Heart of Lies (8 page)

“Martha, this will be my last term at the university.”

“Well, I know that. Have you decided where to go for your graduate degree? Is it to be Berlin after all?”

“Yes. I mean, no. That is, I have decided, and it’s not Berlin.”

“No? Where then?”

He looked into her eyes with ominous intensity. “Martha, I am going to America.”

Martha’s eyebrows shot up into two perfect arches. She wanted to say something congratulatory: all that came out was an echoing question.

“Going to America?”

“Yes, America.” Harry’s words poured out ever faster as he found the courage to say what he wanted to tell her.

“I’ve been accepted by the graduate program of mechanical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Well, it’s not Harvard, but it’s better than Harvard if you’re an engineer. And Boston is a city alive with music. I’m going to the United States of America. I’ll be there at least four years for my doctorate, and then, perhaps, I can stay. For if one is building the cities of the future, isn’t America the country with the brightest future? The place where there is space and democracy and opportunity? Isn’t that where I need to be? Isn’t that where
we
should be?”

The import of his last question escaped Martha as she tried to contemplate the image of Harry busily building skyscrapers in New
York. “When will you leave?” she asked, hoping it would not be too soon.

Harry looked stunned by her question. “When will
I
leave? Martha, I want you to come with me. As my wife. I want to marry you. My beautiful friend, please, will you marry me? Marry me and come to America?”

Now the surprise on Martha’s face turned to alarm. Could he be serious? Of course he was. She should have realized that this moment would come. And she knew that she loved Harry as a dear friend, but that to him, she meant more. Much more. Her heart ached for him. She did not know how to make her answer any easier for him to hear.

“Harry, I—”

“Don’t.” He raised a finger to her lips. Her face told him everything.
She needs more time
, thought Harry, wildly. It was a jolt, after all. Not just a proposal, but a request for her to leave her home, her country, her family. He mentally kicked himself. It was too much to expect, a positive answer to all that at once. He must give her time.

“Martha, please don’t say no. Not yet. I know that this is all very sudden; my scholarship, and wanting to go to America. But surely my love comes as no surprise to you. Would you at least tell me that you will think about it? Please?”

Martha knew what her response ought to be.
No. My answer is no. I don’t love you the way you love me. I love someone else.
But how could she hurt Harry that way? Ashamed of her cowardice, she hedged her answer as best she could.

“I don’t know what to say. I haven’t really thought about marriage yet.”
Except to Leo.

To her relief the answer seemed to help. “Fine,” he said. “Wonder
ful. Now you can start to think about it. Take all the time you need.” Martha could see the bright tears of relief in his eyes.

Later that night Martha lay in her bed, unable to sleep. She stared at the ceiling, and thought about Harry’s proposal.

She knew her father would approve. He was so pleased that Martha was keeping company with such a stable, trustworthy fellow. Did everyone expect them to wed?

She rolled over, inadvertently twisted her legs up in her sheets, and then kicked violently in an effort to untangle herself. The source of her irritation was not the offending bed linen. She was angry at herself. Angry at herself for holding onto a fantasy, and angry at herself for being tempted to let go of it.

Harry would leave at the end of May, he said, right after his graduation. Seven weeks. In seven weeks she could be a married woman, on her way to live in a prosperous country with an adoring husband; a husband who would undoubtedly be respected and successful; a husband who would never get in trouble with the police, never hide things from her. A husband who would never make her heart sing. A husband who could never make her forget Leo.

Martha put her pillow over her head and let out a muffled cry of frustration. Why hadn’t he gotten in touch with her? Where was he? How long could she go on waiting and hoping, unable to make any decisions about her life? She’d already spent four months being tortured by her memories and her desire.

She rolled over on her back again, pulled her pillow out from under her head, and hugged it to her chest. How long could she make Harry wait? Could she be honest, and tell him that if she married him, she would enter their marriage in friendship, hoping that love would grow?
Would he have her on those terms? Could she live by them? Could she make love to Harry?

Burning tears crept out of the corners of her eyes. She could feel Leo wrapped around her, pushed deep inside her, his fingers lost in her hair, his warm face buried in her neck. Was that one night all she was to know of intimacy and passion? Was he safe? Didn’t he know how much she needed him?

But the night held no answers. And once again, as on so many nights since Christmas, Martha cried herself to sleep.

Two weeks before Harry was to leave, he asked Martha to join him on a walk through the English Garden, the public park in the center of Munich that often served as the scene for romantic rendezvous. He stopped when they reached a peaceful spot in the center of the park, on the edge of the tranquil lake, where an ancient willow tree’s arching limbs provided a touch of shade from the glare of the late afternoon sun, and a bit of shelter from curious eyes.

“Martha,” he began, as they both settled down in the long grass. “I know that if you’d made up your mind about marrying me, you would have told me yes or no before now. And I know that I’ve continued to say that you should take more time, as much time as you need, to keep the answer from being no.”

She started to say something, but he cut her off, not willing to let her speak until he had finished.

“Please listen to me. I think it would be best if I were to go to Boston by myself. Then, after a few months, you can come visit me, and see how you like it, and see how you like being with me, in another place. Then, you can decide.” He gave her a wry smile. “Who knows? You might even miss me a little.”

