The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  “What will you do until then?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. I still have a little of the money that Dava gave me, but it isn’t enough to keep me for two weeks, even at the worst of boardinghouses.

  “You’ll stay with me,” Delia says decisively. I look at her, surprised. “I have this big empty house all to myself. I can show you London before you go.”

  “I wouldn’t want to impose…” But even as I say this, I feel myself melting into the comfort of the warm room.

  “Not at all,” Delia insists. “I would love the company. And you can tell me all about your time with Rose. It would be a blessing, really.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “No, I should be thanking you, for bringing the news of my niece and her belongings home to me. Now, where are your bags? Are they on the porch or did you leave them at the station?”

  I shift uncomfortably, then gesture to my small satchel. “This is everything.”

  A look of surprise flashes across Delia’s face, then disappears again. “Of course, how silly of me. Don’t worry,” she adds, patting my hand. “We can get you whatever you need. Charles,” she calls, her voice rising. The butler appears in the doorway again, as if he’d been waiting to be summoned. “Miss Marta is a good friend of my niece’s.” The butler nods and I can tell from his somber expression that he heard our conversation and knows about Rose’s death. “She is going to be staying with us for a few weeks. Please show her to the guest room and see that she has everything she needs.” She turns back to me and pats my hand. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  “Miss?” Charles gestures toward the doorway. I stand and follow him back through the foyer and up the stairs. At the end of the hallway he opens a door and turns on a light, revealing a spacious bedroom. A wide bed with a wrought-iron headboard is centered against the far wall, covered in a cornflower-blue duvet that matches the curtains. On the opposite wall there is a large oak armoire and a dresser. The room smells pleasantly of dried flowers and spices. It is the nicest room I have ever seen. “The lavatory is just through there,” Charles adds, pointing to another door. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

  “I shall. Thank you.” When he has gone, I sink down on the bed, trying to process all that has happened. I made it to London, brought the news. And I even have a place to stay. Suddenly I am very tired. I change into my nightgown and climb in between the crisp linens. I picture Paul. Had it really only been this morning that we said goodbye? I desperately wish that I could go back in time. I would gladly trade this grand room for the narrow bed in the Servicemen’s Hotel to be with him. But there is no going back, Dava had said. Only forward. And it is less than two weeks until Paul and I will be together again. I reach inside the neckline of my gown and wrap my fingers around Paul’s dog tags. My eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep, clutching the cool metal and seeing his face in my mind.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Thank you,” I say as I step out of the black taxicab onto the curb. I close the door and, as the taxi pulls away, look up at the hulking Kings Cross train station. Throngs of travelers move briskly through its open double doors. A shiver of excitement runs through me. In less than an hour, Paul will be here.

  I join the crowds and make my way inside. A long concourse of shops and kiosks runs down the right side of the station. To the left, perpendicular to the shops, sit a half-dozen train tracks, separated by platforms. Each runs beyond the open arch at the end of the station, then either curves away or disappears into the horizon.

  I walk toward the large board that hangs above the tracks announcing train arrivals and departures. It clacks noisily as the numbers turn over, updating the train information. Paul did not say exactly where he would be coming from, or identify a specific train on which he would arrive. Indeed, when I studied a map of London a few days after arriving at Delia’s, I was surprised at his choice of station: Kings Cross is to the north of the city, with trains coming in from central England, not the Channel coast as I expected. But Delia explained that there were a number of American military bases located north of London in the Midlands and East Anglia. Paul would likely be flying in with his unit, she explained, and if so he would come to London on the line that ran down from Cambridge, arriving at Kings Cross. The board indicates that a train from Cambridge is scheduled to arrive on track three at seven-fifteen, forty-five minutes from now.

