The Diplomat's Wife (24 page)

“Act as if you know me,” she whispers close to my ear in crisp, accented English. “I need to tell you this now, because once we are in the car you must assume that our conversation is being listened to, possibly recorded. I’ve been sent to get you. I know why you’ve come and I’m here to help you.” I am too surprised to respond. Renata pulls me away from the group. “Come, we have a long drive ahead of us.” I notice for the first time a black sedan like the one that had picked me up at home parked to one side of the plane. She leads me to it and opens the rear door. Inside, she leans forward and says something to the driver, then sits back and removes her hat, revealing a tight cap of dark hair. Her cheeks are pockmarked, scars from past acne, but her features are striking, her eyes a deep chocolate-brown. “How was your flight?” she asks in a loud voice as the car begins to move. I realize that she is making small talk for the benefit of whoever might be listening.

“Fine,” I reply.

She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and holds it out to me. I shake my head. “You’re lucky that the weather wasn’t worse,” she remarks, taking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with a sleek silver lighter. “We’ve had some early snow.” She cracks the window open so the smoke wafts away from me.

Neither of us speak further as the car turns from the airport out onto the main roadway. I peer out the window. In the distance I can just make out the pine-covered Bavarian mountains silhouetted against the pale gray sky. I shiver, drawing my coat closer. How could so much evil have come from such a beautiful place?

“Cold?” Renata asks. I shake my head. “We’ll be at the border in a few minutes. I brought your paperwork from the embassy. Do you have your passport?”

I nod, pulling it from my bag and handing it to her. Simon gave it to me last night with the papers. It was like the others I had seen at the Foreign Office—its cover is black instead of the usual deep red, and the word
diplomatic
is engraved across the front. But when I thumbed through it, I was surprised. Its issuance date was eight months earlier and its pages were worn and stamped. “We want you to appear as a seasoned cultural attaché,” Simon explained. “So as not to arouse suspicion.” Amazed, I studied the stamps from dozens of places I had never been, trying to memorize them in case I was asked.

The car climbs one hill for several minutes, then another, without seeming to ever descend again. Soon we reach the border checkpoint. Renata rolls down her window.
“Guten tag,”
she greets the lone border guard in German as she hands him our passports. He does not answer as he thumbs through them, then peers into the car. My breath catches. Will he question me? But he only nods, then stamps the passports and hands them back to Renata. It is like I am someone else, I muse, as the car begins to move once more. Suddenly, I think of Emma. After she escaped from the ghetto to Jacob’s aunt, she had to assume a whole new identity as Anna, a non-Jew. And to make matters worse, she had to go to Nazi headquarters every day to work for the Kommandant. At the time, I had been so disdainful: how could she become close to a man like him? It must have been so difficult for her, wondering if at any moment her secret might be discovered. I wonder if she is well, if she and Jacob were able to escape. Perhaps if I can find Marek, he will have news of them.

As we climb above the tree line, the snowcapped peaks break into full view. I feel a tug, remembering the first time I woke up in Salzburg and saw the mountains. We are north of Austria, I know. Salzburg and the palace are several hundred kilometers away. But I cannot help thinking of Dava. I tried to write to her once after Simon and I were married, enclosing money to repay what she lent me. But the envelope came back undeliverable. I read in the newspaper a few months later that many of the displaced persons camps closed, all of the residents relocated to new countries. I wonder where she is now.

“We still have several hours until we reach Prague,” Renata says sometime later. “Feel free to nap, if you’re tired.”

“I’m fine. I slept on the plane. And I’ve grown used to getting less sleep since my daughter was born.” I feel my insides grow warm as I think of Rachel.

“How old is she?”

“Eighteen months. Do you have children?”

Renata shakes her head. “I was pregnant once, but I lost the baby. During the war.”

“I’m so sorry. Maybe you can try again.”

She clears her throat. “Thank you, but I’m afraid it is impossible.”

