accommodation too, if necessary.’
‘What kind of work do you have to offer, and what skills would I need?’ Brenda prepared herself for the usual string of questions, but his response stunned her. ‘You speak French quite well for an English girl.’
‘What makes you think that I am?’ she asked, keeping her tone light, even as her voice trembled and a chill settled within her.
‘I heard you speaking to the manager, and your accent does have a slight British twang to it,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling with humour.
So despite her best efforts, she was still obviously British, which was no doubt the real reason she couldn’t find employment. Making no comment, Brenda gave a little shrug and began to walk away, only to find him again at her side.
‘I’m aware that finding a job if you are British is not easy, but I can help. I provide work for many ladies with foreign passports. Come, I’ll introduce you to them. Very few skills are needed, as they will teach you everything you need to know.’
Unable to resist the offer since he seemed so helpful, and obviously held no prejudice against her nationality, Brenda dutifully followed. He led her along the street then down an alley to a tall, four-storey building tucked into a courtyard.
‘Ah, is this a hotel?’ she asked, mentally preparing herself for yet another interview. ‘If so, then it would indeed suit my skills, as I can certainly cook and clean.’
Giving a little chuckle, he opened the door to show her into a shabby hall. ‘It could be considered as such, yes, although those are not necessarily the skills I am seeking.’
Glancing around at the wallpaper peeling from the walls and an array of scruffy doors in bad need of a lick of paint, Brenda politely smiled. ‘Well, I could start with this entrance hall, and give it a good scrub and polish.’ Alarm bells suddenly began to ring in her head as she saw a German officer in uniform standing by one of the inner doors. Was she about to be arrested? Reminding herself this was a hotel and not the city hall or a military head quarters, she gave a little nod in his direction. ‘I take it you accept Germans as guests?’
‘Of course, they are regular clients. This man is a member of the Wehrmacht, the German defence force, and acts as a protector for the women who work here. Come with me,’ he said, ushering her through the door the man was guarding into a small parlour. It was lined with chairs and sofas, occupied by young girls dressed in floaty gowns or bathrobes, giggling and chatting happily to each other as they smoked cigarettes or sipped wine.
‘What is this place?’ Brenda asked, suspicion beginning to form somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Young she may be, but not stupid. Why would these women be sitting around half-dressed on this chilly winter’s day, even if there was a blazing fire in the grate? As her fears began to escalate, another German soldier appeared out of nowhere. Seeing her standing by the fireplace, he came quickly over, an expression of curiosity lighting his face as his gaze roamed over her from head to toe.
‘You must be new. Take off your coat, then I can see you better.’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Do as the gentleman asks,’ her escort instructed.
‘Why would I do that?’ she snapped, giving a little frown.
‘Because he is an important client, and has the right to inspect a possible candidate.’
‘Candidate for what? You haven’t yet informed me what kind of work you are offering, Monsieur Bresson.’
‘I assume that, in view of your nationality, you’d be agreeable to do anything in order to avoid arrest. You’re a very pretty lady, and I know of many young soldiers who would be only too glad to pay for the pleasure of your company. I can also offer you safe accommodation. The Germans visit this brothel regularly and don’t care about a girl’s nationality, so long as she is good-looking and amenable. Weekly visits are considered mandatory for all young soldiers to prevent them indulging in sexual excesses with all and sundry, thereby spreading venereal diseases. The girls employed here make good money and are given regular scheduled medical check-ups to keep them safe from such problems, so there’s nothing for you to worry about on that score.’
Brenda stared at him in stunned horror. ‘What on earth are you suggesting? How dare you! I’m a widow, not a prostitute.’
Glowering at her, he turned to speak in rapid German to the client who, laughing loudly, tugged open Brenda’s coat and began to grope her breasts with his large hands. ‘Hm, quite full and promising,’ the officer said, in perfect English. ‘Yes, she’s ideal, I’ll take this one.’
Gasping with a mix of fury and terror, Brenda slapped his hands away, spun on her heels and stalked off at a rapid pace across the hall and through the outer door, holding her head high. The moment she reached the courtyard, she took to her heels and ran as if the devil was on her tail, because in a way he was.
Respectable jobs, it seemed, were as hard to come by now as transport.
*
Her heart was pounding with fear and exhaustion by the time Brenda reached Camille’s apartment. She’d taken great care that she wasn’t being followed, and felt hardly able to breathe as alarm reverberated through her. How stupid to trust an absolute stranger and follow him, without even knowing what he had to offer. She’d put herself in serious danger as a consequence of such naivety, and must never do such a thing again. She dreaded to think what he might have done to her.
‘What is wrong, dear girl?’ Camille asked, watching in dismay as Brenda collapsed on to the velvet sofa in tears.
‘You wouldn’t believe what’s just happened.’ The two ladies came to sit beside her, Camille dabbing at the tears dripping down her cheeks with a lace handkerchief.
‘Do tell us what has upset you. Are you all right, dear?’
‘Fortunately, yes. I thought I’d at last found employment.’ Quickly explaining her terrifying story, tears again filled her eyes at the sight of their shocked expressions. ‘Once I realised that it was a brothel and not a hotel, I ran hell for leather, as we say in England. How dare that German officer grope me, the bastard! Nothing on earth would persuade me to give myself to any man.’
‘What a dreadful world we are living in now,’ Adèle said with a sad sigh as she wrapped her arms about Brenda to give her a comforting hug. ‘I’ve heard that Polish and other foreign girls, some as young as fifteen, have found themselves kidnapped and taken to a brothel to be sexually exploited. Thank goodness you managed to escape, darling.’
‘You are perfectly safe here with us, but I think you should stay indoors for a while, just in case they come looking for you, dear,’ Camille suggested.
Brenda nodded in agreement, feeling bleak and even more trapped. Perhaps it was not a good idea for a British girl to seek work in this occupied city. She really had no wish to ever again be approached by such rogues. Picking up her child, together with his little toy monkey, Brenda gave him a kiss and a cuddle. How she adored him. Bathing, nursing and feeding him in the days following helped to ease her anxiety as the sweet baby scent of her son brought joy to her heart.
1944
Puffs of white cloud danced over humps of hills the next morning as Brenda stared bleakly out of the window, having suffered another fairly sleepless night. Could all these traumas be the reason her confidence was leaking rapidly away? She felt filled with anguish, as if she was falling into that dark pit yet again, quite unable to block out the pain. Yet she’d learned over the years to fight these feelings of extreme anxiety by rebuilding her strength, something she really must work upon.
Mrs Harding, even plumper than she’d been when Brenda had first come to work with her, was still a jolly and cheerful woman and most welcoming as Brenda