  Paul’s train. I shiver again. Of course, I don’t know for certain that he will be on that one. Seven o’clock was a guess on his part, a prearranged time he had set when his travel plans were uncertain. He could have arrived already. I spin around and scan the concourse, half hoping to see him having a coffee or browsing at the magazine racks. But he is not there. It is not seven yet, I remind myself, pushing down my disappointment. I had set out from Delia’s house early to allow plenty of time to make my way across the city by Tube. But as I prepared to leave, Delia offered to come with me, or at least have Charles drive me to the station. I politely declined, wanting my reunion with Paul to be private, but she insisted on calling a cab and giving me money for the fare.

  Delia’s full, smiling face appears in my mind. She’s been so hospitable, despite her sadness over losing Rose. “I’m going to show you the best of London,” she announced at breakfast the morning after my arrival. Over the next two weeks, she led me around the city with an energy that belied her age and size. We had tea at the elegant Food Hall at Harrods, rode a double-decker bus to see Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and Parliament, wandered through the antique stalls and secondhand shops at the Portobello Road market. One afternoon when it was too rainy for sightseeing, Delia took me to see Henry V, starring Laurence Olivier, at the massive Cinema Odeon in Leicester Square. We talked a great deal, over meals and as we walked, and I told her about Rose and our time together in Salzburg. Delia recounted her travels as a younger woman to Italy and the south of France and even to Morocco. As if by unspoken agreement, we avoided speaking of anything sad. I did not tell Delia of Rose’s condition when she had arrived at the camp, or the little I knew about how she had suffered during the war. Nor did I talk about what I had been through in prison. And Delia had her own unspoken stories of hardship, I knew, of long, terrifying nights in the recent war spent huddled in the cellar with Charles as the Nazi bombers roared overhead. It was as if neither of us could bear any more sorrow right now but were content to enjoy each other’s company and the memories of happy times.

  I found the days with Delia pleasant and I was grateful for her generosity. But each night as I lay in bed, I marked off another day in the calendar in my head: eight days gone, six to go, nine days gone, five to go, and so on, counting the days until I would see Paul. Two days earlier, I received a postcard in the mail from him, bearing a black-and-white photograph of the Eiffel Tower. Counting the days till our reunion, he’d scribbled.

  Reunion. My heart jumps at the word. I dreamed of this moment so many times over the past few weeks, it hardly seems real. I barely slept at all last night, but lay awake, fretting. What if things are awkward between us, if he doesn’t care for me as much as he thought? It is not as if we really know each other very well. Staring at the tracks now, I brush these fears aside. Things with Paul will be as wonderful as ever. But other, more practical, questions persist: What will happen once he arrives? Will he come to the second guest room that Delia graciously offered, or is he planning to stay at another servicemen’s hotel? I also wonder how long we will remain in London, what needs to happen before we can leave for America.

  Wiping my moist palms on my skirt, I turn back to look down the concourse. It is Friday evening and the station is thronged with travelers—men in suits carrying briefcases on their way home from work, families toting children and luggage for weekend excursions. But signs of the war remain everywhere. A wounded British soldier makes his way painfully across the station on crutches. At the station pub, a group of women, still wearing factory work clothes,
talk over pints of beer. An advertisement for the latest autumn fashions sits beside a large sign admonishing that rationing is still in effect.

  My gaze stops on the coffee kiosk, where four American soldiers cluster around a small standing table. I scan the group. Perhaps Paul came in at a different gate, arrived with friends. But he is not among them.

  Behind me, a train horn sounds. I spin around as a large black locomotive comes into view at the top of track three. The train from Cambridge! As it pulls into the station, I rush forward. I stop, dangerously close to the edge of the platform, wobbling. Suddenly a conductor is at my side, grabbing my elbow to steady me. “Careful, miss,” he says. “Step back, please.” Red-faced, I comply. The train glides into the station, wheels screeching loudly as it comes to a halt. I smooth my hair quickly. As the doors open and the passengers begin to pour forth, I study the crowd, watching eagerly for Paul. Suddenly, a flash of olive-green uniform catches my eye. An American soldier is coming down the platform. I start toward him, heart pounding. Then, as I get closer, I stop again. The soldier is too short to be Paul, his hair too light.