Uncertain what to say, I look out the window once more. Soon we reach a small town. The houses remind me of those in my own village, set close to the roadside with long sloping roofs. As we near the center of town, the car slows to let a group of schoolboys cross the road. At the corner sits a house with bright blue curtains. A flash of recognition surges through me: we had curtains that very color in my childhood home in the village. I still remember my mother painstakingly dyeing the material and sewing them, my father shaking his head at the audacity of a color so bright. For a second, I imagine that the house is my parents’, and that if I walked up to the door and knocked, I might find my mother inside baking. Then the door opens and a heavyset woman, her gray hair in a thick bun, walks out carrying a broom. Noticing my stare, she eyes the sedan warily for several seconds, then turns her back and begins sweeping the porch. The car begins to move, passing a crudely dressed man atop a horse-drawn wagon, its carriage full of cut brush. Suddenly the village seems foreign and ancient, something out of a long-forgotten dream.

We pick up speed and the houses disappear, the narrow road giving way to a smoothly paved highway. “The roads are really well kept,” I remark.

Renata nods. “One of the few benefits of our neighbors.” I know that she is talking about the Soviets. “Czech industry is critical to their economy, so they keep the roads in top condition. The railways, too. Of course the West is doing the same in Germany. Marshall Plan and all that. If only the two would meet up somehow.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The West is building. The Soviets are building. But not together. Take the border, for example. The roads are a mess for that twenty-kilometer stretch on either side of the border because neither side wants to build anything that might help the other. Same with the trains. The Soviets build track at a different gauge width than the rest of the world. If you wanted to take a train east from Prague, you have to change trains at the border.”

“I see.” I wonder if she has forgotten her own admonition not to speak openly, or if what she is saying is such common knowledge she does not care who hears us.

Outside, the landscape begins to change, the forests and fields giving way to industrial warehouses and factories. Smokestacks belch black smoke into the sky. Behind the factories, the hills have been sheared of trees and grass. Strip mining, I realize sadly. Once pristine, the coal-rich land is being pillaged. The pollution from the factories must be awful. I lean my head back, suddenly tired. Then I close my eyes, allowing the motion of the car to lull me into a gentle half sleep.

“Look.” Renata touches my arm, jarring me awake. She points out the front window of the car. In the distance, I see the tops of buildings, interspersed with spires and church steeples. “We’re nearing Prague.” I blink several times. How long was I asleep? The road climbs to the top of a hill. Below, the panorama of the city spreads out like a postcard, an endless sea of red roofs. A wide, curving river divides the city into two halves. “Hradcany Castle,” Renata says, pointing to a massive, turreted structure that sits atop a hill on the far bank. It reminds me of Wawel Castle in Kraków, only larger. “And below it sits the Mala Strana, or Little Quarter. That’s where the embassy is located.” The car begins to descend the hill, into the narrow, winding streets. The buildings are painted blues and pinks and yellows, their brightness muted by a coating of soot. “And on this side, we have the Old City. You’ll be staying here, at the Excelsior. It is quite close to the Old Town Square.”

“Lovely,” I say, playing along with the charade. “I will have to be sure to see it.” In truth, I doubt I will have time to visit many of the sights. Speed, Simon told me the night before I left, is critical. I need to persuade Marek to introduce me to Marcelitis and get the cipher before the Soviets have any idea that I am here.

As we stop at a traffic light, I notice an ornate building with Hebrew writing on it. “A synagogue?”

Renata nods. “We are just on the edge of Josefov, which is the Jewish quarter. Or was,” she corrects herself. “Prague used to have an enormous Jewish community before the war. But of the survivors, only those who had nowhere to go came back. The others went to Israel or Western Europe or America.”

Like me. “You can hardly blame them for leaving.” I can hear the defensiveness in my own voice.

“Of course,” Renata replies quickly. “I only meant that it’s a shame for the city to have lost such a vibrant part of its population.” I study the synagogue. The structure seems to have survived the war intact, but it is in a state of complete disrepair, the stained-glass windows cracked, the front steps crumbling. In my mind I see the tiny synagogue in our village. Is there anyone left to pray in it now? “The synagogues survived mostly but they’re little more than shells,” Renata adds. She drops her voice. “The communists want to create a Jewish museum, but it’s really a Soviet propaganda piece.”

