The man on duty was closing the gates as she approached. A cloud of dust billowed around him, thrown up by the wheels of a departing jeep.
“Good morning!” He smiled when he saw her. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“Sergeant Lewis?” She recognized his voice from the conversations they’d had on the phone. She was surprised by how tall he was. Most of the men in the camp were several inches shorter than herself. She’d formed a mental image of him when they’d talked, but he was not at all how she’d imagined him. He looked different from the GIs she’d encountered in England and on the boat to France. His eyes reminded her of people she’d glimpsed from the bus on her way to the factory in Manchester, in the part of the city they called Chinatown.
“And you’re Miss Bloom, right?” he said.
“Yes.” She smiled back. “I’ve come to ask a favor.” She explained about the key.
“There’s a bunch on top of the cupboard in there,” he said. “I don’t know what they’re for—never had to use them. Guess it could be one of those.”
“Can I take them all?”
“Sure. I hope the place is safe to go into. I’d offer to come and help you, but . . .” He trailed off, cocking his head at the gates.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
He went inside the guardhouse and came back with a set of keys of assorted shapes and sizes attached to a rusty metal ring. “Forgive me for asking,” he said, as he handed them over. “Are you English?”
“Why do you ask?” She tried to make it sound casual. But her antennae were up. She wondered if Father Josef had broken his word to her, had said something to the sergeant.
“Just curious. I figured you’re not American, but I’m not very good with accents. And I’ve heard you speaking German.”
“You have?”
“When I put through that call from the Red Cross.”
“Ah.” She wondered how long he’d stayed on the line, listening in. “Do you speak German?”
“Only a few words. But you’re fluent, aren’t you?”
“Not really. I learnt it at school, that’s all.” She weighed the bunch of keys in her hand. “I’d better find out if any of these will work. I’ll bring them back when I’m done.” She headed down the path that led to the river, glad to have gotten away without having to tell the man an outright lie. Hopefully, by the time she returned, he’d have forgotten asking her if she was English.
When she reached the weaving shed, she saw immediately that only one of the keys in the bunch was likely to fit the hole in the door. It took some effort to turn the lock, but soon she was inside, standing in a beam of dancing dust motes. The enormous looms looked as if they’d been abandoned in great haste: half-finished sheets of artificial silk still adorned them, the fabric frayed in places where mice or squirrels had nibbled at it. On the workbenches that ran along two sides of the shed were the spools of thread Kitty had come looking for. She picked one up and blew the dust off it. The color was still bright: a vivid scarlet. Further inspection revealed greens, blues, and yellows. And in a basket, she found half a dozen pairs of scissors wrapped in oilcloth.
As she was locking the door, she heard the sound of an engine above the murmur of the river. It wasn’t until she got farther along the path that she realized it was a motorbike. The driver was passing something to Sergeant Lewis through the metal bars of the gate. She glimpsed an armband with a red cross on it.
“For you,” the sergeant said, holding out the thick envelope as she handed back the bunch of keys.
“Oh?” The words “Tracing Service” stamped on the front set off a pulse of excitement. “Thank you.”
This was what she’d been waiting for: the updated lists from all the DP camps. It was all she could do not to break into a run as she turned away.
As soon as Kitty reached the office, she prized open the envelope and spread out the contents on the desk. There were dozens of typed sheets, each bearing the name of one of the various camps in the zones the Allies now occupied. The lists contained details of new arrivals in the month of June. As well as last names and initials, the age of a person was recorded and their place of origin.
A quick scan revealed those with Jewish names. She separated them from the rest, then sat down to study each one carefully. Her heart leapt when, near the bottom of the second sheet, she spotted a Blumenthal. The person was female—and the initial was right, too: E. The place of origin was Poland, not Austria. Could it mean the place where someone was born rather than where they’d been living at the start of the war?