The Diplomat's Wife Part 10

I stand in front of the timetable at Kings Cross Station, looking out across the platforms. Bright sunlight s.h.i.+nes through the slats in the roof, reflecting off the top of the trains. I clutch my purse nervously, waiting. I am early again, of course. But this time I let Charles drive me, gratefully accepting his offer to wait outside with the car until Paul arrives. It had been a mistake, the telegram that arrived this morning had said. Paul had missed his flight, the one that had crashed. He will be arriving today.

A train appears at the top of track three. I start forward, excitement surging through me. Then I stop. Something is wrong. The train does not slow as it enters the station, but barrels forward at full speed toward the end of the platform. It is going to crash. I turn and start running away from the train. A second later, there is a ma.s.sive explosion behind me, followed by an enormous gust of hot air that slams me forward into the ground. When I lift my head and look over my shoulder, the train has disappeared, engulfed by a ball of fire. "No!" I cry aloud.

My eyes fly open. Where am I? The familiarity of Delia's house rushes back as I recognize the pale-blue walls. I sit up, trying to catch my breath. At the foot of the bed, early-morning light dances in patterns on the duvet. Voices of children on their way to school ring out as they call to one another from the pavement below. My own unwashed smell mingles with that of fried eggs, left on the nightstand while I was asleep.

Paul is dead. It has been more than a week since I read the news of the plane crash, saw him staring up at me from the photograph. I do not remember dropping the newspaper or fainting, only waking up some time later in bed, not knowing how I had made it there. Delia was seated beside me. "h.e.l.lo, darling." She leaned over and put her arms around me.

"He's gone." My voice was heavy with disbelief.

"I know. I'm so sorry."

First Rose, now Paul. The war was over. This wasn't supposed to be happening, not now. Guilt crashed down on me: It was my fault Paul was coming to London. If it had not been for me, he would still be alive. Deep down I knew that wasn't true-Paul's entire unit was on the flight. But the idea suited my grief, its painful jabs welcome through my numbness. Suddenly, I hated Delia, this house, all that was England. "I just want to be left alone," I blurted out. A hurt expression crossed her face. "I mean, I'm very tired."

"Of course." Delia stood up quickly. "Just ring the bell if you need anything." I turned away, closing my eyes once more.

After that day, I did not speak with anyone, or even get out of bed, except to go to the toilet. Mostly I slept, through the days and nights, trying to escape the pain. But it was no use-I dreamed fitfully of Paul, saw him die a thousand different ways, shot in the n.a.z.i prison as he tried to rescue me, drowned in the lake at Salzburg. Once I dreamed that I was back on the bridge in Krakow, the dead body beside me Paul's instead of the Kommandant's. I dreamed of the others who had died, too, my parents, Rose. Suddenly it seemed that I was to blame for all of their deaths, as well.

Each morning when I woke up, the reality would crash down upon me anew. Paul is dead. The pain was searing, fresh, as though I was hearing the news for the first time. I lay in the semidarkness for hours, seeing Paul's face. I replayed happy memories: Salzburg, Paris, even our first meeting in prison, ran through my head like a movie over and over again, until I drifted to sleep once more. The days pa.s.sed like this, one after another. Delia, respecting my wishes, did not visit me again, at least not while I was awake. I knew, though, that she was keeping an eye on me through Charles, who brought me food of every variety, hearty stews that went uneaten, fruit that turned brown, ice cream that melted in the bowl. He knocked softly each time, bringing in the tray and setting it on the nightstand, then coming back for it a few hours later, without trying to engage me in conversation.

Charles must have come while I was asleep this time, as the aroma of fresh bacon wafts over me. My stomach grumbles. For the first time in days, I am hungry. I sit up in bed and uncover the tray, then pick up a piece of toast. As I take a bite, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair is pressed flat against my head. My skin is pasty, with dark circles ringing my eyes. Unwashed and secluded, not eating. It is as if I've put myself back in prison, I think, ashamed. As if everything that has happened since my liberation was for nothing.

