The Dressmaker of Dachau

‘Paris?’ Mrs B. had said, her voice rising like a klaxon. ‘Do your parents know?’

‘Of course,’ Ada had said. She had shrugged her shoulders and opened her hands. Of course.

‘But there’s going to be a war.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen,’ Ada said, though she’d heard the eerie moans of practice sirens along with everyone else, and watched the air-raid shelter being built in Kennington Park. ‘We don’t want war. Hitler doesn’t want war. The Russians don’t want war.’ That’s what Stanislaus said. He should know, shouldn’t he? Besides, what other chance would she have to get to Paris? Her father had a different view about the war but Ada didn’t care what he thought. He was even considering signing up for the ARP for defence. Defence, he repeated, just so Ada wouldn’t think he supported the imperialists’ war. He even listened now as her mother read aloud the latest leaflet. It is important to know how to put on your mask quickly and properly …

‘But they’re going to evacuate London,’ Mrs B. said. ‘The little kiddies. In a few days. It was on the wireless.’

Three of her younger brothers and sisters were going, all the way to Cornwall. Mum had done nothing but cry for days, and Dad had stalked the house with his head in his hands. Pah! Ada thought. This will blow over. Everyone was so pessimistic. Miserable. They’d be back soon enough. Why should she let this spoil her chances? Paris. Mum would come round. She’d buy her something nice. Perfume. Proper perfume, in a bottle.

‘I’ll be back,’ Ada said. ‘Bright and early Tuesday morning.’ Engaged. She had been dreaming about the proposal. Stanislaus on one knee. Miss Vaughan, would you do me the honour of … ‘We’re only going for five days.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Mrs B. said. ‘Though if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. War’s coming any day now.’ She waved her hands at the large plate-glass windows of her shop, crisscrossed with tape to protect them if the glass shattered, and at the black-out blinds above.

‘And your fancy man,’ she added. ‘Which side will he be on?’

Ada hadn’t given that a thought. She’d assumed he was on their side. He lived here, after all. But if he spoke German, perhaps he’d fight with Germany, would leave her here and go back home. She’d follow him, of course. If they were to be married, she’d be loyal to him, stay by his side, no matter what.

‘Only in the last war,’ Mrs B. went on, ‘they locked the Germans up, the ones who were here.’

‘He’s not actually German,’ Ada said. ‘Just speaks it.’

‘And why’s he over here?’

Ada shrugged. ‘He likes it.’ She had never asked him. No more than she had asked what he did for a living. There was no need. He was a count. But if they locked him up, that wouldn’t be so bad. She could visit and he wouldn’t have to fight. He wouldn’t die and the war wouldn’t last forever.

‘Perhaps he’s a spy,’ Mrs B. said, ‘and you’re his cover.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Ada said, hoping her voice didn’t wobble, ‘all the more reason to enjoy myself.’

‘Well,’ Mrs B. said, ‘if you know what you’re doing …’ She paused and gave a twisted smile. ‘As a matter of fact, there are one or two places you might care to visit in Paris.’ She pulled out a piece of paper from the drawer in her desk and began to write.

Ada took the piece of paper, Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès.

‘I haven’t been to Paris for so long,’ she said. There was a wistfulness in her voice which Ada hadn’t heard before. ‘These places are mostly in Montmartre, on the Right bank.’ Stanislaus had talked about the Seine. ‘So be careful.’

Their hotel was on the Left bank, where the artists lived.

*

Charing Cross station was a heaving tangle of nervy women and grizzling children, cross old people, worried men checking their watches, bewildered young boys in uniforms. Territorial Army, Ada guessed, or reservists. Sailors and soldiers. The occasional ARP volunteer elbowed his way through the crowd, Keep to the left. People took them seriously now, Air Raid Precaution, as if they really did have a job to do. A train to Kent was announced and the shambles surged forward, a giant slug of humanity. Ada stood her ground, shoved back against the crowd, banged her suitcase against other people’s shins. Watch out, Miss. The frenzy of the scene matched her mood. What if he wasn’t there? What if she missed him? She realized that she had no way of contacting him. He didn’t have a telephone. He lived in Bayswater, but she didn’t know his address. A woman pushed past her with two children, a boy in grey short trousers and a white shirt, a girl in a yellow, smocked dress. In fact, Ada thought, she knew very little about Stanislaus. She didn’t even know how old he was. He was an only child, he’d told her. Both his parents were dead, as was his much-married aunt. She had no idea why he had come to England. Maybe he was a spy.

This was daft. She shouldn’t go. She hardly knew him. Her mother had warned her. White slave trade. Stick a pin in you so you fainted and woke up in a harem. And all these people. Soldiers. ARP. There really was going to be a war. Stanislaus was wrong. Maybe he was a spy. The enemy. She shouldn’t go.

She spotted him. He was leaning against a pillar in a navy blue blazer and white slacks, a leather grip at his feet. She took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her. She could turn round, go home. There was time.

