocery store on Wythe Avenue. He had the same shrewd eyes and paunchy stomach. But the voice was more Boston than Brooklyn.

“Good evening, ladies.” He gave a deep nod that was almost a bow as he shook each proffered hand. “Boy, am I glad to see you all!” He led them along a tree-lined track lit by electric lampposts. They stopped in front of a trio of wooden cabins that looked like the Cajun fishing shacks she’d seen as a child on the bayous in Louisiana.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable in here,” he said, as he unlocked the door of one of the cabins. “It used to belong to the officers.”

“Officers?” Martha echoed.

“The Nazis who ran the place when it was a labor camp.” He smiled at her startled face. “Don’t worry, they left it spotless. Hardly lived here, by all accounts. Spent most of their time at the blockhouse where their Polish mistresses were billeted.” His hands forked the air. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be crude. But in this place . . . well, you kinda get used to telling it like it is.”

He led them up a rickety set of stairs to a large mezzanine room with four single beds. “This was going to be for all three of you to share,” he said. “But since the others have gone, you can spread out a little. The places on either side are empty, so take your pick.” He tossed a bunch of keys onto one of the beds.

“Who’s gone?” Martha felt a prickle of apprehension.

“The guys who came last month. There was a Dutch fella in charge. He only stuck it out for a week. Hitched a ride home with a convoy headed up north. The doctor—Belgian guy—went with him.” Major McMahon shrugged. “There was a Texan, too; he was running the warehouse, getting in supplies. But he was a drinker: got hooked on the hooch the Poles make. It turned him blind, so he had to go home.”

“That’s awful.” Martha glanced at the others. “So, who’s left?”

“Nobody.” The major blew out a breath. “Just you three ladies in charge now.”





CHAPTER 3


The major’s words were still echoing in Martha’s head as she lay down in bed.

He only stuck it out for a week.

Why had her predecessor run away? And the doctor, too. What had made them abandon the people they had come to help after just days on the job?

She tried to imagine the people lying asleep beyond the trees that screened the cabin from the rest of the camp: hundreds of men, women, and children herded together in a place far from home. She thought of the newspaper image still tucked away in her handbag, of the frightened-looking woman with a baby in her arms and another child clinging to her skirt. How could anyone turn their back on someone in such dire need?

Martha glanced across the room, at the shapes in the other beds. They’d been too exhausted to investigate the neighboring cabins. There was something comforting in them all being in the same room—even though they barely knew each other. She wondered if Delphine and Kitty were already asleep, or if, like her, their minds were racing.

On the other side of the room, Kitty was staring at the dark shadows on the ceiling. She couldn’t shake the thought that the bed she was lying in had once belonged to a Nazi. What if her mother and father had ended up in a place like this? The thought of them being sent out in freezing winter weather to chop wood for hours on end made her insides shrivel. How could she close her eyes with that image in her head?