Joyce laughed, remembering Dorotha’s bright grey eyes observing her shrewdly as she opened the cupboard door and found her perched on an upturned bucket.
‘She gave me her copy of Virginia Woolf’sA Room of One’s Ownand told me I ought to find my own ideas and room.’ She tapped her head. ‘If only up here.’ Joyce smiled and cradled her warm cup. ‘From that moment on, I fell in love with Virginia, and with your sister. She was the most dynamic, impressive woman I’d ever met. Your sister saw something in me. She made me feel...’ Joyce kicked off her shoes and curled her stockinged feet up under her. ‘Understood. It was her idea to form the Secret Society of Librarians, you know.’
‘A secret society?’ Adela gasped, leaning forward.
‘Ha. It makes us sound terribly cloak and dagger. Originally, we formed the group with other women in the summer school to lend support and feel connected to like-minded souls. It wasn’t strictly speaking “secret”; we just liked the camaraderie it gave us. But now the war is upon us, we all feel we have so much more to offer, and it feels like it’s really starting to come into its own.’ Joyce mused on that. ‘Words and friendships are powerful weapons, you know. Have you stayed in touch with the girls you travelled with?’
Adela shook her head. ‘I haven’t had the time. The Barclay-Millers’ housekeeper has kept me busy.’
‘What did your duties involve?’ Joyce asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Adela blew out, sending little ripples across the surface of her cocoa. ‘Oy vey, that house had a lot of rooms. Then there was the stove to blacklead, all the grates to be cleaned out, making beds, vacuuming and emptying chamber pots, scrubbing the front steps and assisting cook with peeling vegetables...’ She broke off and yawned. ‘But scrubbing mainly.’
‘That’s a lot of work for one day.’
‘One day? That was just before ten a.m.’
Joyce swallowed down her anger. ‘How many days off have you had?’
‘We get one Sunday afternoon a month off.’
It had been easy for Joyce to find Adela the job with the Barclay-Millers, and now it was obvious to her why that was: clearly, they had seen taking in a refugee as an opportunity for cheap labour. Joyce had heard of a similar thing happening to evacuees. She despaired of humankind at times. What kind of a person would turn the war to their advantage? It wasn’t just the spivs and black-market racketeers who’d come crawling out of the woodwork since the war began. It was the Barclay-Millers of the world too, using their titles and privileges to take advantage of a young and vulnerable refugee. No wonder the poor girl was so thin.
‘Can I ask you something, Miss Kindred?’
‘Please, Adela, call me Joyce.’
‘What’s a ghetto?’
The unexpected question breezed into the warm, snug room like a sour smell, throwing Joyce. She set down her cup carefully. ‘I think, and don’t quote me on this, the word originated from the Venetian dialect in the sixteenth century, when the senaterestricted Jews to one area in the city. My understanding is that it’s a walled-off area, forcing Jewish people to live in one place.’
‘Like a prison you mean?’
Joyce shook her head. ‘I really don’t know enough to say. Why do you ask?’
‘I overheard Mr Barclay-Miller in his study last week whilst I was dusting outside. He was talking to someone and said he’d seen intelligence reports from Poland that the Nazis are forcing Jews into ghettos. He was talking about my home city, Lódz. I know I shouldn’t have, but I stayed to listen to the whole conversation. He said that the Germans had made it part of the Reich, called it Litzmannstadt, and that they had made a ghetto for the Jews in the northeastern part of the city.’ Adela’s voice was high and shaky, her eyes burning with intensity.
Joyce shifted uneasily. Adela was clearly far better informed than she had given her credit.
‘When did you last hear from Dorotha?’ Joyce asked, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
‘About five months ago. A Red Cross message saying that she and the family were fine, but she missed me.’
‘April?’
Adela nodded. ‘That’s right. And you?’
‘The same,’ she admitted, a feeling of unease curling through her. ‘Just because we haven’t heard from her in five months doesn’t mean she’s in some sort ofghetto.’ The word dragged like barbed wire in her mouth.
‘So where is my sister, then, Miss Kindred?’ Adela pressed, her small chin jutting out. ‘And why have we not heard from her?’
Joyce stared at the empty plate and realised she didn’t have the faintest clue how to respond.
2
Dorotha
Occupied Poland, August 1942
