Page 43 of The Dressmaker's Gift
A heart that had been so filled with courage and strength.
A heart that beat no more.
The medic laid a tender hand on Claire’s emaciated shoulders as she knelt by the wooden bed.
She sobbed into the soft halo of Vivi’s copper-coloured hair, lit by a shaft of sunlight which crept though the dirty windows to illuminate the two women huddled together in the empty hut.
Harriet
I’d never even heard of Flossenbürg, so I go online to research it. I’m horrified to find that there were hundreds of so-called work camps like it scattered across Nazi-occupied Europe, from France in the west to Russia in the east. The numbers are horrendous, a grotesque record of what happened in the concentration camps. I discover that Claire and Vivi were just two of the literally millions of people who were imprisoned, enslaved and killed. Disease, malnutrition and exhaustion caused the deaths of many; still more were murdered by firing squads or in the gas chambers of the extermination camps like Auschwitz, Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen. Dachau, where Claire and Vivi ended up, was one of the biggest and longest-established camps.
My research is interrupted by a tap on my bedroom door. ‘Come in,’ I call.
Simone pushes the door open, tentatively. ‘Harriet,’ she says, ‘come out with me this evening. A group of us are going to watch the Bastille Night fireworks on the Champ de Mars. It’s always spectacular.’
I shut my laptop and rub my neck to release the tension. The things I’ve just read have made my head throb. ‘That’s really kind, but I think I’ll stay in.’
Instead of retreating, Simone takes a step forward, coming closer. ‘Harriet ...’ She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. ‘I heard about you and Thierry. I’m sorry. Really I am. You were good together.’
I smile and shrug. ‘Yeah. I’m sorry too. I’m just not in the right place at the moment, I guess. But actually I don’t think I’ve ever been very good at relationships.’
She sits down on my bed and shakes her head emphatically, her curls bouncing. ‘That’s not true. You are one of the best-liked people in the office. You’ve been a good friend to me. And you are a good granddaughter to Claire, you know, continuing the search for her story. She’d be so proud of you. But you need a night off. It will be a good distraction. Please, come out with me. After all, it’s France’s biggest night of the year! Thierry won’t be there, by the way, if that’s what’s stopping you,’ she adds. ‘He’s working at a gig tonight.’
Her dark eyes glow with such genuine friendship that I can’t refuse her. ‘Okay, then. Just give me ten minutes to change,’ I say.
The streets are filled with a river of people making their way towards the Champ de Mars. The grassy slopes that flank the wide sweep of space in front of the Eiffel Tower are already almost completely covered with spectators as we approach. But Simone is an old hand at this and she quickly spots her group of friends who’ve spread a blanket out to keep enough room for us to join them. The sky is just beginning to darken and there’s a buzz of anticipation in the air as the tower’s metal frame is lit in stripes of blue, white and red and the music starts. The fireworks will only begin at eleven, creating a spectacular end to the national holiday, but they are preceded by a concert. I settle back, leaning on my elbows, and let the sights and sounds wash over me. Simone was right, it is good to be out. And I might not have another chance to see this again. I wonder where I will be this time next year, when my internship will be a thing of the past.
The crowds are good-natured, everyone out to enjoy themselves, and there’s a great deal of friendly banter. Suddenly, though, something changes. I can’t put my finger on it, at first; it’s subtle, an atmospheric shift. The light show continues on the Eiffel Tower and the music plays on, but the sounds of the crowd become muted, somehow; I glance around, the all-too-familiar sensation of anxiety gripping the pit of my stomach. Around us, people are checking their phones. Ringtones are drowned out by the music, but more and more people appear to be listening to messages, or making calls. I turn and look towards Simone, who sits just behind me. She has taken her phone out of her pocket and is studying it. The smile has gone from her face.
I reach out and tap her ankle to get her attention. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
She shuffles down a little so that she’s sitting next to me. ‘There’s been an attack. In Nice. Reports are just coming in. No one seems to be quite sure what’s happened. But it sounds bad.’
Our eyes meet in the darkness and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. ‘Florence? And the others? They’re still there, aren’t they?’ As far as I can remember, the product launch was scheduled to end two days ago but the team had planned to stay on to pack up and enjoy the Bastille Day holiday there.