Behind the synagogue I can see a massive Jewish cemetery, crowded with tombstones that seem to be standing on top of one another. Thousands of Jews, I think. Hundreds of years of history. And these are the ones who were lucky enough to die before the war. I study the cracked headstones, tall grass growing between them. Are there no Jews left in Prague to care for the cemetery, or are they too afraid to come here? To Jews, keeping up a cemetery is a moral obligation, a way to pay tribute to the ancestors that came before. I remember my own father walking faithfully to the cemetery each week, even in the worst of weather, to visit his parents’ grave and say Kaddish. Even during the war, there were stories of Jews in Kraków sneaking into the cemeteries at night under penalty of death to care for the gravesites that had not been completely destroyed by the Nazis, defiantly leaving a few pebbles on the headstones to show that they were there. My heart aches at the thought of my own parents, denied a proper Jewish burial by the Nazis.

“Here we are,” Renata announces a few minutes later as the car pulls up in front of a hotel. We climb out of the car. “The porter will take your bag,” she says as I start toward the trunk. I follow her inside to the desk, hanging back as she speaks to the clerk in Czech. The lobby is large and, I can tell, was once grand. But the red carpet is faded and worn through in places, and several lights are broken or missing from the chandelier that hangs overhead. The air smells of overcooked dill.

A minute later, Renata turns from the counter and hands me a key. “Well, I’m sure you’re tired, so have a good night’s sleep.” I look at her, puzzled. Then she pulls me close to kiss my cheek as she had done at the airport. “Go upstairs and drop off your bag. Wait ten minutes. At the end of the hallway you’ll find a second stairwell. Take it and it will lead to the back alley. I’ll see you there.” She releases me and strides across the lobby with a jaunty wave.

CHAPTER
16

U
pstairs, I unlock the door to the hotel room and flick the light switch. The bare bulb on the ceiling splutters to life. Then there is a popping sound and the room goes dark once more. I feel my way along the wall, finding a table lamp and turning it on to reveal a small, triangular room. A twin bed is wedged into one corner, covered in a garish pink-flowered duvet. To the left of the bed, beneath a window, sits a chair with a worn gold slipcover. A damp odor permeates the room, as if there is some sort of leak.

I drop my bag onto the bed, then walk into the water closet to relieve myself after the long journey. The sink faucet is rusty and the floor tiles cracked, mold growing where the grout should be. There is a claw-footed bathtub, though, inviting and deep. It reminds me of the wood tub in our house in the village, large and sturdy, that my mother would fill fresh with heated water for each of us every week.

I wash and dry my hands, then return to the main room. Renata said to wait ten minutes, but I walk to the door, eager to find Marek. I peer into the hallway, looking in both directions, then make my way to the unmarked door at the end of the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, as Renata described, is a doorway leading to an alley. Outside, the sun is beginning to set, and it’s colder, too. I draw my coat closer, blinking and trying to adjust my eyes. The alley is narrow, tall brick buildings close on either side. The air is heavy with the smell of garbage. Something rustles by my feet. A rat. Nausea rises up in me. The rats had been everywhere in prison, scratching inside the walls, running across the floor at night. They were as rampant as flies in the ghetto, too. Once, I awoke in bed screaming as one ran across my neck. Mama chased it down, killed it with a broom. But I was too scared to sleep for days.

Someone grabs my arm. “Hey!” I exclaim, jumping.

“Shh!” Renata whispers. Still holding my arm, she leads me through the alleyway to a backstreet. “Be careful,” she adds, gesturing to the slick, wet cobblestones. As we walk, I notice that Renata somehow changed outfits in the few minutes I was upstairs. She is now wearing a short, dark skirt and a pink blouse that dips low to reveal something lacy beneath. Her practical shoes have been replaced with stiletto heels, and she is wearing rouge and bright lipstick. It is as if she is dressed for a night on the town, which, I realize, is exactly the idea, suddenly feeling very frumpy in my wool travel skirt and jacket.

She leads me to a boxy car parked at the corner, so tiny it is almost toylike. The passenger door, its dark paint gouged, groans as Renata opens it for me. I fold myself into the damp car. “We must hurry,” she says loudly as she turns the ignition. “Aunt Sophie will be worried if we are late.”