The Diplomat's Wife (6 page)

“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…”