A Feather on the Water(9)

Martha nodded. One of the families she’d delivered food to on the Lower East Side was from Lithuania. Only the father had spoken English—limited to a dozen or so words. They’d arrived in New York with just the clothes on their backs.

“Some of the inmates were brought in as forced labor by the Nazis from occupied countries,” the man went on. “The name of the place means ‘silk mill’ in English. They made artificial silk from wood fiber, chopping down trees to turn into linings for uniforms. When the place was liberated, there were plenty of empty bunkhouses, so we took it over as a DP camp.”

“Empty?” Kitty echoed. “Because people had escaped?”

He shook his head. “Because they’d been worked to death. It wasn’t only Jews that the Nazis exterminated—the people at Seidenmühle weren’t Jewish, but their chances of survival were not much greater. The Nazis fed them starvation rations. They didn’t care who they sent out into the forest: anyone, old or young, male or female, was made to chop wood. And in winter, it’s freezing cold. They didn’t last long.”

From the corner of her eye, Martha saw Kitty’s head drop. Could someone so young have had any idea what sort of place she was going to when she signed up? Martha wondered if she’d be able to pull her weight on the team—or whether she’d be a liability, as much in need of looking after as the DPs themselves.



The replacement driver—another Frenchman—seemed to have little idea of where they were going. Eventually he found the river whose course they were supposed to follow upstream to get to the camp. They were making good progress until the road veered away from the river and they found themselves traveling through a pine forest. After half an hour he admitted to Delphine that he was totally lost.

They gathered around as he spread the map out on a tree stump. The sun had gone down and the light was beginning to fade. It was difficult to make out the names of places.

“There are so many rivers,” Martha said. “And all these patches of woodland. How on earth do we know which one we’re in?”

“I saw a house back there,” Kitty said. “Shall I go and ask where we are?”

Martha turned to her. “How would you do that? Take the map and get them to point?”

“No.” Kitty smiled. “I’ll ask for directions. And if it’s really complicated, I’ll write them down.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “You speak German?”

Kitty nodded, gathering up the map. “I learnt it at school.”

“You’d better not go alone,” Delphine said. She had a brief conversation in French with the driver. “He’s going to take the truck as close to the house as he can. I’ll stay with him, to make sure he doesn’t disappear, like the last one.”

The house was set back from the road. Kitty said she’d only spotted it because of the wisps of smoke coming from the chimney. It was a stone cottage with a thick layer of moss on the roof. Walking through the twilight over a carpet of pine needles to reach it, Martha felt a creeping sense of unease. It was so quiet. Too quiet. Not even birdsong in the canopy overhead.

“What’s that?” Kitty hissed. She was looking at a dark shape beyond the path, to their left.

Martha’s brain took a few seconds to process what she was looking at. “My God,” she whispered. “It’s a tank.”

Branches festooned the roof of the vehicle, as if an attempt had been made to conceal it. A black cross, outlined in white, was just visible on the side facing them. The tank had the look of a crouching beast waiting to pounce.

“What’s it doing there?” There was a hint of fear in Kitty’s voice.

“It’s abandoned, I guess,” Martha replied.

“What if there’s someone inside?”

The gun turret was pointing straight at them.

“I don’t think it’s been driven in a while.” Martha pointed to the ground. A fallen tree lay in front of the caterpillar tires.

Kitty nodded. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . .”

“It’s okay.” Martha put her hand on Kitty’s arm. “It’s scary as hell—even empty.”

They walked on toward the house. The silence was suddenly broken by the crowing of a rooster. They both jumped.

“Stupid bird—it’s getting dark!” Martha felt oddly reassured by the sound. Making their way around the corner of the house, they saw a man, bent with age, tossing scraps to a flock of chickens.

“Guten Abend!”

At the sound of Kitty’s voice, the old man froze.

Martha was mortified. “Tell him it’s okay, we’re just lost.”

Kitty came out with a string of words. The man turned, lifting a hand to his heart. With his other hand he beckoned Kitty over.

“He wants to know if we’re hungry,” she called over her shoulder.

“Please tell him no,” Martha called back. They’d scared him half to death and now he thought they’d come to raid his larder.

Kitty spoke in a low, soothing voice, and the old man seemed to relax a little. He went inside the house and returned with a paraffin lamp. Kitty unfolded the map and gave Martha one corner so they could hold it up to the light. The man’s finger shook as he indicated where they were. He repeated the word “Seidenmühle,” glancing up at Kitty. Then he traced a line across the map, talking to her as he did so.