The Diplomat's Wife (14 page)

I nod. “They wanted me to give up information about the others. I didn’t.”

“So were you shot during the café bombing, or did that happen later, when they tried to arrest you?”

“Neither, actually. There was another girl in the resistance, Emma. She was my best friend.”
And the wife of the man I loved,
I think. But I cannot bring myself to speak of Jacob to Paul, not now. “Emma was Jewish too, but she was living under another name as a non-Jew.” I speak slowly, trying to find the right English words to explain. “She worked for a Nazi, a very big one, and was able to get things for us—security passes, information. She became involved with him. In order to get information,” I add quickly. I do not want Paul thinking ill of Emma, wondering as I sometimes had, why she had really become involved with Kommandant Richwalder. “She became pregnant.” Paul’s eyes widen. “The Kommandant wanted to take her away from Kraków and marry her, so we had to get her out of the city. I was in charge of helping her to get out and meet up with her husband.”

“She was already married?”

“Yes, to another resistance member. He had been injured in the café bombing and was being hidden outside of town.” Suddenly, I am back in Kraków, waiting for Emma in the bushes outside her aunt’s house. I was supposed to pick her up at dawn, but I knew she would never leave Kraków without saying goodbye to her father. Shortly after I arrived, the door to the house opened and Emma slipped out, a shawl over her head. As I followed her silently through the dark, still streets toward the ghetto, anger rose in me. So much was being risked to help her escape and now she was selfishly putting all of us in further danger.

“Marta, are you all right?” Paul is still watching me, a concerned look on his face.

I blink several times, clearing the vision from my mind. “Fine, sorry. Before we could escape, the Kommandant found Emma and discovered that she was Jewish.” I recount hiding in the shadows, watching the Kommandant confront Emma. “I had hoped she might be able to somehow talk her way out of it. He seemed to have genuine feelings for her so I thought he might understand. But when he pulled out his gun, I had to do something. I shot him.”

“Oh, Marta.” Paul touches my cheek.

“I killed him. But he managed this first.” I touch my side. “Then the Gestapo came and arrested me and, well, you know the rest.”

“And Emma?”

“She escaped. When I realized I was shot, I told her to go on without me.”

“She left you?”

I nod. “I made her go. She didn’t want to, but there was no other choice. I told her where Jacob—that’s her husband—was hiding. The plan was for them to meet up, cross the border into Slovakia. I don’t know if they made it. Anyway, that’s how I wound up in prison where you found me.”

He stares at me, his expression one of amazement. “I had no idea…”

I swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. “If you don’t want to, I mean, if this changes your mind about me, I understand,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

“What? Oh God, Marta, that’s not it at all.”

“I mean, it’s a lot to deal with, I know. I killed a man.”

“You killed a Nazi,” he corrects me. “To save your best friend.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like that.” I burst into tears.

He draws me close and I bury my head in his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispers, stroking my hair.

A few minutes later, I pull back, wiping my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say between gulps of air.

“Don’t be. I still see the faces of the Germans I killed, too. There was this one soldier, a boy, really. He couldn’t have been older than twenty. There were others, of course, but this one…I was only about five feet away.” Though he speaks quickly, I am able to follow his clear, familiar cadence. “After I hit him he looked so surprised. I think he expected me to take him prisoner instead. Maybe I should have. But his unit had just killed my best friend, David. Grenade in our foxhole. It would have been me, too, if I hadn’t gotten up to relieve myself three minutes before. I came back and there was blood everywhere, on our packs, on the cards we’d been playing gin with minutes earlier. I held David while he died.”

“I’m so sorry.” I squeeze my arms tighter around him.

“Me, too. I’m sorry for everything we both had to go through. But it’s over now. Just two more weeks.” He smiles. “I can’t wait for you to meet my mom. She’s just going to love you. And the ranch! There’s a corner of the property, where the stream leads into the woods. I think we should build our house there.”

Our house. “It sounds perfect.”

“Then we can fill it with, like, twenty kids,” he adds.