I finish the toast, take a few bites of bacon and eggs. Then I stand and walk to the toilet to wash. As I undress, Paul's dog tags fall cool against my chest. I look down at them sadly. Every step forward I take is a step farther from Paul and the time we had together. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the urge to crawl back into bed. But that is not what he would have wanted, I think, remembering how I had scolded him for self-pity. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I finish was.h.i.+ng and make my way back to the bedroom. Inside the armoire, my clothes hang freshly pressed. Delia must have had them cleaned. I have been such an ungracious guest. Quickly, I change into one of the dresses she gave me, green with a light floral pattern.

Downstairs, the kitchen is deserted, the breakfast dishes put away. I scribble a note on the tablet that hangs by the telephone, telling Delia that I've gone out. Then I walk to the front door and step out onto the porch. It is a brisk September morning, the air pleasantly cool. Across the street, the leaves on the trees in the square are still green, but there is a crispness to their rustling that was not there a few weeks earlier. I close the front gate behind me, cutting across the square. As I wind my way through the quiet residential streets, the houses grow even larger and more impressive than Delia's, their porches s.h.i.+elded from view by high hedges.

Soon I reach the wide thoroughfare of Kensington Road, several lanes of cars and buses speeding by in both directions. On the far side of the street sits the wide green swath of gra.s.s and trees that signals the edge of Hyde Park. I remember walking the paths with Delia, planning to take Paul for a stroll there after his arrival. My view is suddenly obscured by a red double-decker trolleybus that screeches to a stop in front of me. "Getting on, miss?" the driver asks. I look up, realizing for the first time that I am standing in front of a bus stop. I hesitate. I have only taken the bus a few times with Delia, never alone. But I suddenly need to keep going, to get as far away from here as possible. "Yes, thank you." I board the bus, pulling a three pence coin from my pocket to pay the driver. As the bus lurches forward, I grab the nearest pole to keep from flying toward the rear.

When the bus stops at the next traffic light, I make my way up the stairs, clinging to the rail for support. The top deck is deserted, except for a lone man toward the rear, reading the Times. I remember suddenly the newspaper headline announcing Paul's death, his grainy image staring back at me. Forcing the vision from my mind, I drop to a seat by the front of the bus.

I look out the window as the bus reaches the end of Hyde Park and turns left, then quickly right again. The trees disappear and the street grows crowded with tall buildings and signs. Piccadilly, I recognize from my excursions with Delia. We pa.s.s Simpsons, the grand department store where she insisted on taking me shopping for new shoes, then the Ritz Hotel. Traffic is slow here, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians making their way between the shops. The bus stops every few minutes. I can hear the voices of the pa.s.sengers as they board below. But these are commuters, oblivious to the view and they do not come upstairs. Soon we reach Piccadilly Circus. The buildings here are covered with enormous signs advertising products of every kind: Wrigley's Gum, Brylcreem, Gordon's Gin. Guinness Is Good for You. Gives You Strength, touts one. The bus grinds to a halt again. Ahead, the traffic does not move at all. All of a sudden I am eager to walk. I make my way down the stairs and step off the bus.

At the corner, I pause, uncertain which way to go. The crowd surges around me and, following, I let myself be carried with the stream. No one here knows or cares what I have been through. For a few minutes, I can pretend that I am just like everyone else. I imagine myself a young British woman on my way to work, perhaps in one of the shops. The sun is higher and the air has returned to its summer-like closeness. My skin grows moist under my dress as I walk.

The crowd loosens suddenly as the narrow street ends at an enormous square. In the center stands a tall obelisk. Trafalgar Square. My eyes travel from the height of the column to the four lion statues at its base, the adjacent fountains. I was here once with Delia on our way to a show in the West End. Then, as now, it seemed large and intimidating, worlds away from the quiet streets of South Kensington. I had not imagined coming this far on my own. A surge of confidence rises in me as I make my way through the swarms of pigeons and pedestrians to the far side of the square.

I turn right onto Whitehall. The wide thoroughfare is lined on both sides with government buildings, large and inst.i.tutional. I soon reach an intersection. To the left sits the hulking yellow Westminster Palace, Big Ben jutting upward from its foreground. Looking up at the enormous Parliament building, I imagine the politicians inside, making decisions that affect the rest of the world. Suddenly, remembering how the West stood by while the n.a.z.is marched across Europe, I am filled with anger. Why couldn't they have done something sooner?