  The disembarking crowd begins to thin as the passengers make their way toward the main concourse. I turn from the now-empty train, desperately searching the passengers as they disappear behind me. Did I miss him? When the last passenger has made his way from the platform, I walk back toward the concourse, approaching the conductor who had steadied me. “When’s the next train?”

  He cocks his head. “From Cambridge? In about an hour. Same platform.”

  “Thank you.” He will surely be on that one. Reluctantly, I walk across the main concourse. Suddenly my stomach grumbles. I was too nervous to eat earlier, despite Delia’s attempts to coax me, her admonition that I would faint from hunger. I walk across the concourse to the kiosk where the group of soldiers stood a few minutes earlier and order a coffee and a cheese sandwich.

  As I wait for the food, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. I spent much of the day getting ready, taking a long bath and setting my hair. My dress is navy blue with white trim, one of three that Delia gave me shortly after my arrival. She told me that she had bought them at the secondhand shop months earlier, but I could tell from the crispness of the fabric that they were new and from the size that she had purchased them for Rose in anticipation of her coming to stay. For a second I imagine her beside me, whispering excitedly about Paul’s arrival. She should be here, I think guiltily for the hundredth time. Living with Delia, wearing this dress. Pushing this thought aside, I study my reflection once more. My curls, which I worked to smooth, have already returned to their normal frizziness that the London dampness seems to aggravate so much. Paul has seen me looking far worse, I know. But I so want to look beautiful for him, to make him glad about his decision to marry me.

  The kiosk tables are full, so after I pay for the coffee and sandwich, I carry them down the concourse, eating as I look in the windows of the station shops. Pigeons peck at some spilled popcorn outside one of the stands until the shop clerk steps out from behind the counter, brandishing a broom and sending them scurrying to the rafters. I pause at the newsstand, scanning the headlines of the Times. Delia has the Guardian delivered to the house, and almost every night I sit down at the table with the paper and a dictionary, trying to understand as much as possible. But I did not have time today before leaving for the station. I finish my sandwich, then brush off my fingers and pick up the paper. The top article is about the occupation in Germany, I can tell. I do not want to think about the Nazis, not now. My eyes drop to another headline in the middle of the page. Polish Exiles Warn of Impending Disaster. I hold the paper closer, trying to make out what the article is saying. I do not understand all of it, but I gather that the Soviets are strengthening their grip on the Polish government. I remember my conversation with Simon Gold on the ship. The fight with the communists would be the next great war, he said. Even bigger than the last. I think sadly of Poland, now occupied by Soviet soldiers instead of Nazis. This is not how we thought it would turn out when we were fighting for our freedom.

  “Oy, are you buying that?” the man behind the counter calls. “This isn’t a library.”

  I place the newspaper back on the rack. “Sorry.” I look up at the large clock above the timetable. Eight-ten. I throw my empty coffee cup into a trash bin and make my way back to the platform, where another train is just pulling in. This one is emptier than the last, I realize as I scan the disembarking passengers. At the far end of the platform, I see a soldier get off the last car of the train. Paul! I start down the platform, almost running. But as I draw closer, I stop again. It is not him. For a second, I consider asking the soldier if he knows Paul. But he races past me, down the platform and into the arms of a young blond woman waiting at the edge of the concourse. I look away from their embrace, my stomach aching.

  I walk over to the conductor once more. “Next train from Cambridge?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s the last one for the night, I’m afraid.”

  Panic rises within me. Has Paul changed his mind? Or maybe he was delayed and did not get discharged from the army when he expected. I walk back to the concourse and sink down onto a bench. There are just two trains left on the timetable, one from Edinburgh and another from Newcastle. Maybe he’s not arriving by train at all. But he will be here. My stomach, uncomforted, gnaws.

