A Feather on the Water(6)

Delphine struggled to silence the man’s voice, a hoarse whisper in her head. She slid her arms into the jacket. The sleeves were so long they covered her fingers. She could cut them off. Sew the raw edges. She’d never done any tailoring before, but she’d sewn plenty of human flesh in her time at the American Hospital. Fabric couldn’t be much different. Less messy, certainly. She wished the uniform weren’t gray, which was the color worn by the Helferinnen, the German women sent to Paris to assist the SS after the invasion. God forbid she should look like one of them.



Two hours later Delphine was sitting in the back of a battered army truck, stitching one of the UNRRA patches onto her cap. There was nothing to cut the thread with, so she bit through it. At least her teeth were still in good shape, she thought, as she cast a critical eye over her needlework.

The afternoon sun was beating down on the metal roof of the truck, and although the tarpaulin flaps at the back were pulled open, it was unbearably hot. She fanned herself with the cap, wondering how much longer she would have to wait until the other people on her team arrived. She could see the quartermaster’s tent on the other side of the field, the line of people snaking out of the entrance. She’d been told that the others were coming by boat from England. She supposed they would have to stop by the tent to pick up their uniforms, as she had.

There were only a few women in line. Delphine wondered if any of them would be on her team. It was hard to tell, from this distance, what ages they were. Fifty-seven was the upper limit for recruits. She only knew because, at the interview, they’d queried her date of birth. Apparently, conditions in the camps were considered too hard for anyone over sixty. Realizing that they’d reckoned her to be at least five years older than her true age hadn’t helped her state of mind.

She shifted her weight—her buttocks numb from sitting so long on the hard, wooden seat. As she looked up, she caught sight of three people walking toward the truck: an American soldier and two women. He stopped and pointed, then walked off in the direction of the quartermaster’s tent. From their gait, both women appeared to be young. Like Delphine, they were wearing mismatched uniforms: the taller one wore what looked like a man’s battle-dress jacket that drooped at the shoulders. On her head was the kind of boat-shaped cap the American GIs wore. The shorter woman had a peaked cap and a jacket of a different style that hugged her figure. Delphine wondered how she’d managed to get her hands on enough food to keep such womanly curves.

As they drew closer, she saw that the taller one was no older than Philippe. Delphine swallowed away the lump this brought to her throat. She must stop it: mustn’t view every new person she encountered and every new thing she did in terms of what she had lost.

“Good afternoon,” she said in her best English accent, as they clambered into the truck. “Delphine Fabius. Pleased to meet you.”



Kitty could hear Delphine talking to the driver. She’d learned some French at school in Austria, but it wasn’t as good as her German or her Polish.

“What’s he saying?” Martha asked. “Something about the route we’re going to take?”

Kitty nodded. “She’s asking him something else now: about when the others are coming, I think.” They both listened for the driver’s response—but there was none.

Delphine shook her head as she climbed back into the truck. She had sharp, birdlike features. A prominent nose and small, watchful green eyes. Her hair was faded auburn, tinged white at the temples. “No one else is coming.” She shrugged. “It’s just us until we get to Munich.” She sat down, a world-weary look on her face.

After the initial greeting, Delphine had been twitchy and silent. Kitty wondered if the twitchiness was down to being hungry. She certainly looked as if she could do with a good meal. It was bad enough in England—never enough of what you wanted to eat, even though the war was over—but in France it had to be a lot worse. She wished she’d bought something extra on the boat to share.

“Oh well,” Martha said, “at least we’ll have room to get some sleep tonight.” She lifted her feet onto the seat that ran along the side of the truck. She went to lie down, but her hips were too wide. She made a grab for the edge of the bench as she slithered off, landing in a heap on the metal floor.

Her helpless laughter as she rubbed her bruised limbs was contagious and broke the ice. Kitty could see a smile hovering on Delphine’s lips as she offered a hand to pull Martha up.

“If you’re really intent on injuring yourself, you’d better do it now, while we’ve still got access to medical equipment.” Delphine wagged a finger as Martha settled back on the seat. “It’s going to be a long journey.”

Martha mirrored Delphine’s wry smile. “Your English is very good,” she said. “Where’d you learn it?”

“I did my nurse training at the American Hospital in Paris,” Delphine replied. “The course was taught in English.”

“A whole hospital—just for Americans?” Kitty said.

“It wasn’t only Americans. We had British people, too—in this last war and the Great War.”

“You must have been nursing for a lot of years,” Martha said.

“Yes. My first patients were soldiers wounded in the Battle of the Somme. That was grim: men with burnt flesh, with shattered arms and legs.” Delphine blinked, as if the images were imprinted on her mind’s eye. “It was mainly Americans, between the wars,” she went on. “Some of the patients were quite famous: Ernest Hemingway came in once when a skylight fell on him.”