The Diplomat's Wife (25 page)

“Aunt Sophie?” I whisper.

“Talk normally now,” she says in a low voice, and I realize that she is speaking for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.

“I—I am really looking forward to seeing Aunt Sophie after so long,” I improvise as she pulls the car away from the curb. These spy games are very confusing to me.

Renata turns on the radio, which blares a mixture of classical music and static. “Sorry we couldn’t take the embassy sedan tonight. Meet Wartburg, pride of German engineering.” She pats the dashboard. “Careful that your feet don’t fall through the holes in the floor.”

I start to laugh, then, looking down, see that she is serious. “Are we going far?”

Renata pulls the Wartburg to a halt at a traffic light. “Just to a bar in the Nové Mesto. It’s just a little too far to walk in the cold and…” She stops, peering uneasily in the rearview mirror.

I turn around to look behind us. “What’s…?”

“Don’t look,” she whispers, grabbing my arm. I face front quickly, feeling my cheeks burn. As the light turns green, she slams hard on the gas and the car lurches forward. She turns right, then immediately to the left. The wheels skid sideways, sending us careening toward a light post. I grip the seat, bracing myself for the crash I am sure will come. But Renata turns the wheel hard in the other direction, pulling us back into the center of the roadway. A minute later, she slows the car, looking into the rearview mirror once more. “Sorry. There was a suspicious car and I thought we were being followed, but it’s gone.” I cannot help but wonder if perhaps she overreacted. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she adds. “But turning around would only arouse suspicion.”

So would a car accident. “I’m sorry,” I reply. “I didn’t know.”

“You haven’t had any training for this, have you?” I shake my head, uneasiness growing inside me. It had all been so last-minute. Simon had been angry, the D.M. rushed. What else do I need to know that they forgot to tell me?

A few minutes later, Renata pulls the car into a small space along the curb on a residential side street. I look out the window in both directions, but do not see a bar. “Here?”

“No, but it is best if we park and walk a few blocks.” I start to open the car door, but she grabs my arm. “Wait a second. You don’t have any crowns, do you?”

I hesitate, then realize she is talking about Czech money. I shake my head. “I meant to exchange some money at the hotel….”

“Here.” She presses some bills and coins into my hand. “Don’t worry,” she says, cutting me off as I start to protest. “I’ll get repaid by the embassy. Let’s go.”

I step out onto the pavement and follow Renata silently through the dark, deserted streets. It begins to drizzle, a light fine mist, and I can feel the curls around my face tightening in response. Renata leads me halfway down the block, stopping in front of an unmarked building. Music and voices rise from below.

“Ready?” Renata asks. I nod, swallowing. The din grows louder as she leads me down a set of stairs and through the door. Inside, the bar is a long brick cellar. Crude wooden benches and tables, seemingly scattered at random angles, are filled mostly with young people, playing cards and talking over large mugs of dark brown beer. Several look up at us across the dim, smoky room, as if they know we do not belong here.

But Renata, not seeming to notice, surveys the room coolly. “There,” she says in a low voice, gesturing slightly with her head toward the back of the bar.

I follow her gaze to a man seated on the end of one of the benches. “I see him.” Marek. In truth, I might not have recognized him if Renata had not pointed him out. Once heavyset, he looks as though he has lost at least thirty pounds. His face, usually clean-shaven, now sports a mustache and goatee. He’s trying to be Alek, I realize with a start. At the sight of him, my breath catches.

“We need to get his attention,” Renata says.

I nod, too nervous to respond. What will his reaction be to seeing me again? But Marek, engrossed in conversation with a gray-haired man beside him, has not looked up since we entered the bar. “How?” I ask a minute later. “I can’t just walk up to him.”

“True,” Renata agrees. “But I can.” She pulls a scrap of paper and pencil out of her bag. She scribbles something I cannot read, then crumples up the paper. “You wait here.” Before I can respond, she strides across the bar, drawing several appreciative stares in her short skirt and heels. I climb onto a bar stool, watching as she passes Marek, brushing against him, just hard enough so that he notices but the others at his table do not. Then, without stopping, she drops the paper into his lap. Marek looks up in surprise, but Renata has already disappeared into the toilet at the back of the bar. I watch, not breathing, as Marek scans the note. He looks up and our eyes meet. He blinks twice behind his glasses, trying to mask his surprise. Then he leans toward the man beside him and whispers something, before making his way slowly toward the front of the bar.