  I look down the nearly deserted concourse, uncertain what to do. Then I reach inside the neck of my dress and lift Paul’s dog tags. I have not taken them off since he gave them to me. I trace the letters that spelled out his name. Where are you? My shoulders slump. Half an hour, then an hour, passes. Soon the lights go out at the newsstand. A shopkeeper draws a metal gate closed across the front of the coffee stand.

  “Ma’am?” I turn to find the conductor with whom I’d spoken earlier standing above me. “Do you want me to call you a cab? That is, I’m afraid we don’t allow people to stay overnight in the station. Loiterers and all that.” I look at him, puzzled, then turn back to the timetable. It is nearly ten o’clock. The station is empty and all of the trains are gone.

  “That won’t be necessary,” a male voice says from behind me. Paul, I think for a second. But the voice is much older than Paul’s, the accent English. I turn to find Charles standing behind me. “Your car is waiting, miss.”

  The conductor looks surprised. “Good evening, then.” He shuffles off.

  “Hello, Charles.” It is difficult to mask my disappointment that he is not Paul. “What are you doing here?”

  “Miss Delia sent me to make sure you are all right.”

  “Fine, thank you. Paul’s train hasn’t come in yet, but I’m sure he’s just delayed….”

  “Begging your pardon, miss,” Charles says gently, “but there are no more trains tonight.” He points up at the now-empty schedule board. I do not reply. “I can take you back to the house.”

  “I have to wait here.” I can hear the stubbornness in my own voice.

  “It’s not safe to stay here alone so late,” Charles protests. “You’ve given the gentleman our address, haven’t you?”

  I nod. Charles is right, of course. Paul will be able to find me. I take a long last look around the train station, then follow Charles outside to the sedan parked at the curb. He holds the door for me and I climb numbly into the back. I lean my head against the cool, damp glass, stare blindly out the window as we make our way through the wet streets of north London.

  The parlor lights still burn brightly as we pull up in front of Delia’s house. Inside, Delia hurries across the foyer to greet us. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “The gentleman did not arrive,” Charles replies for me.

  “I’m sure he was just delayed,” Delia says quickly. “You gave him our address here?” I nod. “Good, he’ll come here as soon as he can.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “We’ll go to the embassy. The deputy chief is a good
friend of mine and I’m sure they’ll know of various units coming into London. We’ll go first thing tomorrow, if he hasn’t arrived by then,” Delia promises.

  She sounds so positive, I almost feel better. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. Now, why don’t you come sit and have some supper? I’ve kept it warm for you.”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Then at least some tea,” Delia presses.

  “I’d prefer to just go to bed.” I bring my hand to my temple, which has begun to throb.

  “Of course. You must be exhausted from all of the waiting.”

  “I am.” I start up the stairs, then turn back. “You’ll wake me if…”

  “The moment he arrives,” Delia promises.

  Upstairs, I undress and climb numbly into bed. I know that the sooner I go to sleep, the more quickly morning will seem to come. But Paul’s face stares back at me in the darkness. Where are you? Have you changed your mind about me? His face remains impassive. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe evenly, a trick my mother taught me when I was restless at night as a child. Soon I drift off to sleep, but Paul’s face haunts me there, too. I dream that I am standing on the platform in the train station once more. A train pulls in and, as I watch the disembarking crowds, a familiar face appears. Paul! My heart lifts and I start toward him. But he turns away, speaking to the woman behind him. There, holding his hand, is the young woman from the café in Paris. “No…”

  I awake with a start. Bright sunlight streams through the windows. The previous evening comes rushing back to me. Perhaps Paul arrived during the night. I sit up quickly, swinging my feet to the floor. But before I can stand up, a wave of nausea overtakes me. Easy, I tell myself. I reach for the pitcher of water that Charles always leaves fresh on my nightstand and pour a glass. I do not want to get ill just as Paul arrives. A feeling of certainty grows inside me. He will be here today.