Page 36 of The Dressmaker's Gift
Soon, Claire’s feet burned with flames of shooting pain that made her hobble. At one point, she faltered as her legs, which were unaccustomed to bearing her weight for such a long stretch of time after the months spent in a prison cell and cattle car, were seized with searing cramps and felt as if they would give way beneath her. But then Vivi linked an arm through hers and the reassurance of that contact helped Claire walk on.
At last they came to a forbidding-looking gatehouse and passed through a black metal gateway. To either side there stretched a high, razor-wire-capped fence which had guard towers set into it at regular intervals along its length. The muzzle of a machine gun, trained towards the interior of the camp, protruded from each one.
Claire lifted her bowed head to read the inscription set into one of the brick gateposts as they passed by:Arbeit Macht Frei. She frowned, trying to puzzle out the meaning. Vivi nudged her. ‘It says, work will set you free.’
The sickening irony of the message, as it hung over the heads of the frightened and exhausted prisoners, forced a gulp of astonished hysteria to escape from Claire’s mouth. It might almost have been laughter, had it not sounded so strangled and bleak amongst the scared whispers and shuffling footsteps of the crowd, like the involuntary yelp of an animal in pain.
‘Hush,’ whispered Vivi, as one of the guards craned his neck to try to pinpoint the source of the sound. ‘We must try not to draw attention to ourselves. Remember, I’m here. We’re together. We will be alright.’
The snaking line was sorted by the guards, who sent the men in one direction and the women in another. There was no sign of the children now, but Claire hadn’t seen where they’d been taken. The women were ushered into a long, low building which appeared to be staffed by female guards.
‘Line up here,’ one said, and gesticulated. ‘Single file. Remove your clothes.’
The women looked at one another in astonishment.
‘Hurry up! Clothes off.’ This time the command was a shout.
Slowly, in numb disbelief, the women began to undress until, at last, they stood shivering, clutching the clothing they’d removed. Then a door opened and, one by one, they were led into the next room.
‘Leave your clothes here, on the floor.’ The guard’s tone was as harsh as her words.
Ashamed, humiliated, exposed, Claire was made to stand before one of several desks that were arranged along the walls of the inner room. She felt like a heifer being assessed at a cattle market as rough hands examined her, taking measurements, listening to her chest, checking her teeth and eyes. She glanced across to where Vivi was enduring similar treatment, trying not to cough as the stethoscope chilled the skin on her back.
‘What was your job?’ asked the woman seated behind the desk.
‘I am a seamstress,’ Claire replied and she heard Vivi give the same information at the next desk along. Notes were made on a form which was then put on to one of several piles of papers. The woman behind the desk nodded to a guard and Claire and Vivi were led out into the next room. As they went, Claire noticed that some of the women were being ushered in a different direction, for no apparent reason. Some sort of arbitrary sorting process seemed to be being carried out by the guards.
It became apparent where those women had been taken when they appeared a few minutes later, their heads newly shaved, looking even more shockingly naked as they rejoined the other women in the next room along. Claire and Vivi exchanged glances, unsure whether it might be a blessing or a curse to have been allowed to keep their hair.
They were each handed a pile of folded clothing. The underwear was stretched and worn so thin the fabric was translucent in places. And when they shook out the other coarse cotton garments, woven in blue and white stripes, they found they’d been given a loose-fitting over-shirt and a pair of trousers.
‘Don’t put them on yet,’ ordered the guard as one of the bare-headed women began to pull on the shirt she’d been given to cover herself up. ‘Here, take these.’ The guard then handed them strips of white fabric, two for each prisoner, upon which an identification number had been stamped in indelible ink. Consulting a list that had been handed to her by one of the women who’d been sitting behind a desk in the previous room, she also gave each of them a triangle of coloured fabric. Claire noticed that hers and Vivi’s were red, but some of the other women were given triangles of yellow or black or blue material. And several were handed two triangles, usually a yellow one along with one of the other colours.
