My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,67

tight across her temples, tied into a meagre French pleat, and she shuffled towards the desk with the help of an ebony stick, extending a veined hand in greeting. ‘My dear, I am Irene Komorowski. I think you will be needing my help as you do not have Polish.’

‘Ken told me I’d get some help. Are you the Countess?’ Eva pulled another chair round to the side of the desk for her guest.

Irene waved her hand, ‘Titles, pah! What do they matter now? You must call me Irene.’

‘And I am Eva.’

An arched eyebrow queried this. ‘You have family here?’

‘My grandmother was Polish, but I don’t speak the language. I’m really Evelyn, but when I joined up, we agreed I’d use the name Eva. It makes more sense when I’m dealing in German and Russian.’

The eyebrow expressed surprise again. ‘I suppose you thought your languages would be useful here?’

‘I’d hoped so. I hadn’t realised that nearly everyone here would be Polish.’

‘Hmm, they were Polish and they are mostly from Poland, but many are finding that their hometowns are now claimed by Russia. And that presents us with a great problem.’

‘I know. As if trying to get back home, after all they’ve suffered, wasn’t difficult enough in itself. They’ve lost everything, their homes, their families and now their homeland.’

‘Well, we shall get on to that in good time. But for now, we have to decide whether the people we are seeing today are permitted to leave the camp and return. Shall we see who we have?’

And so it was for several days. One after another searching for this uncle, for that brother, or a cousin. A young boy convinced his parents must be in one of the nearby towns or villages, a man certain his mother had survived the labour camp, all wanted to be allowed to leave and go in search of their loved ones. Eva grew used to the stories and steeled herself to question them and ascertain their reasons for leaving because the authorities were trying to discourage trading on the black market.

One day, after hearing a particularly harrowing story from a father trying to find his children, Eva said, ‘Honestly, I do wonder why we have to ask so many questions. After all their suffering, why shouldn’t they get out there and find whatever comfort they can? And if they are doing a bit of trading and dealing on the side as well, where’s the harm in that?’

‘I know, darling,’ Irene said, ‘the survival instinct is hard to suppress after so much hardship. Some of them are alive now only because they seized opportunities whenever they could that got them an extra crust. Each time they found or earnt another mouthful of food could mean another day of life.’ She took the sheepskin from her shoulders and laid it over Eva’s knees. ‘A present from a grateful friend. He found a stash of skins recently and is now making warm waistcoats and hats to sell to help his family. The Germans out there can call us “schlechte Ausländern” as much as they like, but when they want goods they can’t find, they’re willing to pay hard money, so who can blame my friend?’

‘Wicked foreigners,’ Eva murmured, translating Irene’s words. ‘That’s so unkind. The Poles didn’t ask to come here and lose everything.’

‘But not all the Germans are to blame. Many have lost their families too and many are finding life hard now.’

‘It’s certainly very thick and warm,’ said Eva, running her hand over the skin’s soft cream pile.

‘You want a hat, for the winter?’ Irene picked up the fleece and wound it round her own head, much like a Cossack hat. ‘I can talk to my friend for you.’

‘No, really, you shouldn’t. I think I’d better stick to the rules for now.’

‘Very well, but you must tell me if you start feeling the cold.’

49

Eva, 30 November 1945

From the East

And through the smoke and steam yet more came, clambering down from the boxcars. A ragged tide of tired, hungry refugees. Clutching sour blankets, muddied greatcoats, precious bundles and children, they trudged wearily along the railtrack.

‘Brigitte, over here,’ Eva yelled. ‘I’ve got another one.’

Brigitte ran across to where Eva was helping an exhausted mother down from the train, her fractious baby clutched to her empty breasts. A new consignment of several thousand inmates had just arrived at the nearby station, originally constructed for the mighty war machine. All ages, all states of health stumbled towards Eva and the aid workers,