CHAPTER 23
Major McMahon’s warning about the camp being cut off from the outside world had been no exaggeration. Four weeks after the first big dump, they were still snowed in. There could be no deliveries of food, and it was impossible to transport felled trees out of the forest for firewood. Martha thought the stocks they had built up over the past few months should just about see them through. But Christmas was coming. It would be the first one since the end of the war, and the DPs were keen to celebrate. Father Josef had told her that in Poland it was a three-day holiday—and there would be plenty of drinking and dancing.
In the week preceding Christmas, groups of people from each blockhouse ventured into the woods to collect greenery. If logging was impossible, cutting down branches was not. They returned with great bundles of fir, which they made into garlands and trimmed with clusters of holly berries and all manner of man-made objects—even using a few empty sardine cans. Martha didn’t realize what they were until she examined one up close and spotted “Rockport, Maine” written on the dangling metal.
One of the many strange things about this very different Christmas was not getting cards in the mail. There had been no mail delivery since the first big snowfall, but even if there had, Martha reflected, she was unlikely to have received many cards. Her cousins in New Orleans might have sent something. Certainly not Arnie, who remained as elusive as ever and was probably wishing her the worst possible Christmas. And Stefan . . . She wondered what sort of Christmas he would be having, whether people would even be allowed to celebrate it with Stalin’s henchmen lurking everywhere. Part of her was relieved that no mail was coming through. She would only have fretted about the lack of communication from him, conjured up half a dozen equally depressing scenarios to explain it.
On Christmas Day, Martha woke up almost two hours later than usual. She sat up, bleary eyed, wondering why the sunlight was shining into her eyes. The other beds were empty, and she could hear her roommates moving around downstairs. She groaned as she put one foot on the floor. Clearly, they could hold their drink better than her. Father Josef had been right about the celebrations: the party had started soon after midday on Christmas Eve and gone late into the night.
In the kitchen, Delphine was cutting up onions. The acrid smell filled the room.
“Merry Christmas,” Martha mumbled. “What are you making?”
“Onion soup.” Delphine looked up, smiling. “It’s a traditional French hangover cure. We always used to have it on Christmas morning.”
Martha wasn’t sure she could face eating anything—let alone onion soup.
“Merry Christmas!” Kitty came into the room, a mug of coffee in her hand.
“You look nice,” Martha said. “Is that the dress the sewing ladies made from those sketches you did?”
Kitty nodded. “It turned out better than I thought. I wasn’t sure whether the material would drape properly—but it looks okay, doesn’t it?”
“It’s more than okay,” Martha said. “You look like you’ve stepped off the pages of Vogue.”
“You don’t think it’s too much?” Kitty glanced down at the scarlet fabric.
Delphine shook her head. “It’s Christmas! And that color really suits you.”
“And everyone’s going to be dressed up today,” Martha added. “I saw some of the costumes hanging up in the blockhouses. Goodness knows how they got hold of ribbons and hats and fancy vests—probably best not to ask.”
“Same with the alcohol,” Delphine said. “I don’t like to think where that’s come from—but there seems to be an endless supply of it.”
“I suppose I should have gone into that basement under blockhouse five.” Martha shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got stills down there. But it would feel so mean, taking them away. They deserve a good Christmas after what they’ve been through.”
“So long as it doesn’t put them in the hospital.” Delphine tossed a pile of onions into the pan on the gas ring. The hot fat hissed. “We don’t want anyone going blind.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” Kitty said. “Sergeant Lewis has a secret weapon: he came across two boxes of Scotch whisky in the warehouse.”
“What?” Martha gaped at her. “How did they get there?”
“The boxes were marked ‘Gherkins.’ He reckons they must have been delivered here by mistake when the army was in charge.”