Simone nods, busily composing a text. ‘I’m just sending them a message now.’ She bites her lip, pressing send and then anxiously checking for a reply.
After a couple of minutes, her phone pings and I watch her face, which is still creased into a frown, as she scans the screen. ‘They’re okay,’ she says. ‘They’re stuck in a bar just off the beachfront and there’s been some sort of incident. The police have sealed off the city centre, apparently. But they’re all safe.’ She and I both breathe again.
We try to concentrate on the show as the sky lights up with fireworks. But there’s an air of tension and distracted preoccupation all around us. As soon as the last sparks fade against the black of the sky, we begin to make our way home. Simone checks the news reports that repeatedly light up the screen of her phone and she relays them to me as we walk. ‘A truck has hit a number of bystanders on the Promenade des Anglais. They’re saying there are some injuries, perhaps some deaths. It sounds bad.’
Subdued, we climb the stairs to the apartment on the fifth floor and retreat to our rooms in silence.
The next morning I wake early. Simone is already up, watching the television in the sitting room. She glances up as I join her on the sofa and I can see she’s been crying. As the news reports continue, I understand why. A terrorist drove a truck down the main road along the Nice beachfront last night. The promenade had been blocked off for the Bastille Night festivities and it was crammed with holidaymakers. But the lorry had been driven into the crowds, deliberately targeting people on the pavement, carving out a swathe of destruction and devastation. The early morning reports estimate that over eighty people have been killed and more than four hundred injured, some critically.
‘Is there any more word from Florence and the others?’ I ask, when I can speak.
Simone nods. ‘They are at their hotel, packing up to leave. They’ll be back later.’
We sit in silence for a moment, feeling thankful that the people we know are safe, but unable to get out of our minds the thought of so many others whose lives have been brutally ended or changed for ever.
Feeling sickened, I pull on a jacket and head out to get some fresh air. The early-morning city is quiet after the noisy celebrations of last night which have been forgotten now, overtaken by this latest terror attack on French soil. Without planning where I’m going, I head towards the river. I cross the road and stand for a moment, leaning on the wall opposite the Île de la Cité. At first I hardly see the landscape before me. A kaleidoscope of nightmarish images plays in my mind, of a truck careering down a crowded street, and of the concentration camps that I’d researched yesterday. What is this world where human beings can be the perpetrators of such inhumanity against their own kind? I’m trying hard not to let the rising panic overwhelm me and I press my hands against the wall, taking deep breaths.
As my breathing quietens, I realise that I’m looking at the downstream end of the island. And then I notice it: Mireille’s willow tree. It’s still there, on the point at the very tip, its branches trailing their green fingers in the flow of the Seine. I cross the bridge and find the narrow stairs that lead down to where the boat trips depart from the island. The cobbled quay skirts a small public garden and I follow it to the tree. In the middle of the city, I am in an oasis of solitude. The noises of the first of the rush-hour traffic on either side of the river are muted by the veil of leaves and the quiet sounds of the river lapping at the stones that reinforce the banks of the island. Just as Mireille found sanctuary here all those years before, I sit with my back against the trunk of the tree, leaning my head against its reassuring solidity, and my mind calms enough to be able to think more clearly. Setting aside the horror of the terror attack in Nice for now, I mull over what I’ve learned about my grandmother, longing for her to ground me and reassure me.
It was a miracle that Claire survived. I realise that if Vivi hadn’t been there to encourage her and support her, she never would have made it. Vivi’s determination to keep going – and not only that, but to keep trying to find ways to sabotage the Nazi war effort – speaks of an awe-inspiring strength of character. The concentration camp system was set up to be totally dehumanising for the inmates. But it couldn’t break Vivienne’s spirit: she never lost her humanity right up to the very end.
When that end came, though, Claire was left alone. Not only did she have to bear the guilt of having been the cause of Vivi’s arrest in the first place, but she also had to carry the guilt of survival with her for the rest of her life, alongside the scars left by those traumatic eighteen months in the camps. She went on to marry and to have a child. I’ve worked out that my mother was born when her own mother was almost forty ... it must have taken many years for Claire’s broken mind and body to heal enough for her to be able to sustain a pregnancy. And so Felicity was named for the happiness that she represented to her parents – a miraculous child born to a woman who had survived so much.