Big Ben begins to chime. Eleven o'clock. Nearly two hours have pa.s.sed since I left Delia's house. Ahead sits Westminster Abbey, its spires climbing high above the trees. I cross the wide street toward the gra.s.sy park area in front of the church. An ice-cream vendor sits at the corner. I hesitate. I should not spend the money, but I can practically taste the chocolate. I buy a small cone, licking it even as I make my way to the nearest empty bench.

Savoring the rich chocolate, I watch two squirrels playing in the gra.s.s. Then I look back across the road toward Whitehall at the pedestrians, men in suits, a few women. They walk with purpose, going to their jobs and other places in their lives. Sitting on the park bench with my ice cream, I suddenly feel very helpless and silly. What am I going to do with my life now? It is a question I have never had to answer. Growing up in our village, my future had been presumed: marriage, to someone of a similar, lower-cla.s.s, Jewish background, perhaps slightly better off if I was lucky. Then children, as many as could be had. That had all changed when the n.a.z.is had come. Even after the war, my plans had not been wholly my own; I agreed to come to London at Dava's insistence, then later accepted Paul's proposal to marry him and move to America.

Now, for the first time, there is no one telling me what to do or offering me a plan. I have been at Delia's house for nearly a month, first waiting for Paul and then mourning him. I cannot impose on her hospitality forever. But where can I go? There is nothing for me in Poland, or in Salzburg anymore. I could apply for a visa to Palestine. Or to America. I imagine meeting Paul's family, paying my respects. But I have no money for the trip, no means of survival once I am there. And Paul's family would hardly welcome a strange immigrant girl, even if she was wearing their dead son's dog tags. We were engaged so quickly I doubt he even had time to let them know about me. To those who loved and will remember him, I never existed. My eyes burn with tears.

Enough. I cannot think about that, not now. Staying in England, where I have a roof over my head, makes the most sense. But I need to get a job, earn some money of my own so I can offer to pay for room and board. It will not be easy. I know from the papers and my conversations with Delia that with the soldiers returning and the economy still struggling to recover, it is hard for women to find work at all right now, much less a girl with a heavy accent and no experience. But Delia knows people, can make inquiries for me. A job in a shop. Boarding with Delia. My head swims. It is not the life I had expected. But it is a life.

Across the park, I spy a group of American soldiers taking pictures of Westminster Abbey. For a second my heart leaps. What if one of them was Paul, if we were magically reunited as we had been in Paris that day? But of course that is impossible. I look down at the ice-cream cone, suddenly disgusted by its gooey sweetness. I walk to the nearest bin to throw it away.

"You know, that's very wasteful," a male voice says from behind me. I freeze, wondering for a second if my fantasy has come true, if Paul really is there. But the accent is British.

Unexpectedly I am angry. It is my ice-cream cone. How dare some stranger tell me what to do? "That's none of your..." I turn to confront the stranger. Simon, the diplomat from the s.h.i.+p, stands behind me. "Oh!"

"Simon Gold," he says. He steps forward and, before I can react, takes my free hand and kisses it. "We met on the boat."

"Of course," I reply, caught off guard. I remember our conversation over tea, my telling him of my engagement to Paul. It seems like a million years ago.

"My office is just around the corner." He gestures vaguely toward Whitehall. "I was just out for my daily const.i.tutional." I c.o.c.k my head, unfamiliar with the term. "It means walk," he explains.

"Oh." I feel something cold and sticky running down my hand. The ice cream has begun to melt.

"And I was only trying to say that Mitch.e.l.l's homemade ice cream is too good to be wasted." I nod, too surprised to respond. "But it looks like that cone's had it." He reaches out and takes the melting cone from my hand. Holding it at arm's length so as not to drip on his light-gray suit, he tosses it in the trash bin. "Wait here." I watch as Simon walks quickly over to the vendor where I purchased the ice-cream cone. I am glad to see him, I realize with surprise. A familiar face. A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups. "Here," he says, handing me a napkin. I wipe my hands. "I thought maybe the ice cream had been too cold, so I took the liberty of getting us some tea."

"Thank you." I take one of the cups from him.

