“How far is it from here?”
“I’m not sure. But there are other ways of getting information. The Red Cross . . .”
“Yes. I know about the lists.”
“I think they’re the best way of tracing missing relatives,” he said. “There are more than twenty Jewish DP camps in Germany alone, and I don’t know how many others in Austria. Think how long it would take to visit them all, to talk to everyone.”
Kitty sucked in a breath. Her instinct was to get up and run all the way to Feldafing, however far it was. But she had no solid reason for thinking that her parents had been in Dachau. They could have been taken anywhere. There was no arguing with the sense of the priest’s advice. “There are new lists coming soon,” she said.
He nodded. “If you’d like me to, I can write to the bishop of Vienna. There’s sure to be a way of finding someone in the city who could help you.”
“Thank you.” She dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief. The relief was overwhelming: finally, someone was going to help her.
He swallowed what remained of his coffee. “And I’ll talk to the Austrians in the camp, find out if anyone knew your parents. Don’t worry, I won’t let on that it’s you. Just make a note for me of the details you can remember: the location of the shop, what the business was called, the names of any employees, any close friends.” He stood up, holding on to the table for support. “And please, Kitty, come and find me if you want to talk.”
It was late afternoon when Martha returned from her drive. She’d seen the village upriver whose elegant castle was pockmarked from shell fire. In the ruins of what had once been a market hall, cages of live rabbits were on sale next to a stall piled with baskets of black cherries. She’d stopped to buy some of the fruit before heading north to the town of Fürstenfeldbruck. Now she knew where the train station was located—and the mayor’s office, where she would need to go to meet the official representing the local farmers to negotiate food supplies for the coming weeks.
Stefan Dombrowski had been a great help throughout the journey. He was reserved and polite but conveyed a quiet sense of authority when answering her many questions about Germany. She couldn’t help comparing him to Arnie, who had been a terrible passenger in the days when they had owned a car: he’d only allowed her to drive when he was too drunk to do it himself—and if he wasn’t asleep, he’d be criticizing her for going too slowly, or not being aggressive enough to pass.
As she turned into the entrance to the camp, Major McMahon pulled up behind her. In the rearview mirror Martha saw him jump out of the jeep. She rolled down the window and he leaned in.
“This is Mr. Dombrowski,” she said in answer to the major’s raised eyebrow. “He’s helping with translation.”
The shrewd eyes narrowed. “I need a few minutes with you, Mrs. Radford. See you outside the warehouse in five.”
He followed them for a short distance, then veered off onto the track that led to the forest. When Martha reached the warehouse, she passed the car keys to Dombrowski. “Thank you for giving me the confidence to drive again,” she said.
With a nod he climbed out of the car and got into the seat she’d vacated. As he pulled away, she heard the jeep coming around the corner.
“Don’t look so worried.” Major McMahon gave her a broad smile as he walked toward her. “I just wanted to check what’s in the warehouse and talk you through the ordering process.” He paused, cocking his head to one side as he reached her. “Sergeant Lewis tells me things have been running pretty smoothly since you arrived.”
“Not exactly.” Martha took a breath, wondering where to begin. “We have a problem with accommodations. Every blockhouse is at full capacity. I keep hearing that more DPs are likely to arrive any day, and I don’t know where we can put them.” She tilted her head in the direction of the cabins. “I’ve already had to turn the place next door to ours into a mother-and-baby home for the women whose children were fathered by Germans.”
“You did what?” Major McMahon rolled his eyes. “Those Nazi mistresses don’t deserve any special treatment. You should have just turned them out of the hospital and let them get on with it.”
“I don’t imagine they had much choice about sleeping with the enemy.” Martha bristled. “What do you think would have happened to them if they’d turned a German down? They were hardly mistresses—not in the conventional sense—more likely they were victims of rape.”