Free Making Bombs For Hitler by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch Page B

wounded were given alternate duties. Zenia was sent to work in the kitchen.
    I went back to the laundry, worried sick about Zenia. She wasn’t as physically injured as many were, but I knew that the bombing had shattered her. I was especially worried about Luka. I counted the hours until lunch when I could ask Juli about him.
    Inge acted as if the bombing had never happened. In fact, in the morning she looked happier than I had ever seen her.
    “I’ve received a package from my husband,” she said, her eyes shining like a child’s on St. Nicholas Day.
    She went into her office room and came back with an armful of extraordinary finery: a butter-coloured chiffon blouse with intricate lace at the bodice, a set of six monogrammed ladies’ handkerchiefs and a heavy black fur coat. The items seemed so out of keeping with life as I knew it at the camp, and it made me wonder what Inge did when she left here each day after the six o’clock whistle.
    None of the items needed mending, as far as I could tell.
    “They’re beautiful.” I placed a fingertip on the lace.
    “Aren’t they, though?” said Inge. “My husband is fighting in France, and he sends me the most wonderful things.”
    I knew all about the Nazi soldiers and how they stole. In my hometown of Verenchanka, we had no fur coats worthy of stealing, or chiffon blouses or other high-class ladies’ items. We were poor people, but our places of worship had fine old things in them — the very same reason that soldiers had bashed down the doors to Sarah’s synagogue. I’d seen one soldier grab the ornate silver menorah that must have been over a century old. Sarah was nearly hysterical when he tossed the menorah onto the top of a wheelbarrow full of plundered antique samovars and oil paintings. When they were finished robbing the synagogue, they ransacked our blue wooden church, taking the icon of the Madonna, blackened with age. It wasn’t made of anything fancy, but our church had been built in 1798. Mama said the icon was older than the church. Even now, the memory of that awful time made my chest tight with despair. I breathed in deeply and tried to set aside my thoughts. For Inge’s benefit, I pasted on a smile. “How generous of your husband,” I said. “He must love you very much.”
    She smiled at that. “He’s always been such a good provider.”
    I picked up the blouse and examined all of the stitch work carefully. The lace was handmade. The entire blouse was in perfect condition. A faint scent of rosewatertickled my nostrils. Was that the preferred perfume of the lady who used to own this blouse?
    “What would you like me to do with this?”
    “The name,” she said, turning the blouse inside out and showing me a satin label that had been securely stitched below the piping at the nape. Delicate embroidered letters in a fancy script spelled out Mme V. Fortier. Inge’s stubby finger rested on the label. “Can you remove that and embroider my name in its place?”
    Who was Mme Fortier and how willingly had she given up this beautiful blouse to Inge’s husband? I held the label close to my face to get a good look at the stitchery. The attention to detail for the stitch work on an invisible label was astounding. If I removed these stitches, the label itself would likely be left riddled with holes. “Why don’t I remove this altogether?”
    Inge’s eyebrows raised. “Why, because that’s easiest for you? I want the label, and I want my name on it.”
    She took one of the handkerchiefs from the stack and unfolded it. The same faint scent of rosewater was released. A delicate pattern of butterflies and flowers was rendered in silken French knots. In one corner were the initials VM.
    I had no silk thread, and even if I did, I would never be able to match the colours. I would have to untie the knot work in the initials and carefully pry out the stitches one by one, making sure not to break the thread because I would have to reuse it. Was it