Before reaching me, he stops, staring as though seeing a ghost. “Marta…?”

“
Czesc,
Marek,” I say in Polish, struggling to keep my voice even.

“What are you…?” He falters. “I mean, we thought that you were…”

“Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest quietly.

He opens his mouth to speak, then, appearing to think better of it, closes it again and climbs onto the bar stool beside me. “Two pilsners, please,” he says to the bartender. Neither of us speak as the bartender pours the beer from the tap. I look over Marek’s shoulder, wondering what has become of Renata. She will not come back during my conversation with Marek, I suspect. She did her job by getting him here; the rest is up to me.

I look back at Marek. Images race through my mind: Marek sitting at the head of the table beside Alek at Shabbat dinner each week, laughing and talking. Later they would huddle over papers in the back room of the apartment, plotting in hushed whispers. Then I see Marek again that last night at the cabin when I confronted him as he prepared to flee. He was supposed to lead the resistance after Alek was gone. I know, of course, that there was nothing more we could have done. The movement was in tatters after the café bombing; even a great leader like Alek could not have carried on. But Marek left the rest of us behind at the moment we needed him most. Does he feel guilty, as I do, at having survived when so many others did not?

Enough, I think, forcing my anger down. I wait until the bartender has set the glasses in front of us and walked away once more. “You thought I was dead. Isn’t that what you were about to say?”

He nods. “The bridge…We heard that Richwalder shot you.”

“He did. I survived that and Nazi prison, too.” There is a note of pride in my voice. Marek had never been a supporter of women helping with the resistance, other than as occasional decoys. He thought us weak, inconsequential. Now, watching his stunned expression, I cannot help but feel smug.

“Did they ask…?”

“About the resistance? They suspected my involvement and spent months trying to beat it out of me. I didn’t tell them anything,” I add quickly.

Relief crosses his face, as though the Nazis are still in power and might be able to hurt him if they knew the truth. “And now? Surely you didn’t go back to Poland after all that happened.”

“No. I live in London, actually.”

“England? But how? And what are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.” I pause, looking around the bar for Renata. Has something happened to her? “I’m afraid we don’t have much time.”

Marek’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t understand.”

“Marek, I…” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been sent to find you.”

His eyes widen. “Sent? By whom?”

“The British government.” Marek’s jaw drops. “I work for the Foreign Office. They sent me because I know you. I need you to connect me with a certain leader in the anticommunist underground.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he interrupts coldly. “I’m an employee of the state. I would never associate with such people.”

I lower my voice. “Marek, there’s no time for games. We know that you are closely involved in the anticommunist movement and we desperately need to make contact with a man named Jan Marcel—”

“Shh!” Marek hisses. “Don’t say his name. Not here.” His head snaps toward the door as though he expects the police to burst in at any moment.

“We need to reach him because he has a cipher that is critical in discovering which of our operatives is really working for the Soviets. In exchange we are offering—”

“Stop.” He raises his hand, cutting me off again. “You shouldn’t have come here, Marta. I can’t help you. It’s too dangerous, especially now.” He stands up, drains his beer. “I’m sorry.”

“Marek, please. You don’t understand. We want to help you, too. I have valuable information, money. I just need to reach this man—”

“The West? Help?” Marek’s cheeks redden. “Like they did in 1939?”

I hesitate. An image flashes through my mind of looking up at the sky from inside the ghetto. Where were the planes from Britain and America? Why didn’t they bomb the camps or at least the train lines running to them, to stop some of the killing machines? I take a deep breath. “I know. I was there. The Allies didn’t come as soon as they could have and by the time they did it was too late for so many. But it’s different this time. That’s why I’m here, Marek, why I left my family to come see you. We laid down our lives together. You know me and trust me. The help this time is real.” My words tumble out on top of one another, a plea for him to listen. “I made sure of that.” Watching his face, I realize how implausible my words must sound, the notion that I am in a position to make such assurances.

