Kitty nodded. She needed to do this alone.
The door of the apartment block was scruffy, its green paint peeling. But the building was otherwise unscathed. Kitty’s hand was shaking as she went to press the bell. She wished she hadn’t had to wear her gray UNRRA uniform, which made her look like a Nazi. She could only imagine what effect the sight of it would have on Clara when she opened the door.
At first, the ringing of the bell brought no response. Clara might not be there; she could be out at work, or off on some errand. If that were the case, Kitty would come back in the evening—no matter how difficult or dangerous that might be. But she tried again, just in case.
This time she heard footsteps coming along the hall and a child’s voice calling, “Mama!” Then a woman calling back, “Ich komme jetzt!” I’m coming now!
Clara looked different from the beautiful teenager Kitty remembered. She was pale and thin. There was no scarlet lipstick now. Clinging to her skirts was a little boy of about three years old. Clara’s eyes narrowed at the sight of Kitty. There was no flicker of recognition in them.
“Was willst du?” What do you want? Clara was staring at the UNRRA badge on Kitty’s cap.
“Ich bin es—Katya,” Kitty breathed. It’s me—Katya.
“Katya?” Clara’s hand went to her mouth. “Katya Blumenthal?” She looked as if she might faint from shock. The little boy began to wail. “Come,” she said in German. “Come upstairs.”
The little dark hall smelled of cigarette smoke. They went up winding stairs to a threadbare-looking room. A pair of men’s boots sat on a sheet of newspaper on top of a table, a crumpled cloth, smeared black, beside them. At the other end of the table was a sewing machine. In a corner of the room, an old woman sat knitting. The little boy ran to climb on her lap. As she turned to set her needles aside, Kitty saw that it was Clara’s mother.
“Oh, Katya—we thought you were dead!” Clara clasped both of Kitty’s hands in hers. There were tears in her eyes. “How did you get back here? How did you find us?”
“I’m living in Germany now,” Kitty explained. “I work for the United Nations, in a refugee camp.” She paused, not wanting to embark on a lengthy explanation of how she’d tracked them down. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.” She searched Clara’s face. “Why did you think I was dead?”
“Your mother said the house in London where you were living had been bombed. The last letter she sent there was returned, marked ‘Undeliverable.’” Clara bit her lip. “She was sobbing her heart out when she showed it to me.”
“But I wasn’t there when the bomb fell—I wrote with my new address: to the apartment and to the shop.”
“They must have gone by then,” Clara whispered.
“Gone where?” Kitty could hear the blood pulsing inside her ears, like waves scouring the shore.
“I don’t know. They just disappeared. It was in 1940, September or October—I don’t remember the exact date. I think they had visas for China. But I don’t know if they got there.”
“China?” Kitty gazed back at her, incredulous.
“Do you remember Mrs. Ho? She used to come to the shop before the war. She said your mother was the best seamstress in Vienna.”
Kitty frowned, bewildered by the mention of the woman whose name had floated into her mind when Charlie had been telling her about his grandma. “Yes, I remember her. Mama used to take me to the embassy sometimes—when she was measuring Mrs. Ho for a new dress. I used to play with her little boy, Monto.”
“Well, a couple of years after you left, her husband helped a lot of Jewish people get out of Austria. He gave them visas when no one else would. Your mother waited in line for days on end outside the other embassies, but Britain, America, and Australia all refused them entry.” Clara glanced at her little boy, who was peeping at them over the edge of his grandmother’s shawl.
“I came down to the workroom one morning. The Nazis had closed the shop by that time, but I’d heard a noise and went down to investigate. Your mother was copying something from the ledger in which the accounts were kept. She told me she and your father were leaving Vienna, but she wouldn’t say where they were going, for fear of putting me and my mother at risk.”
“But you think they had visas for China?”
Clara nodded. “She was copying an address from a page of silk suppliers. I saw her underline it before she closed the book. And then she said that if, by some miracle, you were alive and sent a letter, I was to open the book and I would know where to send it on to.”