Chapter One

EMILIA

LONDON, 27 JANUARY 1995

Emilia would have changed the channel if she could have reached the television remote. As much as she appreciated the efforts of most major networks to pay tribute to the fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, it was a memory she'd spent most of her adult life trying to suppress. What had happened there, all the lives lost, wasn't something she needed to be reminded of by a documentary.

She was about to call out to her daughter when something flashed across the screen, overlaid across the often-used images of the gates from the notorious concentration camp and the skeletal prisoners who'd survived until the bitter end. Images she usually did her best to avoid.

‘Mum, are you ready for—'

‘Lucy, turn the volume up please,' she said, leaning forwards in her chair as her daughter walked into the room, the blanket that had been folded over her knees falling to the floor.

‘It is rumoured that from late 1943 until the liberation by Russian soldiers in January 1945, a Polish midwife worked with a male prisoner doctor, who himself was also Polish, to save hundreds of babies within the camp. While the fate of Jewish infants was predetermined, many non-Jewish babies were taken and given to Nazi families, after a change in policy in 1943. It has been said that this midwife secretly tattooed the babies immediately after birth, in the hope that they might one day be reunited with their mothers.'

Emilia stared at the screen, her skin clammy as she listened to the reporter, fingernails digging into the arm of the chair. She leaned closer. Sometimes her mind failed her, sometimes lately it had been like trying to think through mud, but the memories that she'd fought so hard to forget never left her. Those had remained crystal clear, despite all the years that had passed.

‘Despite our best efforts to find out the identity of this courageous midwife, we have been unable to discover any information about her whereabouts, or whether she even survived. If you have any first-hand knowledge of the prisoner midwives or doctors who worked at any of the Auschwitz concentration camps, we urge you to contact the number on the screen. Any survivors are encouraged to make contact to help us piece together what happened to these children, to share their stories of survival with the world.'

‘Lucy,' Emilia said, hastily writing down the phone number on the newspaper beside her, forgetting all about the crossword she'd been doing previously. Her hand was shaking so much, the numbers were barely legible. ‘Would you please get me the telephone.'

Her daughter had been watching the television too, standing in the middle of the room, but she glanced back at Emilia now.

‘Dinner's ready, Mum. Could you wait until after?'

‘Please, I need to make a phone call,' she said. ‘It won't take a moment.'

Her daughter gave her an impatient look, but eventually she sighed and nodded, as if she'd been asked to run to the shops instead of step into another room. But Emilia knew she couldn't wait any longer; if she didn't call now, she might never muster the courage.

It's time we told them what we did, Aleksy, before it's too late. We can't keep it a secret forever. What if my memory disappears completely and what happened there, what we survived, is lost forever?

Emilia held out her hand for the phone, not surprised at how much she was trembling. It had been a very long time since she'd said the words she was about to say, and she knew they were going to come as a shock to her daughter. To her, she was just an old woman, a mother in her seventies who needed looking after, an elderly lady who forgot to lock the front door and sometimes got lost on her way back from getting groceries. It was why Lucy had insisted that she come and stay for a while, not liking her mother living on her own after she'd become widowed, convincing her that it would be nice for them to spend more time together. What she really meant was that she didn't trust Emilia to live independently any more. But when it came to what had happened at Auschwitz, to the things she'd done in order to help her fellow prisoners under her care survive, she didn't need help remembering. It wasn't something one could ever forget.

She took a deep breath and gripped the telephone when Lucy returned with it, carefully dialling the numbers she'd written down.

‘Mum, who are you calling? Are you sure there's nothing I...'

Emilia pressed the receiver to her ear, her heart racing as she waited. It rang six times before a woman answered. Her daughter gave her a tired smile that only reminded Emilia how trying it must be to have her mother living with her, even though it was Lucy who'd insisted she move in.

‘Hello?' the woman said. ‘Is anyone there?'

She gripped the phone tightly, trying to stop it from shaking.

‘My name is Emilia Bauchau. I am the midwife you're looking for.' She paused, glancing up at her daughter. ‘I believe it's time for me to tell my story.'