“Ten? That can’t be, surely . . .”
“It’s hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. The Nazis were so desperate for workers to turn out their bombs and tanks and planes, they took children as slave labor. There are others in this camp—boys of fifteen, sixteen—who worked five years in German factories.”
“What about Wolf’s father? What happened to him?”
“The factory was bombed by the Allies. His father was killed. Wolf only survived because that day, he was too sick to work.” The priest shook his head. “It’s little short of a miracle that he made it to the end of the war.”
Wolf was busying himself at the other end of the ward, oblivious of what Father Josef was telling her. The thought of him heading off this morning to pick roses for her brought a lump to her throat. She had wanted to hug him when he’d presented them to her. Now, more than ever, she felt like gathering him up in her arms.
“Madame Fabius!” It was the doctor’s voice, loud and urgent, calling her from the room next door.
With a murmured apology to the priest, Delphine hurried to the male ward. A young man was flailing about, half in, half out of the bed. Dr. Jankaukas had a syringe in his hand and was trying to restrain him.
“Il délire,” the doctor said, as Delphine ran to his aid.
This patient had been admitted the previous day with a head injury caused by an accident in the forest. It was no surprise that he had become delirious. “Maintenez-le,” she said. “Donnez-moi la seringue.” You hold him down. Give me the syringe.
Moments later the man lay still. His eyes remained open, but the frantic, frightened look had disappeared. He cast a puzzled glance at Dr. Jankaukas, then at Delphine, as if he couldn’t work out who they were or why they were standing by his bed.
The doctor asked her to stay with the patient until the drug took full effect. Delphine reached for the patient’s hand, stroking it gently. Watching his face, she saw the eyelids begin to droop. He wasn’t very old—barely into his twenties, she guessed. She wondered what the past few years of war had been like for him, what his life had been like before he was taken from his homeland. There was no tattoo on his forearm. Perhaps he had labored here at Seidenmühle before the place had been liberated. Or maybe, like Wolf, he had survived some other death factory.
As he began to lose consciousness, he murmured a string of words. She had no idea what he was saying. But the shapes his mouth made reminded her of Philippe, as a little boy, talking in his sleep. He’d done it often, usually when he dropped off before she’d finished reading him a story. She closed her eyes tight, willing the memory away. She mustn’t think of it, mustn’t let it in—not here.
The man suddenly gripped her hand tight. His face puckered, like someone about to burst into tears. Then he uttered a single word: “Mama!”
Martha was standing inside the stable block, staring up at a large hole in the roof.
“How did that happen?”
“A tree fell on it,” Stefan replied. “They didn’t see it until they started to clear the place out.” He pointed to the pile of straw lying on the floor. Part of the building had been used as a hayloft, and when the men had gone to pull it down, the damage to the roof had been revealed.
Martha followed Stefan outside. The stables had been built right on the edge of the forest. The fallen pine wasn’t visible until they went around the back, into the trees.
“Can they move it?” Martha craned her neck. It was impossible to see how far across the roof the tree had fallen.
“With rope, I think, yes,” he replied.
“What about the hole? Can they fix it?” It was an old building, constructed long before the blockhouses. The roof was covered in so much moss that it was hard to tell what lay beneath.
“If we get tiles,” Stefan replied. “They are very old, made of clay.”
Martha raked her hair with her fingers. The sick feeling of panic—never far away since she’d taken charge of Seidenmühle—churned her stomach. The new DPs were due in a matter of days. How on earth was she going to get hold of replacement tiles in time to make the place fit to sleep in?
“There is an old house.” He cocked his head to where the trees grew closer together. “No one lives there now. We can take some tiles. I will show you.”
He led her through the forest. There was no path, but he seemed sure of the way. The trees formed a canopy above their heads, blocking out the sun. The only sound was the crunch of their feet on the carpet of pine needles. There was no rustling in the branches, no birdsong. Martha wondered if all the wild creatures had been driven away by the tanks that had rampaged through this place. The lack of life gave it a creepy feel. It occurred to her that she had followed Stefan unquestioningly, had put her trust in him, despite having known him for only a short period of time.