The Diplomat's Wife
Pam Jenoff
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING TITLE THE ORPHAN'S TALE OUT NOWHow have I been lucky enough to come here, to be alive, when so many others are not? I should have died. . . . But I am here.1945. Surviving the brutality of a Nazi prison camp, Marta Nederman is lucky to have escaped with her life. Recovering from the horror, she meets Paul, an American soldier who gives her hope of a happier future. But their plans to meet in London are dashed when Paul's plane crashes.Devastated and pregnant, Marta marries Simon, a caring British diplomat, and glimpses the joy that home and family can bring. But her happiness is threatened when she learns of a Communist spy in British intelligence, and that the one person who can expose the traitor is connected to her past.Praise for Pam Jenoff:‘ heartbreakingly romantic story of forbidden love during WW2’ - Heat‘Must read’ - Daily Express
The Diplomat’s
Wife
Pam Jenoff
To Phillip, with love
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One of the most remarkable aspects of becoming a published author has been meeting the many talented people who work so hard to bring my books to life. I am forever grateful to everyone at HQ, including my gifted editor Susan Pezzack and the editorial team, Heather Foy and her wonderful colleagues in public relations, Amy Jones and the other brilliant folks in marketing, Maureen Stead who always ensures smooth travels, Jayne Hoogenberk and Adrienne Macintosh for their fabulous work on the eHarlequin.com materials, the terrific sales team, and many others too numerous to count. I would also like to thank the amazing HQ team for their stellar work, including Catherine Burke, Oliver Rhodes, Clare Somerville, Sarah Ritherdon, Alison Byrne, Bethan Hilliard and all of their colleagues. I am also grateful to publicists Margot Weale at Midas PR in London and Gail Brussel in New York for their work on my behalf.
Another wonderful facet of this experience has been the thousands of people who have come into my life from reading my book. To that end, I would like to thank the many booksellers and librarians who have promoted my work, the readers who have reached out to tell me how my writing affected them, and the book clubs who have welcomed me into their homes. I am also grateful to the many authors who have so generously shared the benefit of their experiences with me and to the writers in my writing group for their feedback on my work. I would also like to recognise the Leighton Studios at the Banff Centre for the Arts. The days I spent there during the formative stages of this book were invaluable.
Then there is the continuing joy that comes from those who have been with me from the start. Thanks to my rock star agent, Scott Hoffman, and his team at Folio Literary Management for their flawless judgement, tireless efforts and endless patience in guiding me through the publishing experience. To my friends and colleagues, who have walked this journey with me every step of the way. And, most importantly, to my family: Mom, Dad, Jay and Phillip (and Casey and Kitty too) – without you, none of this would be possible or worthwhile.
CHAPTER 1
I do not know how many hours or days I have lain on this cold, hard floor, waiting to die. For some time, it seemed certain that I already was dead, shrouded in the dark stillness of my grave, unable to move or speak.
A sharp pain shoots through my right side. It is not over. Sound comes back next in tiny waves: rats scratching inside the walls, water dripping beyond my reach. My head begins to throb against the icy concrete.
No, not dead. Not yet, but soon. I can take no more. In my mind I see the guard standing above me, an iron bar raised high above his head. My stomach twists. Did I talk? No, a voice within me replies. You said nothing. You did well. The voice is male. Alek, or Jacob perhaps. Of course, it could be neither. Alek is dead, captured and shot by the Gestapo. Jacob might be gone, too, if he and Emma did not make it across the border.
Emma. I can still see her face as she stood above me on the railway bridge. Her lips were cool on my cheek as she bent to kiss me goodbye. “God bless you, Marta.” Too weak to reply, I nodded, then watched as she ran to the far end of the bridge, disappearing into the darkness.
After she was gone, I looked down at the bridge. Beneath me a dark red stain seeped into the snow, growing even as I watched. Blood, I realized. My blood. Or maybe his. The Kommandant’s body lay motionless just a few meters away. His face looked peaceful, almost innocent, and for a moment I could understand how Emma might have cared for him.
But I had not; I killed him.
My side began to burn white-hot where the bullet from the Kommandant’s gun had entered. In the distance, the sirens grew louder. For a moment, I regretted telling Emma to leave, rejecting her offer to help me escape. But I would have only slowed her down and we both would have been caught. This way she had a chance. Alek would have been proud of me. Jacob, too. For a moment I imagined that Jacob was standing over me, his brown hair lifted by the breeze. “Thank you,” he mouthed. Then he, too, was gone.
The Gestapo came then and I lay with my eyes closed, willing death to come quickly. For a moment, when they realized that I had shot the Kommandant, it seemed certain that they would kill me right there. But then one pointed out that bullets were scarce and not to be wasted, and another that I would be wanted for questioning. So instead I was lifted from the bridge. “She’ll wish we had killed her here,” one said as they threw me roughly into the back of a truck.
Remembering his words now, I shiver. Most days he is right. That was some months ago. Or even years; time here blends together, endless days of loneliness, starvation and pain. The solitude is the hardest part. I have not seen another prisoner the whole time I have been here. Sometimes I lie close to the wall, thinking that I hear voices or breathing in the next cell. “Hello?” I whisper, pressing my head against the crack where the wall meets the floor. But there is never any response.
When the footsteps in the corridor do come at last, I am always filled with dread. Is it the kitchen boy, who stares at me with dark, hollow eyes as he sets down the tray of moldy bread and brown water? Or is it one of them? The torture sessions come in sudden, unpredictable bursts, none for days or weeks, then several in rapid succession. They ask the same questions over again as they beat me: Who were you working for? Who ordered you to shoot Kommandant Richwalder? Give us the names and we’ll stop, they promise. But I have not spoken and they do not stop, not until I have passed out. Once or twice they have revived me and begun again. Most times, like today, I wake up back in my cell, alone.
Yet despite everything, I have said nothing. I have done well. I smile inwardly at this. Then my satisfaction disappears. I thought, almost hoped, that this last beating would mean the end. But I am alive, and so they will surely come again. I begin to tremble. Each time is worse than the last. I cannot take any more. I must be dead before they come.
Another sharp pain shoots through my side. The Nazis operated on me shortly after I arrived at the prison, removing the bullet. At the time, I didn’t understand why they would try to save me. Of course, that was before the interrogations began. The pain grows worse and I begin to sweat. Suddenly, the room grows colder and I slip from consciousness once more.
Sometime later, I awaken. The smell of my own waste hangs heavy in the air. In the distance, I hear a low, unfamiliar rumbling sound. Through my eyelids I sense light. How much time has passed? I raise my hands to my face. My right eye is sealed shut by a fresh, round welt. I rub my left eye, brushing away the thick crust that has formed in the outside corner. Blinking, I look around the cell. The room is blurry, as everything has been since they confiscated my glasses upon arrival. I can make out a pale beam of daylight that has found its way in through the tiny, lone window by the ceiling, illuminating a small puddle on the floor. My parched throat aches. If only I could make it to the water. But I am still too weak to move.
The rumbling sound stops. I hear footsteps on the floor above, then on the stairwell. The guards are coming. I close my eye again as the key turns in the lock. The cell door opens and I can hear low male voices talking. I force myself to remain still, to not tremble or give any indication that I am awake. The footsteps grow louder as they cross the room. I brace myself, waiting for the rough grasp and blows that will surely come. But the men pause in the middle of the room, still talking. They seem to be having a disagreement of some sort. They aren’t speaking German, I realize suddenly. I strain to listen. “… too sick,” one of the voices says. The language is not Russian or Slavic at all. English! My heart leaps.
“She must go.” I open my eye quickly. Two men in dark green uniforms stand in my cell. Are they British? American? I squint, trying without success to make out the flag on their sleeves. Have we been liberated?
The shorter man has his back to me. Over his shoulder, I can see a second man, pointing toward the door. “She must go,” he repeats, his voice angry. The shorter man shakes his head.
I have to get their attention. I try to sit up, but the pain is too much. I take a deep breath and cough, then raise my arm slightly. The man who had been pointing looks in my direction. “See?” he calls over his shoulder as he races toward me. The other man does not reply, but shakes his head and walks out of the cell.
The soldier kneels beside me. “Hello.”
I open my mouth to respond, but only a low gurgling sound comes out. “Shh.” He puts a finger to his lips. I nod slightly, feeling my cheeks redden. He reaches out to touch my arm. I jerk away. For so long, human contact has only meant pain. “It’s okay,” he says softly. He points to the flag on his sleeve. “American. It’s okay.” He reaches out again, more slowly this time, and I force myself not to flinch as he lifts my arm, pressing his large, callused fingers against my wrist. I had nearly forgotten that a person could touch so gently. He feels for my pulse, then brings his other hand to my forehead. His brow furrows. He begins to speak quickly in English, his blue eyes darting back and forth. I shake my head slightly. I do not understand. He stops midsentence, a faint blush appearing in his pale cheeks. “Sorry.”
He pulls a metal bottle from his waistband and opens it, pouring some liquid into the cap. Then he takes one hand and places it behind my neck. I allow myself to relax against the warmth of his touch. His sleeve gives off an earthy scent that stirs a childhood memory, pine needles on the forest ground. He lifts my head slightly, cradling it as one might an infant’s, bringing the cap to my lips. “Drink.” I swallow the water he pours into my mouth. It has a salty, slightly metallic taste, but I do not care. I drink all that is in the first cap and a second, too.
As I drink, I study his face. He is no more than a few years older than me, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. His dark hair is very short on the sides but wavy on top. Though his expression is serious now, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes make me think he has smiled a lot. He looks kind. And handsome. I am suddenly aware of my soiled prison dress and matted curls, caked thick with dirt and blood.
I take one last sip. Then, exhausted from the effort, I go limp as he gently lowers my head to the floor. Don’t, I want to say, as he slides his hand out from under my neck. His touch is familiar now, comforting. Instead I smile, trying to convey my gratitude. He nods, his eyes wide and sad. I can feel him wondering how I have come to be here, who would do this to me. He starts to stand. Panicking, I struggle to reach up and grab his hand.
“It’s okay.” He kneels beside me once more, gesturing toward the door of the cell with his head. “Doctor.” He means to bring me help. I relax slightly, still clinging to him. “It’s okay,” he repeats slowly, squeezing my hand. “You will go.” Go. My eyes start to burn. The nightmare is over. It is almost too much to believe. A single tear rolls hot down my cheek. He reaches out to brush it away.
He clears his throat, then touches his chest with his free hand. “Paul.”
Paul. I stare up at him, repeating his name in my mind. I do not know if I can speak. But I need for him to know my name, too. I swallow, then take a deep breath. “M-Marta,” I manage to say. Then, overwhelmed by the effort and all that has happened, I collapse into darkness once more.
CHAPTER 2
“Awake now, are we?” A woman’s voice, brisk and unfamiliar, cuts through the darkness. Have the Germans returned? I inhale sharply. Something is different. The air is no longer thick with waste, but with smells of rubbing alcohol and fresh paint. Gone are the sounds of the rats and dripping water, too. They have been replaced by gentle rustling, voices talking softly.
Snapping my eyes open, I am stunned to discover that I am no longer in my cell, but in a large room with bright yellow walls. Where am I? A woman stands by the foot of the bed. Though her face is blurry, I can see that she is wearing a white dress and cap. She comes up beside me and touches my forehead. “How are you feeling?” I swallow uncertainly. There is still pain in my side, but it is duller now, like a toothache. “My name is Dava. Do you know where you are?” She is not speaking Polish, but I understand what she is saying. Yiddish, I realize. I have not heard it since leaving the ghetto. But Yiddish is so close to German, and the woman speaks it with some sort of an accent. Perhaps this is just another Nazi trick to get me to talk. The woman, seeming to notice my distress, quickly answers her own question. “You are in a camp run by the Allies for displaced persons, just outside Salzburg.”
Camp. Salzburg. My mind races. “Nazis …?” I manage to say. My throat aches as much from saying the word as from the effort of speaking.
“Gone. Hitler killed himself and what was left of the German army surrendered. The war in Europe is over.” She sounds so sure, so unafraid. I relax slightly, letting her words sink in as she reaches above my head to a window and adjusts the curtains to block some of the sunlight that is streaming through. Don’t, I want to say. I have lived in darkness for so long. “There, that’s better.” I look up at her. Though her full figure gives her a matronly appearance, I can tell by her face that she is not more than thirty. A lock of brown hair peeks out from beneath her cap.
Dava pours water from a blue pitcher into a glass on the low table beside my bed. I start to sit up, but she presses against my shoulder with her free hand. “Wait.” She takes a pillow from the empty bed beside mine and, lifting me up slightly, places it atop the one already beneath my head. I notice then that I am wearing a hospital gown made of coarse, light-blue cotton. “Your body has been through a great deal. You need to move slowly.” I lift my head as Dava brings the glass to my lips. “Slowly,” she repeats. I take a small sip. “That’s good, Marta.” I look up, wondering how she knows my name. “It was written on your forehead when they brought you in,” she explains. Then, noticing my surprise, she adds, “The soldiers who are liberating the camps often write things, names or conditions directly on the patients. They either don’t have paper or they’re afraid the information would be lost on the way in.”
I take another sip, then lay my head down on the pillow once more. Suddenly I remember the soldier helping me drink on the prison floor. “How did I get here?”
Dava replaces the glass on the table. “The Americans found you in the Nazi prison when they liberated Dachau, just outside Munich. We’re just two hours south, not far from the German border, so many of the liberated are brought here. You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in more than a week ago. Your wound was infected and you had a very high fever. We weren’t sure if you were going to pull through. But you’re awake now, and the fever is gone.” Dava looks over her shoulder across the room, then turns back to me. “You rest for a few minutes. I’m going to let the doctor know you’re awake.”
As she walks away, I lift my head again. Although my vision is blurry, I can make out two rows of narrow, evenly spaced beds running along the walls of the long, rectangular room. Mine is in the farthest corner, pressed against a wall on one side. All of the beds seem to be filled, except the one beside me. Several women dressed in white move briskly between them.
Dava returns a few minutes later carrying a tray, an older man with thick glasses in tow. He picks up my wrist with one hand and touches my forehead. Then he lifts the blanket and reaches for the corner of my gown. Surprised, I recoil.
Dava sets down the tray on the empty bed behind her and steps forward. “He just needs to examine the wound to make sure it is healing properly.” I relax slightly and let the doctor lift my gown, trying not to feel his cold, unfamiliar hands as they press on my stomach. Then he pulls the gown back farther, revealing the wound. I am surprised to see fresh stitches along the incision line. “They had to operate again when you first arrived here,” Dava explains. “There was a piece of bullet still inside you and you had developed an infection.” I nod. In prison I often wondered why my side still ached so long after the Nazis operated on me. Now, not long after the second surgery, it already feels much better.
The doctor replaces my gown and turns to Dava, speaking to her in German too brisk and accented for me to comprehend. Then he hurries away. “He said you’re healing really well. And that you should try to eat something. Are you hungry?” Before I can answer, Dava picks up a bowl from the tray behind her. “Soup,” she announces brightly. I sit up slowly and this time she does not stop me, but brings the bowl close under my chin. A rich aroma wafts upward. Nausea rises in me and a cold sweats break out on my forehead. Noticing, Dava sets the bowl down on the table and picks up a cup and saucer from the tray. “Let’s just start with some tea.”
I swallow, my stomach calmer now. “I can hold it.”
Dava hands me the cup and I take a sip. The liquid is lukewarm and soothing to my throat. Cradling the cup in both hands, I look upward. The ceiling is high and decorated with a pattern of some sort. I squint to try to make it out.
“This used to be a formal dining room,” Dava explains. “The whole camp is housed on the grounds of Schloss Leopoldskron, which was one of the Hapsburg palaces. The Nazis confiscated it from its previous owners, and we took it from them. The palace is very beautiful, as are the grounds. I’ll give you a tour when you are well enough.”
“Thank you.” I take another sip of tea.
Dava points upward. “If you look there, you can see the Baroque influence. The detail is really quite extraordinary.”
“I can’t …” I begin, then hesitate. “That is, I can’t see it.”
“What do you mean?” Dava’s voice is heavy with concern. “Did the Nazis do something? A blow to the head, perhaps? Or did you fall?”
I shake my head. “Nothing like that,” I reply quickly, though of course they had struck me in the head many times. “It’s just that I am very nearsighted. And my glasses were confiscated when I was arrested.”
“Oh, my goodness, why didn’t you say something? We have a whole boxful of glasses in the supply room.” What happened to their former owners? I wonder. Dava continues, “As soon as you’ve finished eating, I’ll bring you a few pairs to try out. Now, let’s give the soup another go.” She takes the teacup from me and puts it back on the tray, then picks up the bowl once more. My stomach rumbles with anticipation. I swallow the first mouthful Dava spoons for me, savoring the warm, salty broth as it runs down my throat. Neither of us speak as she feeds me a second spoonful, then a third. “Let’s slow down for a minute and see how that sits,” she says.
I open my mouth to start to protest. It is the first fresh food I have tasted in months and I do not want to stop. But I know that she is right. I lean back and look around the ward. “I’ve been wondering, the rest of the room looks so crowded, but there is no one here.” I gesture to the empty bed beside my own.
“You mean, why are you being kept separate from the others?”
“Yes.”
Dava hesitates. “The others are from the camps.”
“I don’t understand. You said I was in Dachau. Wasn’t that a camp?”
“Yes, of course. But where you were kept, in the prison, you were not in the general population with the other women.” I study Dava’s face. Does she know why I was in that special prison cell? “The conditions in the general populations of the camps like Dachau were very bad,” she adds.
“Worse than where I was?” I try to imagine what could be more horrible than the beatings, starvation and isolation I endured.
“Not necessarily worse, but different. There were lots of diseases, dysentery, typhus.” Typhus. My mother died of typhus in the Kraków ghetto. I see her sore-ravaged body, hear her crying out in the delirium brought on by high fever. “We didn’t want to risk you catching something while you were weak from the surgery and infection, so we kept you as separate as we could. That’s about to change, though. We’re expecting another transport and we’ll likely have to use all of the beds then, so you’ll be getting a neighbor. But enough about that. Let’s have some more soup.”
