“Yes, I know.” He grunted. “Have you been to a Polish wedding?”
She shook her head.
“You like to dance?”
“Well . . . yes. I suppose so.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced.
“You like vodka?” There was a smile in Stefan’s voice. “At a Polish wedding, there is plenty of dancing—and plenty of vodka.”
Martha didn’t want to ask where the vodka was likely to be coming from. She’d heard rumors that new stills had been made to replace the ones the army had confiscated. So far, she hadn’t done anything about it—given the circumstances, the DPs deserved whatever enjoyment they could get—but she worried about the consequences if they overdid the hooch. She didn’t want the GIs on guard duty going back to base with tales of wild behavior at the camp. No doubt Major McMahon would respond with a very heavy hand.
“Will you come to the party?” She tried to make it sound casual. But the truth was that she wanted him to come. She couldn’t shake the memory of the way he’d looked at her in the old house in the forest. Replaying it had become addictive. She knew she shouldn’t be thinking about him that way. But telling herself that didn’t seem to help.
He shrugged. “If they ask me. They will want people they know, people who came on the train with them.”
“You could come as my guest,” she said. “To translate for me,” she added, in case that sounded too forward.
When he didn’t reply, she glanced across at him. He was looking out the passenger window, at the trees whizzing by. She caught his face momentarily reflected in the glass. If she’d asked him to go and empty one of the cesspits, he couldn’t have looked more unhappy. Had she stirred up painful memories? She shouldn’t have pressed him like that. She wished she could think of some way of apologizing—but she sensed that anything she said would only make things worse.
Martha brought the car to a stop outside the gates of the army base. Stefan nodded to the soldier who emerged from the guardhouse. His mask was back on now—a poker face, revealing nothing. He hadn’t said if he would come to the wedding. Whatever memories the invitation had triggered had been locked away. She wondered if, like Kitty and Delphine, there would be a breaking point: a time when whatever he was holding inside would have to come out.
Kitty locked the office door when the last of the morning’s passes had been issued and made her way to the guardhouse. She wanted to get into the weaving shed to find some fabric suitable for making a wedding dress.
Sergeant Lewis was on duty at the guardhouse. His smile at the sight of her lit up his face. When she explained what she’d come for, and the reason why, he said it was a shame he’d be stuck in the guardhouse on the day of the wedding. “Take a picture,” he said. “I’d like to see what you’re planning to make.”
“I would—if I had a camera,” she replied.
“I’ve got one. You can borrow it if you like.” He said he’d drop it off at the office next time he was on duty.
As she took the keys from him, their fingers touched. It was only for a fraction of a second, but she felt the warmth of his skin. Walking away, she couldn’t help thinking of Fred, whose hands had been cold and clammy. The first time he had touched her, she had flinched at the feel of them. She’d struggled to overcome the disagreeable sensation, telling herself that all men’s hands must be like that when they got excited about touching a girl.
Once she was inside the weaving shed, she got to work. After poking around the dusty shelves, she noticed a roll of silvery material protruding from a high shelf. She looked around for a ladder. There was a contraption on wheels in the far corner—the sort of thing she’d seen in the lending library in Manchester. It took all her strength to push it over to the shelf where the silvery fabric lay. She tested the treads, hoping they weren’t rotten. When she’d convinced herself that the ladder was safe, she climbed up to inspect the roll she wanted. But she couldn’t shift it. It was wedged in, and she risked falling if she tugged too hard. She huffed out a breath, frustrated. She was going to have to fetch one of the men from the camp to help her. She hated the idea of asking for help from anyone. In England, her physical strength was the only thing that had given her the edge over the playground bullies. It was one of the few things she liked about herself.
“Miss Bloom!” The voice from outside almost made her lose her balance. She turned to see Sergeant Lewis silhouetted in the doorway. “Hope I didn’t startle you,” he said, as he walked toward the ladder. “I was just curious—never been inside this place.”