Page 33 of The Dressmaker's Gift
Tentatively, she ran the tip of her tongue over her cracked and swollen lips, and winced. She began to shiver then, uncontrollably.
Her woollen stockings were tangled in a heap beside her and she slowly sat up and began to pull them on over her bloodied feet for warmth. What day was it? How many hours had passed? Where was Vivi and what had they done to her? Her head swam and she lay back down on the floor, curling her bruised and battered body into a ball and tucking her hands into her chest so that they could absorb the faint warmth of her breath. ‘I am Claire Meynardier,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Vivienne Giscard is my friend.’
It was the woman in the grey uniform who opened the door. She looked at Claire without emotion. ‘Get up and put on your shoes,’ she said. ‘It’s time to go.’
Claire didn’t move, unable to uncurl her aching limbs from the small core of warmth she’d created. Her hands were pressed against her heart and she felt the blood pulsing faintly through her body.
The woman nudged her with the toe of her shoe. ‘Get up,’ she repeated. ‘Or do I have to go and get the men to put you back on your feet?’
Slowly, painfully, Claire sat up then. The woman pushed her shoes towards her and Claire put them on, gasping at the flashes of searing pain as she forced them on to her swollen feet. She couldn’t tie the laces, but they were on, at least. She managed to pull herself up using the chair and then shuffled forwards, following the woman to the door.
Each downwards step on the stairs sent more pain stabbing through her feet and up into her calves, but she gripped the handrail and hobbled on, determined not to cry out. At last they reached the ground floor and the woman gestured to her to take a seat on a hard, wooden bench against one wall. Thankfully, she lowered herself on to it. ‘May I have some water?’ she asked.
Wordlessly, the woman brought her a tin mug and Claire took a few sips, moistening her mouth and washing away the iron taste of blood. Plucking up courage at being granted this small request, Claire said, ‘My bag of clothes? May I have it back?’ But the woman just shrugged and turned away.
As she sat and waited for whatever was to happen next, she heard two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs. The men carried a stretcher between them and it took Claire a few moments to realise that the huddled bundle of wet rags that lay on it covered a person. And it was only when she saw the tumble of copper hair hanging over the side of the stretcher that she realised who that person was.
Harriet
Outside the building where my grandmother was so brutally tortured, once I’ve stopped crying – enough to be able to gather my thoughts, at least – I turn away from Thierry and I start to walk. All I know is that I need to be anywhere other than here. How can I ever see the world as a good and kind place to be when I know what obscene cruelty humanity is capable of?
As my feet carry me onwards, the sudden wail of a police siren makes the traffic scatter and a sickening scream of pain and anger fills my head with white noise, blotting out everything else. Without thinking, I begin to run, wildly, panicking. I can hardly see, can’t think, can’t make sense of my surroundings. Flickering blue lights engulf me and I feel them burning like flames. Stumbling, I blunder off the edge of the pavement and hear a shout, the screeching of car tyres, a blaring horn.
And then Thierry catches me and pulls me back to the safety of the pavement, holding me up as my legs threaten to give way beneath me.
Taking juddering breaths, I look into his face and I see fear written there behind the bewilderment. His eyes are searching mine, asking,Who is this crazy woman? Why would anyone run into the traffic like that? She is unbalanced, hysterical.
I can see it in his uncertainty, feel it in the way his touch has become tentative now, not solid and reassuring like it was before.
I’ve ruined it. I’ve proven to myself what I’ve always feared, that I am too damaged to be loved. I’m not strong enough for this. Perhaps Simone was right in the first place: I never should have tried to find out Claire’s story. I should have left the questions unasked, let history lie. I was coping, before. On my own. With sudden, breathtaking clarity, I see that I can’t inflict the darkness that I carry inside me on Thierry – this man who is standing beside me, tentatively putting a hand on my arm to hold me in case I bolt again. I care about him too much.
‘Come,’ he says, ‘you’ve had a terrible shock. Let’s find a café, get you a cup of English tea?’ He smiles, trying to make things right again.
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, Thierry,’ I say. ‘I can’t.’
‘Okay, then I’ll take you home.’
But it’s there now, between us. Something has shifted. Something has been broken and it cannot be repaired. He leaves me at my door, tries to kiss me, but I turn away pretending to search in my bag for my keys. And when he says goodbye, I can’t quite meet his eyes.
I have to let him go.
1943
Mademoiselle Vannier had come upstairs to look for the three girls when none of them turned up for work on Monday morning, and had discovered the apartment in its abandoned state. It was clear that something terrible had happened, but where the girls had gone was a complete mystery. Their absence had been the source of much whispered conjecture amongst the other seamstresses in the days that followed.
And so there were gasps of surprise when Mireille appeared in the sewing room. Without a word, she walked across and took her seat at the table between the two empty chairs belonging to Claire and Vivienne.
The stunned silence gave way to a tirade of questions.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Where are Claire and Vivi?’
‘What happened?’
‘They’re gone,’ she said, bluntly. ‘The Gestapo came and took them. No, I don’t know why. I don’t know where they are now. I don’t know anything.’
Mademoiselle Vannier shushed the seamstresses. ‘Quiet, now, everyone. That’s enough. Leave Mireille in peace and get on with your work.’
