The Dressmaker of Dachau

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Ms Ark Ltd 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photography by Henry Steadman. All other images © Shutterstock.com

Lines from Alfred Noyes’ The Highwayman reproduced with permission from The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Alfred Noyes.

Mary Chamberlain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007591558

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780007591541

Version: 2015-12-19

For the little ones – Aaron, Lola, Cosmo,

Trilby – and their Ba.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

One: London, January 1939

Two: London, July 1945

Three: London, November 1947

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

A Q&A: with Mary Chamberlain

About the Author

Also by Mary Chamberlain

About the Publisher

The April sun cast shafts of light onto the thick slubs of black silk, turning it into a sea of ebony and jet, silver and slate. Ada watched as Anni ran her hand along the fine, crisp edges of the jacket, tracing the rich, warm threads and fingering the corsage as if the petals were tender, living blooms.

She was wearing it over a thick wool jumper and her cook’s apron, so it pulled tight around the shoulders. No, Ada wanted to say, not like that. It won’t fit. But she kept her mouth shut. She could see from Anni’s face that the jacket was the most beautiful thing she had ever possessed.

Anni was holding the key to Ada’s room in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, throwing the key on the floor and kicking it towards Ada.

She walked away, leaving the door open.

Ada peered into the broken mirror propped up on the kitchen dresser. Mouth open, tongue to attention, she plucked at her eyebrows with a pair of rusty tweezers. Winced and ouched until only a thin arc was left. She dabbed on the witch hazel, hoped the stinging would fade. Dunked her hair in clean, warm water in the old, cracked butler sink, patted it dry with a towel and parted it along the left. Eighteen years old, more grown up this way. Middle finger, comb and straighten, index finger, crimp. Three waves down the left, five down the right, five each herringbone down the back, pin curls and a Kirby grip tight to her skull, leave it to dry.

Ada was taking her time. She opened her handbag and fished around until she found her powder, rouge and lipstick. Not too much, in case she looked common, but enough to make her fresh and wholesome like those young girls from the Women’s League of Health and Beauty. She’d seen them in Hyde Park in their black drawers and white blouses and knew they practised on a Saturday afternoon in the playground of Henry Fawcett’s. She might think about joining them. It was good to be supple, and slender. She could make the uniform herself. After all, she was a dressmaker now, earned good money.

She rubbed her lips together to spread her lipstick, checked that the waves were holding their grip as her hair dried, picked up the mirror and carried it into the bedroom. The brown houndstooth skirt with the inverted pleats and the cream blouse with the enamel pin at the neck – that was smart. Good tweed, too, an offcut from Isidore, the tailor in Hanover Square. Just fifteen she was when she started there. Gawd, she was green, picking up pins from the floor and sweeping away fabric dustings, plimsolls grey from the chalk and her hand-me-down jacket too long in the arm. Dad said it was a sweatshop, that the fat capitalist who ran it did nothing but exploit her and she should stand up for her rights and organize. But Isidore had opened her eyes. He taught her how fabric lived and breathed, how it had a personality and moods. Silk, he said, was stubborn, lawn sullen. Worsted was tough, flannel lazy. He taught her how to cut the cloth so it didn’t pucker and bruise, about biases and selvedges. He showed her how to make patterns and where to chalk and tack. He taught her the sewing machine, about yarns and threads, how to fit a new-fangled zipper so it lay hidden in the seam and how to buttonhole and hem. Herringbone, Ada, herringbone. Women looking like mannequins. It was a world of enchantment. Beautiful hair and glistening gowns. Tailored knickers even. Isidore had shown Ada that world, and she wanted it for herself.