I laugh. “Twenty kids? Let’s just start with one.” Suddenly I am concerned. “Paul, promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“I will.” His expression is solemn, but there is a twinkle in his eye. “I won’t eat too many croissants. And I won’t dance with a single Parisian girl, I swear.”

“Very funny.” I punch his arm lightly. “I’m serious. The war is over. Just be careful and hurry back to me.”

“I won’t take any chances,” he promises. “Not now. Not when we have so much to lose.” He looks over my shoulder at the clock. “But we should leave and get you to your train.”

Reluctantly, I roll away from him and climb out of bed. “You stay here.”

He sits up. “I want to take you to the station.”

I shake my head. “The city is quiet now. I’ll be fine. It’s better this way. Please.” Saying goodbye was going to be hard and I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. The only train station I want to see you at is the one in London, two weeks from now. And, anyway, I want to remember you just like this,” I add, pointing to the bed and trying to sound light.

He leans back for a second, relenting. Then he reaches over to his bag, which lies on the floor beside the bed, and pulls out a small notepad and pencil. “Write down the address where you’ll be in London for me.”

Uneasiness rises in me. “In case your plans change?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing will change. I just want to send you a postcard.” I pull my papers from my bag and copy the address from the visa. “Thanks,” he says as I hand the notepad back to him. I dress quickly. A minute later, I sit down beside him on the bed.

“Do you have enough money?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie, nodding quickly.

He takes my face in his hands. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” I repeat solemnly. “Be careful.”

“No chances,” he promises again. “You, either.” He looks long into my eyes, then kisses me hard. I close my eyes, inhaling his scent, wanting to hold on to the moment forever. But a second later I hear church bells in the distance, chiming the hour.

“I have to go.” Reluctantly, I pull away from him, then stand up and walk to the door. I turn back, fighting back the tears that fill my eyes. “Goodbye, Paul.”

He smiles. “See you soon. I love you, Marta. We’re going to have a great life together.” I nod, unable to answer without crying. Then I open the door and walk through, pulling it closed behind me.

CHAPTER
10

T
he bus screeches to a halt at the ferry terminal. The word
Calais
is painted on a large wooden board on the front of the two-story red-brick building. An hour earlier, my train from Paris arrived at a station bearing the same name. The air is different here, though, thick and salty. Behind the terminal I can make out several tall ships, set against a wide swath of sparkling water. My breath catches; I have never seen the ocean before. But there is no time to marvel. The other passengers are standing up, making their way to the front of the bus. I pick up my bag and follow them, stepping out onto the pavement.

The crowd shuffles toward the building. Inside, there are two lines leading to glass ticket windows. I hesitate, unable to comprehend the French signs above each. In the right line stands a woman carrying two large, worn suitcases, four children in tow. Their clothes are clean, but ill-fitting, repaired with crude stitching in several places. To the left, the travelers are better dressed, their bags smaller. A sandy-haired man in a white suit with thin, pale blue stripes stands at the back of that line. Unlike the woman, I do not recognize him from the bus. I join the line of more shabbily dressed travelers to the right.

The line shuffles slowly forward. I look out of the corner of my eye at the other line to see if it is moving more quickly. But the man in the striped suit is still standing parallel to me, shifting his weight from side to side, tapping his foot impatiently. Suddenly, he turns, meeting my gaze. He smiles, revealing small, even teeth, then rolls his pale blue eyes. I look away.

A few minutes later, the woman in front of me reaches the head of the line and sets down her suitcases to give the frowning man behind the window a handful of papers. He stamps them several times, then gives them back to her. “Lower deck,” I hear him say. “Next!”

I step forward, handing him my ticket and visa. He scans the papers, then speaks rapidly in French, pointing to the other line as though I’ve made a mistake. I shake my head, hoping that he will not make me go to the back of that queue and wait again. The ferry will be leaving soon. “Passport?” he says. I shake my head again, my heart pounding. I do not have a passport. Then I remember the identification card Dava gave me. I reach into my bag, fumbling and feeling the impatient stares of the people in line behind me. My hand closes around the card and I pull it out, then pass it to the man with trembling fingers. I hold my breath as he studies the card and papers. Is he questioning the extension, or whether I am really Rose? Finally, he stamps the ticket and hands everything back to me. I walk hurriedly from the window, clutching the papers, and proceed out the back door of the building as the other travelers did.