As Dava spoons the broth for me, I look over her shoulder. Most of the other women lie still in their beds. I am suddenly aware of noises I hadn’t heard before, low moans, the whirring and beeping of medical equipment. There is another smell, too: the faint, metallic odor of blood.
I turn back to Dava, studying her face with interest. “Where are you from?”
“Russia originally, but my family moved to Vienna when I was a child. My parents died in Buchenwald.”
“You’re Jewish?” I cannot keep the surprise from my voice. With her ample figure, Dava does not look like she spent time in the camps.
She nods. “I was in the south of France studying languages when the war broke out. My family wouldn’t hear of me coming back. So I signed up as a nurse with the Allies, made my way back to Austria as soon as I was able. But my parents, our house, it was all gone.”
Mine, too, I think, my eyes burning.
“All gone,” Dava repeats a minute later. But her tone is bright and I realize as she sets the bowl back down on the tray that she is talking about the soup now. Gone. Suddenly I am back in my cell without any food, wondering when the next meal will come, whether I will eat again that day. Panic shoots through me. Dava, accustomed to dealing with survivors, seems to read my thoughts. “Don’t worry.” She pats my shoulder. “The Red Cross supplies our kitchen. There’s plenty of soup, and many other kinds of food as well. If you’re still hungry and manage to hold down what you’ve just eaten, I can bring you bread in an hour. But you have to stop eating for now. It’s for your own good.”
I lean back, relieved. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Dava stands up. “Now I need to go check on some of the other patients. I want you to get some rest. You need to regain your strength.”
My eyelids suddenly seem to grow heavier. “I am a little sleepy,” I admit.
“It’s the food. You rest. Sleep is good for your healing.” Dava picks up the tray and starts to leave.
“Dava,” I call after her, struggling to sit up again.
She turns back. “Yes?”
“I have another question.” I pause, picturing the soldier hovering over me in prison. “You said that the Americans brought me in. Do you know any of their names?”
Dava’s brow furrows. “I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”
“There was one soldier I remember helping me before I passed out. I think he was called Paul.” My heart flutters as I say his name aloud.
“What was his surname?”
I hesitate, trying to remember. There had been dark writing on the green lapel of his uniform. I close my eyes, straining without success to read it from memory. “I don’t know.”
“There are thousands of American soldiers in Europe right now, liberating the camps,” she replies gently. My heart sinks. “I’ll ask around when the transports come in from the various camps, but I wouldn’t count on too much. Now, you rest. I’ll be back when I finish my rounds.”
I sink back in bed, watching Dava as she walks away. Then I look around the ward once more. This is not a dream. I really have been saved. Exhaustion overcomes me and I lean my head back against the crisp white sheets, drifting to sleep.
Sometime later, I open my eyes. How much time has passed? The ward is nearly dark now, illuminated only by a beam of moonlight that stubbornly makes its way through the drawn curtains behind me. The room buzzes with the thick, labored breathing of sick women trying to sleep. In the distance, I hear someone crying softly.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. Pushing myself up to a sitting position, I reach for the glass on the table beside my bed, which Dava left half full of water. I take a sip, and as I set the glass down I notice several metal objects on the far side of the nightstand that were not there before. Glasses! Curious, I reach over and pick up a pair. I put them on but the room remains blurry. They are too weak. Quickly I try the next pair, which are weaker than the first. Disappointment rises in me as I take them off. What if none work for me? The lenses in the third pair are too strong, making my temples ache when I try to focus. I look at the table once more. Only two pairs left to try. Are there more, if none of these are right? I pick up the next pair, holding my breath as I put them on. The room suddenly comes into focus. They are nearly perfect. I can see again!
I turn toward the window, my side aching from the sudden movement. Pulling back the curtains, I gasp. Majestic, snow-capped mountains line the horizon, their jagged peaks climbing to the star-filled sky. The Alps, I realize. Goose bumps form on my arms. A wide lake sits at the base of the mountains, reflecting their vistas in its glasslike surface.
I stare up at the mountains again, blinking. It is hard to believe that such beauty still exists. What am I doing in this place? How have I been lucky enough to come here, to be alive, when so many others are not? Tears fill my eyes. Should I pray, thank God? I hesitate. I stopped believing long ago, the day I saw my father hanged in the main square of our village for sneaking food to a boy the Nazis had wanted to starve as punishment for stealing bread. I should have died, too, that night on the bridge, or in prison. But I am here, and I cannot escape the sense that some force, something larger than myself, has helped me to survive.
I take one last look at the mountains, then let the curtains fall back into place. I start to lie down once more, then stop suddenly. A young woman is in the bed beside mine. They must have brought her in while I was asleep.
“Hello?” I whisper. She does not respond. Her breathing is shallow, and I wonder if she is unconscious. I lean in closer and study her face. She looks about my age, though she is so emaciated that it is hard to tell for certain. Her high cheekbones protrude against her skin as though they might break through at any second and her eyes twitch beneath paper-thin lids. Her hair has been shorn so close that bald patches of scalp shine through.
I scan the room, hoping to see Dava or one of the other nurses to ask about the girl. But the floor is empty. I look down at the girl once more. Her fingers clutch the edge of the pillow, as though someone might try to take it away. The blanket has fallen from her shoulders, revealing a patch of pale collarbone above her hospital gown. I reach over and pull up the blanket to cover her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a clipboard on the edge of her bed. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I pick it up, scanning the top sheet. It is a medical chart of some type, with many long, unfamiliar words written in English. At the top of the page, I can make out a single word: Rose.
“Rose,” I say aloud, setting down the clipboard and looking back at the girl’s face. Her eyes flutter beneath their lids. I repeat her name. Slowly, her eyes open and she stares at me, blinking. “Hello,” I greet her in Polish. When she does not respond, I switch to Yiddish. “I’m Marta.” The girl does not respond but continues to stare at me with large, almond-shaped violet eyes. I suddenly recall my own confusion at waking up here. She must be terribly afraid. “You’re safe,” I whisper quickly, remembering how Dava comforted me earlier. “This is a refugee camp run by the Allies.” She still does not answer and for a second, I wonder if she is unfriendly. Just then, Rose reaches out her hand across the space between our beds. I take her thin, burning fingers in my own. “I’m sure you’ve been through some really awful experiences. Me, too. But that’s all over now.” I squeeze her hand gently. “We’re safe now. We’re in a good place and it’s only going to get better, I promise. Do you understand?” Rose does not answer but closes her eyes once more.
I study Rose’s face, wondering if waking her had been a mistake. Should I call for a nurse? She does not seem to be in any distress. I lay back in my own bed, still holding Rose’s hand. I wish that it was morning so I could ask Dava where Rose came from, what had happened to her.
I think then of the bright stars above the mountaintops. Too tired to sit up again, I crane my neck upward to see them. Through the break in the curtains, I catch a glimpse of a star. Do I dare to wish on it as I did when I was little? I hesitate. It seems greedy to ask for anything when I should be grateful just to be alive. Still, I cannot help but wonder what I should wish for, what life has in store for me now that I have survived.
I turn to Rose to tell her about the mountains. But she is breathing evenly now, her expression peaceful. I will not wake her again. There will be time to show her tomorrow. Still holding Rose’s hand, I lie back and gaze up at the stars once more.
CHAPTER 3
We sit on the terrace behind the palace, Dava and I on one of the benches, Rose in her wheelchair close beside us. Rose reads aloud in English from Little Women, the book she holds in her lap. “‘I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m longing to enjoy myself at home …’”
“Those sisters sure can complain,” I interrupt in Yiddish.
“Marta …” Dava shoots me a warning look.
“I mean, really,” I persist. “They’re supposed to be in the middle of a war, but they’re safe and warm in their own home. Yet one sister is complaining that she has to teach …”
“Meg,” Rose clarifies.
“And one of the others is upset because she has to sit in a big house and read to her aunt.”
“That’s Jo. But, Marta,” Rose says, “they suffered from the war, too, in their own way. I mean, they didn’t have a lot to eat and their father was off fighting …”
“I think that the American Civil War was very different for people who didn’t live close to the battlefields,” Dava offers slowly in English, teaching. “Not like here.” Battlefields indeed. Here our lives were the battlefields. “War can affect people in many ways,” she adds. She presses her lips together, a faraway expression in her eyes.
Rose raises the book. “Do you want me to keep going?”
“Yes,” Dava replies, patting Rose’s hand. “You’re doing great.”
Rose continues reading aloud, but I do not try to follow along. I have been listening for nearly an hour and my head aches from the constant effort of translating each word. Instead, I look up. It is only seven o’clock. Usually, the August sky would still be bright for more than another hour, but the sun has dropped behind thick, gray-centered clouds. I can barely see the hooked peak of the Untersberg through the fog.
I inhale deeply, savoring the sweet honeysuckle smell from the gardens that line the edge of the terrace. It has been more than two months since my arrival at the camp. My health has improved steadily since then, much more quickly, Dava said, than the doctors expected. The incision where my wound had been is nearly healed. It barely aches at all anymore, except when it rains.
“Marta,” Rose says. I turn to find she is holding out the book to me. “Do you want to try a line or two?”
I hesitate, running my hand along the warm stone bench. Earlier, Dava stopped Rose and let me try one of the easier passages, but as I struggled through the first few words, it was obvious that the text was still too difficult for me. “No, thanks.” Rose is nearly fluent in English, owing to summers spent with her aunt in London as a child. I, on the other hand, have been taking the English classes offered each morning in the palace library with some of the other camp residents. I’ve been able to pick up the spoken language fairly easily, but I still struggle to read much beyond children’s books. Dava helps me whenever she has the time. Her language skills are remarkable, owing, she told us once, to the fact that her father was a translator. She was schooled in English and French, in addition to her native Russian and Yiddish, and the German she learned growing up in Austria.
As Rose resumes reading, I turn back toward the palace, awed as ever at its size and grandeur. Schloss Leopoldskron is three stories high, with two massive wings jutting out on either side. Large paned windows dot the light-gray stone facade. The ground floor, I discovered when Dava let me get out of bed a few days after my arrival, is taken up by our ward, and a second ward, where the ballroom had once been, houses male patients. The two are separated by a grand foyer with an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from its high ceiling. Two curved marble staircases lead from the foyer to the first floor, where the library and a small chapel are located. The second floor, where the camp administrative offices are located, is off-limits to residents.
Rose pauses reading at the end of a chapter. “We should stop now,” Dava says. “I don’t want you overdoing things.”
Concerned, I study Rose’s face. Her complexion is pale and dark circles seem to have formed suddenly under her eyes. Rose has not had as easy of a recovery as me. The morning after her arrival, she did not awaken again. When I asked Dava, she told me that Rose was nineteen and from Amsterdam. Though she was only half Jewish, she had been interned in several camps, most recently a camp in Czechoslovakia called Terezin. I remarked that it must have been a really awful camp to make Rose so sick, but Dava replied it actually was not as bad as some. Rather, she explained, Rose had a blood disorder that had been worsened by the poor living conditions in the camp. I didn’t know exactly what a blood disorder was, but it sounded very serious. I watched as she struggled in her sleep over the next several days, keeping vigil as much as I could and informing the nurses whenever she awoke for a few minutes so they could give her water and medicine. Dava told me to concentrate on my own recovery, that Rose was not my problem. But Rose had to get better—I had promised her on the night she arrived that things would be all right.
Then one morning I awoke to find her lying on her side, staring at me with bright violet eyes. “Hello,” she said.
“Hi.” I sat up. “I’m Marta.”
“I know. I remember.”
Rose stayed awake for most of the day, but her condition improved little. On good days like today, she is able to sit in a wheelchair for short periods of time. But she still tires easily and cannot get around on her own. “I’m fine,” she insists now. Her cheeks are a bit pinker, as though she willed them to color.
But Dava is not convinced. “It’s going to rain,” she observes, looking up. “And it’s getting cooler, too.” She reaches over to the wheelchair to adjust the sweater around Rose’s shoulders, then stands. “We should go back inside.”
Rose puts her hand on Dava’s arm. “Just a few more minutes,” she pleads softly.
Dava hesitates, her eyes traveling from Rose’s hopeful face to the darkening sky, then back again. “A few minutes,” she repeats, looking over her shoulder toward the palace. “I do have to go start my rounds, though.”
“Go ahead,” I say quickly. Rose and I will be able to stay outside longer if Dava is occupied elsewhere. “I’ll bring Rose inside soon.”
“Ten minutes,” Dava orders, her expression stern.
“Ten minutes,” I repeat solemnly, winking so only Rose can see. Satisfied, Dava starts walking toward the building. When she is out of earshot, I turn to Rose. “She’s grumpy today.”
“She’s just worried about us. And very tired.” Rose sounds so earnest I feel instantly guilty for my remark. The camp is short-staffed, and the nurses seem to work around the clock to make sure all of the patients receive the care they need. And Dava is particularly attentive to Rose and me, the youngest women in the ward by several years. She visits us whenever she has a free moment, often bringing extra food and sweets.
“Dava’s really good to us,” I say. Rose nods in agreement. “She seemed sad when we were talking about the war, though. I wonder if something happened to her.”
“She mentioned a man once,” Rose replies. “But I don’t know if he was her husband and she never said what became of him.”
“Oh.” I wonder, with a stab of jealousy, why Dava shared this information with Rose and not me.
“I’m glad she let us stay out a bit longer, though,” Rose adds, gazing up at the mountains.
I look down at my dress, one of two that I was given when I was well enough to get out of bed. My forearms peek out from the light pink sleeves, tanned from the summer sun. They’ve grown thicker, too; I’ve put on weight quickly from the hearty camp meals and no longer see my ribs each time I change clothes. Unlike Rose. I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. Her hair has begun to grow in, forming a tight cap of blond curls, but she is still as thin and pale as the night she arrived. She eats little besides the few bites Dava or I can coax into her at each meal, and often she cannot even hold that down. Though Dava has not said so, I know that Rose’s condition is still very serious.
As I watch Rose, a protective feeling rises up in me. We’ve become so close in the short time we’ve known each other. Back home, I doubt we would have even been friends. I would have dismissed her as too girlish and timid, too boring. But here, where the other women are older and we are both alone, our friendship seems natural.
It was that way with Emma during the war, too, I realize, her face appearing in my mind. When my mother came back from her job at the ghetto orphanage one day and told me she wanted to introduce me to the new girl who had started working there, I was skeptical. Emma was nearly two years older than me and from the city, not the village like us. What could we possibly have in common? And I had little time for socializing between my official job as a messenger for the ghetto administration and my work for the resistance. But my mother persisted: the new girl seemed lonely. It would be a mitzvah for me to introduce her to some of my friends.
I relented, knowing that it was pointless to fight Mama when she seized upon an idea. The next day, I went to the orphanage after work to meet Emma and invited her to join me for Shabbat dinner with the others at the apartment that served as the headquarters for the resistance. To my surprise, I found that I enjoyed Emma’s company—she had a quiet grace that made me instantly comfortable. I liked having someone to confide in; it was as though I had found the best friend I never knew I was missing. We began to spend a great deal of time together, talking over long walks through the ghetto streets after work in the evenings.
Rose and I have developed a similar bond, becoming almost inseparable in our time here. I look past her now toward the sprawling west lawn of the palace. Dozens of large white tents stand in even rows. Residents who do not need medical attention live there, in the main part of the camp. I might have to move there soon, Dava told me the other day. I know that she’s kept me in the ward as long as possible for Rose’s sake, but she won’t be able to justify my occupying a bed that is needed for sicker arrivals much longer.
I turn back toward Rose. Her chin is dipped slightly into her chest, her eyes half closed. “You look tired,” I offer.
“I suppose. But let’s stay just a few more minutes.” I nod. Dava will be furious with me for keeping Rose out so long, but I cannot refuse her simple request. “Marta?”
“Yes?”
“Where will you go from here? After you leave the camp, I mean.”
I hesitate, caught off guard by her question. I know that the camp is only temporary, that everyone will eventually leave or be relocated elsewhere. Would I return to Poland? I think about it sometimes. A few nights I have dreamed that I went back to our house in the village to find my mother cooking dinner, my father reading by the fire. But I know that things are different now; all of my family and friends are gone. I see the faces of our neighbors who stood by as the Nazis gathered us in the town square and marched us in double lines to the train station. Pani Klopacz, the elderly woman who bought milk from my father each day, peered through the curtains as we passed, her eyes solemn. Others whom we had known for years turned coldly away. No, I cannot live among them again. Nor can I bear the thought of returning to Kraków, which holds nothing but painful memories of Alek and the others who had died for the resistance. But where else can I go? I’ve heard some of the other women in my English class talking about emigrating to the United States, or even to Palestine. Dava mentioned putting me on the lists for visas to these places, but I know that without a relative to vouch for me, the wait could take years. And even if I could get a visa, how would I survive alone in a strange place? “I don’t know,” I answer at last, feeling foolish.
Rose opens her mouth, but before she can speak a pained expression flashes across her face.
I lean toward her. “What is it?”
“N-nothing.” But her voice is strained and her face has gone pale.
I stand up quickly. “We need to get you inside.”
“In a minute,” Rose implores. Her voice is a bit stronger now, as if whatever was hurting her has eased. “Don’t tell Dava, please.”
“Hey!” A voice yells behind us. Our heads snap in the direction of the palace. As if on cue, Dava is storming across the lawn toward us, hands on her hips.
“Uh-oh,” Rose whispers. I look upward at the early-evening sky, wondering how much time has passed.
“Ten minutes,” Dava says, crossing her arms as she approaches. “I said ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I begin. “We lost track of time. I can take her inside.”
Dava shakes her head. “You’d probably go by way of Vienna and then I wouldn’t see either of you for days.” I open my mouth to protest but Dava raises her hand. “Anyway, I need your help with something, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m fine. What is it?”
