Mother straightened up in her sewing chair as I entered. “Oh, no, no. Don’t do it, Caroline.”
I threw open the lid of the trunk and released a lovely scent of cedar, aging silk, and stage makeup.
“It’s brilliant, Mother.”
“How can you, dear?”
We’d collected props and costumes from all over, a nineteenth-century silk bodice here, a silk and bone Tiffany fan there, but Mother had sewn most of the costumes I’d worn onstage, from Twelfth Night at Chapin to Victoria Regina on Broadway. I wasn’t allowed to keep every ensemble, but I still had my high school costumes, and Mother often sewed a backup of the Broadway ensembles. She used the best velvets and the richest, most vivid silks and soft cottons. She finished each with mother-of-pearl buttons she made from mussel shells she’d scavenged from the beach at Southampton. A button once put on by Mother was put on forever.
“Merchant of Venice,” I said, pulling out a periwinkle blue velvet jacket and pants, both lined in mustard silk. “Two toddler shirts right there. What can we do with the lining?”
Mother withered. “Underpants?”
“Genius, dear.” I held up a coral pink satin gown, the bodice embroidered with seed pearls. “Twelfth Night.”
“Are you not the least bit nostalgic?”
“Not at all, Mother, and if you resist, I’ll cut them myself.”
She grabbed the dress from me. “Certainly not, Caroline.”
I pulled out another velvet dress the color of Amontillado sherry, a white faux ermine pelerine, and a scarlet silk robe.
“All’s Well That Ends Well,” I said, holding up the dress. Had my waist ever been that small? “We can get six nightshirts from the robe, two coats from the dress. The fur will line mittens.”
We worked into the night. I ripped seams and cut, the teeth of my pinking shears biting through velvets and satins.
“Any news about your friend Paul?” Mother asked.
“Not a word. Not even getting French newspapers at the office anymore.”
Though Mother was on a need-to-know basis about my relationship with Paul, she somehow understood how important he’d become to me. With all the developments in France, she seemed almost as concerned about him as I was.
“His wife has a dress shop?”
“Lingerie shop, actually. Called Les Jolies Choses.”
“Lingerie?” Mother said, as if I’d told her Rena juggled flaming hatchets.
“Yes, Mother. Brassieres and—”
“I know what lingerie is, Caroline.”
“Don’t judge, Mother, please.”
“Well, even if Paul comes out of this war in one piece, there’s no accounting for men.”
“I just want to hear from him, Mother.”
Mother ripped the seam of a lavender satin lining. “And the French, you know how that goes. Friendships with married men are quite common there, but—”
“All I want is another letter, Mother.”
“You’ll see. This war will blow over, and he’ll be knocking at your door. The Germans probably have him someplace special. He’s somewhat famous, after all.”
I hadn’t considered that. Would the Nazis treat Paul specially given his celebrity?
By morning, we had stacked the guest bed with an exquisite assortment of children’s wear. Soft coats and trousers. Jumpers and hats.
I lugged it all to work and left it on Pia’s desk, though she was nowhere to be found.
—
WEEKS LATER, I HAD three generations of the LeBlanc family camped out in my office and taking turns bathing via the consulate ladies’ room sink when suddenly, Roger rushed to my door and swung into my office, one hand on the doorjamb, face the color of his dove-gray shirt. My stomach lurched. His bad news face. The knit brow. Mouth set in a tight line. As long as he didn’t close the door, I would be fine.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Caroline—”
“Just tell me, Roger.”
“I have some news.”
I held on to my wooden file cabinet. “Just do it—”
“It is bad, I’m afraid, C.”
“Should I sit?” I said.
“I would imagine so,” Roger said as he closed the door.
1941
The train doors opened, and we stood as if frozen there inside the car.
“Out, out!” the woman guards on the platform shouted. They poked and swatted us with their sticks and leather truncheons. If you’ve never been hit with a leather truncheon, it stings like you cannot believe. I’d never been struck with anything before, and that sting was a terrible shock, but the dogs were the worst part, snapping and barking at us, close enough for me to feel their warm breath on my legs.
“You stink like pigs,” one guard said. “Poles. Of course, covered in shit.”
This made me madder than anything. They give us one small bucket to use and then complain that we smell?
We marched at a quick pace through Fürstenberg in that Sunday’s first light, five abreast, Matka on my one side, Mrs. Mikelsky and baby Jagoda on the other. I glanced back and saw Zuzanna and Luiza one row behind, their eyes glassy with that special kind of terror we would grow used to. Fürstenberg seemed like a medieval village out of a storybook, the buildings with sod roofs and window boxes overflowing with red petunias, windows shuttered up tight. Were the Germans still asleep in warm beds? Dressing for church? Someone was awake, for the scent of toast and fresh coffee was in the air. A second-story shutter opened a crack and then closed.
Those who could not keep up had a time of it, for the guards beat the slowest, and the dogs nipped at their legs. Matka and I held Mrs. Mikelsky to keep her from stumbling. She massaged her baby’s feet, blue from the cold, kneading them like bread dough as we hurried along.
They rushed us along a cobblestone road by the banks of a lake.
“What a pretty lake,” Luiza said behind us. “Will there be swimming?”
None of us answered. What would they do with us? This was Germany, after all. As a child, a trip to Germany had always been entertaining, as long as one did not have to stay too long. With most things you knew what to expect. Like when you went to the circus for the first time, you had some idea. Not with this.
Soon we saw an enormous brick building at the end of the road. It was only September, but the trees turned early that far north, orange and flame-red among the pines. Even the salvia planted along the foundation of that brick building was Nazi red.
As we marched closer, German patriotic music blared in the distance, and the smell of cooking potatoes filled the air, which sent my stomach growling.
“It’s a KZ,” the woman behind me said to no one in particular. “Konzentrationslager.”
I’d never heard that word. Nor did I know what a concentration camp was, but the sound of the word sent ice water down my spine.
We approached the high, smooth walls that surrounded the camp and stepped through green metal gates, to an open plaza surrounded by low wooden buildings. Even through the music, I could hear the wire atop the wall buzz with high voltage.
A wide road cut through the middle of camp, officially called Lagerstrasse or Camp Road, but which we soon came to call Beauty Road.