"Let's sit for a minute." I follow him to the bench where I had been sitting minutes ago, balancing the tea carefully so as not to spill. "I must say, I'm surprised to find you still here. I thought you'd be long on your way to America by now with your fiance."

I take a deep breath. "He was killed." It is the first time I have said this aloud since the morning I learned of the crash.

Simon's mouth opens slightly. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

"The plane crash in the Channel." I dig my fingernails into the bench, willing myself not to cry.

He presses his lips together. "I read about that in the papers. Dreadful. All those brave soldiers lost. Again, I'm terribly sorry."

"Thank you." I look away. We drink our tea in silence. Across the gra.s.s, a group of children kick a football. Their shrieks of laughter ring out.

"So what are you going to do now?" he asks a few minutes later.

I take another sip of tea. "I'm still trying to figure that out. Stay in London, most likely. I don't have any family back in Poland, or anywhere else. At least here, I have a place to stay with my friend Rose's aunt. But I need to find a job."

"You know, I'm still looking for an a.s.sistant."

I remember then Simon offering me a job when we were on the s.h.i.+p. "Oh, my goodness, I certainly wasn't hinting."

"I know. But I told you on the boat that I would like for you to come work for me. My offer still stands."

"Really?" He nods. I stare at him, surprised. I thought the offer was just talk, idle conversation. It had not occurred to me that he might have been serious. "But I haven't any skills or office training."

"All of that can be learned. You speak Polish, which is a huge a.s.set in my work. And you can make out the other Slavic languages, too, I take it?"

"Yes. Czech and such. And a bit of Russian."

He waves his hand. "We have loads of Russian translators. I'm really more interested in your Polish. We have translators for that, too, of course, but it's so time-consuming to rely upon them for day-today matters. Having an a.s.sistant who can understand it directly would save a great deal of time."

"I can understand German, too," I add.

"And your English has improved a great deal. So what do you say?"

I hesitate. I had almost forgotten Simon's offer on the s.h.i.+p and I wasn't been prepared to consider it now. "I don't know."

"Look, Marta..." Simon leans in and lowers his voice. "The truth is you would be doing me an enormous favor. When we spoke on the s.h.i.+p I told you about the work we are doing to fight communism in Eastern Europe. I really can't say any more until you've been hired and received a security clearance. But I can tell you that the situation has become much more serious in recent weeks." His eyes burn with the same intensity I saw on the s.h.i.+p. "We desperately need good people, people like you, to help us. So you wouldn't just be earning a living, you'd be helping Britain and your homeland. How can you pa.s.s up an offer like that?"

I bite my lip. "Can I think about it?"

A surprised look crosses Simon's face, as if he is unaccustomed to people not immediately acquiescing to his requests. "Certainly." He starts to hand me a business card.

"I have one already," I say. "From the s.h.i.+p, remember?"

He puts the card back in his pocket. "Of course. I just didn't want to presume that you had kept it. Call me either way and let me know what you decide. And don't wait too long," he adds. "I really need to fill this position."

Then why hadn't he filled it? I wonder, in the weeks since we last spoke. There had to be plenty of Polish immigrants in London looking for work. I stand, brus.h.i.+ng off my skirt. "I really should be going."

Simon rises and takes my hand. "It was good to see you again."

I take a step backward before he can kiss my hand. "Good day."

I walk quickly from the park, eager to get away. I am fl.u.s.tered by seeing Simon so unexpectedly and by his job offer. Walking up Whitehall past the imposing gray government buildings, I am flooded with doubt. Me, come to work each day, here? The idea of getting a job in London was frightening enough. I had imagined something simple, working in a store close to Delia's house. A few weeks ago I did not even know if I could get into Britain. The notion of coming into central London and working at the Foreign Office every day seems incomprehensible. My English is not good enough. I do not have any office skills. Simon said that these things don't matter. But in truth, my hesitation is more than that. It just feels too soon. I'm not ready to wake up from my memories of Paul, from my grieving.