“We have a small transport of refugees coming in tonight from Hungary and the woman who usually helps with admissions is unwell. Want to do it?”
“Sure,” I reply eagerly. I had noticed other residents working around the camp, in the kitchen and the gardens. Several times I pressed Dava to let me help. But she explained that residents of the medical ward were not allowed to have jobs, that I would have to wait until I moved over to the main camp. They must be really desperate for assistance to break the rules now.
“Great. They should be here any minute. Just go around to the table on the front lawn and Dr. Verrier will explain what to do.”
“No problem.” I look down at Rose. “Sleep well.”
As Dava wheels Rose toward the door, I start around the side of the palace. Several army trucks have rumbled through the gate from the main road. They sit now on the grass on either side of the long dirt driveway. Soldiers climb from the trucks, open the back doors. One by one, refugees appear, still clad in their tattered, striped prison clothes. Many lean on the soldiers, unable to stand or walk unassisted. All are emaciated, skeleton thin. Did I look like that just a few months ago?
“Excuse me,” a man calls in German. I force myself to turn from the refugees. A man with dark hair and spectacles wearing a white coat stands by a folding table a few meters away. Though he is not one of the doctors who treated me, I recognize him from the ward. “Are you the help?”
“Yes.” I walk toward the table and sit in the folding chair he indicates.
“Your job is to verify the information for each person on the arrival list—name, nationality, date of birth, if they have it. Then I will tell you whether he or she is going into the medical ward or the main camp. Do you understand?” I nod, studying the line of refugees as they approach the table. They all look as though they will need medical attention. I wonder if there will be room for them in the wards.
I take a deep breath, then look up at the first of the arrivals, a gaunt, bedraggled man. “Name?” I ask.
The man hesitates, a panicked expression crossing his face. Then he glances down at the row of dark numbers on his forearm. Though I did not receive one, I know that prisoners in the main camps were tattooed by the Nazis. This man is unaccustomed, I realize, to being thought of as anything but a number. I take a deep breath, start again. “Hello,” I say in Yiddish, smiling gently. “I’m Marta Nedermann. What’s your name?”
The man’s expression relaxes. “Friedrich Masaryk.”
I check him off the list. “Hungarian. Born November 18, 1901. Is that correct?” The man nods. He is only in his forties. With his white hair and hunched posture, I would have taken him for at least sixty.
Dr. Verrier examines the man. “Herr Masaryk, you are undernourished, but otherwise well enough to go to the main camp.” I make a note on the chart as one of the soldiers escorts Herr Masaryk away.
The next arrival, a woman, lies on a stretcher, borne between two soldiers. I look up at Dr. Verrier, who shrugs. “Camp rules, I’m afraid. Even the unconscious have to be registered.”
“Lebonski, Hannah,” one of the soldiers bearing the stretcher reads from the woman’s forehead.
I check the list quickly. “I don’t see it.” I scan the list again. “In fact, I don’t see any women’s names….”
“Is there another list?” Dr. Verrier asks.
“Dammit,” one of the soldiers swears. “Mattie forgot to give us the list from the women’s camp. Jim!” He shouts over his shoulder to another soldier who stands several meters away by one of the trucks. Behind him, I see several of the arrivals cringe. The sound of a soldier yelling, even an American, is still terrifying to them. “Where’s Mattie?”
The other soldier points toward the palace with his head. “I think I saw him go around the side.”
Dr. Verrier turns to me. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” I stand up and walk quickly around the palace. The back lawn is tranquil, a world away from the chaos of the new arrivals. I scan the terrace, but it is deserted. Perhaps the soldier was mistaken about the one with the list being here. I pause, uncertain what to do. I will ask Dava to help me, I decide, starting for the palace door. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the tall grass down by the lake. I take a step forward. A dark-haired soldier is half sitting, half lying by the water’s edge. That must be him. I walk quickly down the lawn. He does not look up as I approach. “Excuse me,” I say. Slowly, as though he had been sleeping, the soldier sits up and starts to turn. As his face comes into view, I gasp.
It is Paul, the soldier who saved me.
CHAPTER 4
I stand motionless, staring down at the soldier. Is it really Paul? His wide blue eyes are instantly recognizable. My breath catches. “Can I help you?” he asks, cocking his head. Paul’s voice, low and melodic, is the one I remember from prison. But his words are formal, his expression unfamiliar. He does not recognize me.
Of course not. He has probably liberated hundreds of people since we met. I hesitate, wanting to tell him who I am, to thank him for saving me. Then I remember the queue of sick and weary arrivals. There is no time for small talk. I clear my throat. “I—I need …” I stammer, my English faltering. Taking a breath, I try again slowly. “One of the soldiers said … Mattie.”
“That’s me. Mattie. Paul Mattison, actually.” Paul Mattison, I think. Looking down at him, I feel a strange tug inside me. I have replayed that moment in the prison so many times. It is hard to believe he is here. “Did they send you for the list?” he asks. I nod. He yawns and stretches slowly, then pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and holds it out to me. “Here.”
As I take a step toward him, my heart flutters. He is even more handsome than I remembered. But closer now, his eyes are bloodshot, as if he has not slept for several days. Fine, dark stubble covers his chin and cheeks and his uniform is coated in dust. As I bend down to take the paper, I recognize his earthy pine scent. There is another smell, too, though, both sickly sweet and sour at the same time. Alcohol, I realize. Paul is drunk, or was. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to flee. “Thank you.” I snatch the paper, then turn and start toward the palace. Picturing Paul’s face, I am disappointed. Is that drunk, sullen soldier really the same man who rescued me?
“Miss,” a voice calls. I turn to find Paul making his way unsteadily up the bank of the lake. “Wait a minute.” As he approaches, I notice that his hair and face are now wet, as though he dunked his head in the lake. The smell of stale water mingles with the pine and alcohol. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
My heart races. He remembers. Then, looking at his unfocused eyes, I realize that it does not matter. “I—I don’t think so,” I manage to say.
He stares at me puzzled. “But …”
“Przeprasz …” I begin. In my nervousness, I have reverted to Polish. “Excuse me, I have to get back to the arrivals.” I turn and walk around the side of the palace.
Dr. Verrier stands by the table, arms crossed. “I’m sorry,” I say as I sit down. The soldiers, who had placed the stretcher with the woman on the ground, pick it up again. I unfold the crumpled list, locating the woman. “Lebonski, Hannah.” Dr. Verrier quickly directs the soldiers to take her to the ward, then moves to the next patient.
As I try to concentrate on my work, my heart pounds. Paul is here. Should I have told him who I am? I lift my head and scan the soldiers who are helping arrivals from the trucks. Paul is not among them. Then I spot him sitting under a tree across the lawn, head in his hands. Drunk and lazy, I think, as I start to process a skeletal older woman. How could I have been so wrong? But through my disgust, I feel something else, low and warm in my stomach. Suddenly he lifts his head and turns in my direction. Our eyes meet for a split second. I look quickly down at my papers once more, my cheeks reddening. The warmth in my stomach grows as I feel his eyes still on me, watching, trying to remember.
Twenty minutes later, when the line has dwindled, I glance over at the tree again. Paul is gone. It is for the best, I tell myself over the small stab of disappointment in my chest. I would rather remember him as I had seen him the day of my liberation, not like this. I finish processing the last refugee, then put the extra forms back into the box and stand up. “I do know you!” a voice exclaims behind me. Startled, I drop the box, sending forms scattering across the grass. I turn to find Paul standing there, arms crossed.
Suddenly it is as if someone knocked the wind out of me. “You startled me!” I say, when I am able to speak again. I bend and start to gather the forms.
“Sorry.” He kneels beside me to help pick up the papers. The smell of alcohol is gone, replaced by spearmint gum, and his movements are steadier now, as though he has begun to sober. “It’s just that I remembered where I know you from.” He reaches toward me for one of the papers near my right ankle, bringing our faces close. “You were the girl in the prison at Dachau. Mary? Martha?”
“Marta,” I say, staring hard at the grass.
“Oh, right, Marta. Sorry.” I feel him studying my face. “It’s just that you look so different. And I didn’t think you spoke English,” he adds.
“I didn’t.” My cheeks begin to burn again. “I mean, I don’t, very well. I’ve had the chance to study since coming here.” I am suddenly aware of my accent, of the way I struggle to choose each word.
“Well, you’ve done great.” He finishes gathering the papers. As he puts them in the box, the back of his hand brushes mine. Reminded of his strong, gentle touch as he tended to me in prison, I am suddenly light-headed. Then he leaps to his feet, extending his hand to me.
“Allow me,” he says. I look up and our eyes meet. A troubled expression flickers across his face, so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. Pity, perhaps, for the girl he rescued in prison?
I hesitate, then put my fingers in his. Warmth, too strong to ignore, rises in me once more. “Th-thank you,” I stutter as he helps me to my feet. He releases my fingers slowly, eyes still locked on mine. Finally, I turn away, struggling to breathe normally as I place the box on the table and brush the dirt from my dress. Across the lawn the other soldiers are loading supplies onto trucks. “Are you leaving again fast?” I ask, looking up at him. His brow wrinkles. “I mean, soon?”
He nods. “We’re trying to make Munich tonight. Then we’re shipping out. Haven’t told us where, but I’m guessing the Pacific.”
“Oh.” I take a deep breath. “I never had the chance to thank you. For saving me, I mean.”
He waves his hand. “It’s not necessary. I was just doing my job.”
Before I can reply, another soldier approaches the table. “Hey, Mattie, change of plans. One of the trucks has a busted axle.” The soldier’s words come out in rapid bursts, making it difficult for me to understand. “It’s going to take a few hours to fix. Major Clark ordered us to camp here, then head for Paris at first light.” Paul is not leaving yet, I realize, suddenly excited. The other soldier continues, “He said we can take the jeep if we want, go into Salzburg to have a look around and get some food.”
“I could use a drin—” Paul begins. Then he stops, turning to me. “Want to come with us?”
I hesitate, surprised. Paul is asking me to join him in town. My head spins. But camp residents are not allowed to leave the grounds. “I can’t.”
Paul looks from me to the soldier, then back again. “Give me a minute, Drew, okay?” The other soldier shrugs his shoulders. “I’d better go with them,” Paul says to me when he has gone.
“Salzburg really is lovely.” I fight to keep my voice even.
Paul reaches out and touches my sleeve. “It was good seeing you again, Marta. I’m glad to know you’re okay.”
“Goodbye,” I reply. Then I turn and walk back across the lawn, still feeling the warmth of his touch. As I round the side of the palace, my eyes begin to sting. What is wrong with me? I should be glad that he is gone. He was drunk and not at all what I expected. I walk down to my favorite spot by the water’s edge, beneath the willow tree. Then I drop to the ground and lean over, studying myself in the lake. My wild curls and too-large spectacles stare back. What were you thinking? my reflection demands. Did you really expect him to stay here with you, instead of going into town with the other soldiers? I take off my glasses and brush my eyes with the back of my hand.
Suddenly I hear footsteps coming down the lawn. I replace my glasses and turn, expecting to see Dava, coming to chastise me for being outside so long. But it is Paul, standing behind me, hands in his pockets. He carries a small backpack on his shoulders that I had not noticed before. “Sorry to sneak up on you again.”
I swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. “If you need directions into town …”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I decided not to go.”
I inhale sharply. “Oh?”
“I’m kinda tired and the jeep was too crowded. I spend enough time with those knuckleheads, anyway.” He takes a step forward. “Mind if I join you?” Before I can answer, he drops down close beside me, leaning back and planting one arm on the ground for support. “It’s really beautiful here.” I am too surprised to respond. He did not go with the others after all. We gaze up at the mountains, neither speaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I peek down at his forearm, tanned and muscular. Desire rises in me.
Paul turns toward me. I look away quickly, staring hard at the water and praying he did not notice me watching him. “I’d love to go for a walk before it gets too dark,” he says, gesturing to a dirt path to the right of where we are sitting that runs along the perimeter of the lake. My heart sinks. He’s going to go off and leave me again. But he is still looking at me expectantly. “Care to join me?”
I hesitate, too surprised to respond. A walk, just the two of us? The idea sounds like a dream. But technically, the path is beyond the camp grounds, off limits to residents. And I barely know Paul; it would hardly be proper to go off alone with him, especially since not an hour ago he was drunk. His eyes are clearer now, though, his face the one I remember from prison. And I cannot bear the thought of him leaving again so soon. I have to find a way to go with him. “Wait here for a minute.” I stand up and run back into the palace, looking for Dava. The foyer is empty so I walk quickly into the ward. I spot Dava at the far end of the room, checking Rose’s temperature.
I race toward them. “What’s wrong?”
“Rose has a slight fever.” Dava’s voice is calm but there is concern in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” Rose insists, struggling to sit up. “How did it go with the new arrivals?”
“Fine.” I force my uneasiness down. “Dava, I need to ask you a favor.”
She does not look up. “What is it?”
“I need permission to leave the grounds and go around the lake, just for a little while. I saw someone I know. That is, the American soldier who saved me at Dachau.”
“Paul?” Rose asks eagerly.
I nod. “Anyway, I want to go for a walk with him.”
“You know the rules, Marta,” Dava replies. “Residents are not permitted off the palace grounds.”
“I know. But I was hoping you could make an exception, just this once. Please.”
Dava hesitates. “Curfew is in less than an hour.”
“I was hoping you could sign me in at bed check.” Dava frowns and I can tell that I am pressing my luck.
Rose reaches up, touches Dava’s arm. “Let her go, Dava. For me.”
Dava looks slowly from me to Rose, then back again. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Take this pass in case anyone questions your being off grounds,” she says, scribbling something on the paper before handing it to me. “But I want you back by midnight and not a minute longer.”
“I will be. Thank you.” I lean down and kiss Rose on the cheek. “And thank you,” I whisper. “But if you aren’t feeling well …”
“I’m fine,” Rose replies softly. “And I’m really happy for you, Marta.”
I race out of the ward and back through the foyer. When I reach the patio, I stop. The spot where Paul sat minutes earlier is deserted. He’s gone, I think. My heart sinks. Perhaps he became tired of waiting for me and went after the other soldiers into town. Hurriedly, I scan the banks. Paul is standing farther to the right along the edge of the lake, head down, back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the last rays of the setting sun. Studying the way his torso tapers to his narrow hips, I feel a tightness in my chest, strong and sudden. I have never felt this way before, not even with Jacob. Easy, I think. It is just a walk, something for him to do while he waits to leave again. I force myself to breathe slowly, struggling to regain my composure.
I start toward him, and as I near, he turns, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Look,” he says in a low voice, gesturing toward the water with his head. Closer, I can see that his attention has been caught by a mother duck and four fuzzy, yellow ducklings that have drifted close to the bank, heads tucked in sleep. I study his face, boyish with wonder as he watches them.
“Ready?” He looks up from the water, his eyes meeting mine. He blinks, and the serious expression I noticed earlier on the lawn appears on his face once more. Not pity, I decide. Something else.
I swallow over the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “Y-yes.” I follow him toward the low white gate that marks the edge of the palace grounds. He holds the gate open for me and I step through onto the dirt path. A few meters farther along the water’s edge, an elderly man sits in the grass, holding a fishing rod, a small dinghy docked at his feet. He eyes us warily as we pass. What a strange pair we must make, I realize. The American soldier and the refugee. But Paul does not seem to notice. He whistles softly under his breath as we walk, looking up at the mountains through the trees.
“It’s just beautiful here,” he remarks. “Reminds me of our ranch in North Carolina. My family farms tobacco, just at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our mountains aren’t as dramatic as these.” He gestures toward the Untersberg. “But it’s still beautiful countryside.” He steps too close to me on the path and our sides brush. “Sorry.”
I feel a twinge of disappointment as he moves away. “I’m from the country, too,” I offer, eager to have this in common.
He looks down at me. “Really?”
“Yes, our village, it’s called Bochnia, is close to the Tatra—” I stop midsentence, interrupted by the sound of voices. Down the path, there is a group of teenagers coming toward us, laughing loudly. A knot forms in my chest.
Paul notices my reaction. “What is it?” I do not answer, but gesture with my head toward the youths. “Do you want to go back?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that …” I hesitate, my skin prickling. I have seen so few people, other than the camp staff and residents, since coming here. Staying on the palace grounds, it is easy to forget that we are in Austria, a country that embraced the Nazis so readily. But now, seeing the teenagers, I am terrified.
“I understand. Wait here.” Before I can respond, Paul walks back in the direction from which we had come, leaving me alone in the middle of the path. Despite my anxiety about the teenagers, I cannot help but notice Paul’s long legs, his awkward coltlike gait. He approaches the fisherman, gesturing toward the boat. But Paul does not speak German, I realize, watching the fisherman shake his head. I see Paul reach into his pocket and hand the man something.
I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”
Paul gestures to the boat. “Your chariot, milady.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wanted to get away from those kids, right?” I nod. “But you didn’t want to go back. So I rented the boat from this man. Indefinitely, if need be.” The fisherman turns back to his rod, disinterested. He would not have loaned his boat to a stranger; Paul must have paid him enough to buy it outright. “Ready?” He holds out his hand.
I hesitate. I have never been on the lake and it is nearly dark out. But the teenagers are almost upon us now, their voices growing louder with each second. I reach out and Paul’s fingers, large and warm, close around mine, sending a shiver through me. I let him lead me to the water’s edge. Paul helps me into the boat and I make my way gingerly to the wide wood bench at the far end. The boat wobbles slightly as Paul steps in with one foot, pushing off from the bank with the other. He sits on the middle bench opposite me and picks up the oars. Then he begins to paddle with small strokes, steering us toward the center of the lake. As we pull farther away from the bank, I relax and look around. It is nearly dark now and the gaslights surrounding the lake are illuminated, their reflections large fireflies in the water. I watch Paul as he looks over his shoulder, aiming for the center of the lake. Warmth rises in me once more.
