Be patient. She heard her mother’s voice—words she’d spoken so often when the two of them had been sewing together in the workroom at the back of the shop. Kitty had struggled with stitching silk; she’d never really believed she could be as proficient as her mother. For Kitty, drawing the clothes, coming up with new creations, had been the attraction of the business. Her mother had told her she should go to college to study textile design. That poor dream had ended the day she’d left Austria. What would her mother have made of her toiling over a machine in the factory in Manchester, her fingers coarsened from the daily grind of fashioning clothes for men to fight in?
“Where are you, Mama?” she whispered. The slap of water on stones was the only reply.
Listening to all those people in the office asking for help to find loved ones had left her feeling raw. She’d wanted to tell them she felt their pain, that she would do whatever it took to help, that every time a new list arrived she would be scouring the names as eagerly as them. But she had kept silent. Because revealing that pain would be like taking a bandage off an open wound.
Walking on, she passed the giant mill wheel that had once powered the looms. It was still now, the water splashing over the paddles, some of which had been smashed, like the windows of the weaving shed. Ahead of her was a thicket of trees: the start of the forest that surrounded the camp. The little chapel was in a clearing a few yards from the path. It was built of wood, painted white, with a metal cross mounted on the roof. As Kitty drew closer she could hear a low, rhythmic chanting.
The door was ajar. Through the gap she saw a gray-haired man in a white robe overlaid with a shimmering pale green garment edged with silver braid. He was kneeling in front of a table covered with an embroidered cloth that reminded Kitty of the linen her mother had kept for special occasions—part of the trousseau she’d brought from Poland for her marriage.
On the table were three objects: the largest, in the center, was a wooden cross with a sculpted figure of the crucified Jesus. To the right was a picture of a woman with a crown and to the left was a silver bowl. On either side of the table, in blue enamel jugs, was a profusion of wildflowers: purple foxgloves, oxeye daisies, honeysuckle, and forget-me-nots.
Kitty had never been inside a church. As a child she’d watched the Easter processions across the square outside Saint Stephen’s Cathedral, fascinated by the opulent outfits worn by the Christian holy men and the intricately embroidered symbols that embellished them. Her mother had told her that real gold was woven into the thread.
As the priest made the sign of the cross, the braid on his sleeve glinted in a beam of sunlight. The garment was pristine, expensive looking—in stark contrast to the drab secondhand clothing everyone else seemed to be wearing. Kitty wondered where the fabric to make such a thing had come from.
He rose from his knees, reaching for the edge of the table for support, when a young woman came out of the shadows to the left of the altar. In her arms was a sleeping baby.
The priest took the child from the woman. He dipped his hand into the silver bowl. An arc of droplets flew into the air as he withdrew it. Then he touched the baby’s head, sweeping his fingers back and forth. To Kitty’s surprise, the baby remained silent throughout the ritual. It was only when the priest handed the child back that it let out a wail.
The woman put her finger in its mouth and began to rock back and forth. Angling her body away from the altar table, she caught sight of Kitty. The look in her eyes changed to one of absolute dread, and she backed away, clutching the baby to her chest.
“Prosz?, nie bój si?.” Please don’t be afraid. Kitty took a step forward. She pointed to the patch on her arm.
The priest turned to the woman, saying something Kitty didn’t catch. The woman glanced at Kitty, still fearful, then back at him. The priest came toward Kitty, limping slightly as he closed the distance between them. His face was tight with emotion, as if he was struggling not to break down.
“Przysz?a? zabra? dziecko?”
She shook her head, horrified. He was asking her if she’d come to take the baby away.
There was a small room behind the altar, accessed by a near-invisible door in the wooden wall. In one corner was a pile of sacks with a blanket laid on top.
“That’s where she’s been sleeping.” The priest was speaking in English now. His whole demeanor had changed when Kitty had explained who she was and why she’d come to the chapel.
“She’s been hiding?” Kitty glanced back through the doorway at the woman, who was sitting on a chair, the baby at her breast.