sweets to children.”
“Money,” Ada said.
“What?”
“I thought it was money they offered.” She looked for Tilly, still playing marbles. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“The point is, time weakens people. Their sympathy, courage, what have you.”
“What I came about,” Ada said, making an effort to sound friendly, “is the shelter orphans. I’d like to see them, if I could.”
“I don’t know how you expect me to know those babies from all the others, but if you’d like, I’ll take you to the nursery.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Ada turned to get Tilly, but Mrs. Barton-Malow stopped her.
“Older children are not allowed,” she said. “The possibility of contagion is too great.”
Ada’s eyes filled suddenly. “Can’t you make an exception?”
Mrs. Barton-Malow raised her eyebrows.
“We were in the crush!” Ada said. “I had another daughter, who died.”
Mrs. Barton-Malow patted Ada’s hand. “And her sister is taking it very hard and wants to see the babies?”
Ada nodded and, turning, was startled to see that Tilly was standing right behind her.
“Shall we?” said Mrs. Barton-Malow.
It seemed Mrs. Barton-Malow had been disingenuous. In the nursery, a row of seven cribs stood apart from all the others. In fact, they were nearly partitioned off by a wall of boxes overflowing with stuffed animals, clothes, toys, bottles, and tins of milk and food. On every box someone had scrawled
3/3 Orphans.
It was the neatest room they’d seen so far and, though dimly lit, smelled of soap and warmth. Several babies were gently snoring.
“Are any of them Jewish?” Ada asked quietly.
Mrs. Barton-Malow raised an eyebrow. “One of the boys is circumcised, if that’s what you mean.”
Ada passed by each crib. She would have known anyway—there was a strong resemblance to his mother in his lips—but she glanced over at Mrs. Barton-Malow to confirm. Yes, Mrs. Barton-Malow nodded. That was the circumcised boy.
When Ada picked him up, she remembered Emma: a heartbeat, the smell of milk, a hand tucked into hers whenever she permitted it.
Standing next to her mother, her cheek on the baby’s blanket, Tilly remembered Emma’s smile, her blue coat in the snow.
Mrs. Barton-Malow stood by the window. Her only child, a boy, had died in the fire raid the first year. She looked out the window—double hung in here to make the room warmer for the babies, her own design—and saw a pair of dead bumblebees between the panes. They were furry and ancient, bleached white by the sun. Mrs. Barton-Malow opened the inside window, had to shove hard to unstick it, and angrily swept them up in her hand. She was sorry for herself, for Ada, for all the mothers the war had damaged. When she turned back to Ada, she said, “Why are you here?”
Ada’s eyes were full of tears. “I thought it would help.”
“Ah, well. It does help some. Depends what kind of person you are.”
Nineteen
Laurie opened the inquiry the afternoon of Thursday, March 11, 1943.
“There is something I think it is probably my duty to mention,” he began. In the room with him were Ross, secretary to the inquiry, and a stenographer, Mrs. King, from the local school. “There will be matter given in evidence that is strictly confidential, and of course any improper use of that material would constitute an offense under the Defense of the Realm regulations.” Ross and Mrs. King nodded.
“Now let’s call and examine the first witness.”
As it was not a court, Laurie found it desirable to vary some of the usual procedures. There was no procession. The witnesses were kept across the hall in the small office of Mrs. Mallory, who typed requests for building repairs in the borough. In the days that followed, Mrs. Mallory fell into the habit of engaging all the witnesses in conversation. Ross often had to wait a few minutes while she jotted down a name or finished giving a piece of advice. A number of times he had to insist that Mrs.
“Money,” Ada said.
“What?”
“I thought it was money they offered.” She looked for Tilly, still playing marbles. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“The point is, time weakens people. Their sympathy, courage, what have you.”
“What I came about,” Ada said, making an effort to sound friendly, “is the shelter orphans. I’d like to see them, if I could.”
“I don’t know how you expect me to know those babies from all the others, but if you’d like, I’ll take you to the nursery.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Ada turned to get Tilly, but Mrs. Barton-Malow stopped her.
“Older children are not allowed,” she said. “The possibility of contagion is too great.”
Ada’s eyes filled suddenly. “Can’t you make an exception?”
Mrs. Barton-Malow raised her eyebrows.
“We were in the crush!” Ada said. “I had another daughter, who died.”
Mrs. Barton-Malow patted Ada’s hand. “And her sister is taking it very hard and wants to see the babies?”
Ada nodded and, turning, was startled to see that Tilly was standing right behind her.
“Shall we?” said Mrs. Barton-Malow.
It seemed Mrs. Barton-Malow had been disingenuous. In the nursery, a row of seven cribs stood apart from all the others. In fact, they were nearly partitioned off by a wall of boxes overflowing with stuffed animals, clothes, toys, bottles, and tins of milk and food. On every box someone had scrawled
3/3 Orphans.
It was the neatest room they’d seen so far and, though dimly lit, smelled of soap and warmth. Several babies were gently snoring.
“Are any of them Jewish?” Ada asked quietly.
Mrs. Barton-Malow raised an eyebrow. “One of the boys is circumcised, if that’s what you mean.”
Ada passed by each crib. She would have known anyway—there was a strong resemblance to his mother in his lips—but she glanced over at Mrs. Barton-Malow to confirm. Yes, Mrs. Barton-Malow nodded. That was the circumcised boy.
When Ada picked him up, she remembered Emma: a heartbeat, the smell of milk, a hand tucked into hers whenever she permitted it.
Standing next to her mother, her cheek on the baby’s blanket, Tilly remembered Emma’s smile, her blue coat in the snow.
Mrs. Barton-Malow stood by the window. Her only child, a boy, had died in the fire raid the first year. She looked out the window—double hung in here to make the room warmer for the babies, her own design—and saw a pair of dead bumblebees between the panes. They were furry and ancient, bleached white by the sun. Mrs. Barton-Malow opened the inside window, had to shove hard to unstick it, and angrily swept them up in her hand. She was sorry for herself, for Ada, for all the mothers the war had damaged. When she turned back to Ada, she said, “Why are you here?”
Ada’s eyes were full of tears. “I thought it would help.”
“Ah, well. It does help some. Depends what kind of person you are.”
Nineteen
Laurie opened the inquiry the afternoon of Thursday, March 11, 1943.
“There is something I think it is probably my duty to mention,” he began. In the room with him were Ross, secretary to the inquiry, and a stenographer, Mrs. King, from the local school. “There will be matter given in evidence that is strictly confidential, and of course any improper use of that material would constitute an offense under the Defense of the Realm regulations.” Ross and Mrs. King nodded.
“Now let’s call and examine the first witness.”
As it was not a court, Laurie found it desirable to vary some of the usual procedures. There was no procession. The witnesses were kept across the hall in the small office of Mrs. Mallory, who typed requests for building repairs in the borough. In the days that followed, Mrs. Mallory fell into the habit of engaging all the witnesses in conversation. Ross often had to wait a few minutes while she jotted down a name or finished giving a piece of advice. A number of times he had to insist that Mrs.
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