As the boat continues gently away from the shore, the teenagers’ voices fade away and the air grows still. In the distance, a cricket chirps. I swat at a mosquito that buzzes by my ear, then turn back toward the palace. Yellow lights glow behind each of the windows. “Penny for your thoughts,” Paul says. I shake my head, puzzled. “It’s an expression. I was asking what you were thinking.”
“About my friend, Rose. She wasn’t feeling well tonight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He stops rowing and rests the oars in his lap. “There, that’s better.”
He leans forward, resting his chin in his hands and gazing up at the mountains. I study his face out of the corner of my eye once more. He is really here, I marvel. At the same time, disbelief washes over me. Even before the war, in the best of times, I was never the girl whom boys sought out, took for boat rides. I want to ask him why he is here with me. “So how long have you been in Europe?” I say instead.
“About a year.”
“Do you like it?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘it.’ Europe? It’s beautiful from what I’ve seen. The army? I’ve made some of the best friends of my life, at least those of them that have survived. But this war … my unit, the Fighting 502nd, they call us, dropped in on D-Day. We’ve fought in every major battle since. I mean, I would be happy if I never see another goddamn—” He stops suddenly, noticing my expression. “Pardon my language. I’ve been around soldiers so long, I don’t know how to speak in proper company anymore.”
“I understand.” And I really do. There are some things that only cursing can describe.
Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. “Thirsty?”
I shake my head and cringe as he takes a large swig, remembering his drunkenness earlier. “Do you do that a lot? Drink, I mean.”
He looks away. “More than some, not as much as others. More than I used to. That’s for dam—I mean darn sure.”
I want to know why, but I’m afraid of appearing rude. “What did you do before joining the army?”
“College. I was six months short of graduating from Princeton when I was drafted. Not that I was any great brain—I went on a football scholarship.”
“Will you go back? After the war, I mean?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? I’m not sure of anything anymore. Damn war.” This time he does not bother to catch himself cursing. “My fiancée, Kim, wrote me a letter a month ago, saying that she was through with me and marrying someone else.” Fiancée. The word cuts through my chest. Paul had been engaged when he liberated me. “And I’m one of the lucky ones.” There is a hollowness to his voice I have not heard before. “My cousin Mike was killed at Bastogne. Two guys in my unit died, another lost his legs.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. Paul does not respond but stares out over the water, lips pressed together, jaw clenched. I feel an ache rise within me, my own losses echoed in his. My parents, my friends. I remember lying on the prison floor, realizing that there was no one left who cared, no one who would come looking for me. The idea was as unbearable as any physical pain the Nazis had inflicted. Then Paul had come. Until now, I thought of him and the other soldiers only as liberators, heroes. I never thought of what they sacrificed, how they might resent us for bringing them here. I want to reach out and touch him, to try to offer comfort. “I’m sorry,” I repeat instead.
“It’s not your fault,” he replies, shoulders sagging. “It’s just that sometimes it seems that I’ve lost everything.”
“No,” I blurt out.
“No, what?”
“No, you did not lose everything. Did you lose your parents?” He shakes his head. “Your entire family and all of your friends?” Another shake. “You did not lose your home.” I can hear my voice rising now. “Or your health.”
He looks down, chastised. “You lost much more than me, I know.”
“That’s not my point. I’m just saying that you didn’t lose everything. Neither did I. We’re here. Alive.”
He does not respond. Have I angered him? I look out over the water, cursing myself inwardly for saying too much. “This is so great,” Paul says a minute later. I look back, surprised to find him smiling. Happiness rises inside me. “The quiet, I mean.” My heart sinks. For a minute, I thought he was talking about being with me. “You can’t imagine the noise, the months of shelling and artillery. Even at night when the fighting stopped, there was no peace because you never knew when it might start again. It’s been better since the war ended, but there are still always a hundred guys around, talking and making noise. Don’t get me wrong.” He raises his hand. “I love my unit like brothers. But being in this beautiful place tonight …” He pauses, looking deep into my eyes. “Seeing you again …”
His words are interrupted by a low, rumbling sound. “Storm’s coming,” Paul observes as I turn. The sky over the mountains has grown pitch-dark. Thunder rumbles again, louder this time, and raindrops begin hitting the water around us. “We should go back.”
I look from the darkening sky to the shore. We have drifted toward the far edge of the lake, nearly a kilometer from where we started. “We’ll never make it back in time.”
“Then we need to find shelter somewhere,” he replies. “It’s dangerous being on the water in a storm like this.” The rain is falling heavily now, puddling in the bottom of the boat, soaking through my clothes. “Over there.” Paul points to the bank closest to us.
I wipe the water from my glasses. A few meters back from the water’s edge, nestled in the trees, sits a small wooden hut. “Probably a gardener’s shed,” I say.
“Perfect.” There is a large flash of lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Paul begins rowing toward the shore. His arm muscles strain against his uniform as he stabs at the water with short, hard strokes, inching the boat forward into the wind. As we near the bank, he hops out into the shallow water and pulls the boat in, securing it. “Here.” He holds his hand out to help me to the shore.
We race down the muddy path toward the shed, my hand clasped tightly in his. Paul pushes against the door, which opens with a loud creak. Inside the air is damp, smelling of turpentine and wet wood. I feel a pang of sadness as Paul releases my hand, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a match. He lights the match, illuminating a workman’s bench covered with tools. “A gardener’s shed. You were right.” He walks to the bench and rummages around. “Aha!” He pulls out a small stump of a candle and lights it. The air glows flickering orange around us.
“Th-that’s better,” I say, my teeth chattering.
Paul’s brow furrows. “You’re soaking wet.” He opens his backpack and pulls out a coarse brown blanket. “Here.” He wraps the blanket, which smells of smoke and coffee and sweat, around my shoulders. As he brings the edges of the blanket together in front of me, I am drawn nearer to him. We stand, not moving, our faces close. Suddenly, it is as if a giant hand is squeezing my chest, making it difficult to breathe. What is happening here? I wonder.
He reaches down and takes my hand underneath the blanket and for a second I think he means to hold it. But he brings my hand to the edge of the blanket, placing it where his own had been to keep it snugly wrapped around me. Then he steps back, clearing his throat. “I wish we had some dry wood for a fire,” he remarks.
I drop to the dirt floor, holding the blanket close. “Probably better if we don’t draw attention.”
Paul reaches into his bag and I expect him to bring out another blanket or perhaps a towel. But instead it is the flask again. He opens the cap and takes a large swig.
It is not, I decide, the time for a lecture on drinking. “Can I have a sip?”
His eyes widen. “Do you want some? I mean, I’m sorry, I just didn’t think that you would …?”
“Drink?” I smile, remembering nights with Jacob and Alek and the other boys from the resistance. We would meet for long hours into the night, planning operations, arguing about strategy. Someone always found a bottle of vodka, and many shots were poured and drunk to the traditional Polish and Hebrew toasts of nazdrowa (to your health) and l’chaim (to life). “Not often,” I tell Paul now as he drops to the ground beside me.
As he hands me the flask, our fingers touch. I jerk my hand back, sending the liquid splashing against the inside of the container. Whiskey, I note, as I raise the flask to my lips. The fumes are strong against my face as I take a sip, tilting my head backward like Jacob taught me so I don’t taste the alcohol as much. I feel the familiar burning in my throat as I swallow, then my stomach grows warm. “Thanks.” I pass the flask back to Paul and his hand brushes mine once more. This time I do not pull away. His fingers linger warm atop mine. Suddenly I notice that his sleeve is dripping water. “You’re soaked, too,” I say.
“I guess I am.” Paul looks down, as though noticing his wet clothes for the first time. He shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.” It occurs to me then that he has given his only blanket to me.
“Here.” I pull the blanket open. “It’s big enough to share.”
He hesitates, then moves toward me, taking the edge of the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. Trembling, I slide closer along the ground, bringing him farther inside the blanket. “May I?” He lifts his arm, asking permission to put it around me. Before I can answer, he draws me close. “Is this okay?”
“Fine,” I reply, hoping that he cannot feel how fast my heart is beating.
“I’m sure the rain will stop soon. Then we can head back.”
But I do not want to head back. I look up at him. His face hovers above mine and his eyes dart back and forth, as though searching for something. Then he lowers his head. His lips brush mine, questioning, asking permission. My first kiss. I am too stunned to react. His hand rises to my cheek and his lips press full and warm on mine. I respond, heat rising in me. Suddenly I freeze, putting my hand on his chest. “Wait …”
He pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I thought you wanted …”
“I do.” I pause, trying to catch my breath. “I mean, I thought I did. But you have a fiancée.”
“Had,” he corrects me. “I think it was over before I left. I mean, we were high school sweethearts. Getting married was what everyone expected us to do, but I’m not sure we were meant to be together, you know?” His words spill out quickly, making it difficult for me to understand what he is saying. “It’s more the idea of having someone back home that I miss.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’m sorry.” Our eyes remained locked. Kiss me again, I think. But I do not want to be the substitute for another woman, not again.
Finally, I turn away. Listening to the rain pound heavily on the roof, I know there will be no possibility of leaving for some time. I lean my head against Paul’s chest, pressing my cheek sideways and feeling the heat that radiates through the damp cloth. He rests his chin on top of my head gently. I take off my glasses, put them on the ground beside me. The shadows dim as the last of the candle burns down. Paul’s breathing grows long and even above me. Enveloped in the warmth of the blanket, I feel my eyes grow heavy.
Suddenly I remember another cabin, larger than this one, outside Lublin where Jacob and I used to hide. Don’t, I think, but it is too late. Jacob’s face appears in the shadows on the wall unbidden, reminding me of the long nights we spent together, anxiously waiting for our contact to arrive and deliver information or supplies. We never slept in that cabin, of course, or even dared to light a candle. Instead, we hid in a dark corner, our heads close to hear each other whispering, constantly afraid of being caught. But Jacob made those nights fun, telling me stories or jokes to pass the time.
Then one night, as Jacob was trying to explain some political concept that I did not quite understand, he stopped speaking. Outside the cabin came footsteps, too numerous and heavy to belong to our lone contact, followed by a dog’s bark. “Quickly,” he whispered, pulling back the bare carpet and opening a hidden panel in the floor. He pushed me down into the tiny crawl space, then climbed in, closing the door. He lay on top of me—there was no other choice—not moving, for what felt like an eternity as the Gestapo walked the floor above us, searching. His heart beat hard against mine. It was in that moment that I realized I was in love with him.
Then the Gestapo were gone, leaving as quickly as they had come. “Are you all right?” Jacob whispered, his breath warm.
“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Fine.”
“Marta …” he began, then hesitated. He lowered his head toward mine. I closed my eyes, expecting to feel my first kiss. But there was nothing. Then I felt him pull back slowly, his weight lessening. I opened my eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ve grown close, you and I. And I like you.” Hope rose within me. “But Marta, I can’t. I’m married.”
Married. It was as if I had been punched in the stomach. “Who is she?”
“I can’t say. Not even to you, whom I’d trust with my life. We have to keep it secret for her safety. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner. Marta, I consider you one of my closest friends. I’m fond of you.” He cleared his throat. “But to be fair, I had to say something before I gave you the wrong impression or things went too far.”
But I want things to go too far, I thought desperately as he opened the crawl space door and climbed out. Of course I did not say this, but followed him out of the shed into the night.
Remembering now, I shiver. A tear runs down my cheek. Stop it, I think. This is not that cabin. Paul is not Jacob. Paul. I look up at him. His eyes are still closed, head tilted back against the wall. He holds me tightly as he sleeps, as though afraid I might slip away. It is madness to think he might like me, I know. And even if he does, in a few hours he will be gone. But at least for the moment, he is mine. I turn inward, pressing my cheek against his chest, clutching the front of his shirt in my hand. My eyes grow heavy.
Sometime later, I awake with a start. I blink several times in the darkness. Inhaling the musty air, I remember the boat and the storm. Was it all a dream? Then, feeling Paul’s arm wrapped around me under the blanket, I know that it was not. I look up at him. He smiles down at me, eyes wide. “Sleep well?”
I blush. How long has he been watching me? “Very well.” It is the truth. Despite sitting upright on a hard floor in soaking clothes, it was some of the most restful sleep I have had since the start of the war. I reach for my glasses. “How long was I out?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Hours?” I leap up and push open the door of the shed. Outside the rain has stopped and the sky just above the mountains is edged with pink. “It’s starting to get light.”
“Almost dawn,” he agrees, and I detect a note of reluctance in his voice. “We should get back.” He stands and rolls the blanket up. I try to smooth my hair with my hands. As I start through the door of the shed, Paul follows too closely behind me, brushing against my side. “Excuse me,” he says, stepping back awkwardly. I turn toward him. He is staring at me, the longing in his eyes unmistakable. My breath catches. I look away quickly, hurrying through the door.
Outside, the night air is cool and still. We walk to the bank and Paul helps me into the boat. Neither of us speaks as he rows quickly across the lake. The air is silent except for some geese calling to one another in the distance. Watching Paul guide the boat toward the opposite bank, I am overwhelmed with sadness. In just a few minutes, he will be gone. We reach the spot on the bank where the fisherman had been the previous night. He hops onto the shore, holds his hand out to me. As I step from the boat, my foot slides on the slippery mud and I stumble. Paul catches me by the shoulders. “Careful,” he says, still holding me. His breath is warm on my forehead.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Marta, I …” he begins softly, then falters. “I want, that is to say, I don’t want …” I lift my eyes to his face, which is strained with sadness and longing. He does not want to say goodbye, either, I realize. I cannot breathe. In that moment, I know that it is not his ex-fiancée he desires. I reach for him, standing on my tiptoes and placing my hand on the back of his neck. Instinctively, I pull him toward me, pressing my lips against his, taking what I’d been too afraid to accept just a few hours earlier. He hesitates for a second, surprised. Then he responds, his mouth warm and strong. Our lips open, drawing us farther into each other urgently.
A horn blares out suddenly and we break apart. Paul straightens, turning toward the noise. “They’re getting ready to go,” he says breathlessly. “We’d better hurry.” He helps me up the bank to the path and we walk quickly toward the palace in silence. Sadness rises in me. Don’t leave, I want to say. But I know that it is impossible.
In front of the palace, the trucks are assembled in a line, waiting to go. Paul turns to me once more. “Marta, I don’t know what is going to happen. I just wish that there was some way …”
“I know,” I reply quickly, forcing my voice not to crack. Everything is happening too fast. My eyes lock with his and I fight the urge to reach out and touch him again. “Be safe.”
“Come on, Paul!” a voice behind him calls impatiently. The first trucks are beginning to pull from the driveway.
“Bye,” he whispers, taking several steps backward, his eyes not leaving mine. Then he turns and runs toward the last of the trucks. I watch as one of the other men reaches down and helps him onto the back. The engine rumbles and the truck begins to move. As it pulls from the driveway, Paul turns back toward me. Our eyes meet again and he smiles, raising one hand. Then, as the truck turns the corner, he disappears.
CHAPTER 5
I stand motionless on the lawn as the sound of the engines fades, staring numbly through the clouds of dust kicked up by the truck wheels. I walk to the porch step and sink down, trying to breathe over the lump in my throat. My eyes begin to burn. I raise my sleeve to my face, inhaling Paul’s lingering, musky scent. I can still feel his lips pressing down on mine. I desperately want to be back in the gardener’s shed, to crawl under the blanket and be close to his warmth again.
Doubt rises in me: Why didn’t I ask him for his address in America? Why hadn’t he offered it to me? Could I really have felt so much for someone I barely knew? Could he? Perhaps I was just another girl in another town. I dismiss this last thought quickly. I know from the way he looked at me that his feelings were real. But now he’s gone. After all I have been through, I suppose I should be grateful for even small moments like last night. Still, I cannot help wanting more.
Enough. I stand up. I should go check on Rose. She will be eager to hear about my night. I head inside and cross the foyer. As I reach the door to the ward, Dava appears in front of me. She blocks my way, arms crossed. “I’m so sorry I didn’t make it back last night,” I begin quickly. “We were halfway around the lake when the storm started.” I skip mention of the rowboat, knowing it will not help my cause. “We had to find shelter so we waited in a gardener’s hut until it stopped.” I study Dava’s face, but there is no sign of anger, only dark circles ringing her bloodshot eyes. I wonder if she was up most of the night caring for Rose, or sitting with her because I was not there. “And then …”
Dava holds up her hand, then places it on my upper arm. “I need you to come with me.” Her grip is gentle but firm as she guides me away from the ward.
“Wait, I was going to tell …” I look back over my shoulder through the doorway, but I do not see Rose. Panic rises in me. Had she been taken for some sort of medical treatment? I turn to Dava. “Where’s Rose?” She does not answer, but looks away. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Why don’t we go outside?” Dava tries again to lead me away from the door, but I pull from her grasp.
“No. Tell me what’s going on right now.”
Dava hesitates, then leads me to one of the marble staircases. She drops to the third stair, patting the space beside her. “Sit down.” I obey, waiting for her to speak. She takes a deep breath. “Marta, you know that Rose was very sick …”
Was sick. “I don’t understand.”
Dava puts her hand on mine. “Rose is gone.”
“Gone?” I repeat. “Did they take her to the hospital?”
Dava shakes her head. “Not that kind of gone. Marta, I’m sorry. Rose died.”
Died. The word bounces around in my head, not sinking in. “But that’s impossible. She was sitting up last night, talking …”
“You know that Rose had a blood disorder. The medicine that the doctors were giving her made her immune system weaker. She caught an infection and her fever spiked very suddenly. The doctors said no one could have seen it coming.”
Dava continues speaking but I do not hear her. In my mind, I see Rose sitting on the terrace last night, looking up at the mountains. I leap up and race into the ward. “Marta, wait,” Dava calls after me.
At the far end of the ward, I stop short. Rose’s bed has been stripped to the bare mattress, the nightstand beside it cleared. “No …” The word rips from my chest.
