“It’s a Displaced Persons Center now,” he cut in. “Awful for them, but there’s no choice. Too many people with no place to go—and these camps lying empty. Just gotta make the best of it.”
Martha stared through the windshield, the trees and fields a blur of green. It was beyond awful. Like a sick joke. People punched senseless by war, forced to live in a place where thousands had been put to death. Please, God, don’t let me be going to a place like that. Even as the thought entered her mind, she realized how cowardly it sounded.
“Plenty of other places being used as well.” His voice was gentler now, as if he was trying to reassure her. “The army’s commandeered all kinds of joints—factories, Boy Scout camps—even a zoo up in Hamburg. Guess you’ll be . . .” He broke off, shading his eyes with his hand. “Ah! There’s the English Channel!”
She craned her neck to catch the glimmer of water on the horizon. The fields gave way to houses as the truck rattled downhill. Soon they were driving past yachts and fishing boats. Farther along the quayside, the bigger boats were anchored. She saw a man standing by a gangway holding up a sign with “UNRRA” handwritten in black letters.
The man beside her had the door open before the driver had cut the engine. He held it for her as they scrambled out. As they waited in line for their papers to be checked, Martha studied the people climbing the gangway. Only one was female. Martha was struck by how young she looked. Her glossy black hair, worn in a long braid, blew out behind her in the breeze. She was wearing bobby socks, and she took the steps two at a time, as if she couldn’t wait to get aboard. Could she be the daughter of one of the men boarding the boat? But the recruitment ad had said no dependents.
Half an hour later, Martha was up on deck. She covered her ears as the foghorn signaled their imminent departure, and gazed back toward the land they were leaving, at the town of Newhaven with its jumble of quaint houses, so very different from the skyscrapers and apartment blocks surrounding New York Harbor. She wished she’d had more time in England. Time to explore the countryside they’d sped through—and to see London. Maybe she’d have the chance to visit sometime in the future. The man in the truck had talked about traveling when he had time off, of going skiing in the mountains. But it was hard to square that idea with the images of Europe in the newsreels and the papers. Impossible to imagine taking any kind of vacation on a continent ravaged by war.
She felt the boat shudder as they began to move away from the quayside. When she could no longer make out the people and the buildings, she turned away from the rail and scanned her fellow passengers. There was no sign of the man she’d talked with in the truck, nor the woman she’d sat next to on the plane. The only person she recognized was the young girl she’d spotted on the gangway. She was standing alone at the bow of the boat, staring out to sea. There were knots of men in army uniform nearby, smoking and chatting. They were casting the odd sly glance at her.
“Hello again!” Martha turned to see the British man who’d checked her papers standing beside her. He was peering at her through thick horn-rimmed spectacles. In his hand was a clipboard. “I’m pairing people up for when we get to the other side,” he said. “You’re in the American zone: sector twenty-three.” He ran his finger down the list of names attached to the clipboard, then took off his glasses, shading his eyes against the sun as he scanned the passengers. “The young lady over there is in the same team.” He was looking at the girl with the long black braid. “I wonder if you’d mind introducing yourself?”
“Yes, of course.” Martha made her way toward the bow of the boat, one hand clutching her beret to stop the breeze from taking it. She dodged unsteadily past the groups of soldiers, avoiding their eyes. Some of them called out as she passed by, asking her name, offering cigarettes. She didn’t look back.
It wasn’t until she reached the girl that she realized how tall she was—probably not far short of six feet. Martha had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the noise of the engine. “Good morning!”
A pair of large gray eyes met Martha’s. They had a wariness and a hint of something else. Something feral. Like a wildcat about to lash out. Her lips were painted a bold shade of red that instantly dispelled the childlike image conjured by the hairstyle and the bobby socks. She held out her hand to the girl. “I’m Martha Radford. I’m told we’re going to be working together.”