“How on earth did you come across Josie Miller’s mother?” he demands, folding his arms over his chest.
“My father…” I can’t tell him about Theo’s role in all of this. I clear my throat and say, “Dad and Josie were posted together on a mission in France and he knew her real name. I…ah…came across her birth certificate, and it had her mother’s name on it.”
“Miss Ainsworth, I can’t tell if you’re being disingenuous or if you really do fail to appreciate how unlikely this is.”
“Unlikely?”
“There was a concerted effort to locate Josie Miller’s mother in the late ’40s,” he says stiffly. “I believe another attempt was made in the ’50s. No one has ever been able to track her down.”
“Her name is Dr. Drusilla Sallow,” I say. “She lives here in Manchester.”
“Here in Manchester!” he repeats incredulously. He reaches for a notepad and pen, scribbles something down, then looks up at me. “Sallow, you say? Not Miller?”
“Her maiden name,” I croak uncertainly. “He—I mean, I couldn’t find Drusilla Miller and Dad told me Jocelyn’s parents had a particularly acrimonious divorce, so…er…so I wondered if Drusilla would have gone back to her maiden name. It was right there on her birth certificate.”
“You found her, did you?” Read’s gaze is piercing. “Alone?”
“Theo helped,” I mutter. I don’t want to get him in any more trouble, but the professor has clearly seen right through me anyway. I try to wrestle the conversation back on track. “None of that matters anyway, Professor Read. I’m only here because Dr. Sallow says that her daughter was executed in Paris in 1944 after making a mistake of some kind in the field. It’s just my dad thinks so highly of her, you know? And maybe Josie did make an innocent mistake—but her poor mother to this day thinks she was incompetent or something and… I just wondered…if there’s been a mix-up, perhaps you could help Dr. Sallow find out the truth.” I trail off helplessly. Professor Read has leaned back in his chair now and is staring at me in slack-jawed disbelief. After a moment, he reaches for the phone and dials a number from heart.
“Helen,” he says. “You need to come to my office. Now.”
C H A P T E R 28
ELOISE
Strasbourg, Germany
October, 1944
The train stopped at Strasbourg, and we were led up into the back of another covered truck. Once we were seated, a guard climbed up to lock our handcuffs to a chain attached to the floor. He climbed back down and this time, left the back open.
The truck began to move, making its way through Strasbourg then along a country road. Wendy and Mary and I chatted about what might come next as we watched the scenery through the back of the truck becoming more and more open. I was feeling hopeful, and it was evident they were too, as we imagined working in green fields with crops just like the ones we could now see, fantasizing about the possibility of more fresh food, but beside me, Josie was silent.
“You’re awfully quiet,” I murmured to her.
“Just tired,” she said, but her smile was wan.
“Did the breakfast not sit well with you…” I said carefully, nodding toward her stomach. She shook her head and forced another thin smile.
“It was utterly delicious. And I’m fine.”
It was a long, winding journey, and the truck began to climb along the mountain roads. The scent of pine filled the air as it grew cooler, the expanse of the mountains stretching out beyond and around us. Every now and again, I could see the stonework of an old castle, occasionally the boundary walls of an old monastery or the steeple of a church.
“It’s so beautiful up here,” I whispered.
Beside me, Josie nodded and said softly, “Imagine how beautiful it would be if it were free.”
Something was weighing on her, but it was clear she wasn’t ready to discuss it. I wondered if she was feeling uncertain about speaking freely in front of Wendy and Mary, and hoped we’d be lucky enough to find ourselves housed together again so we could talk alone later that night. The truck continued through dense forests, then through beautiful villages scattered with well-loved houses, their window boxes in full bloom with flowers, the curtains open. Every now and again I’d see people walking down the street in their wooden clogs, carrying baskets to market or walking hand-in-hand with their children.
Hughie. I had no way to know who the woman I saw in the park that day really was now that I knew I could not trust Turner. All I could do was to trust the kindness in her eyes as she looked at my son, and to hope and pray that wherever he really was, he was loved, and that I would one day have the chance to straighten it all out and to explain to him how our great big mess came to pass.
When the truck finally came to a stop, a guard came around and unlocked us, releasing both the chain and the handcuffs that locked me to Josie the whole trip. We’d been so well treated on the journey that I was hopeful the worst of it was over, that wherever we’d be staying would be somewhere more pleasant. But as I climbed down from the truck and looked around, my breath caught in my throat.
“We take to Kommandant,” the guard said in stilted English, and he motioned with the rifle slung from his shoulder for us to move forward. Josie reached for my hand and squeezed it. I looked at her in shock.
“This isn’t a work farm,” I whispered.
“Perhaps a stop along the way,” Wendy offered uneasily.
There was little color in the scene before me—just endlessly eerie shades of gray and white and black. Masses of men stood watching us in their striped uniforms. Their faces were gaunt and their eyes were hollow, their heads invariably shaved close. They were standing around an expansive yard that was entirely devoid of grass, just exposed pale dirt as far as the eye could see. I could not spot a single female prisoner. Beyond the men, in the near distance, were rows of wooden huts built on tiers, surrounded by guard towers. Beyond that, high fences topped with rows of razor wire.
“Quickly to inside,” the guard snapped, pointing his rifle at us as he hurried us toward the entrance to an office. “No looking!” he shouted at the prisoners, swinging the rifle wildly around. The men quickly turned away from us, but as soon as the guard’s attention was elsewhere, some turned back again.
Why had Hertha made us dress so well if they were only going to imprison us with these men? I thought about the food on the train and even the small mercy of leaving the back of the truck open so we could have fresh air and watch the scenery as we traveled from Strasbourg. My heart rate slowed as I considered the kindness we’d been shown along the way. Surely, all of that meant something.
We waited in an office for some time, two SS guards seated beside us, barking at us to keep quiet whenever we talked. A woman, possibly a secretary, brought us water at one point, and later the guards took us to use a bathroom. Then officials arrived, in all manner of German uniforms, high-ranking officials from the Wehrmacht and the SD and the SS. These men were led past us, down a hallway until they were out of sight.
Finally, the secretary returned, and motioned for us to follow.