“They’ll be ecstatic.” Kitty’s eyes were bright. She looked as if she was struggling to hold back tears.
“So will I,” Delphine murmured.
“Have you thought about where you’ll all live when the work’s finished here?” Martha asked.
“Not really. Paris would be the obvious place, and I’m sure they’d pick up the language quite quickly. And in the meantime, they could all get work in the American Hospital.” She paused, picking up a spoon and examining it, as if it held the answer to an intractable question. “I’m not sure I could go back there, though. Too many memories.”
“That’s understandable,” Kitty said. “My parents said they feel the same about Vienna. They said it’s the last place they’d want to go back to.”
“You don’t have to go back to France,” Martha said. “With your experience, there’d be other countries that would snap you up.”
“Only the French colonies,” Delphine replied. “I wouldn’t be allowed to emigrate to any other place.”
“Well, not yet,” Kitty said. “But things have to loosen up sooner or later. With your language skills, you could work in any English-speaking country.”
Her optimism was uplifting. Martha desperately wanted to believe it—not just for Delphine’s sake, but for the hundreds of DPs who dreamed of the chance to do what Kitty was suggesting. For Stefan, it was the only solution. Warsaw to him was like Paris to Delphine: a place full of ghosts.
“Maybe I could.” Delphine nodded. “Or should I say, we could—I’m going to have to get used to saying that, aren’t I?”
The following morning Martha and Kitty were catching up on paperwork in the office when the blockhouse leaders came to the door in a state of panic. When Martha let them inside, they were talking so fast she couldn’t understand what they were saying.
“There’s a rumor flying round that soldiers from the Russian zone are on their way here,” Kitty said.
“What?” Martha scanned the anxious faces. The Russian zone of Germany was only thirty miles away. “Why would they be coming here?”
“They say the camp is about to be closed down. The Russians are going to force them to go back to Poland.”
“But that’s nonsense!” Martha shook her head. “They can’t force anyone here to do anything. We’re outside of Russian jurisdiction.”
“Well, I’ll tell them that,” Kitty said. “But I’m not sure they’ll believe it. They’re saying the timber detail is getting ready to fight them off with axes.”
“Good grief! We’d better get . . .” The telephone rang out before Martha finished the sentence. She snatched it up, fearing more bad news. It was Major McMahon. What he had to say wasn’t good, but it had nothing to do with an imminent invasion by the Russians.
When she replaced the receiver, Martha addressed the blockhouse leaders slowly and calmly, in their own language. “Go back to your people,” she said, “and tell them that the US Army is sending us three hundred more Polish DPs. Ask them if the army would do that if the camp was going to be shut down.”
The leaders glanced at one another. One by one, they filed out of the office.
“Is it true?” Kitty said when they’d all gone.
Martha nodded. “They’re coming in three days’ time—from a camp at Wiesbaden that’s being closed. Not because of anything the Russians are doing,” she added. “It’s part of the army’s plan to combine the camps so there are less to run.”
“They’re so scared.” Kitty went over to the window. There were knots of people standing around, talking. Even from a distance they looked anxious.
Martha came over to where she was standing. “It’s hardly surprising. They devour every word that comes out of Radio Moscow.”
“They can’t keep sending us more DPs,” Kitty murmured. “No one wants to go back to Poland. We’re bursting at the seams as it is.”
That evening, when Stefan drove into the camp to collect Lubya and Halina, he wasn’t driving the old Volkswagen he’d fixed up—he was at the wheel of a sleek black Mercedes sedan. Martha didn’t recognize him at first. He was wearing an officer’s hat with gold braid and a handsome greatcoat. On his feet were calf-high leather boots.
“Stefan!” She stared at him, amazed at the transformation. “Where did you get that car, and the uniform?”