At the dinner table that evening, Delphine told Martha and Kitty what she’d discovered when she’d helped Jadzia remove her coat back at the blockhouse.
“She’s about seven or eight months pregnant. I’ll need to do a proper examination to know exactly how far on she is; she was too distressed for that this afternoon.”
Kitty blew out a breath. “If it’s not the goddam Nazis fathering babies on these women, it’s the GIs. I wonder if he ever intended to marry her? Pretty cowardly, getting his friend to send that note—and hard to believe he wouldn’t have had the chance to write to her himself.”
“I wonder if the major could do something to help her when he gets back,” Martha said. “There’s been a lot of talk in the US newspapers about getting foreign wives of servicemen over to the States. If Jadzia’s boyfriend was serious about marrying her, it might be possible to get her on a boat.”
The talk turned to the women who had moved in next door. Martha asked Delphine if she’d discovered who was responsible for trying to sell Bo?ena’s baby on the black market.
“She won’t say,” Delphine replied. “Father Josef tried to find out, but she’s too afraid to name the man.”
Martha pushed her plate away. They’d been living in the camp less than forty-eight hours, but the list of what needed tackling seemed insurmountable. And she hadn’t even started on the urgent tasks—like checking how much food there was in the warehouse and working out how much more would be needed to see them through the winter. The major had warned them not to allow the personal tragedies they would encounter to engulf them. But it was impossible to wave away what had happened to Bo?ena and Jadzia. These women were going to need far more than food and shelter to rebuild their lives.
“You look worn out.” Delphine was on her feet. “I think we all deserve a little treat.” She went upstairs and returned with a bottle, which she set down on the table.
“What is it?” Martha peered at the label.
“The best cognac.” Delphine smiled. “Rémy Martin—Louis XIII, 1938. One of the few things I brought with me from Paris.” She fetched three glasses and trickled a little of the golden-brown liquid into each one. “Santé,” she said.
“Bottoms up!” Kitty smiled as she raised her glass. “It’s what they say in Britain, goodness knows why.”
“Cheers!” Martha held up her glass, but she didn’t lift it to her mouth when the others did.
“Oh, don’t you like it?” Delphine said.
“I . . .” Martha hesitated. “I do—I mean, I used to really enjoy a drink. But . . .” Should she tell them the truth? She was supposed to be in charge. Was it okay to reveal something so personal about herself?
“You’ve given up alcohol?” Delphine’s expression was a mixture of surprise and concern.
Martha shook her head. “I haven’t given it up—it’s just that the smell of spirits brings back bad memories. My husband’s an alcoholic. Drinking made him violent.” There. It was out.
“That must have been a nightmare,” Delphine murmured.
“Is that why you left New York?” Kitty asked. “To get away from him?”
“Partly,” Martha replied. “I really wanted this job. I didn’t tell Arnie about it. He would never have agreed to me going overseas. On the morning I was due to catch the plane, I just walked out while he was still asleep.” She cradled the glass in her hand, watching the liquid glint amber as it caught the light. “It was cowardly, I know. He has no idea where I am. I will write to him. But not yet.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad about it,” Delphine said. “No one would blame you for doing what you did.”
“I can’t help feeling guilty, though, because now he has nothing. He went off to fight in the war—really wanted to do his bit—but it all went wrong. He drank too much and ended up fighting someone on his own side.” Martha let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be going on about it.” She looked at the others. “I can’t imagine what the past few years must have been like for you, Delphine, living under Nazi rule—nor for you, Kitty, with all the bombing.”
Delphine took a sip of brandy. Martha saw that as she set down her glass, there was a slight tremble in her fingers. Kitty was staring at the table, her face tight, as if she couldn’t trust herself to speak.