Dava comes to my side and puts her arm around me. “She’s at peace now.”
I shake my head. “I should have been here with her.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference. And she was so happy for you last night, knowing that you had found Paul.” Suddenly my night with him seems like a distant memory. “Now, come with me.” I let Dava lead me outside to the terrace. “Wait here,” she orders before disappearing again. I drop to the bench where I sat with Rose the night before. My eyes fill with tears. I lost so many people during the war: my parents, my friends from the resistance. People I had known much longer and better than Rose. But the war is over. We are the survivors, the ones who made it. This isn’t supposed to be happening now. I put my head in my hands, sobbing.
A moment later, I hear footsteps. I look up and wipe my eyes beneath my glasses. Dava stands in front of me, holding two cups of tea. “Drink this.” I take one of the cups from her, cradling the warmth in my hands.
Dava sits down beside me. We sip our tea in silence, looking across the lake at the mountains. “I was with her,” Dava says suddenly. “At the end, I mean.”
I turn to face her. “Oh? Did she say anything?”
“She asked me to thank you for trying to help her.” Dava pauses. “She also asked me to give you this.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small envelope.
Puzzled, I take the envelope and open it. Inside is a folded piece of paper with an unfamiliar seal engraved at the top. Typewritten, it appears to be in English, but I cannot understand what it says. “What’s this?”
“It’s Rose’s visa to England,” Dava replies.
“Visa? I don’t understand …”
“Rose has an aunt in England who sent her a visa to come live with her. She never mentioned it to you?”
I shake my head. “Only that she had an aunt in London. Nothing about the visa.”
“Rose probably never mentioned it because it was a moot point,” Dava offers. “She was too sick to travel.” But I know this was not the reason Rose kept the visa from me. Rose knew that I had no one to go to in the West. She did not, I am sure, want to hurt my feelings by talking about her own opportunity. Dava continues, “She mentioned she was trying to get a companion visa for you to travel with her. She even wrote to her aunt to ask about it. I guess she wanted to see if it was possible first.”
Rose going to England. Me going with her. My head spins as I try to process all of this new information. “It was a nice idea,” I say finally. “But she’s gone now.”
“Before she died, Rose said she wanted you to have her visa, to go on to London without her.”
I stare at Dava, stunned. “But this is Rose’s visa. How can I …?”
“Technically it isn’t transferable, but there are ways. We can get you identification that says you are Rose for the purposes of the trip.”
My mind reels. “I can’t go to London,” I protest. It is too far away, too big.
“You’ve been studying English,” Dava points out.
“I’ve read a few children’s books. That’s hardly the same as speaking a language, using it every day. And I don’t have the money …” I falter, embarrassed. “For the passage, I mean. And to live.”
“Rose had a little money that she left. It will be enough to get you there.” Traveling to England with Rose would have been daunting enough, but the thought of going alone is terrifying. Dava grasps me by both shoulders. “Marta, listen to me. I know you are upset about Rose. I am, too. And to consider this trip on top of everything that has happened may seem overwhelming. But this visa is worth its weight in gold. You don’t have any special status, no relatives to go to in the United States or anywhere else. The camp won’t be here forever, and if you haven’t found a place to live when it closes you may not have much say over where you are sent. You need to settle somewhere, make a life for yourself. Do you understand me?” I do not answer. “Anyway, if you go to London you can take Rose’s belongings, tell her aunt personally that Rose is gone. You would want to do that for Rose, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply. “But impersonating Rose, I mean, the false identification … is it safe?”
“Completely. So many people came out of the war without any papers that the border guards seldom scrutinize papers too closely. And making fake identification cards has become big business. I know an excellent source, right here in Salzburg. So does that mean we are agreed?”
I take a deep breath. “I’ll go. Perhaps in a few weeks, after I’ve improved my English some more.”
Dava shakes her head. “I’m afraid that is not possible. The visa expires tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Rose planned to have her aunt get the visa extended, if and when she was well enough to travel.” My heart aches, thinking of Rose making plans that would never be. “But of course that is impossible now. You have to go before this visa expires. If we book you on a train directly to the Channel coast, you can be there by late tomorrow, then take a ferry from Calais to Dover. But you’ll have to leave tonight.”
Tonight! My head swims. “What about Rose? I mean, will there be a funeral?”
Dava hesitates. “Yes, but I don’t think we will be able to have it before you leave. The coroner has to examine her, and there is paperwork. I’ll see to it that she has a proper funeral.”
My heart twists at the thought of not being there to say goodbye to Rose. I picture the camp cemetery, a small cluster of headstones on the hill behind the palace. “She should have a spot by the large oak tree.”
Dava nods. “I’ll have her buried there.” She stands up. “I need to go into Salzburg to get you a train ticket. I want you to get cleaned up and gather your belongings. Eat and rest. You are leaving tonight.”
After Dava walks away, I sit numbly, staring across the lake. A day ago, Rose was here and Paul was just a faint memory. Now they’re both gone and I am leaving, alone.
My entire body sags with exhaustion. I have to try to rest, or I will never have the strength to make the journey. I stand and walk slowly inside, crossing the foyer to the ward. When I reach Rose’s bed, I hesitate. I still half expect to see her lying there, waiting to hear about my night with Paul. I run my hand along the bare mattress. Dava is right, I realize. Rose would want me to go.
I take off my glasses and lie on the duvet that covers my bed, still staring at the emptiness beside me. My eyes burn. I’m sorry, Rosie. Sorry that I couldn’t make things right for you. I roll over and face the wall, pressing my cheek into the pillow and closing my eyes.
I dream that it is a gray March morning in the ghetto, the wind blowing newspapers and other debris across the cracked pavement. I should be on my way to the administration building to report to work, but instead I am walking toward the orphanage. I returned from my mission with Jacob a few hours ago and I am still reeling from Jacob’s revelation that he is married. I need to find Emma. Though I never named Jacob, I’d told her about my feelings for him. She will help me make sense of it all. I walk through the door of the orphanage and into the nursery where my mother is diapering an infant. She looks up, relief crossing her face as I approach. Guilt washes over me, knowing the anxiety my resistance work must cause her. “Hello, shayna,” she says, kissing my cheek while not letting go of the infant. Shayna. Beautiful. “How are you?” She does not ask me where I have been, why I did not come home the previous night.
“Fine, Mama. I’m looking for Emma.”
My mother’s expression turns serious. “Disappeared,” she says in a low voice. “Another girl came to work in her place yesterday.”
Panic rising in me, I turn and run from the orphanage, across Josefinska Street to number thirteen. I fling open the door, taking the steps two at a time to the apartment where we meet for Shabbat dinner and where the resistance is secretly headquartered. I race into the apartment and, too frantic to knock, burst into the back room where the leadership meets. “Where’s Emma?” I demand of Alek, who sits alone at the desk.
Alek looks up from his papers. “Don’t worry, she’s fine. We needed to get her out of the ghetto and were able to send her to stay with kin.” I sink into a chair, processing the information. “I’m sure she would have said goodbye, but we didn’t tell her that she was going until it was time,” he adds.
“Oh. I didn’t know she had kin outside the ghetto.”
“She doesn’t. Her husband does.”
“Husband?” I look at Alek, stunned. “But Emma isn’t married.”
A confused expression crosses his face. “I thought Jacob told you.”
Why would Jacob tell me about Emma? “I don’t understand …”
“Originally I agreed with Jacob keeping it a secret, even from you.” I can barely hear Alek over the buzzing in my ears. “But with you two traveling together all of the time, getting so close, it didn’t seem fair. We agreed to wait until after Emma was gone. I thought he told you last night.”
“Jacob told me that he is.” The bottom of my stomach drops to the floor. “You mean that Emma and Jacob …”
“Are married.” Married. The word echoes in my head as the room fades to black.
“Marta,” I hear a voice call. Hands are shaking me gently. I open my eyes, blinking. Am I in the ghetto? No, I realize quickly. Dava is standing above me. I am in Salzburg. I do not know how long I have been asleep. It is still light out, though much later in the day, judging from the way the shadows of the trees fall across the ward. I look over at Rose’s empty bed, the grief washing over me anew. “It’s time to get up,” Dava says.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly five.” I blink in disbelief. Dava continues, “I wanted to let you sleep as long as I could, but the car will be here to take you to the station in half an hour. I’ll wait for you out front.”
As Dava walks briskly from the ward, I sit up and swing my legs to the floor. I splash water on my face from the bowl on the nightstand, then put on my glasses and look around the room at the other women sleeping or reading in their beds. On the nightstand sits a small bag that Dava has left for packing. I reach into the drawer and pull out my other dress, the blue one, and some undergarments and stockings. It is everything that I own. I carry the bag from the ward, through the foyer and out the back door of the palace. I gaze up at the mountains, set against a clear blue sky. Thirty minutes, Dava said. A few hours ago I did not even know I was leaving. I see Paul, standing by the water’s edge, remember Rose sitting in her wheelchair on the terrace.
Dava comes up behind me. “All set?”
I hesitate, still looking up at the mountains. “I think so.”
“Good. Here.” I turn to her and she hands me some papers. “This top document is your temporary travel card, which you show in lieu of a passport. The second page is your visa. Remember that you are Rose Landyk, if anyone asks, though they shouldn’t. And here is your train ticket. It goes directly to Lille—that’s in France, not far from the Channel coast. From there you’ll take a local train to Calais. And here’s a ferry ticket from Calais to Dover, then another train ticket to London. Be sure to make all of your connections. Do you understand?” I nod. “Good.”
Looking down at the tickets, I am seized with fear. I cannot do this alone. “Come with me,” I say suddenly. Dava’s eyes widen. “You could find work as a nurse, maybe meet someone and start a family….”
“I can’t!” Dava blurts out. Surprised, I stare at her. I have never seen her so emotional. Then she recovers, biting her lip. “I mean, I can’t have … anyway, the discussion is pointless. There is only one visa and no time to argue about it. Besides, I’m needed here. There’s much work to be done.” She hands me a small satchel. “This is for you also.”
“What is it?”
“Rose’s belongings, to give to her aunt.” Dava continues, “Plus some food for your trip.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some bills. “Money. Austrian, French, English, a bit of each. In case you need anything along the way.”
I hesitate. Something tells me that not all of the money was Rose’s, that it comes from Dava’s own meager wages. “Dava, I can’t take—”
Dava holds up her hand, cutting me off. “You are taking the money and I won’t hear another word about it.” She smiles. “Someday, when you are a wealthy Englishwoman, you can repay me.”
“I will,” I reply, overwhelmed by her kindness, by all that she has done for me. “With interest. Thank you, Dava.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just have a safe trip and be well. Write me once you reach London to let me know you’ve arrived safely.”
I start to thank Dava once more, but she takes my arm and leads me from the terrace. “Come on.” I steal one last look over my shoulder at the mountains, then follow her reluctantly around the side of the palace. A man whom I recognize as one of the maintenance workers sits in the front seat of a black car, engine running. “Johan will take you to the station,” Dava says. She grabs me by both shoulders, her familiar clover scent strong as she kisses me firmly on each cheek. “You are a strong woman, Marta. You have survived when no one thought you would, and you have a wonderful life ahead of you. Don’t ever look back.”
“I won’t,” I promise, a lump forming in my throat.
“Godspeed.” Dava turns and walks back inside the palace. I turn to thank her once more, but the door closes behind her.
I face the car, pausing nervously. I have only been in a few cars, quick furtive trips while working for the resistance. I climb into the passenger side and close the door behind me. Inside, the brown seats are worn and the air smells of stale cigarette smoke. Without speaking, Johan steps on the gas and the car lurches forward. I’m setting out on the same road Paul took just hours earlier, I realize as we pull from the driveway. I wish that he was with me. Or Rose, or Dava. Anyone. For the first time since prison, I am completely alone. Uneasiness rises inside me and I am seized by the sudden urge to ask Johan to turn the car around. I turn to look at the palace, but it has already disappeared, obscured by the thickness of the trees. Then I hear Dava’s voice in my head: Don’t look back. I can do this, I think. I have to. Steeling myself, I turn forward to face the road ahead once more.
CHAPTER 6
I gaze out the train window, blinking against the bright daylight that shines through a film of dirt and grime. Outside, rolling fields overgrown with late-summer brush and wildflowers stretch endlessly to the horizon. Last night, after we crossed the border into Switzerland, I was lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the train as we wound our way through the mountains. I was awakened roughly sometime in the middle of the night by a border guard demanding to inspect my papers at a second crossing. This morning, I opened my eyes to find the sun breaking over the gentle hills of eastern France, the rugged terrain long gone. From the position of the sun, I can tell that we are now heading north toward the coast.
I stretch, looking around the train car. Three seats, including mine, face another three a meter or so apart. The carriage is dilapidated, the seat cushions torn and stained. There was an older man seated across from me by the door when I boarded, but we did not speak and he is gone now. The air has grown warm and stuffy overnight and smells of sour milk. I reach up to open the window, which refuses to budge.
I peer out the train window once more. How much farther do we have to go? It must be about nine o’clock, judging by the position of the sun—at least another six hours until we reach Lille, according to the itinerary Dava gave me. My stomach rumbles. I didn’t eat at all yesterday, with everything that had happened with Paul and Rose and my leaving. I open my satchel, which sits on the seat beside me. Dava packed three sandwiches for me, one meat and two cheese. I unwrap one of the cheese sandwiches and take a bite. The bread is dry, but thick and familiar, a comforting reminder of the camp.
As I eat, I watch the fields roll by. A large, charred piece of metal the size of a horse wagon sits in the grass. It must have been a tank. I saw those in Kraków during the occupation. Little more than a year ago, these peaceful fields were battlegrounds. An image appears in my mind of soldiers, lying motionless on the ground. I think longingly of Paul. It is hard to believe it has been just a day since we said goodbye. The fighting is over in Europe now, but he said he would likely be shipped to the Pacific. I wonder where he is and, selfishly, if he has thought of me.
I eye the two remaining sandwiches. I am still hungry, but I don’t dare eat more now—we are still several hours from the coast, and I have no idea what food will be available at the port or on the boat, or how much it might cost.
Outside, a loud screeching noise jars me from my thoughts. We’re slowing down, and the landscape begins to pass more slowly. The braking sound grows louder as the train grinds to a halt. Pressing my head against the glass, I crane my neck, searching for a town or station ahead. But the fields are unbroken as far as I can see. Why are we stopping?
Five minutes pass, then ten. My uneasiness grows. Is something wrong? Have we broken down? Through the door of the carriage, I see the conductor pass by. Taking a deep breath, I stand up and walk to the door and open it. I hesitate. I speak almost no French. “Entschuldigen sie, bitte,” I say in German. Excuse me.
The conductor turns back, annoyed. “Ja?”
I hesitate. “Why have we stopped?”
“The tracks are broken ahead and we had no word of it when we were sent this way.” I struggle to understand his thickly accented German. “We’ll be backing up to the nearest junction shortly and heading for Paris.”
Panic rips through me. “But, sir, my ferry leaves from Calais at six tonight. I have to get there.”
“You’re not the only one with a boat to catch, miss,” he replies tersely. “There’s nothing to be done about it. You can take a train from Paris to Calais tomorrow. There will be other boats.” He turns and continues down the corridor.
I let the carriage door close and sink into the nearest seat. My visa expires tonight. I’ll never make it in time. A rock forms in the pit of my stomach. What am I going to do? I doubt the money that Dava gave me is enough for a return ticket to Salzburg. If I cannot get to England, I will be stranded with nowhere to go.
Desperately, I reach in my satchel and pull out the visa, scanning the document and trying to understand the foreign words. My eyes go to the seal at the top of the page. There must be a British embassy in Paris. Perhaps if I go there and explain, I can get an extension. I hesitate, considering the idea. Do I really dare walk into the embassy with a visa that isn’t even really mine? It is my only hope. Still clutching the papers, I lean back and pray for a miracle as the train begins to roll slowly backward.
I stand by the door, satchel in hand, as the train pulls into Gare l’Est. I open the door and leap to the platform as we slow, not waiting to come to a complete stop. It has been more than seven hours since we stopped in the countryside and began our slow, painstaking detour to Paris. As the train crawled through the seemingly endless countryside, I fought the urge to scream. Instead I hounded the harried conductor for directions to the British embassy, practiced over and over again what I would say when I arrived.
I race down the platform, then pause, staring helplessly at the unintelligible French signs. The massive train station is awash with travelers—commuters mingle with groups of soldiers and families seeming to carry all of their possessions in large bags. To the right, I see a sign with a large M on it. The conductor told me the quickest route to the embassy was to take the Métro to the Madeline station.
Weaving my way through the crowds, I run to the entrance of the Métro, then hesitate, staring down the steps into the black hole. The smell of urine wafts upward. Can this possibly be right? Though I have read about subways, I have never actually taken one. But the conductor said it was too far to walk and he did not give me directions by bus. And it is four-twenty, just forty minutes until the embassy will likely close. I take the stairs two at a time, holding the railing so as not to fall. At the bottom, I pause to consult a map and identify a pink line that runs between the Gare l’Est and Madeline stations. Quickly, I buy a ticket from the kiosk, then follow the signs for the pink line to a crowded platform. A few minutes later, a train rumbles noisily into view. I board with the other passengers and find myself pressed uncomfortably into the center of the car between an old man and a group of schoolgirls. There is nowhere to sit, so I reach out and hold on to a nearby pole for balance.
The doors close and the train begins to roll forward. A voice comes over the speaker, announcing the next stop in garbled French that I cannot comprehend. How will I know where to get off? My eyes dart to the route map over the door and I count four stops between Gare l’Est and Madeline. Faster, I think, digging my nails into my palms. What if I don’t make it on time? We reach the first stop and the doors open. A few passengers get off, but others board, making the train car more overcrowded than before. Just three more stops, I think, as the train begins to roll forward into the darkness of the tunnel. Suddenly, it halts again. The other passengers groan collectively, mumbling phrases I cannot understand. Why have we stopped? I catch a glimpse of a man’s wristwatch. Four-thirty-five. I am not going to make it. A cold sweat breaks out beneath my dress.
