A Feather on the Water(7)

“You met him?” Martha’s eyes widened.

Delphine nodded. “I took his stitches out. He told me he was glad he’d had the accident because he’d been struggling to come up with a story for his next book. The pain had reminded him of being wounded during the war, and that had given him an idea.” She arched her eyebrows. “I told him it was a hell of a way to get rid of writer’s block.”

The truck’s engine suddenly roared to life, drowning out further conversation. Soon they were rolling through the Normandy countryside. It was hard to see much. The sun was shining through the gap in the tarpaulin that covered the rear of the truck, blinding Kitty and Martha when they craned their necks to catch glimpses of this new, unfamiliar country.

Kitty saw that Delphine had fallen asleep, her head resting against her jacket, which she’d folded into a makeshift cushion. The lines on her forehead seemed to have disappeared. In this relaxed state, her face looked much younger, much softer. Kitty felt an old, familiar ache beneath her ribs. Looking at this woman, wondering how old she was, she couldn’t help thinking of her mother. But it was not a face that came to mind when that word entered her head. It was the smoky tang of roasting chestnuts and the aroma of gingerbread, the peal of church bells and the wheeze of an accordion, the feel of fur against her skin and the sting of tiny snowflakes. A family outing to the Christmas market in Am Hof Square—their last time together before they’d put her on the train to Rotterdam. Her mother trying desperately to make everything seem normal. It was as fresh in her mind as if it had happened yesterday: the noise and the smells and the jewel colors of the lanterns strung across the stalls. But the faces of her parents were blurred—as if a flurry of snow hovered persistently around their heads.

Kitty blinked away the image. She had to focus on where she was going, what she needed to do. With every passing mile, she was getting closer to Vienna. She had only a rough idea of the location of the camp they were going to. But she knew that the zone it was in lay less than a hundred miles west of the border with Austria. There must be a way of getting there, of finding people who had the answers to the questions burning in her heart.

A gentle grunt of a snore broke into her thoughts. Both of her traveling companions were asleep now. Delphine’s head was lolling forward with the movement of the truck. Her hands were nestled in her lap, the fingers entwined. Kitty could see the glint of a wedding ring. She saw that Martha wore one, too. Where were the husbands of these women who were traveling so far from home, she wondered? Perhaps Martha and Delphine were widows. It was a strange word, widow—one that must be as uncomfortable to wear as orphan.

Kitty didn’t think she’d be able to sleep. As the light began to fade, she lay sideways with her head on the army rucksack that contained her clothes and the few personal items she possessed. She could feel the bristles of her hairbrush poking through the canvas, and she slid farther down on the bench a bit to get comfortable. In England, on those nights when thoughts of home had kept her awake, she would always reach for paper and a pencil. What she drew on sleepless nights was always the same: women in silk dresses—impossibly beautiful and remote, like the models her mother had dressed for fashion shows in Vienna. It always soothed her, drawing imaginary faces and elegant clothes, as if the act of creation brought back a glimmer of what she had lost.

The next thing Kitty was aware of was the sound of men shouting. She couldn’t understand the French words the driver was spitting out. She heard an English voice yelling over his: “Unless you want to swim across, you’ve got to go south, mate!”

“Sounds like the bridge has gone.” Delphine was on her feet. “Think I’ll just go and stretch my legs.”

Kitty and Martha followed her out.

“Where are we?” Martha glanced at the sentry box ahead of them, then at the dark expanse of water glittering in the moonlight.

“That’s the Rhine,” Delphine replied. “The border with Germany. But we can’t cross.” Her hand swept the air, indicating a place out of sight, beyond the sentry box. “The Allies bombed the bridge. So, we have to make a big detour.”

The truck swerved dangerously as they pulled away. It was as if the driver held the women personally responsible for lengthening the journey and was determined to make the rest of it as uncomfortable as possible. Martha asked Delphine if she had any idea how long it might take to get to Munich.

“I can’t even guess,” Delphine replied. “They say the roads in Germany are ruptured. We’ll be lucky if we make it before morning.”

“Have you ever been to Germany?” Martha asked. “Before the war, I mean.”

Delphine shook her head.

The truck took a sharp bend. A shaft of moonlight shot through the tarpaulin flaps, momentarily lighting up the Frenchwoman’s face. Kitty saw that her eyes were glassy with tears. Had her husband died fighting the Germans? She looked a little too old for that to be the case, Kitty thought. She wondered what images were running through Delphine’s mind. Would it be appropriate to reach out, to take the woman’s hand? Would that help? Or would it seem too familiar an action, given that they barely knew one another? Batting these questions around her head, Kitty knew that whatever the answer, she couldn’t do it. Touching another person—other than for a handshake—was something quite alien to her. There had been Fred, of course. But that was different. Touching, hugging—to give comfort or to show the kind of love that came from family ties—that had stopped the day she boarded the train out of Vienna.