Retracing my steps through Trafalgar Square, I make my way back to Piccadilly Circus and board a bus that is going toward South Kensington. I pay the driver, then sink into a seat, not bothering to climb to the upper deck. As the bus lurches forward, I think about Simon's offer once more. A chance to help, he said. I think guiltily of Emma, left behind in Eastern Europe. What was her life like now? Working with Simon, I might be able to make a difference. A s.h.i.+ver runs through me and I remember like a faint dream the feeling I used to have when working for the resistance of fighting for something that mattered. Maybe losing myself in the challenge is just what I need. And it will surely pay more than a job in the shops. I will ask Delia's opinion when I get back to the house, I decide.

I stare out the window at the shops as we make our way down Piccadilly. A few minutes later, as we reach the edge of Hyde Park, exhaustion washes over me. It must be from all of the walking after lying in bed for so many days, I think, my shoulders slumping. The driver slams hard on the breaks, bringing the bus to an abrupt halt. I raise my hand as I am thrown forward to keep from slamming into the seat in front of me. "Sorry folks," the driver calls. "A dog ran across the road." As I straighten, a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me. I leap from my seat and race to the front of the bus. "I need to get off," I say weakly to the driver.

"But ma'am, we're in the middle of traffic. I'm not allowed to let you off where there's no stop."

I bring my hand to my mouth. "Please, I feel very ill."

The driver shakes his head and I run down the steps and dash hurriedly through the traffic. Horns blare. I cross the sidewalk and reach the bushes on the far side just in time to duck my head behind them. Retching violently, I bring up the ice cream and the tea, then the breakfast I'd eaten that morning. A minute later, when my stomach calms, I look up. The gra.s.s and benches nearby are dotted with people eating lunch and talking or reading. None seem to have noticed me being sick. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, then make my way to a nearby bench. A cool sweat breaks out on my forehead. What is wrong with me? I cannot afford to get sick, not now. Perhaps it's food poisoning. But I was nauseous the morning after Paul did not arrive, too, and that was a week ago. Paul. Suddenly I see his face above me in the Paris hotel room, silhouetted in the moonlight. It has been nearly a month since our night together. An uneasy feeling rises in me.

Impossible, I think. I cannot be pregnant, not from that one night. But the idea nags at me. I remember my last period in Salzburg, count the days. It was due some time ago, I realize now for the first time. In my preoccupation with Paul's death, I had not thought to notice. Dread slices through me. My cycle must be off, I think desperately, from the stress of all that has happened. It will come any day now. But my uneasiness persists as I stand up and make my way back to the road.

Thirty minutes later I walk through the front door of Delia's house. I find Delia in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough. It looks as though a bag of flour exploded-the countertops, stove and floor are covered in white. "h.e.l.lo, dear," she says, not looking up. "I'm just baking some scones."

I smile. Though Charles does most of the cooking, Delia likes to bake. Or try. More than once, I have seen Charles wait patiently while Delia puts her creations in the oven, then clean up the mess she has made. Later, he will dispose of many of the scones, telling her that they were so delicious he ate them.

The odor of food makes my stomach turn once more. "That smells good," I fib, dropping into a kitchen chair. "I'm sorry I was gone so long."

"I saw your note. I was glad to see you up and about. Where did you go?"

"Walking." I describe my route. "I would have been back earlier but I ran into someone whom I had met on the s.h.i.+p coming over." I tell her about Simon and his work for the Foreign Office. Then I pause. "He offered me a job."

Delia looks up, puzzled. "I don't understand."

"He works on East European affairs for the Foreign Office. He said he needs an a.s.sistant who speaks Polish. He made the same offer when we met on the s.h.i.+p." I swallow. "Then, of course, I thought I would be leaving for America after a few weeks. But now..."

"Does that mean you are thinking about staying in England permanently?"

I hesitate. "I am," I reply slowly. "I mean, where else would I go? There's no one, nothing back in Poland for me. And nothing in America anymore." I force down the lump that has formed in my throat. "Of course, I would find my own place to live. I don't expect you to put me up forever."

"But I love having you here!" Delia exclaims. "Can't you see that? It's just me and Charles in this big old house. Having a young person around has given it new life." I can tell from Delia's voice that she is sincere. I look up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time the places where the plaster had shaken loose from the bombing. They suffered here, too. Maybe not in the same way as we had back home, but no one escaped the war unscathed. Delia continues, "I understand, a young woman might want her own s.p.a.ce. But I really wish you would consider living with us."