The train starts to move again. We reach the second stop, then the third. As we leave the fourth stop, I inch my way through the crowd, trying to get closer to the door. The train creeps into Madeline station. As the doors open, I push through the crowd and race up the steps. At the top, I step onto the pavement and stop, gasping. I am standing at the biggest intersection I have ever seen. Buses, taxis and other cars, at least four deep, race in all directions along two wide boulevards, flanked by enormous buildings. The cities I have seen before, Kraków and Salzburg, in no way prepared me for this. I shiver, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all.
But there is no time to wonder. A bell chimes once, jarring me from my thoughts. Four-forty-five, the clock on the front of a large stone church across the boulevard reads. The embassy will close in fifteen minutes. I look in both directions, trying to get my bearings. Rue Royale, the street sign at the corner says. I turn left, as the conductor instructed, and run to the next major intersection. In the distance across the boulevard, I see a massive gray building, flags flying atop. That must be the embassy! I step out into the street, then jump as car horns blare out noisily in protest. The traffic light is red, I realize, leaping back onto the curb. When the light turns green, I fly across the intersection and down the street. The distance between myself and the embassy closes, fifty meters, then twenty. At last I reach the front of the large columned building bearing a British flag on the roof.
I rush to the guard booth at the front gate of the embassy. “Visa section, please,” I pant in English, still breathing heavily from the run.
“The consulate is closed, ma’am.”
My heart sinks. “But it’s not yet five …”
He shakes his head. “They stop taking applicants at four-thirty.”
“Please,” I plead, pulling my visa from the bag and holding it out to him. “It’s very urgent that I see someone today.”
He does not look down at the papers. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow will be too late.”
“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
I step backward, feeling as though a rock has slammed into my chest. I am too late. The embassy is closed. Shoving the papers back into my bag, I stumble away from the gate. The boulevard is crowded now with men in suits on their way home from work, small clusters of young colleagues going for drinks. People living their normal lives. People who belong here. My eyes begin to sting. I brush my hand across them impatiently. Crying isn’t going to help. I have to figure out what to do.
Across the street from the embassy, I notice a small park. I cross the street and make my way down one of the tree-lined paths. Slats of sunlight shine through the leaves. The benches along either side of the path are filled with Parisians enjoying the summer evening. A woman knits silently on one of the benches, a large shepherd at her feet. Farther along, two old men play chess, surrounded by a small group of onlookers. There are people sprawled in the grass as well, smoking cigarettes and reading.
I walk toward the fountain that sits in the middle of the park, finding an empty spot on one of the peeling green benches that surround it. On the other end of the bench a man reads Le Monde, the newspaper spread wide in his lap. He does not look up as I sit.
On a bench across from me, I notice two young women with prams in front of them. They are speaking in a Slavic language, and though I do not recognize which, I understand enough to gather that one is describing a night out with a man, perhaps a boyfriend. They rock the carriages with a disinterest that suggests the babies inside are not theirs.
A cool wind blows through the park. Looking up at the dark clouds that have eclipsed the sun, I cross my arms, wishing I had a coat. It will be evening soon. I need to think about where I will stay tonight, and about food. I pull the last of Dava’s sandwiches from my bag and unwrap it. I sniff the sandwich, remembering from prison how to judge how far bad it has gone, whether or not it is safe. The meat has a slightly sour smell, still edible but not for much longer. Breathing shallowly, I take a bite. I cannot afford to waste any food now. As I eat, I think longingly of the hot dinners prepared by the Red Cross in the palace kitchen. The Red Cross! Perhaps they help refugees here, too. I hesitate, looking at the au pairs, then stand and make my way across the path. “Przepraszam,” I say, excusing myself in Polish. Hopefully their language is close enough so that they will understand. The women stop speaking and look up at me, squinting. I touch my chest. “Refugee.” Then I point at them. “You, too?”
The women start to stand up, their expressions turning to fear. “Non,” the younger-looking woman, hair dyed an unnatural red, says quickly in French.
She’s lying, I think; their papers must not be in order, either. “Can you tell me how to find the Red Cross?”
They weigh the question, considering whether to help. “Americans,” the older woman says in a low voice, pointing in the direction of the embassy.
She must be confusing the British embassy for the United States. “I’ve already been to the British embassy and they wouldn’t—”
The woman cuts me off. “American,” she insists. I look again in the direction in which she is pointing. The flag on the British embassy has been taken down for the day. But on another building behind it, an American flag flies. She is trying to tell me, I think, that the American embassy can direct me to the Red Cross. But it is after five now; that embassy will surely be closed, too. I turn back to ask again for directions to the Red Cross, but the girls have looked away, disinterested, and resumed talking in their own language.
I start back toward the bench, but my spot is now occupied by a lady with a poodle. There is nowhere for me to go. Even the bench is taken. Suddenly, tears well up in my eyes once more. This time I let them overflow, run hot and salty down my cheeks, not caring who sees. As if on cue, it begins to rain, thick heavy drops dotting the water in the base of the fountain, splashing against the pavement. Feeling the drops soak through my clothes, I think of the storm that began as Paul and I sat in the rowboat on the lake. Was that really only two nights ago? It feels like another lifetime. But there is no gardener’s shed here, a voice reminds me. No Paul to row you to shelter. The voice, long forgotten, is strong and firm, the one that sustained me through prison.
I need to find shelter. I take off my glasses and wipe the water from the lenses. Then, replacing them, I look across the park. At the far end, on the opposite side of the street, sits a massive stone church. I walk closer. Looking up at its turrets climbing toward the sky, I am reminded of the Mariacki Cathedral in Kraków. The first time I saw it, crossing the market square on an errand for the resistance with Jacob, I was staggered by its size. I was even more surprised when Jacob told me that we were to meet our contact inside. As a Jew, churches had always been forbidden; even the tiny one-room church in our village, not much bigger than the synagogue, had seemed ominous. But to the resistance, the churches were safe havens, a place to go under the pretext of prayer, exchanging information with contacts in hushed tones in the back pews.
A safe haven, I think now, staring at the open door of the church. No one will bother me there. I make my way up the stone steps. Inside, the church is cool and dark, empty except for an older woman lighting a candle in an alcove to the right. I slip into one of the back pews, keeping my head low. The wood has an earthy, human smell that makes me think I am not the first to use it as a shelter. I look up. From the rafters, stone statues of saints stare down at me piously. What am I going to do? I ask silently. They look back mutely, their pity useless. Behind me, I hear voices. Two women remove kerchiefs from their heads as they make their way up the aisle, clutching rosaries. I wonder if they are regular parishioners, if they will know that I do not belong. But they do not seem to notice me. When they have passed, I sink back in the pew, suddenly exhausted. My entire body seems to ache.
I will go back to the British embassy tomorrow, beg to have the visa extended, I decide as I watch the women make their way to the front of the church and kneel. And if they refuse? a voice inside me—not the strong one—asks. I push the question down. I must get the visa extended. There is no other option. I wonder if the church is open all night, if I can perhaps stay here until morning. More parishioners enter the church, slipping into pews, spending a few minutes praying alone or in pairs before leaving again. I had always imagined Parisians to be elegant and fashionable. But the people I see are simply dressed, their faces careworn, reminding me that just a short while ago, Paris was occupied, too.
Outside, the church bells ring eight times. As if on cue, a man appears at the front of the church with a broom and begins to sweep. The church will close soon, I realize, as the last parishioners shuffle toward the door. I cannot stay here. I walk outside to the front steps, then hesitate. Where can I go? The rain still falls in heavy sheets, forming a large puddle at the base of the stairs. I look back at the front of the church. Stone columns stand to either side of the entranceway. I make my way toward the one on the right. There, where the column meets the building, is a shallow nook, a meter wide and half as deep. No one can see me here, I think, stepping into the space. I sink to the cold, hard floor, grateful for a place to stay out of the rain. A damp scent rises from the stone.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I look out into the street at the cold, unfamiliar city. How did I get here? Suddenly I recall once being in the woods outside Lodz. Jacob had left me hidden in a cluster of trees while he went to find our contact. Later I would learn that he had become lost on his way back to me. But in that moment, as I huddled in the pitch darkness, strange, unseen noises coming from the woods around me, I was terrified. What if he never came back for me? Remembering now, a chill runs down my spine. Until that moment, I had not understood what it meant to be completely alone. It was a thought that would later haunt my long, lonely days in prison. I had not thought of it since being liberated, but alone now, I am caught by the memory once more.
My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps. The man who had been sweeping stands in the doorway of the church, still holding his broom, looking at me. We stare at each other for several seconds. Without speaking, he disappears back inside the church. My heart pounds inside my chest. Is he going to make me leave, even call the police? A second later, the man reappears in the doorway and starts toward me, carrying something. A blanket, I see, as he sets it by my feet. “Merci,” I say, but he turns and walks back inside the church without speaking, closing the door behind him.
I stare after him for several seconds, caught off guard by his simple act of kindness. Then I reach down and unfold the wool blanket, pulling it up around me. The blanket smells of dirt and cigarettes. I wonder if it is his own, if he has shared it with others who have stayed here. I lean back, the scratchy fabric comforting against my arms. Not so completely alone after all. I look beyond the edge of the cathedral at the rain-soaked street, then up at the dark, cloudy sky, wondering what tomorrow will bring.
CHAPTER 7
I refold the blanket, looking toward the front door of the church. I would like to hand it back to the janitor and thank him, but the door is closed, the man nowhere to be found. Instead, I set the blanket neatly in the corner where I spent the night, then make my way down the steps.
It is morning now and the sun shines brightly, drying the last of the dampness from the pavement. The park is nearly empty, except for one disheveled old man I think I recognize from the previous evening, curled up on one of the benches under a damp coat. Did he spend the night there? I am more grateful than ever for the shelter of the church roof and blanket.
On the other side of the park, I pause, looking up at the Union Jack that flies high above the British embassy. My breath catches as I imagine walking up those steps and through the door, convincing whoever waits on the other side to extend the visa. It has to work. I cross the street and walk to the entrance, where a different guard from the previous evening occupies the booth. I take a deep breath. “I—I’m here about a visa,” I manage to say in English.
He points to the left. “Entrance is around the corner.”
“Thank you.” I walk to the end of the block. As I turn the corner, my heart sinks. There is a line of people starting at the corner and running all the way down the street. I walk to the man who stands at the end of the line, then hesitate. The few French words I know seem of little use. “Visa?” I ask hopefully, pointing at the door. Perhaps all of these people are waiting for something else. He shrugs, turns away. I walk quickly back around the corner to the guard booth. “Excuse me, I know you said that the entrance for visas is around the corner. But all of those people …?”
“Are waiting for visas, too. Take a number.”
I cock my head, puzzled. I did not see any numbers. “I already have a visa,” I say, trying again. “I need an extension.”
“Same line,” the guard replies, pointing once more.
I turn and start back around the corner, my shoulders slumped in disappointment. The line has grown even longer in the minute I was away, two more people joining the queue. I file in behind them quickly. There must be at least a hundred people ahead of me, men and women of every size and age. Some carry babies or hold small children by the hand. If only I had known, I could have waited here all night instead of sleeping by the church.
In the distance a clock chimes nine. Slowly the line begins to shuffle forward. Perhaps this will not be so bad, after all. But then the line comes to a complete stop. Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. I turn and look behind me. At least another twenty people have joined the queue, giving the appearance that it has not shortened at all. We stand motionless for what seems like an eternity, shuffling forward a few meters every half an hour or so. The clock chimes eleven and the sun grows higher in the morning sky, making the air warm and humid.
It is lunchtime, I think a while later, my stomach growling. I have not eaten since finishing the last sandwich the previous evening. The line seems to move more slowly as time passes. People lean against the embassy fence or drop to the pavement and sit in line. I can tell by the weary, accepting expressions on the faces of some of the people around me that they have done this before and are unsurprised by the wait. Anxiety rises in me as the early afternoon passes. What if they do not get to me? I look around, desperately wanting to ask someone if there is a quota, if they take only a certain number of people each day. But I do not know enough French to ask the others in the queue and I cannot leave the line to ask the guard.
Another hour of shuffling and waiting. Finally, I reach the gate and make my way, slowly, painstakingly, up a set of stairs and through a door. Inside, the line snakes through a waiting room. Three glass windows line the far wall, a woman and two men seated behind them. The air here is pungent from too many people in a cramped, warm space. Typewriters clack in the background. I watch as each of the people in front of me in line approaches one of the windows. Some present papers, others simply talk. I cannot hear what they are saying. At the middle window, a woman argues with one of the male clerks for several minutes. When she turns away, I can see that her cheeks are wet.
Finally, it is my turn. “Next,” the woman in the far right window calls. I step forward, my heart pounding. As I reach the window, I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I am supposed to be Rose.
The woman holds out her hand. “Yes?”
Catching my reflection in the glass, I hesitate. My dress is wrinkled, my hair wild from sleeping outside. I should have taken time to freshen up. But it is too late now. I push my papers through the slot at the bottom of the window. “I have a visa to England, but it expired yesterday.” My words, which I practiced on the train, tumble out in a rush, accented and, I fear, nearly unintelligible. “I was not able to get a train out of Salzburg until yesterday and we were detoured to Paris because of broken tracks. So I am unable to make it to England in time. I tried to come yesterday but the embassy was already closed. I was wondering if it would be possible to get an extension.”
The woman scans the papers. “You cannot renew this class of visa here.” Her tone is cold, her French accent thick. “The inviting person must apply for an extension.” She pushes the papers back through the slot at me.
“I have to get to England. Please.”
The woman’s expression remains impassive, as if she hears such things every day. “I’m sorry, but it’s beyond my control.”
“But what am I supposed to do?” My voice rises with panic.
The woman shrugs. “As I said, the only possibility is to get the person who invited you to England to apply for an extension. But you will need to go back to your home country or the country of origin while you wait.”
“Dominique,” a male voice calls from behind the window. “Telephone.” The woman speaks to someone I cannot see in a low voice. Then she turns back to me. “I’m afraid there’s really nothing to be done about it.” Her voice is curt, dismissive. “Good day.”
“But …” I begin. The woman disappears from the window.
I stand before the window for several seconds, not moving. The visa cannot be extended. For a minute, I consider waiting until she returns, but I know that arguing further will be pointless. I turn and push through the crowd of applicants still waiting to be seen and race back down the stairs. When I reach the street I stop, struggling to breathe. Tears fill my eyes, spill over. I can feel the stares of the applicants still waiting in line as I pass, sobbing openly.
At the corner, I cross the boulevard and make my way into the park. I sink to one of the benches by the fountain, still sobbing. My visa was not renewed. I have failed. What am I going to do?
I study the papers still clutched in my hand. The visa is expired, worthless. I start to throw them in the trash bin beside the bench. Then I stop. These are the only papers I have. But the visa will not get me to England. I wonder for a moment if I could stow away. If I cannot get to England, where will I go? I do not have the money to go back to Austria. Looking at the empty bench across from me, I remember the au pairs I’d spoken with the previous day. Perhaps I could stay in Paris, find work taking care of children or cleaning or in a restaurant. But I have no idea if such things are possible without a French visa, without speaking French.
I tuck the papers back in my bag. The contents of the bag—a second dress, some undergarments, a few coins and the papers—are everything I have in the world. No food. I do not even have a place to stay tonight. I look across the park at the church. Maybe if I go there, they will help me. But I know that the caretaker had little more than the wool blanket to offer, and I cannot sleep on the church steps forever.
The Red Cross, I remember. If I can find the Red Cross, I may be able to get food, a place to stay. Perhaps they can even get word to Dava of my plight. The au pairs had pointed me to the American embassy. I turn around. Behind the British flag, an American flag flies high against the blue sky. It is the same as the one that was sewn to Paul’s uniform sleeve, I realize, feeling a small tug at my heart.
I stand up and walk from the park, crossing the street. As I pass the line of applicants still waiting at the British embassy, I keep my head high. But sadness and anger bubble up in me. Would it have cost that clerk anything to bend the rules this one time and extend my visa?
I approach the guard booth at the front of the American embassy. “Consulate is closed, miss.”
I swallow nervously. “I—I was wondering if you could tell me if the Red Cross has a shelter in the city.”
The guard pauses, considering. “I don’t know. Sergeant Smith might, but he’s gone for the day.” My heart sinks. “Why don’t you try asking at the Servicemen’s Hotel. It’s just around the corner.”
“Servicemen’s Hotel.” I repeat the unfamiliar English words. “Thank you.” I start to walk in the direction in which the guard pointed. Around the corner is a tall building, set back from the road. U.S. Armed Servicemen’s Hotel, the sign out front reads. Several soldiers cluster by the entrance, talking and smoking. Seeing their dark green uniforms and close-cut hair, I cannot help but think of Paul. One of the other soldiers mentioned something about Paris, I remember suddenly. In my panic to get the visa extended, I had nearly forgotten. Could he possibly be here? But he was in Salzburg only two days ago, I recall, picturing the lumbering row of trucks as they pulled from the palace grounds. It seems unlikely that he could be here so soon.
Focus on finding the Red Cross, I tell myself. Taking a deep breath, I walk up to the door of the hotel, feeling the eyes of the soldiers on me as I pass. Inside, I hesitate. The lobby is bright, a thick halo of cigarette smoke hovering in the air. Loud voices and music come from a bar off the back of the lobby. I make my way to the reception desk, which sits to the right. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Can you tell me whether the Red Cross has any shelters in the city?”
