After a moment of silence, Sinaida got to her feet, gave a loud sniff, then took the baby from Magdalena’s arms and went inside.
“Please forgive her.” Magdalena spoke slowly, as if she’d forgotten how well Kitty understood Polish. “She can’t forget what the Nazis did to us.”
“I’m sorry—I . . . I didn’t know what to say to her. It’s . . .” Kitty trailed off. Magdalena’s words stung her eyes. She mustn’t cry. She swallowed hard. “You think there’ll be more trouble?”
Magdalena shook her head. “I talked with Anka. She told me that she doesn’t know who her baby’s father was. None of the women do. She said the Germans came to them night after night. All the men—with all the women.”
Kitty felt as if the tears in the corners of her eyes had frozen solid. Did men do that? She dropped her head, unable to look at Magdalena. This was far worse than any of them had guessed. Pain heaped on pain. “You told your mother that?” Her voice came out croaky and gruff, as though it belonged to someone else.
“Yes. She understands,” Magdalena replied. “She won’t make trouble now.”
Kitty poured herself a mug of coffee when she got back to the office. The lists were lying on the desk where she’d left them, but she needed something to revive her before she started poring over the names again.
Settling into the chair, she picked up the one she’d been about to read when the phone call had interrupted her. To her surprise, there were three Blumenthals listed. But, once again, her hopes were raised only to be dashed when she ran her finger across to the columns giving the age and place of origin.
More than an hour later she slumped onto the desk, her head resting on her arms. She’d gone over all the lists from the Jewish camps—twice. And just in case, she’d also read through the names of every DP in all the other camps. Thousands and thousands of people, and not one that could possibly be her mother or her father.
After a while she made herself get up. It was a good thing it was a Saturday, she thought, and there was no one standing outside the office wanting a pass. It would have been humiliating if anyone had peered through the window and seen her like that. But just because there was no one outside didn’t mean she could hide away in here. The people in the camp would be as desperate to see the new lists as she had been. She must keep her promise and post them on the wall of the mess hall, then go around the blockhouses and spread the word.
To her surprise, there was already a crowd assembled when she arrived. Someone must have spotted the dispatch rider at the gates, she thought. When they saw what she was carrying, a hush fell. She was afraid they might press in on her and try to snatch the lists before she’d had the chance to get inside, but they kept a respectful distance. As she passed through the crowd, she spotted several of the blockhouse leaders. It was because of them, she guessed, that calm prevailed.
Only when she had pinned the last sheet of paper to the wall did the DPs come running in. Watching their eager, anxious faces as they scanned the lists was torture. She would rather have left them to it, but she realized that if anyone found the name of a relative, they would be desperate for help to contact them.
“Hello.” It was Father Josef. In the scramble of people, she hadn’t spotted him. “Nothing there for you?” He must have seen it in her face.
She shook her head.
“I wish I had better news.” He pulled out one of the rickety metal dining chairs and sat down beside her. “I didn’t want to say anything until I’d had the chance to speak to all of the Austrians in the camp.”
She stared at a greasy stain on the surface of the table, unable to meet his eye.
“There are only three from Vienna. One of them recognized the name of your parents’ shop, but he’d never been inside, and he didn’t know anyone who lived on that street. The others were from the outskirts of the city. They said they’d never had reason to go into the Jewish quarter.”
“Thank you for trying.” Her eyes were still fixed on the table.
“I’ve written to the bishop,” he went on. “I haven’t had a reply yet; I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”
Kitty nodded. “You’re very kind. But . . .” She couldn’t put it into words. If she tried, she feared she would lose control of herself. Seeing the lists, allowing herself to hope—how long could she go on doing this to herself? Wouldn’t it have been less painful if she’d listened to Fred that night in the theater in Manchester? Faced up to the fact that she was an orphan?