Outside, I stop. Twenty meters in front of me sits a row of six ships, each larger than the last. As I catch sight of the green-gray water behind the ships, I gasp. Growing up in southern Poland, hundreds of miles from the coast, I had only played by lakes and streams. I almost saw the ocean once during the war, when I had traveled to Gdansk with Jacob to obtain ammunition from a Danish contact. But it was nighttime, and though we met by the docks, I could not see the ocean, only hear the faint echo of the waves against the shore. Now sunlight sparkles on the water, which flows endlessly to the horizon.

Forcing my eyes from the ocean, I follow the other travelers down the dock to the third ship. I hesitate. Dava and Jacob had both mentioned taking a ferry across the Channel. But this looks like an ocean liner, its base stretching several hundred meters into the sea. There are three decks, each slightly smaller than the last, stacked like a wedding cake.

A horn sounds loud and low. I walk forward with the others toward the ramp that leads onto the ship. Then, at the base of the ramp, I stop again, losing my nerve. Crowds of passengers push past me, eager to board. I shiver. Why am I doing this? It would be so much easier to turn around, go back to Paris and wait with Paul until he is discharged. Stubbornness rises up in me. I have to go to London. For Rose. Suddenly it is as if she is standing beside me. “Come on,” I can hear her say, as she slips her delicate hand into mine. I take a deep breath and start up the ramp.

At the top, I give my ticket to the purser, who stamps it and hands it back to me. I take a step forward, pausing to get my bearings. Straight ahead, the deck is crowded, mostly with rough-looking men, laborers. Spotting the family that had been in front of me in line standing by the far railing, I start toward them. “Ma’am,” the purser calls in English. I turn back, wondering if I have done something wrong. He points left to a staircase that winds upward. “Your ticket is for first class. Two decks up.”

“But…” I look down at the ticket. Dava could only have afforded a basic fare and she is too practical to have spent Rose’s money on anything more. Paul, I think. He must have bought me a more expensive ticket when he changed the reservation. A warm feeling floods through me. “Th-thank you.”

I climb one staircase, then another, finally reaching the top deck. It is a different world from the crowded galley below. The light wood promenade is open and spacious. A building with large glass windows occupies the center of the deck; inside, I can make out several tables and chairs. Passengers in fine linen dresses and suits sit in the chaise longues or stand in small groups around the perimeter of the deck, sipping cocktails and talking, shielded by parasols from the bright sun. I feel eyes upon me, taking in my coarse dress and thick, secondhand shoes. My face reddens. I don’t belong here. I walk quickly away from the other passengers toward the front of the deck.

Underneath my feet, I feel the ship begin to move. My stomach jumps. I am going to England. A few days ago, that would have meant everything to me. And I am still glad to be able to fulfill my promise to Dava and take the sad news to Rose’s aunt. But now the trip means leaving Paul, too. It is only for a few weeks, I remind myself. But an uneasy sadness overcomes me as I look back over my shoulder at the shore.

Look forward, I think, remembering Dava’s words. I force myself to turn away and keep walking toward the front of the ship. I am relieved to find that the deck is deserted here, perhaps owing to the lack of chairs or the strong breeze that blows off the bow. I stare out at the ocean, captivated. The water has grown choppier now, the green surface broken by hundreds of whitecaps. Seagulls dive to the water, trying to feed, then soar toward the sky once more.

The ship rolls suddenly, then dips to the right. Caught off guard, I stumble. My hands slam against the deck, breaking my fall. “Easy there,” a male voice above me says in English. A hand grasps my elbow, helping me to my feet. “Are you all right?”

I straighten, my palms smarting from the blow. Standing in front of me is the light-haired man I noticed in the other ticket line. The orange drink he is holding has splashed across his hand and a single spot stains the fine seersucker fabric of his jacket. But he does not seem to notice. His thin lips are puckered with concern. “I’m fine,” I reply, brushing off the front of my skirt.