The clerk pauses, scratching his head. “I think so. Lemme see.” He turns and pulls a thick book from the shelf behind him, then thumbs through the pages. “Here we are—Red Cross. Nearest shelter is at St. Denis du St. Sacrement—that’s a church—in Marais. Go left to the corner and take the number-five bus … here, let me write this down for you.” He pulls out a piece of paper and scribbles something I cannot read, then hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I start to walk away. Then, looking across the lobby at the bar, crowded with soldiers, Paul’s face appears in my mind once more. Easy, I tell myself. Even if Paul was in Paris, there’s no reason to think he would be at this particular hotel. There are thousands of soldiers in the city. He could be anywhere. Impulsively, I turn back toward the desk. “Excuse me again,” I say, then hesitate. “I’m also looking for a soldier named Paul. Paul Mattison.”
The clerk opens a large register that sits on the counter in front of him and scans one page, then another. “Mattison … nope, don’t see no Mattison.”
Of course not. I chastise myself inwardly for my folly. Had I really imagined that Paul might be here? “Thanks again.” I cross the lobby and exit the hotel, feeling foolish.
Outside I start walking toward the bus stop. I pass a café, the tables in its front garden filled with soldiers and civilians, talking merrily over late-afternoon drinks. A delicious aroma of baked goods wafts under my nose. It’s not coming from the café, I realize, but from the small patisserie next door. Curious, I walk closer. A delectable display of pastries sits in the front window, a mountain of chocolate tortes in the center. My mouth waters. I reach into my bag, fingering the money Dava gave me. It would be completely irresponsible to spend some of the little money I have on sweets. And I need to get to the shelter right away. But I walk into the shop, unable to resist.
I point through the glass at the plate of chocolate tortes, then raise my index finger. “S’il vous plait.” I carefully count out the proper amount of coins as the shopkeeper puts a torte in a paper bag and hands it to me. Outside again, I open the bag, inhaling the rich chocolate aroma. Then I pull out the torte, which is still slightly warm. I know that I should go back to the park or at least find somewhere to sit and eat the pastry, but I cannot wait. I take a large bite, closing my eyes as the chocolate flavor washes across my tongue. Eat slowly, I tell myself. Save some for later. But my mouth seems to have a life of its own, devouring the pastry in several large bites. A moment later it is gone.
I stand motionless on the sidewalk, holding the empty bag, overwhelmed by the rush of sweetness. I look at the people sitting at the café adjacent to the patisserie, casually eating cakes like the one I have just devoured. If all of the food in Paris is this good, perhaps I should forget about London and find a way to stay here.
I look back over my shoulder longingly toward the patisserie, wishing that I could spend money on another torte. Suddenly I hear a loud, familiar laugh. My head snaps in the direction of the tables at the café.
Seated at one of the tables, his arm draped around another woman, is Paul.
CHAPTER 8
Paul! Though I had asked about him at the desk, I never really thought … I blink several times, wondering if he is an illusion, expecting him to disappear. But he remains seated at the café table, smiling broadly, eyes wide. It does not seem possible. What is he doing here? Joy surges through me. I take a step forward. Then, focusing on the pretty young woman seated beside him, I stop. Who is she? Anger rises in me as I watch him smile, then say something to the woman. Was his story about shipping out to the Pacific a lie?
I should give him a good piece of my mind, I decide, starting toward him once more. Then, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the patisserie window, I stop again. My plain pink dress, the same one he saw me wearing two days ago, is wrinkled from the long train ride. Dark circles ring my eyes and there are chocolate smudges on my lips. A disheveled Polish country girl. As I look over at the Frenchwoman, with her perfectly coiffed chignon and low-cut silk blouse, my heart crumbles. How could I ever think that Paul really liked me?
I turn blindly away, crashing into a waiter who is carrying a tray between the patisserie and the café. Cups and plates crash noisily to the pavement. “Oh!” My face grows hot as I stand helplessly, staring at the scattered dishes. I feel the scornful eyes of the café patrons upon me as the waiter begins to berate me in French. Desperately, I push past the waiter and race down the sidewalk. A moment later I hear the waiter’s heavy footsteps behind me. I panic. Is he going to try to make me pay for the broken dishes? Has he called the police? I run faster.
“Marta, wait.” Not the waiter, I realize. Paul. He must have seen me when the dishes fell. I keep running, uncertain what to do. But Paul reaches me easily with his long strides, catches my arm. “Marta, please.” I stop, too embarrassed to face him. “Are you okay?” I nod. “I’m so glad, that is, surprised …” He pauses. It is the first time I have heard him at a loss for words. “I mean, what on earth are you doing here?”
“I—I …” I falter, my English failing me. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I was on my way to London. I had to stop here to try to get my visa extended at the British embassy.”
“What visa?”
I hesitate, looking up. At the sight of him so close, my heart jumps. “Rose’s, actually.”
“I don’t understand….”
“She died, right after you left.”
“Oh, Marta, I’m so sorry.” He moves his hand from my arm to my shoulder, but I pull back. I don’t want his sympathy now.
“She had a visa to London, so Dava arranged to have it transferred to me.”
“And you’re traveling to London all by yourself?” I nod again, unable to bring myself to tell him about my failure to get the visa extension. “We just got into Paris a few hours ago. I haven’t even checked into the hotel yet.” I notice then that he is still wearing the same uniform as in Salzburg, but has added a matching jacket. His hair is freshly combed. In spite of my anger, I grow warm inside. “We’ve been given three days’ leave before shipping out for the Pacific.”
Paul is leaving again. He really is going to the Pacific, thousands of miles away. And meanwhile I am stuck here with no place to call home. Suddenly, I burst into tears. “Marta, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I can hold back no longer. Quickly, I tell him about Rose’s visa expiring, the embassy’s refusal to help. “I don’t know what to do,” I manage to say between sobs.
“So they wouldn’t extend the visa for you?”
I shake my head. “The woman said they couldn’t.”
An angry expression crosses Paul’s face. As he looks at his watch, I can see his mind working. “Come on.” He starts down the street toward the Servicemen’s Hotel.
I follow, looking back over my shoulder at the café, where the Frenchwoman has risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”
He does not answer but leads me to the hotel. At the gate, he takes my arm. This time, I do not pull away. His hand is warm through my thin cotton sleeve as he guides me inside, through the lobby to the bar, packed thick with soldiers. “Where’s Mickey?” he asks the bartender, shouting to be heard over the din of music and voices. The bartender points to a blond-haired soldier seated at the far end of the bar. His back is to us and he seems to be telling a story of some sort to a group of men around him. “Give me your visa,” Paul instructs. I reach into my bag and hand it to him. “Wait here.”
He disappears into the crowd and I stand alone, self-conscious at being the only woman in the bar. A minute later, Paul appears by the blond-haired soldier, pulling him off his stool and away from the others. I see Paul hand him my papers. Watching as he talks to the soldier, I remember our kiss goodbye, how he held me as I slept in the gardener’s shed by the lake. Warmth grows inside me. But then I see the soldier shake his head. Paul returns to my side, his face fallen. “No dice.”
I tilt my head. “I don’t understand.”
“I thought my pal Mickey could help with the extension. He’s helped a few people.” Struggling to hear and understand him over the noise, I lean closer. He bends his head toward me at the same time, causing our cheeks to brush. Closer now, I can smell his familiar pine scent, mixed with soap and spearmint gum. “He’s got a girl over at the British embassy who’s sweet on him. Or had, I should say. It seems they’re on the outs. I’m sorry, Marta.”
“I appreciate your trying,” I say, trying to contain my disappointment.
As Paul looks down at me, his expression changes, his jaw clenching stubbornly. “I have another idea.” Without speaking further, he takes my forearm and leads me toward the door of the hotel. I force myself not to shiver at his touch.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me through the hotel garden and out onto the street.
“Back to the embassy.” As we walk back down the street, past the café, I glance at the tables, hoping that neither the Frenchwoman nor the waiter can see us.
I want to tell him that it is hopeless, that the embassy cannot renew the visa from here. “I didn’t think you would be in Paris, at least not so soon,” I offer instead as we pass the American embassy.
“Me, neither,” he replies. “That axle busted again not long after we left the camp. So rather than crowd us all into the other trucks, they let a few of us hop on a transport flight. We just arrived a few hours ago.”
As we reach the corner of the British embassy, my heart sinks. The visa line is as long as ever. If we wait, it is going to take hours. “You don’t have to …” I begin, but Paul leads me past the line and up the steps. I can feel the stares of the other applicants as we pass, wondering who I am, why I am getting special treatment by this soldier.
“Which one?” he asks as we enter the crowded waiting room.
“The woman,” I say, pointing to the window on the right.
“Hope she isn’t Mick’s girl,” he mutters under his breath. Leaving me at the back of the waiting room, he walks to the window. When the applicant who is standing there is finished, Paul steps in. The woman behind the glass opens her mouth to protest. Then her eyes dart to the sleeve of Paul’s uniform. Before she can speak, Paul pulls my visa from his pocket and slides it under the glass. He begins talking, gesturing to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying. The woman looks over Paul’s shoulder at me, but her expression is blank. She does not remember my situation; I am just one of many applicants she has seen that day. Her face remains impassive as she says something in reply. She’s going to refuse, I realize, watching the conversation. Not even Paul can help me this time. But she scribbles something on the visa, stamps it and hands it back to him.
“What happened?” I demand as he walks over.
“Your visa, milady,” he says, handing the papers to me. I look down at the papers in disbelief. The original date has been crossed out and a new stamp bearing tomorrow’s date added. One stamp. That was all the woman had to do to change a life.
“She would only extend it till tomorrow, so you’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. But you’re all set for England.”
“Really?” Relief washes over me. Impulsively, I jump up and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you.”
His arms close around me, warm and strong. For a second, it is as if we are in Salzburg once more. Then I hear someone clapping from the visa line behind us. My mind clears. We are not in Salzburg, I remind myself, stepping back from him. Remembering Paul seated beside the Frenchwoman at the café, I clear my throat. “We should go.”
A confused expression crosses his face. “Okay.” I refold the visa and tuck it back into my bag as I follow Paul from the waiting room and down the steps. “Now we can go to the hotel and get your tickets …” he begins as we reach the street.
“That’s not necessary,” I say, cutting him off. “I mean, I really appreciate all of your help, but I am sure you have other things to do.”
Paul stops, his brow furrowing. “Other things?”
“Yes.” I pause, swallowing. “Your friends from the café will be wondering where you have gone.”
“You mean my buddy, John?”
“Actually, I was talking about the Frenchwoman.” I can hear the jealousy in my own voice.
“Oh!” A light dawns in his eyes. “Marta, I know how it must have looked, but it isn’t like that at all. Last year, our unit was in Paris several times.” So he didn’t just meet the Frenchwoman, I realize, my heart sinking further. Perhaps she is his girlfriend. Paul continues, “John has been dating one of the women, Collette, long distance since then. Emilie, the other woman, is Collette’s cousin. Collette had to bring Emilie along, or she wouldn’t have been able to see John at all today. They invited me along so Emilie wouldn’t feel awkward. But I’m not interested in her.”
“Oh?” I study his face, wanting to believe him. “But don’t you need to get back to them?”
“I’m sure old Johnny can handle two Frenchwomen just fine on his own. And now that you’re here … I never imagined, I mean, I’m so glad …” He hesitates, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “Have dinner with me.”
My breath catches. Is it really possible that Paul wants to spend time with me, not the beautiful Frenchwoman? I open my mouth to accept his invitation, then hesitate. There is nothing I would rather do. But I cannot afford dinner, and I still have nowhere to stay tonight. I need to get to the Red Cross shelter. “I don’t know—”
“Please,” he pleads. “I’ll have the hotel clerk change your train and ferry tickets. Unless you would rather have that done at your hotel.”
“No,” I reply quickly. “I—I mean, they only seem to understand French at my hotel. I’m afraid they won’t get it right.” The lie slips out too easily.
“Then we’ll have it done at mine,” he says decisively. “And grab some chow, I mean, have dinner, while we wait for the tickets.”
Looking into his eyes, I cannot help myself. I would sooner sleep on the street tonight than leave Paul now. “That would be nice, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He claps his hands. “Where are you staying? I mean, do you want to go freshen up before dinner?”
“Th-the Hôtel Dupree,” I fib quickly. I hate lying to Paul, but I cannot bring myself to admit that I was planning to go to the refugee shelter. I glance down at the small satchel that holds everything I own, wondering if it might make him suspicious. But he does not seem to notice. “It’s rather far away, though. Is there a ladies’ room at your hotel where I can freshen up?”
“Sure.” We start down the street in the direction of the Servicemen’s Hotel. As we walk, I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye. I am in Paris with Paul. It is almost too much to believe.
A few minutes later we reach the hotel and cross through the garden. Inside the lobby, Paul points to a hallway leading off to the right. “I passed a ladies’ room over there earlier. I don’t know what shape it’s in. Doesn’t seem to get much use these days. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to check in and get my key. Why don’t you give me your train and ferry tickets? I’ll see about having the front desk change your reservations and book you on the train to Calais for tomorrow morning.”
“That would be great.” I reach into my bag. As I hand my tickets to him, our fingers touch. We remain still, neither pulling away. Our eyes meet and I recognize in his eyes the same longing look I saw as we left the gardener’s shed that morning. I draw back, my hand trembling.
Inside the ladies’ room, I plug the sink and turn the left tap. As the basin fills with warm water, I look into the small, cracked mirror above it, horrified at the disheveled figure that stares back at me. If only I could take a bath, put on my other dress before dinner. I turn off the tap, then splash water on my face and smooth my curls as well as I can.
“Feel better?” Paul asks when I return to the lobby. I nod. “Good. Let’s go.” I follow him out the front door of the hotel to the street. He raises his hand and a taxi pulls up at the curb. “I know a great little bistro in St. Germain,” he explains. I nod, as though familiar with the area. “It’s not fancy, but the food is delicious.” He opens the rear door and gestures for me to get in, then climbs in beside me and closes the door, leaning forward to tell the driver the address.
The cab lurches forward. “My French is awful,” Paul remarks. He sits back, closer to me than is necessary on the wide seat.
“Mine, too.” The warmth of his leg against mine is mesmerizing. I force myself to breathe normally, to look out the window. We turn onto a wide thoroughfare lined with elegant shops and cafés. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been so preoccupied—first by my rush to reach the embassy and later with my panic at not receiving the extension—I barely noticed the city. Now I stare wide-eyed at the magnificent architecture, the elegant shops that line the boulevard. “This is the Champs-Elysées. And that,” Paul says, pointing to the right, “is the Arc de Triomphe.” I follow his hand, taking in the massive stone arch.
The cab turns left and the arch disappears from view. We start across a bridge and I look back to steal a glimpse of the buildings that line the river. As I turn, my eyes catch Paul’s, locking with his. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my heart fluttering.
The taxi reaches the far side of the bridge and begins to climb upward through narrow, winding streets. The architecture is different here, the buildings close-set, rustic. A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up to the curb and Paul pays the driver. He slides across the seat and opens the door, moving away from me. Don’t, I want to cry out, instantly missing his warmth. He holds out his arm to me. “Shall we?”
I hesitate. I could have ridden around the city taking in the beautiful views all night. Reluctantly, I reach out and wrap my hand around his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Paul leads me to a bistro with wide-paned windows and a simple wood sign in front that reads Henryk’s. Inside, the dimly lit restaurant is overcrowded and warm. A dozen or so tables, covered in red-checked cloths, fill the room to capacity. The aroma of something garlicky hangs in the air, making my stomach growl.
I hang back behind Paul, overwhelmed by the noisy room. A few times during the war, I sat in one of the cafés that ringed the market square in Kraków with Alek and the others during a meeting. But I have never been to a proper restaurant. Staring at the fine plates and wineglasses, my mind flashes back to the café by the Servicemen’s Hotel earlier today. I can almost hear the tray of dishes crashing to the ground.
Suddenly, a burly man with a mustache rushes forward to greet us. “Ah, Monsieur Paul!” he exclaims, taking Paul’s hand and pumping it.
Paul steps aside so that I am no longer behind him. “Henryk, this is my friend, Marta.” Friend. My heart sinks. “Marta, this is Henryk.”
Henryk steps forward and plants a kiss on each of my cheeks. “Welcome, beautiful lady!” Caught off guard by his effusive greeting, I forget to be nervous. Henryk leads us to the only empty table, close to the front window, then lights the half-melted candle that sits in the center. “Monsieur Paul comes to see me whenever he is in Paris.” Henryk’s English, though heavily accented, is slow enough to understand. “But he has never brought a ladyfriend to my restaurant,” he adds as he pulls out my chair. I cannot help but smile at this. “Usually he come alone, with a book. I tell him this is no good for the digestion. I bring you wine.” He hustles off toward the kitchen.
Paul sits down across from me and unfolds his napkin. I watch him nervously. I have walked with Paul, even spent the night beside him. But sitting face-to-face with him like this feels intimate, intense. I unfold the napkin as he has done, hoping he does not notice my nervousness. “The restaurant has been in Henryk’s family for four generations,” he explains. “But he closed it during the occupation, rather than serve the Germans.” His leg bumps mine under the table. “Sorry,” he mumbles, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He’s anxious, too, I realize suddenly. It is hard to imagine anyone being nervous around me, but the thought is strangely comforting.
“What books?” I ask, eager to break the tension. He cocks his head, not understanding. “Henryk said you usually come with a book.”
“Oh, that.” He smiles sheepishly. “I like to read. Hemingway, Steinbeck.” Now it is my turn to cock my head. “Those are American authors, although some of Hemingway’s books are set in Europe. Classics, too, Dickens and such. Pretty much anything I can get my hands on in English over here.”
“I was reading Little Women with Rose,” I offer. “Before, that is.”
Henryk reappears with a bottle of red wine and a basket of bread. He uncorks the wine and pours three glasses, handing one to each of us. “To love,” he proposes, raising the third glass. Startled by his toast, I pull back, sending the wine splashing dangerously close to the edge. I do not meet Paul’s eyes but look away quickly, feeling my cheeks go warm. “Dinner will be out shortly,” Henryk announces, before disappearing into the kitchen again.
“He’s so subtle,” Paul says wryly. He holds up the bread basket, offering it to me.
