“I will start the engine for you,” Dombrowski said. “You can drive around the camp. Then we will go on the road. Yes?”
She smiled as he climbed into the car, realizing that he would probably have been more than happy to drive it himself. But he had figured out how important it was going to be for her to get around the local area, and he wasn’t going to let her chicken out. When the engine chugged to life, he jumped out and stood aside for her to get behind the wheel. She could feel the warmth where his hands had been. It triggered an odd sensation, almost like a memory: something from long ago and far away, when she had still been in love with Arnie.
After breakfast, Delphine went to blockhouse number nineteen, where Wolf lived. Martha had told her what she’d seen when she’d visited the place. The younger orphaned children had been absorbed into family groups, with one or two adults caring for up to six boys and girls. But the older ones had formed a family of their own. Ranging in age from eleven to fourteen, they occupied their own section of the blockhouse and, from what Martha had found out, pretty much took care of themselves.
Delphine could see curls of smoke drifting across the roof of number nineteen. She wondered if the older children had to heat their own water for washing and bathing on the potbellied stove Martha had described. Wolf was a very capable boy—watching what he did in the hospital had filled her with admiration—but he was still a child. It pained her to think of him and the others having no one to provide the most basic home comforts.
The door to the place was open. Two girls, about the same age as Wolf, were sitting on the step, one braiding the other’s hair.
“Dzień dobry.” Delphine couldn’t remember any of the other phrases Kitty had given her. “Wolf?” She pointed through the doorway.
One of the girls said something back in Polish. She finished the braid, tied it with colored string, then jumped to her feet and disappeared inside.
Moments later Wolf appeared, grinning. Delphine couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or proud to have been summoned by the camp nurse. She thought his friends must know that he spent his days in the hospital. It had occurred to her that some of them might be interested in joining him. With no parents to prejudice them against the women in the maternity ward, they might be willing to work as auxiliary nurses. She could offer certificates for when they eventually left the camp, give them a better chance of employment. It was something she needed to talk over with Martha.
As they walked across to the hospital, Wolf pulled something out of his pocket. It was a faded black-and-white photograph of a man and a woman, very smartly dressed, the woman cradling a baby in her arms. Wolf pointed to the baby, then at himself.
Delphine nodded. “Mama and Papa?”
Wolf nodded back. His face betrayed no emotion.
“Dobrze.” It sounded pathetically inadequate, to say “good” in response to him showing her something so intensely personal. But she felt that to say nothing at all would have been worse. She longed to be able to ask him about his parents: to find out how old he had been when they had died and how he had survived the war without them. But she didn’t have the words. Fishing in her bag she pulled out the piece of paper Kitty had given her and scanned the phrases. There was just one that would serve. “Przykro mi,” she said. I am sorry.
Wolf said nothing in response. He peered at the list, a curious expression on his face. Following Kitty’s handwriting with his finger, he said: “I . . . am . . . a . . . nurse!” The way he pronounced the last word was quite comical—it sounded like “nursie”—but Delphine was impressed that he could read the English.
“Dobrze!” She patted him on the shoulder.
Wolf clapped his hands, triumphant. Then he tried another one: “Have . . . you . . . opened . . . your . . .” He turned to her, clearly perplexed by the word that followed.
“Bowels. Bow-els.” Delphine felt the corners of her mouth turning up. She mimed lowering herself onto a toilet seat and jabbed her thumb at her behind.
“Bowels,” he repeated. At which point they both burst out laughing.
By the time they reached the hospital, Delphine was wiping tears from her eyes. It seemed like years since she had laughed like this. How was it that this child, with whom she couldn’t even hold a conversation, had the ability to take her out of herself? She wanted to give him a hug, but she held back, remembering how reticent and self-conscious Philippe had been as an adolescent. Instead, she rummaged in her bag for a chunk of Bavarian smoked cheese, wrapped in waxed paper. It had been part of last night’s meal, but it had been too much for her, so she’d saved it to eat for lunch. She held it out to him.