‘Next door.’ The guard pointed. The line of women shuffled forwards. And there, Claire and Vivi found themselves in more familiar territory. Women, dressed in the same blue and white striped clothing and wearing white headscarves, sat behind sewing machines, which whirred busily as they stitched the identity numbers and triangles on to the shirts and trousers of the newest arrivals at the camp. The sewing was rough and ready, stitched with coarsely spun thread and executed as quickly as possible, and then the uniforms were handed back.
In the room next door was a heap of shoes. The guard pointed at them. ‘Find a pair that fits.’
The women picked through the shoes, looking for their own, but most had to give up and make do with what they could find. Claire managed to grab a pair of boots, slightly larger than her usual size. They went on more easily than her old shoes, which she couldn’t see on the pile. But when she put her weight on them, she discovered that the ends immediately began to chafe against the raw ends of her toes, still vulnerable where the newly emerging nails had not yet covered the tender skin.
Carrying their piles of clothing, the women were finally led into a long, tiled shower room. Even though the water was barely lukewarm, Claire felt a little better once she’d scrubbed herself with a bar of hard soap. There were no towels, but the women were finally allowed to put on their newly issued uniforms.
‘What do you think?’ Claire tried to muster a little defiant courage, as she gave a twirl mimicking the models in the salon at Delavigne Couture. ‘This season’s style.’
Vivi smiled back at her. ‘You know what I think?’ she replied. ‘I think you and I need to get jobs in that sewing room.’
Harriet
I’ve been avoiding Thierry’s phone calls and messages, sending brief replies only when I have to, saying that I’m too busy to meet up or go out. The truth is, that day when we went to the Avenue Foch and I had a full-on panic attack has left me shaken. Just when I’d started to feel I had some sort of roots, some sense of connection to my family, I’ve discovered that it comes at a price. The price of knowing how Claire suffered and seeing how that trauma was, inevitably, passed on to my mother. It seems inescapable. A life sentence. And if it’s true, if it’s built into my DNA, then how could I ever contemplate inflicting it on the people I love, passing it on to children of my own, perpetuating the pain and the loneliness in another generation?
If I thought that knowing my family history would empower me then I was sorely mistaken. What I’ve learned of Claire’s story so far has left me feeling trapped. That was the risk I took, coming to Paris, searching for the girls in the photo. I thought I had the courage to find out who I really am. But now I am afraid that it’s done more harm than good.
At the same time, there’s a sense that I’ve come too far to stop. I need to follow Claire’s story to the end. I can only hope that there’ll be some shreds of redemption in it, for me as well as for her.
Simone has continued to tell me our grandmothers’ stories, but each new instalment comes very sporadically. There are parts of the story that she herself hasn’t known until now. She says she has asked Mireille to fill in the gaps, but it takes time for her letters to arrive. I wonder whether remembering these things and writing them down is painful for her.
Simone and I are both so busy at work that it’s hard to find the time to talk at all really. That suits me just fine: I’m not ready to tell her about ending my relationship with Thierry. Would she be sorry or pleased? I’m not sure whether she’s heard anything, from him or from other mutual friends, but in any case she doesn’t bring it up. Disappointingly, we’ve been told that neither of us will be included on the trip to Nice for the eco-cosmetic launch, but Florence and two of the account managers are going and there’s still lots to do to help them prepare.
On top of everything else, the Haute Couture Autumn/Winter Shows are running this week, too. It’s the first week of July and the city seems far too hot and muggy to enjoy looking at heavy woollens and stiff tailoring so I can’t seem to summon up much enthusiasm, even when Simone and I are given tickets to the Chanel event on the Tuesday evening. We take our seats in the Grand Palais, several rows back from the celebrities and fashion editors, and watch the models stride down the catwalk in Karl Lagerfeld’s embellished tweed creations. The collection is exquisite: each item has been carefully structured to flatter the female form and the designs are both clever and quirky. But I am distracted by the floor show around us. As a backdrop to the show, the designer has brought the dressmakers from theateliersalong, to illustrate the fact that it has taken a small army of workers to make each of the finished garments that we are applauding. I watch, fascinated, as they ignore the action on the catwalk and continue to work on half-finished versions of the same garments that the models are wearing. To me, these modern-day seamstresses provide a direct connection to Claire, Mireille and Vivi and many of the traditional techniques that my grandmother would have used are still employed today.