“Who’s the woman you’re with?” he asks suspiciously. “The one who gave me the note.”

“She’s my escort from the embassy. She can be trusted.”

Marek looks down, studying his fingernails. “I’m sorry, Marta. I can’t help you. I wish I could. I know you went through hell in prison to protect the rest of us and I’m glad that you survived. But I can’t risk it.”

I put my hand on his forearm. “Marek, please. I want to help.”

He pulls back. “Go home, Marta. This isn’t your fight anymore.” He tosses a few coins on the bar, then turns and walks away.

I sit motionless, watching his back as he retreats. Marek will not talk to me. I stand up. Perhaps if I try to speak with him once more, I can persuade him. But he has returned to his table at the back of the bar, and sits among the other men, not looking up. Approaching him would attract too much attention.

I make my way to the front door and up the steps. Outside, Renata stands by the curb, smoking a cigarette. “I was wondering where you had gone,” I remark.

“When I went to drop off the note, I thought I saw someone I knew from the university. I didn’t want to be recognized, or have to answer questions about why I am here. So I slipped out the back door.” She drops the cigarette, grinds it out with her heel. “So how did it go?”

“Terribly.”

“He wouldn’t talk to you?” I shake my head. “I’m not surprised. They’re a very secretive bunch, especially these days.”

“But if we can’t get him to help us…”

“We’ll think of something else,” Renata replies. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I follow Renata toward the car, my shoulders low with defeat. I didn’t even have the chance to ask Marek if he had any news about Emma and Jacob, or the others from the resistance.

As we near the corner, a shadowy figure emerges suddenly from an alley. Before I can react, Renata grabs my arm, pulling me with her as she leaps backward. A man in a dark trench coat and hat stands and faces us, blocking our path. Fear rises in me and I wonder if we are going to be robbed.

“What do you want?” Renata demands.

I notice a lock of gray hair sticking out from beneath the man’s hat. “You’re the man from the bar,” I say aloud. “You were sitting with Marek.” Renata turns to look at me, surprised.

The man nods. “Marek asked me to deliver a message. Come to Riegrovy Park tomorrow at noon.”

I turn to Renata. “Do you know where that is?”

“Yes. It’s just south of the city. But it’s a big park,” she says to the man. “Where should we meet him?”

“By the fountain. But not you.” He gestures toward me with his head. “Marek said she is to come alone.”

“But—” Renata begins.

The man cuts her off. “Come alone,” he says to me. “Marek will be there, if it’s safe.” Before I can respond, he disappears into the alleyway once more.

CHAPTER
17

I
pull back the worn window curtain and peer out at the rain-soaked street below. The pavement is crowded with passersby walking quickly, huddled under dark umbrellas on their way to work. I imagine Simon leaving for the office, Rachel looking out of the window after him. Today is her second day without me. Though I know she is well-cared-for by Delia, my heart tugs at the notion of not being there yet another morning when she awakes.

I let the curtain fall again and walk to the mirror, studying my reflection for the hundredth time: dark skirt, cream blouse. Barely able to sleep in the cold, strange room, I awoke early, washed and dressed, painstakingly taming my curls into a low knot. I wanted to look like someone Marek, and hopefully Marcelitis, could take seriously. But the eyes that look back from behind my glasses are hesitant; what am I doing here? I smooth my hair once more, wishing I had thought to bring an umbrella. Then I pick up my coat and bag and walk from the hotel room, locking the door behind me.

“Good morning, madam,” the concierge says to me in Czech as I descend the stairs into the hotel lobby. I eye him suspiciously. Why is he talking to me? He gestures to the restaurant. “Will you be joining us for breakfast this morning?”

I hesitate, noticing the smell of coffee and fried eggs for the first time. But my stomach is too knotted for food. “No, thank you. I really must be going.”

Outside the hotel, I look both ways down the narrow, winding street. The rain has stopped and the cloudy sky is brightening, as though the sun might break through in a few hours. But for now it has not, the breeze reminds me sharply, blowing icy gusts of air upward and sending old newspapers dancing along the pavement. I draw the neck of my coat closed until it meets the edge of my woolen scarf.