“But did you explain that the national screening is just a way of keeping track of everyone in the zone?”
“I’ve been trying to, but they don’t believe it. I suppose you can’t blame them, given what they went through in the war.”
When Martha and Kitty stepped outside the mess hall, the main road through the camp was deserted. The occupants of the first five blockhouses were supposed to be lining up outside, but it seemed that everyone had vanished. The women went to blockhouse one and knocked on the door. There was no response. They knocked again. Eventually the door was opened a couple of inches. The leader peered out at them, a wary look on his face. Martha asked him why he and the others hadn’t come to the mess hall.
“Bo boimy si? Rosjan.” Because we’re frightened of the Russians.
It was the same story at the other blockhouses. The glimpse of Stefan’s uniform and the insignia on his car had confirmed their worst fears. In their minds, the US Army was hellbent on delivering them up to Stalin’s henchmen.
Stefan arrived at the camp half an hour later. He was driving the old Volkswagen, not the sleek Mercedes. The cap, boots, and jacket were missing, too.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said when Martha came to greet him. “I’ve come to tell them I’ve quit the army job. I don’t want them to hate me.”
When she told him what had happened, he looked relieved. “I will go back to the army and tell them the DPs refused to show me their papers. Then I will leave.” Seeing the look on her face, he took her hands in his. “Don’t worry. I can find a new job.”
She watched him walk toward the blockhouses. She felt proud of his courage—but fearful for the future. Winter was just weeks away. How would he and the girls get through it if there was no money coming in? The only other job he was likely to get was farm work, and there was precious little of that available at this time of year.
She trudged back to the office with a heavy heart. Kitty had coffee ready for her. She listened in thoughtful silence as Martha told her what Stefan had said.
“Why don’t you offer him a job here?” Kitty raised her mug to her lips.
“Here?”
“Why not? He could do my job when I leave. UNRRA haven’t offered a replacement yet, have they?”
“Well, no but . . .” Martha frowned. “I couldn’t, could I? What would the army say?”
“There’s nothing in the rules about employing an ex-DP—just that they can’t live here.”
Martha considered this, her mug of coffee suspended halfway between the desk and her mouth. “But how would I pay him?”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.” Kitty cocked her head to one side. “What about cigarettes? We’ve never taken our ration, have we? Between the three of us, we’re probably owed hundreds of packs.”
Martha’s eyes widened. “You mean he’d get his wages by selling them on the black market?”
“He’d probably have to do it somewhere other than here,” Kitty said. “He could drive to Fürstenfeldbruck, or some other town, couldn’t he?”
“I suppose he could.” Martha stared into her mug. It was a wild idea. The major would probably burst a blood vessel if he found out. But it was within the rules. She and Kitty and Delphine were entitled to those cigarettes. What they chose to do with them was no one else’s business.
Martha had anticipated a standoff with Major McMahon over the DPs’ refusal to register with the national screening program and Stefan’s decision to quit his job. But when he called her the following day, it was for a different reason.
“Operation Carrot is off,” he informed her gruffly. “No more food incentives.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Too many Poles cheating on us. They get to the border, pick up their rations, then jump off the train. They sell the food and sneak back to Germany like stray cats.”
Martha closed her eyes, a surge of relief rising from her stomach. “So, what happens to our DPs now?”
“We wait. There are some hopeful signs. Belgium and Britain need men to work in their mines. Canada, too. Nothing official yet, but by spring there should be some movement.”
When she put the phone down, Martha had to go and open the window. It was late October and only five degrees outside, but she felt faint and a little dizzy. After all these months of anguish—trying to cajole the DPs into returning to a place that held little hope of a good life—the pressure was suddenly off. Working in the mines didn’t sound like a picnic, but it was something. And the countries the major had mentioned were far from the iron curtain creaking ominously over Eastern Europe. With luck, this talk of a need for miners would be just the start. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long before nurses, tailors, builders, and carpenters were invited as well.