I look around, amazed at how much Delia's house has come to feel like home. "I would love to stay."

Delia's face breaks into a wide smile. "Wonderful!"

"But not for free. As soon as I start working, I'll be able to pay room and board."

"That's not necessary," Delia says quickly.

"I know, but I want to. It would make me feel better."

"We can discuss that later," Delia relents. "So what did you tell him? Mr. Gold, I mean. Are you seriously thinking about taking the job?"

"I don't know. It's a big step. Originally, I was thinking of something closer by, like a job in one of the shops. But this would pay well, I think, and be interesting."

"And this Mr. Gold, is he married?"

"Oh, Delia," I say, not knowing the answer. I remember the way he looked at me as he kissed my hand. "I'm not thinking of that. It's too soon." In truth, I cannot imagine ever wanting to be with someone else. For a second, I consider sharing with Delia my fear that I might be pregnant. But I am too embarra.s.sed. It is probably nothing. "I think he just needs an a.s.sistant."

"Are you sure you're ready to go to work?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But he needs someone to start right away. It may be a good thing, to be busy, to find some purpose again. Sitting around and thinking about what could have been with Paul much longer is going to kill me."

"It sounds like you've decided," Delia says, and I know then that I have. She gestures to the phone that hangs on the kitchen wall. "Why don't you go ahead and call Mr. Gold and tell him you'll take that job?"

CHAPTER 13.

"The emba.s.sy in Budapest delivered an official communique protesting the handling of certain matters with respect to the repatriation of ethnic minorities..." Ian St. James, the white-haired deputy minister, reads from the notes prepared by his aide, papers held close to his spectacles. He has been speaking for more than an hour about the political situation in Hungary and I am still not sure what he is trying to say. His voice is monotone and nasal, its rhythm unchanging regardless of whether he is talking about war or the weather. I imagine him announcing the Allied invasion of Normandy in much the same manner.

I cross and uncross my legs, flexing my feet back and forth to relieve the cramping sensation I always get from sitting in the stiff wooden chairs for too long. I rub my eyes beneath my gla.s.ses, then replace them and scan the long conference room table that occupies much of the room. The men seated around it-middle-aged, dark-suited and pale to a one-are the heads of the European Directorate, or in the case of a few of the larger departments, their deputies. Some head up individual countries or groups. ("I'm Benelux," I heard one man say at a party, which Simon later explained meant that he was in charge of Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg.) Others work in topical areas, economic recovery or political-military. A few, including Simon, specialize in intelligence. They listen to the deputy minister (or the "D.M." as he is often called, though never to his face) with varying degrees of interest, some seeming to hang on to his every word, others shuffling through papers in front of them, reading surrept.i.tiously. One man I do not recognize is sleeping, his eyes shut and mouth slightly agape. The perimeter of the room is ringed with other women, secretaries like me in dark pencil skirts and long-sleeved blouses. If they are bored, they give no indication, but sit erect, heads down, scribbling diligently as the D.M. speaks.

I s.h.i.+ft my weight, straightening. My eyes travel down the row of men to Simon, who sits close to the head of the table. He wears a scowl, and for a moment I wonder if he noticed me fidgeting and is displeased. His gaze catches mine. A weary smile, echoing my own feelings of boredom and impatience, flickers across his face so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it. Then he looks up at the D.M., his expression impa.s.sive once more.

Simon. My eyes linger on his face. My husband. Though we have been married for more than two years, it is still sometimes hard to believe. Simon first asked me out a few days after I came to work for him at the Foreign Office. His overture was small and tentative: an invitation to drinks after work. "You should not feel obliged to accept," he said quickly. "Just because of our professional relations.h.i.+p."

At first, I declined. Just weeks after Paul's death, I had no interest in fun. But Simon persisted, asking me to join him for lunch the next day. I remember him standing over my desk, his watery-blue eyes hopeful. "Fine, thank you," I relented.

After I accepted his first invitation, he quickly grew more forward, inviting me to dinner or the theater several times per week. Once I accompanied him to a party thrown by a diplomat and his wife who had just returned from a tour in Bombay at their stylish Notting Hill home. I sampled spicy curry dishes that made my nose run, sipped an exotic c.o.c.ktail called a kir.