“What was it like there?” Martha pulled out a chair and sat down beside her.
“It was grim,” Kitty replied. “The only people with full stomachs were the soldiers. Ordinary people have to stand in line for hours to get a loaf of bread. From what Clara told me, the black market there is much worse than what goes on here. I wanted to give her something as a thank-you, and she said a couple of packs of Lucky Strike would get her enough to feed the family for a week.”
“And they’re supposed to be the lucky ones,” Delphine said. “The ones who still have somewhere to call home.”
Kitty nodded. “Clara said she was just grateful that her family survived the war. I think she felt terribly guilty that she hadn’t been able to help my parents.”
“I’ll call the major in the morning,” Martha said. “Ask him about sending a wire from the base.”
Kitty nodded. “I’ve sent a letter, but it could take weeks to get there.” She stared at the solitary meatball floating in the bowl of soup. “I wish I knew if they really did make it to China. It seems . . .” She trailed off, unable to say the words that had been echoing around in her head since Clara had shown her the address in the notebook. It was such a long, long way. Was it possible to have successfully reached their destination when every country they traveled through was at war?
“I can only imagine how you must have felt, hearing that,” Martha said. “It must be torture, knowing that they got away, but not having any clue what happened after they left.”
“It is,” Kitty murmured. “And I can’t bear the thought that when they escaped from Vienna, they believed I was dead.” She took in a long breath. “I was terrified of going to find Clara. I was expecting her to tell me what I’d been dreading—that they’d been rounded up by the Nazis and never seen again. I thought that because they couldn’t get visas for Britain, they’d have been trapped in Austria. It never occurred to me that there might be some other place they could go.” She picked up her spoon and dipped it into the bowl, moving it around but not bringing it up to her mouth. “Before, when I was going through the Red Cross lists, finding nothing, Father Josef told me not to give up hope. I thought he was just trying to comfort me—that there was no real chance of them being alive.” She submerged the meatball in the watery soup and watched it pop up again. “I do have hope, now. But I’m almost as afraid as when I first came here. I guess I’m scared to allow myself that hope because the odds against them having survived seem so enormous.”
Martha and Delphine exchanged glances. There was nothing either of them could say that would not sound hollow.
“It’s good to have you back.” Delphine stood up. “We should drink to that. I think there’s a little of the cognac left.”
Kitty looked up. “We could have vodka. I bought a bottle in Poland. I’ll go and fetch it.”
When she disappeared upstairs, Delphine said: “Do you think there’s any chance of the army helping her?”
“I don’t know,” Martha replied. “I didn’t know what else to suggest. It could be months before the Red Cross starts putting lists together.”
“Found it!” Kitty called from the bedroom. She came down the stairs, holding it out for them to see the Polish writing on the label. “I nearly got arrested when I bought it.”
“What?” Martha glanced at her, perplexed.
Kitty told them about the incident with the Russian soldier. By the end of the story, Martha’s stomach was in knots. Kitty’s experience gave credence to the ugly rumors that had been circulating since the Russians had taken control of Poland. If this was how they treated an aid worker, what fate awaited men like Stefan if they stepped out of line?
The next day, it had stopped snowing, but the temperature had dropped below freezing in the night. Martha crunched her way to the office. The air smelled of woodsmoke. The potbellied stoves in the blockhouses were being stoked up. Thank goodness she had been forewarned about stockpiling logs for the winter. If the weather continued like this, the camp might be snowed in before Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving. After all these months in Germany, she was still thinking like an American. These people had probably never heard of it. She thought of Arnie. Would one of his drinking buddies invite him over for turkey and pumpkin pie? Or would he spend the holiday alone, with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s for company?
There had been no reply to the letters she’d sent. Either he didn’t care about getting a divorce, or he was no longer living at the apartment. The familiar pang of guilt went through her as she imagined him being unceremoniously evicted. But that might have happened even if she’d stayed. He wouldn’t let her get a job, and the work he’d been getting on construction sites after he came back from the war was sporadic. She’d had to pawn her winter coat to pay the rent the month before she left.