I pull out a still-warm roll. “He said that dinner is coming, but we didn’t order anything.”
“I always let Henryk decide for me,” Paul explains. “His choices are better than anything I could pick.”
I take a bite of the warm roll. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that it is the first thing I have eaten today, other than the chocolate torte I purchased earlier. Feeling Paul’s eyes on me, I force myself to chew slowly, to pause before taking a second bite. I look around at the other patrons. Young couples and a few larger groups seem to fill the tables, talking and laughing over heaping plates of food and bottles of wine. “We’re in the Latin Quarter, near the university,” Paul explains. “Not that many students can afford to eat out. But you get a lot of academics, artists, writers. Fewer soldiers and foreigners than across the river.” He gestures across the restaurant with his head. “Look.” I follow his gaze to a table in the corner where an elderly couple eat in silence. “I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve been here. But I’ve never heard them speak.”
“They look like they’ve been together for many years,” I observe. “Maybe they’ve run out of things to say.”
“Maybe,” he agrees with a laugh. “Or maybe they’ve been together so long they don’t need to talk out loud.” His expression turns serious. “It would be nice, you know? To spend your whole life with someone, grow old together.” He turns toward the window, a faraway look in his eyes, and I wonder with a pang of jealousy if he is thinking of his ex-fiancée.
Henryk reappears carrying two large bowls. “First course, vichyssoise,” he announces as he sets the bowls down before us, then disappears into the kitchen once more.
I pick up the same spoon from the table as Paul, then try a mouthful of the soup. “Potato soup. It’s supposed to be cold,” Paul explains, noticing my puzzled expression.
I nod, embarrassed not to have known. “Delicious.”
Classical music begins to play. I look toward the back of the restaurant. A woman, stout and fiftyish, is seated at a grand piano. “That’s Henryk’s wife, Marie,” Paul says. “Married thirty years and they’re still completely in love.”
That word again, love. Paul’s eyes lock with mine. Suddenly it is as if the other patrons disappear. Neither of us speak for several seconds. Then Paul clears his throat. “I’m glad to see you again, Marta. I mean, when I left Salzburg, I thought …” His voice trails off and he looks away. “And you, being here now. It’s just unbelievable.”
I nod, unable to speak. Clearing my throat, I force myself to look down at the soup, take another mouthful. A minute later, I glance up again, peeking at Paul out of the corner of my eye as he eats. Taking in his strong jaw, the dimple in his chin, I am reminded of our kiss by the lake. Will he kiss me again? The very thought makes my stomach ache with longing. But we may not have much time together after dinner. How would he manage it? Where? Flustered, I accidentally bang my hand against the table, sending my spoon clattering to the floor.
“Oh!” I cry, starting to go after it, but Paul reaches across the table and touches my forearm, restraining me.
“Don’t worry,” he says gently. He pulls away as a waiter, not Henryk, appears and puts a clean spoon beside my plate.
A few minutes later, Henryk returns, looking down at our half-eaten bowls of soup with surprise. “You do not like?”
“It’s delicious,” I reply quickly. “I’m just saving room.”
Paul winks. “Good answer,” he mouths as Henryk clears the bowls.
A minute later Henryk brings the main course. “Poulet à la Henryk,” he declares, uncovering the plates. The dish is a thick stew, served in a brown sauce over rice.
“The city is still under rationing, but Henryk works wonders with what he can get,” Paul remarks after Henryk has gone. “After the crap—I mean stuff—we ate during the war … Our mess officer, Tommy, tried, God bless him, but there were times last winter …” He stops. “I’m an idiot. Complaining about food after all that you went through.” A shadow crosses his face and I can tell he is remembering finding me in the prison, starving and near death.
“That’s all right,” I say quickly. I do not want him to pity me, not now. “Tell me about America,” I suggest, trying to change the subject.
“America?” He pauses, considering the question as he takes a bite of chicken. “That’s a tough one. It’s such a big place. You’ve got the south, where I’m from, then places farther south where they talk even funnier.” I cock my head. “That was supposed to be a joke. Not all Americans talk like me. The states in America are kind of like your countries over here, but instead of languages, we just have different ways of speaking English, faster, slower, pronouncing words differently. Anyway, there’s the Midwest and California, which I’ve never seen. Then there are the big cities, New York, Chicago. There’re just so many places to go.” He takes another bite. “When I get back after the war, I’d like to drive across the United States. Maybe get a convertible—that’s a car where the roof comes off—and just drive, see the whole thing.” His eyes dance, as if he’s considering the idea for the first time. I imagine myself, seated beside Paul in a car, with my hair pulled back in a kerchief, wearing large dark sunglasses like the women I’ve seen in the movies. “I could go visit the guys from my unit,” he adds.
“The others, they are not from North …” I struggle, trying to remember the name of his home.
“Carolina?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Well one of the guys, Bill McCauley, is, but he’s from clear across the state. The rest are from all over, Texas, New Jersey, Maine. It’s funny, we’ve lived together, sleeping and eating, for so long. It’s hard to imagine going back to our own separate lives.”
“You’ve grown close to them,” I observe, taking a sip of wine.
“Like brothers,” he agrees. Suddenly his expression grows grave. “I had one, you know. A brother. Jack was five years older than me. He got killed in a car accident when I was twelve.”
“I’m so sorry.” I fight the urge to reach across the table, put my hand on his.
“It was really hard,” he continues, looking away. “I mean, I love my parents, adore my baby sister, Maude. But Jack was my hero.”
“He would be really proud of you,” I offer.
“You think so?” He looks back, his eyes brightening. I nod. “I hope you’re right. That means a lot. Thanks, Marta.”
We continue eating in silence. I think about Paul losing his brother. I was an only child. Friends like Emma and Rose and Alek are the closest I have come to siblings. Rose. My heart aches as I see her lying in bed the night before she died. I reach down and touch my bag beside my feet, thinking of her possessions inside. I will get to England for you, Rosie, I vow silently.
I look up. Paul has stopped eating and is gazing at me, his eyes intense. My breath catches and I look away quickly, feeling heat rise from my collar. Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the restaurant window. My hair is still frizzy, my face plain behind my spectacles. What can he possibly see to make him stare so?
When I turn back, Paul is focused on his plate, eating the last of the chicken, scraping the sauce from the plate. But his wineglass is still nearly full. “Don’t you like the wine?”
He shakes his head. “The wine is wonderful. I could drink the bottle without thinking twice. But you …” He breaks off, looking away. “There was this girl who made me see I was drinking too much out of self-pity. So I’ve pretty much decided to stop.”
“Oh.” I think back to our conversation on the lake, struck that my words had such an effect on him. “I’m sorry if I was preachy.”
“You were right.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand once more. “You reminded me who I used to be before the war. I want to be that person again.” This time I do not pull away.
Henryk appears at the table then and clears his throat. “Dessert?”
Remembering the chocolate torte earlier, I am tempted, but I don’t want to appear unladylike. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“I think we’d best be going,” Paul adds, handing Henryk several bills.
Henryk puts the money in his apron pocket without counting it. “Before you go I would like for Mademoiselle Marta to meet my Marie.” Before either Paul or I can respond, Henryk takes me by the arm and leads me through the restaurant. The dark-haired woman at the piano stops playing midsong as we approach. Up close, she is elegant, with sparkling green eyes and large gold hoop earrings. Henryk speaks to her in French, then turns to me. “This is my wife.”
Marie stands and takes my hand, her bangle bracelets jingling. “Enchanté.” She turns to her husband, speaking rapidly in French, still holding my hand.
“My wife is quite good at reading palms,” Henryk says. “She wants to know if she can look at yours.”
I hesitate. Growing up in Poland, I had heard of gypsies from the Roma community who could tell the future from the lines of the palm, but I have never met anyone who claimed she could actually do it. I shrug.
Henryk nods to his wife. She turns my hand over, cradling it in hers. Then she raises it to the light, running her thumb over my palm several times, and speaking to Henryk, who translates. “You have suffered through hard times.” That is hardly a prediction, I think. Everyone suffered during the war. “But your life line is strong, and your heart line is very deep. You will have great love …?” As he says this, Henryk looks meaningfully at Paul, who has come up behind me. I shiver. “And that love,” Henryk prompts, but Marie stops, placing her hand on Henryk’s arm to silence him. A troubled look crosses her face. She runs her hand over my palm twice, as if wiping something away. Then she drops my hand as if it is hot and looks up, shaking her head.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Henryk replies quickly, but I can tell from his tone and his wife’s expression that there is more. “I should get back to the other guests.”
“Of course,” Paul replies, shaking Henryk’s hand as Marie turns back to the piano. We make our way to the front of the restaurant and onto the street. It is getting dark now and the gaslights have come on, casting a yellow glow on the pavement. “They’re lovely people, but palm reading is a silly game.”
“Perhaps,” I reply slowly, still troubled by Marie’s refusal to say all that she had seen.
“Are you tired?” Paul asks. I shake my head quickly, not wanting my night with Paul to end. “Good. Why don’t we walk?” He leads me away from the restaurant along a winding street. The buildings here are narrow, seeming to lean on one another. Voices and laughter spill out from the cafés and bars onto the street. Paul points at the window of an apartment on the third floor of one of the buildings, illuminated in yellow light. A young woman sits on a bed reading to three small children clustered around her. “Can you imagine growing up here?”
I do not answer. In my mind, I imagine this street during the occupation. What had those children been through? I think then of the children in the ghetto orphanage where my mother and Emma had worked. What had become of them? I wonder, my stomach aching at the memory.
We walk in comfortable silence. Soon the street ends at the river. “Look.” Paul points to an island where an enormous cathedral sits, its turrets and buttresses bathed in light. “Notre Dame.” I stop, staring up at the massive structure. The church that seemed so massive when I sought shelter the previous night is dwarfed by comparison. “You know, they call Paris the City of Lights,” Paul offers.
I continue to gaze at Notre Dame as Paul leads me left along a path that runs parallel to the Seine. Soon we reach a wide stone bridge that crosses the river. “Careful,” he says, taking me by the arm to guide me onto the pedestrian sidewalk, away from the cars that race on and off of the bridge. A jolt of electricity runs through me. Would I ever be able not to shiver at his touch? “This is the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris.” He whistles softly under his breath as we make our way across the bridge. When we reach the midpoint, he stops, pointing at the skyline in the opposite direction from Notre Dame. “Look.”
In the distance, I can see the Eiffel Tower, climbing toward the sky. I lean against the wall of the bridge, staring. “This city … I mean, I couldn’t have imagined …”
“It kind of defies words,” Paul agrees, moving so that he is standing close behind me. “Hard to believe just a few months ago it was still occupied by the Germans.” He puts his arms around me from behind and I can feel his warmth, his heart beating against my back. Other than our brief embrace in the bar, we have not been this close since Salzburg. My desire swells and breaks wide open.
Suddenly, there is shouting on the street behind us, followed by a series of small explosions. We turn toward the commotion. “What on earth …?” Paul steps forward, putting me behind him protectively. His hand drops to the gun holstered at his waist. There is more shouting, followed by someone singing. On the bridge, traffic has stopped. Car horns begin to blare.
“Sounds like a celebration of some sort,” I suggest.
Paul does not answer but takes my hand and leads me across the bridge to the street, where a small crowd has gathered, shouting and cheering. Some people are drinking directly from bottles, others dancing alone or in pairs. The gathering swells as dozens more revelers come running from all directions. Paul grabs an American soldier by the sleeve as he runs past us. “What’s going on?”
“The Japs have surrendered. The war is over!” The soldier lets out a whoop, then continues running to join the crowd.
Paul turns to me and we stare at each other, too stunned to speak. “The war is over,” he repeats at last. He bends down and picks me up. “The war is over!” He spins me around, faster and faster, until the city is just a blur of lights. Then he sets me down, his arms still around me. We look at each other breathlessly for several seconds. Suddenly he brings his lips to mine, and without hesitation I am kissing him back, my mouth open, body pressed tight to his. It is as if we will never stop, as if the street and the people and the world around us no longer exist.
There are more explosions, breaking us apart. “I’m sorry,” Paul says quickly.
“Don’t be. I’m not.” I take a step back, smoothing my skirt. “Look.” I point across the water. Bright flashes of light, red and blue, fill the night sky.
“Fireworks,” Paul remarks. I nod, staring in wonder at the waves of color that fill the sky like confetti. I have heard of fireworks but never seen them before. “You would think after all of the bombings, everyone would have had enough of things exploding,” he says a minute later. “Let’s get out of here.” For a second I hope we will return to the bridge and gaze at the skyline once more. But he leads me through the streets back, I can tell, toward the Servicemen’s Hotel. The war is over, I think, as we walk in silence. I was thirteen years old when the war began and I spent the past six years running for my life.
“What are you thinking?” Paul asks.
“Lots of things. Mostly about what I lost during the war.”
He smiles. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like me.”
Recalling how I had chastised him for self-pity the night on the lake, I laugh. “I suppose I am. I really was preachy, wasn’t I?”
“Not at all. You were right about being grateful to be alive, earning the chance we’ve been given. And now, with the war ending, getting to go home. It really is a second chance, isn’t it?”
Home. Paul will be leaving, returning to America for good. He stops walking and turns to me suddenly, his expression troubled. “The only bad thing is leaving you.” My heart pounds against my chest. “I mean, I realize we haven’t known each other very long, but … I’m going to miss you, Marta.”
So don’t go, I want to scream. “I’ll miss you, too.”
We stand staring at each other for several seconds, neither speaking. “Well, it’s getting late,” he says at last. “We should get back and pick up your papers.” We continue walking and, a few minutes later, approach the Servicemen’s Hotel.
Through the closed hotel door, I hear shouting and singing, soldiers celebrating the end of the war. “Why don’t you wait here?” Paul suggests. “Once I get your papers from Mickey, I can escort you back to your hotel.”
My hotel, I think, panicking. In my excitement at seeing Paul, I had nearly forgotten that I was supposed to get to the Red Cross shelter. “That won’t be necessary …” I begin, but Paul is already through the hotel door.
A minute later, he reappears. “All set,” he says. There is a new number scrawled across the front of the train ticket. “Front desk called the station and reserved you a seat on the seven-fifteen train to Calais. It’s a bit early, I’m afraid, but the only way you’ll make the ferry.”
“Thank you again.” I tuck them into my bag as he leads me down the path to the curb, hailing a taxi.
“Paul, my hotel is clear across town,” I say as the taxi pulls up. “There’s no need for you to ride all the way there.”
He opens the rear door. “But the city is crazy right now with all of the celebrating. I’m glad to escort you.”
“I know. But I’d rather you don’t. Please.” It begins to rain then, thick drops splattering on the pavement.
“I don’t understand …”
“If I don’t say goodbye to you now …” I hesitate, looking down the street, then back at Paul again. I take a deep breath. “If I don’t say goodbye to you now, it is going to break my heart.” I reach up and kiss him, quick and hard. Then, before he can respond, I leap into the back of the taxi and close the door. “Drive, please,” I manage to say in French.
“Where to?”
“Away,” I reply. Paul is still standing outside the cab. Desperately, I come up with the only place in Paris I remember. “To the Louvre.” I have no idea what a taxi costs, how far away the Louvre may be. I will stop the taxi and get out, I decide, as soon as I am away from here.
“But the Louvre is closed….”
“Just drive, please!” The cab lurches forward. Don’t look back, I think. As we start to move, tears well up, overrunning my eyes. Suddenly there is a banging on the roof of the cab, as though someone has dropped a large rock on it. I jump. “Mon dieu!” the driver exclaims, slamming on the breaks. There is another banging noise. It’s not coming from the roof, I realize, but the back window. I spin around. Perched on the trunk of the taxi on all fours, is Paul.
He jumps down, then comes around to the side of the taxi. I roll down the window. The rain falls heavily now, plastering Paul’s hair to his forehead, but he does not seem to notice. “What on earth are you doing?” I demand. “Jumping onto a moving car like that, you could have been killed!”
“I needed to stop you,” he replies simply, opening the taxi door.
“Why? What’s wrong? Did you forget to give me some of the papers?”
He does not answer, but falls to the ground. “Oh!” I reach down. “Are you hurt?”
Paul does not answer but looks up, still kneeling. He hasn’t fallen, but has dropped down on one knee deliberately, as though tying his shoelace. He reaches up and takes my hand. “Marry me, Marta.”
CHAPTER 9
I stare down at him, stunned. “Marta, when I had to leave you in Salzburg, I felt so helpless. I mean, I knew I liked you a lot, but we had practically just met. I thought I would never see you again and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.” His words come out in a tumble, almost too quick for me to follow. “And now, well …” He falters. “I know it’s crazy. We haven’t spent more than a day together. You barely know me. But there’s some reason we seem to keep finding each other. I’m crazy about you. I feel like we’ve known each other forever. And I’m not going to let you go this time. Not when I can do something about it. Marry me, Marta,” he repeats.
Is this really happening? I close my eyes, then open them again. Paul is still on one knee, gazing up at me expectantly. My mind races. Why is he doing this? For a second I wonder if he is still grieving over the loss of his fiancée, trying to fill a void. But looking down at his face, the intensity burning bright in his eyes, I know that his feelings for me are real. This is crazy. Paul is right, though. There is something special between us, something that makes it seem as though we have known each other forever. Suddenly I remember my first night at the palace, staring out at the mountains and wondering what life had in store for me. Now, at least in part, I know the answer. “Yes,” I whisper. My eyes start to burn.
“Yes!” Paul shouts. He leaps to his feet, then reaches into the cab and picks me up. We hold each other close, neither speaking. An earthy smell rises from the wet pavement.
“Pardon,” a voice says a few seconds later. Paul and I break apart. Behind us stands the taxi driver, arms crossed. “Louvre, Mademoiselle?”
“The Louvre?” Paul looks from me to the driver, then back again, brow furrowed. Suddenly I want to melt into the pavement and disappear. “Were you that desperate to get away from me?”
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