But then he saw her, grinned, pushed himself forward, lifted his bag and swung it over his shoulder. A spy. A sharp prickle of heat crept up Ada’s neck. She watched as he wove his way towards her. It would be fine. Everything would be all right. He was a handsome man, despite his glasses. An honest man, anyone could see that. A man of means too. Nothing to worry about. Silly of her. His face was creased in a broad smile. He walked faster, pleased to see her. This, Paris, was happening to her, Ada Vaughan, of Theed Street, Lambeth, just by the Peabody buildings.

*

The Gare du Nord was full of the same sweating turmoil as Charing Cross, except the station was hotter and stuffier, and the crowds noisier and more unruly. Ada was transfixed. Why don’t they line up? Why do they shout? She was tired from the journey, too. She hadn’t slept the night before, and there wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Dover. The crossing had made her queasy and the view of the white cliffs receding into a faint stripe of land had unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. Worry hammered in her head. What if war did come? What if they were stuck here? She couldn’t ignore the scrolls of barbed wire on the beaches ready to snare and rip the enemy. The hungry seagulls hovering over the deserted pebbles and bundles of scabby tar waiting for their morsels of flesh. The battleships in the Channel. Destroyers, Stanislaus called them, hovering hulks of metal, grey as the water.

Then Stanislaus had given her a ring.

‘I hope it fits.’ He pushed it onto her third finger. A single band of gold. Not real gold, Ada could tell that straight away.

‘You’d better wear it,’ he said. This was not how she imagined he would propose, and this, she knew, was not a proposal. Her stomach churned and she leant over the side of the ship.

‘I’ve booked the room under Mr and Mrs von Lieben.’

‘The room?’ Her voice was weak.

‘Of course. What else did you think?’

She wasn’t that kind of a girl. Didn’t he know that? She wanted to save herself for their wedding night. He wouldn’t respect her otherwise. But she couldn’t run away. She had no money. He was paying for all of this, of course he’d expect something in return. Mrs B. had hinted as much.

Stanislaus was laughing. ‘What’s the matter?’

She leant over the side of the ship, hoping the breezes would sweep out the panic lodged inside her head like a cannon ball. She was not ready for this. She thought he was a gentleman. Those society women, they were all loose. That’s what her father always said. Stanislaus thought she was one of them. Didn’t he see it was all a sham? The way she dressed, the way she spoke. A sham, all of it. She took a deep breath, smarted as the salty air entered her lungs. Stanislaus placed his arm round her shoulders. Free spirit. He pulled her close, cupped her face in his hand, tilted it towards him, and kissed her.

Perhaps this was what it took, to become a woman.

*

The hotelier apologized. They were so busy, what with all these artists and musicians, refugees, you know how it is, Monsieur, Madame … The room was small. There were two single beds, with ruched covers. Two beds. What a relief. There was a bathroom next to the bedroom, with black and white tiles and a lavatory that flushed. The room had a small balcony that looked over Paris. Ada could see the Eiffel Tower.

By night, Paris was as dark as London. By day, the sun was hot and the sky clear. They wandered through the boulevards and squares and Ada tried not to pay attention to the sandbags or the noisy, nervous laughs from the pavement cafés, or the young soldiers in their tan uniforms and webbing. She fell in love with the city. She was already in love with Stanislaus. Ada Vaughan, here, in Paris, walking out with the likes of a foreign count.

He held her hand, or linked her arm in his, said to the world, my girl, said to her, ‘I’m the happiest man.’

‘And I’m the happiest woman.’

Breeze of a kiss. They slept in separate beds.

Left bank. Right bank. Montmartre. Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès. Ada caressed the silks against her cheek, embraced the soft charmeuse against her skin and left traces on velvet pile where she’d run her fingers over. Stanislaus bought her some moiré in a fresh, pale green which the monsieur had called chartreuse. That evening Ada crossed the length across her breasts, draped the silk round her legs and secured it with a bow at her waist. Her naked shoulder blades marked the angles of her frame and in the bathroom mirror she could see how the eye would be drawn along the length of her back and rest on the gentle curve of her hips.

‘That,’ Stanislaus said, ‘is genius.’ And ordered two brandy and chartreuse cocktails to celebrate.

Ada stared with hungry eyes at the Chanel atelier in the rue Cambon.

‘Bit of a rough diamond, she was,’ Stanislaus said. Sometimes his English was so good Ada forgot he was foreign. ‘Started in the gutter.’

He didn’t mean it unkindly, and the story Stanislaus told gave Ada heart. Poor girl made good, against the odds.

‘Mind you,’ Stanislaus winked, ‘she had a wealthy male admirer or two who set her up in business.’

Distinctive style. A signature, she thought, that’s the word. Like Chanel. A signature, something that would mark out the House of Vaughan. And help from an admirer, if that’s what it took too.