“Oh, Harry.” Martha threw her arms around his neck and started to cry. She cried because she
would
miss him. She cried because she felt lucky to be loved by someone so kind and patient. She cried because she was so wretchedly guilty that she could not return his love. She cried because she was in love with the wrong man.

“What’s this, what’s this, my sweet darling?” Harry murmured. His own heart was gloriously light. She
would
miss him. There
was
still a chance.

“Please, Martha, don’t cry.” He stroked her back until he felt her sobs subside, and then pulled away from her slightly. “Look, I have a present for you. Will that cheer you up?”

With a loud sniff she accepted his offer of a handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “You shouldn’t be giving me a present,” she protested. “You’re the one graduating. I should be giving you a present.”

“If you will accept this gift, and agree to think a little while longer about my proposal, that would be a perfect graduation present.” He pulled a long, slim case from the pocket of his jacket.

“I wanted to get you an engagement ring, but I didn’t want you to feel pressured to accept it. So I had this made for you, instead, my beautiful songbird, to remember me by when I’m living across the ocean, always thinking of you.” As he finished his sentence, he opened the box.

Martha gasped. Inside was a golden medallion on a long chain. Carved into the surface of the gold was the image of a nightingale, sitting in a rose bush, wings spread and breast held high as it exploded into song.

“I can’t possibly accept this. It’s much too valuable. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You must accept it. It was made for you, Martha, for you are the
most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. Whatever happens between us, whatever the future holds for us, this is yours, because you’ve made this past year the happiest time of my whole life.”

Martha let Harry put the chain around her neck, and then let him kiss her; not the usual, light wisp of a kiss that signaled the end of an evening, but an ardent, if somewhat clumsy, embrace.

“You could do worse than Harry,” her father told her.

“You could do worse than Harry,” her sister told her.

You could do worse than Harry
, Martha whispered to herself as she stared at the ceiling, faced with yet another restless night.

But her heart would not listen.
Six months. You promised me you would give him six months.
She would try to ignore her heart. She would try to be practical. She would try to stop hoping. And, maybe, she would go to America.

“Martha, I have a letter for you,” Professor Levy called out to his daughter.

Martha looked up from the mass of flowers she was arranging. It was now mid-July, and the summer blossoms were at their peak. She tried to keep a fresh arrangement on the dining room table. Fresh flowers always lifted her spirits.

“Really Papa? Again? From Harry?” During the two months that Harry had been gone, she’d received ten letters, two mailed before he even left Germany.

“I do not believe so,” came the somber response as her father entered the room. “I went by my office this afternoon to catch up on a few things, and, of course, to pick up any correspondence. There was one letter in my box that seemed a little strange. No first name, just ‘Herr
Professor Levy,’ care of the university in Munich. It must have taken a long time to find me. But when I opened the letter, it contained another sealed envelope, with your name on it.”

“For me?” Martha said weakly. Her hands began to tremble. She buried them in the flowers.

“I did not open this letter out of respect for your privacy, but I find this a very curious situation. Who do you know in Shanghai?”

“Where?” She could barely get the word out.

“Shanghai. In China. The postmark shows the outside envelope was mailed from Shanghai.”

“I…I don’t know,” she faltered, then leapt forward with the first outright lie she’d ever told her father.

“It must be that girl I met in Paris. She was going to Shanghai to do missionary work. I’d forgotten I’d given her my address. I thought it would be fun to get a letter from China, to hear about her adventures as a missionary. I guess she lost my address, but remembered you were with the university here.” She busied herself with the flowers, pulling one after another out of the vase and then putting it back in a new position, endeavoring to convey the impression that she was concentrating on achieving perfection with her artistic composition.

Professor Levy gave her a puzzled look. “You never mentioned that you met a girl in Paris.”

“Yes. Just another student. An American girl. We met in front of a church, and had coffee together.” She was amazed at how smoothly the lie grew once it had emerged.

For a moment Professor Levy said nothing. Then he drew the letter out of his pocket. Wordlessly, he offered it to Martha from across the table.

Martha could not take it from him. She was sure that if she stopped her compulsive motion with the flowers he would notice that her hands were shaking. She tried to feign disinterest.

“Could you please just leave it there on the table for me? I haven’t time to read it now.”

“Very well.” Professor Levy tossed the letter on the table and turned to leave the room. He paused at the doorway and peered over his shoulder at Martha, still busy with her flowers. “I will be in my study if you need me for anything.”

Martha smiled at him. The setting sun shimmered through the window, bathing Martha and her flowers in a golden halo. It was a beautiful sight.

He had no way of knowing that he would never see her again. Martha kept her hands clenched around the stems of the flowers until she heard the door of her father’s office close. Her hands were bleeding from where she’d grabbed the thorns on the roses. She did not notice. She lunged for the envelope. There it was: her name neatly printed in block letters. Underneath, in smaller script, she saw the word, “personal.”

Holding the envelope to her face as he scrambled to her room, she tried to detect some trace of Leo’s presence from the paper that had traveled across the world. She locked the door, sat down on her bed, tore open the envelope, and began to read:

Martha thought she would stop breathing. She thought her heart would stop beating. What could she say to her father? How could she explain this to Harry? How could she leave her home and her country to go to a terrifyingly foreign place like Shanghai?