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‘Perhaps I could contact them for you?’
Again, the girl gave a little nod.
‘Can you write? You could write down their names for me?’
She handed the girl a notebook and a pen, but Margarethe stared at them blankly. It occurred to Leila that she might never have learned to read or write. ‘Tell me their names, and I’ll write them down.’
The girl gave Leila her family name, and slowly her story unfolded. She had been born in the east of Germany, she said, and had struggled at school.
‘They said I was…not normal. A doctor came and took me away. I had an operation – it hurt.’ She clutched at her abdomen, and tears came into her eyes.
Leila reached over and clasped her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, but no one will hurt you any more, I promise. I’ll write to your parents and we’ll take you home, all right?’
The girl nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As Leila stood up to leave, a thought occurred to her. ‘I wonder…do you remember a girl who was here – about your age? She was called Clara.’
The girl shook her head.
‘Are there any other women here…women who work here, I mean? I’d like to meet them.’
The girl nodded.
‘Can you take me to them?’
The girl stood up and held out her hand.
‘Do you want more chocolate?’ asked Leila.
Margarethe shook her head. ‘No. Follow me.’
Leila followed her along the corridor and downstairs to the bowels of the building. There was a smell of carbolic, and steam filled the air. Leila realised they must be near the hospital laundry.
Margarethe led Leila down a narrow corridor, past a series of pipes and finally into a small room. Through the steam, Leila could just make out the slim shape of a woman, standing with her back turned, pushing a sheet through an iron wringer.
‘Irma,’ said the girl, pointing at the woman’s back.
Hearing her name, the girl turned round. Leila gasped. She was looking into the face of her friend Minki, when they had first met at university. This girl had the same golden hair, the same bright-blue eyes and almost ethereal beauty.
‘You say this is Irma?’
Margarethe nodded.
‘No,’ said Leila, ‘this is not Irma…this is Clara vonZeller.’
The blond girl stared wide-eyed at Leila. ‘Clara…’ she repeated. ‘My name is Clara.’
‘Yes, I know, my darling. And my name is Leila. I’m a very good friend of your mother’s. Oh, Clara – I’ve come to take you home.’
45
THE JOURNEY HOME
October 1945
That night, Leila checked them both into a hotel. Here, Clara had a bath and something to eat. Finally, a little colour returned to her cheeks.
‘Would you like me to telephone your mother?’
