“What did you threaten them with this time?” she asked when the new arrivals were safely settled in the mess hall, tucking into their first proper meal in days.
“Nothing bad,” he said, returning her wry smile. “I told them the new people have chocolate—and they will get some if they are patient.”
“Chocolate?” Martha stared at him. “But we don’t have any! What are they going to do when they find out you lied to them?”
“We do have it,” he replied. “The Red Cross came when you went to Fürstenfeldbruck. They had boxes with all kinds of things: fish, beef, ham—maybe five, six hundred tins—and many, many bars of chocolate.” He jerked his head toward the blockhouses. “But they don’t know what was in the boxes.”
“Thank you, God,” Martha murmured under her breath. This really was the answer to her prayers. By the sound of it, they now had more than enough protein to eke out the meat quota from the farmers, even with four hundred extra mouths to feed. She smiled at Stefan. “You’re a magician—did anyone ever tell you that?”
“Ma-ji-shen?” He repeated it slowly, as if trying the word on for size. “That is a good person, yes?”
“Can be good.”
“Also bad?”
“Could be. A magician makes people believe things. He has power.” As she said it, she sensed that, without realizing it, she’d stumbled upon the trait that most defined Stefan. He had a quiet power, a magnetism, that emerged whenever there was a crisis. In exercising it, he conjured up consequences that would scare or thrill his audience.
Like Arnie? It was Grandma Cecile’s voice that whispered back at her.
No, she thought. Not like him. But there was no denying the memories triggered by his name: the spell he’d cast on her when he’d walked into the diner on Frenchman Street where she’d waited tables, the way he’d made her laugh. In those early days, when she was grieving for her grandmother and all alone, he’d created a sparkling new world full of promise. Her mistake had been to believe in the illusion.
“You think I have power?” Stefan’s voice broke into her thoughts. His face had changed. The smile had given way to a blank, unfathomable expression. His eyes were the pale blue of a winter sky.
Martha and Kitty were exhausted by the time the new arrivals were settled in. As they headed along the path from the stables, they spotted Delphine hurrying toward them. Even though the light was fading, there was no mistaking the troubled look on her face.
“What is it?” Martha asked. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Jadzia. She knows about Frank being married.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. My guess is she’s been hanging around the guardhouse, asking every GI who comes in and out. I only found out because the leader of her blockhouse came running to the hospital. She said Jadzia had gone crazy. She was storming through the place, tearing down blankets, knocking over piles of suitcases. I’ve had to give her something to calm her down.”
Martha’s hand went to her forehead. “I hope to God she hasn’t hurt herself.”
“What about the baby?” Kitty said.
“Nothing’s happened—yet. Jadzia’s blood pressure is okay and the baby’s heartbeat is normal.”
“Well, that’s a blessing,” Martha breathed. She glanced at Kitty. “I’d like to have a word with the blockhouse leader, ask if someone can keep an eye on her. We’re going to have to work out how we can support her when the baby’s born.”
Kitty nodded. “Could she move into one of the cabins next to us? It might help if she was with other single mothers.”
“We could suggest that. It’d be a tight squeeze—although there’ll be more room if we can get Bo?ena and a couple of others transferred to a camp in the British zone.”
Number six was one of the all-female blockhouses. After a brief word with the leader, Martha and Kitty went to look in on Jadzia. She occupied an area no bigger than a cupboard, screened off by upturned boxes and a blanket. American paraphernalia was strung like a garland across the entrance: Hershey bar wrappers, gum packets, and empty Lucky Strike cartons. When Martha pushed the blanket aside, they saw Jadzia lying perfectly still on her straw-filled mattress.
“You wouldn’t believe it, would you,” Kitty whispered.
Martha shook her head. The tranquil expression on Jadzia’s sleeping face belied the frantic incident the blockhouse leader had described. And in a few weeks’ time, her baby would enter the world—yet another child born to a woman used by a man, then discarded. What kind of life could a baby have with a start like that? Could she and the others make any difference when the magnitude of the problem was so great? All they could do, when the baby came, was offer some sort of hope. But if what the major had said was true—if the Russians were tightening their grip on Poland and no other country would take the refugees—the future looked very distant and very uncertain.