CHAPTER 11
Delphine monitored Jadzia carefully for the next forty-eight hours. On the second morning, she found her sitting on the bed, fully dressed and with her hair tied back. She was eating the Red Cross–issue chocolate that had been distributed with last night’s evening meal. She hardly spoke during the examination, other than to decline the sleeping pill Delphine offered. There was a strange sort of calm about her. Perhaps now the truth about Frank had sunk in, and she’d found an inner strength to face the future.
With a nod to the blockhouse leader, Delphine set off on her next visit. The baby boy born in the back of the car was only days old, but his parents wanted him to be christened. The mother, Aleksandra, was still in the hospital, getting bed rest and treatment for anemia. Marek, her young man, was so shy that he lacked the confidence to approach Father Josef—especially as the pair were not married. As slave workers in Germany, Poles could only marry if their Nazi masters granted them a special permit. He’d told Dr. Jankaukas that he was afraid his little son might be refused baptism because he was born out of wedlock, so Delphine had offered to speak to the priest for them.
When she reached the blockhouse where Father Josef lived, she spotted Stefan coming through the door.
“He is not here,” Stefan replied in answer to her question. “He went to the chapel—to prepare for Mass.”
Delphine had forgotten it was Sunday. Since coming to Seidenmühle, weekends had ceased to exist.
She’d walked past the chapel many times, but she’d never been inside. She hesitated on the threshold. The idea of entering a holy place—however humble—felt uncomfortable. The last time she had entered one had been the day she’d discovered that Claude and Philippe were never coming home.
She’d wandered into an empty church near the Hotel Lutetia. Half-blind from crying, she’d slumped down in one of the pews. Sitting with her eyes closed, breathing in the smell of wax polish and incense, she’d prayed for a sign. For something, anything, to let her know that they were still there. But there had been nothing in that hallowed building that spoke to her. Looking about her, she had an overwhelming feeling that the beauty of the architecture and the objects that adorned it were for the glory of man, not God. And the silence was unbearable. There was no comfort to be had in that place.
“Madame Fabius!” Father Josef must have spotted her loitering in the doorway. She hardly recognized him in his priest’s robes. He was standing at the far end of the chapel, beckoning her inside.
With a deep breath, she walked down the narrow aisle. It felt different from what she’d expected. The wooden walls gave off a warmth that had been sadly lacking in the Parisian church. And it smelled different. No beeswax here, nor incense. The single candle on the altar table gave off no discernible odor. There was a faint scent of something that reminded her of the florist’s shop on Avenue Foch that she used to visit before the war. She spotted the vases of wildflowers on either side of the altar: roses, like the ones Wolf had given her, and trailing swathes of honeysuckle.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.
“Don’t be.” He smiled. “It’s a pleasure to see you. You’re a little early, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh.” She looked at her feet, embarrassed that he’d thought she’d come for Mass. “I’m afraid I can’t stay; I have to get back to the hospital. There’s a woman there—one of the new arrivals—who would like her baby baptized.”
“Of course. I understand,” he said when she explained about the parents not being married. “Tell them I can marry them at the same time as I christen the baby, if that’s what they want.”
Delphine’s eyes were drawn to a crucifix on the table behind him. She had always thought it a gruesome aspect of the Catholic Church, to have an effigy of that broken body on display. In her opinion, the cross on its own was enough to convey the message. But suddenly she saw it in a new way, as if she were looking through the eyes of the DPs who would soon be arriving for Mass. It struck her that such an image would have a particular poignancy for people who had survived the horrors of Nazi labor camps.
“Kitty told me you were in Dachau.” The words came out unbidden. Something about this place had drawn them out of her.
“Yes, I was,” he replied.
“My husband died there. And my son.” It was as if someone had invaded her body, taken control of her mouth. The realization that she had uttered the words that she had feared letting out for so long made her feel faint.