The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  I take a few sips of water and my stomach settles. Then I wash and dress quickly, and make my way downstairs. Delia is seated at the kitchen table. As usual, a full English breakfast has been laid out: fried eggs, bacon, stewed tomatoes, beans and toast. My stomach begins to turn again. Delia looks up from the heaping plate in front of her. “Hello, dear. How did you sleep?”

  “I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of…”

  Delia shakes her head. “No, but I wouldn’t worry. Even if he had arrived in London during the night, I’m sure he’s too well mannered to go knocking on strange doors at all hours.”

  Like I did, I think. But I know her words are not a rebuke. “I suppose.”

  “The embassy opens at nine and we’ll be there when they do. Now, come eat.” I start to reply that I am not hungry. My stomach is too knotted to eat. But I do not want to seem ungracious. Reluctantly, I sit down and take a piece of toast, buttering it as Delia pours me a cup of tea.

  There are footsteps in the hallway, followed by a rustling noise. Charles appears, carrying a bag of groceries. “Good morning, Charles,” Delia says. “Breakfast is delicious, as always.”

  Charles does not respond but stands awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What is it?” Delia asks.

  “Miss Delia, if I might have a word…”

  Delia’s expression turns puzzled. “Excuse me,” she says to me before following Charles into the hallway.

  I watch as Charles speaks to Delia in a low voice, his head down and close to hers. It is unlike Charles to whisper so rudely in front of me. Then he pulls a newspaper from the bag, shows it to Delia. Uneasiness rises in my chest. I put the toast back on the plate and stand up. “What is it?” I ask.

  Charles stops speaking and they both look up hesitantly as I approach. “What is it?” I repeat, louder this time. I can hear the harshness in my voice but I do not care. I gesture toward the newspaper. “What does it say?”

  “Marta, dear.” Delia takes a step toward me. I reach around her and before she can stop me, snatch the paper from Charles’s hand. The headline is so large it covers nearly half the front page. American Military Plane Crashes in Channel: All Killed.

  A rock slams into my chest. I scan the article, not breathing. A military plane traveling from Paris to London yesterday experienced mechanical trouble over the Channel. The plane crashed, killing all on board. Dread rises in me. Delia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Marta, it probably isn’t his unit.”

  “There are thousands of American troops passing through England right now,” Charles adds.

  I do not answer but continue reading. The men were part of the Fighting 502nd, a unit that fought in every major battle since Normandy. I remember Paul calling his unit by that name. Bile rises in my throat. At the bottom of the article, there is a list of soldiers killed in the crash. I scan the names. Paul’s is not among them. Maybe he wasn’t traveling with his unit. Perhaps he had received permission to leave early, knowing he was coming to meet me. “He’s not on the list,” I whisper, sagging with relief.

  Then, at the bottom of the list of names I notice an asterisk, followed by the words “unidentified soldier.” My hand drops to the dog tags around my neck. Paul promised me he would get another set.

  It is a mistake. It has to be a mistake. In the middle of the page, there is a grainy picture of the unit, standing in front of a tank. I scan the faces, which all look remarkably similar with their short hair and helmets. My eyes lock on a familiar face in the third row, far right. Paul’s eyes stare out at me unblinkingly. I know then why he had not come for me.

  The paper falls from my hands. “He’s gone,” I say aloud. A scream that I do not recognize as my own fills the air. Then the ground slides sideways beneath me and everything goes black.

  CHAPTER 12

  I stand in front of the timetable at Kings Cross Station, looking out across the platforms. Bright sunlight shines through the slats in the roof, reflecting off the top of the trains. I clutch my purse nervously, waiting. I am early again, of course. But this time I let Charles drive me, gratefully accepting his offer to wait outside with the car until Paul arrives. It had been a mistake, the telegram that arrived this morning had said. Paul had missed his flight, the one that had crashed. He will be arriving today.

  A train appears at the top of track three. I start forward, excitement surging through me. Then I stop. Something is wrong. The train does not slow as it enters the station, but barrels forward at full speed toward the end of the platform. It is going to crash. I turn and start running away from the train. A second later, there is a massive explosion behind me, followed by an enormous gust of hot air that slams me forward into the ground. When I lift my head and look over my shoulder, the train has disappeared, engulfed by a ball of fire. “No!” I cry aloud.

  My eyes fly open. Where am I? The familiarity of Delia’s house rushes back as I recognize the pale-blue walls. I sit up, trying to catch my breath. At the foot of the bed, early-morning light dances in patterns on the duvet. Voices of children on their way to school ring out as they call to one another from the pavement below. My own unwashed smell mingles with that of fried eggs, left on the nightstand while I was asleep.

  Paul is dead. It has been more than a week since I read the news of the plane crash, saw him staring up at me from the photograph. I do not remember dropping the newspaper or fainting, only waking up some time later in bed, not knowing how I had made it there. Delia was seated beside me. “Hello, darling.” She leaned over and put her arms around me.

  “He’s gone.” My voice was heavy with disbelief.

  “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  First Rose, now Paul. The war was over. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, not now. Guilt crashed down on me: It was my fault Paul was coming to London. If it had not been for me, he would still be alive. Deep down I knew that wasn’t true—Paul’s entire unit was on the flight. But the idea suited my grief, its painful jabs welcome through my numbness. Suddenly, I hated Delia, this house, all that was England. “I just want to be left alone,” I blurted out. A hurt expression crossed her face. “I mean, I’m very tired.”

  “Of course.” Delia stood up quickly. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.” I turned away, closing my eyes once more.

  After that day, I did not speak with anyone, or even get out of bed, except to go to the toilet. Mostly I slept, through the days and nights, trying to escape the pain. But it was no use—I dreamed fitfully of Paul, saw him die a thousand different ways, shot in the Nazi prison as he tried to rescue me, drowned in the lake at Salzburg. Once I dreamed that I was back on the bridge in Kraków, the dead body beside me Paul’s instead of the Kommandant’s. I dreamed of the others who had died, too, my parents, Rose. Suddenly it seemed that I was to blame for all of their deaths, as well.

  Each morning when I woke up, the reality would crash down upon me anew. Paul is dead. The pain was searing, fresh, as though I was hearing the news for the first time. I lay in the semidarkness for hours, seeing Paul’s face. I replayed happy memories: Salzburg, Paris, even our first meeting in prison, ran through my head like a movie over and over again, until I drifted to sleep once more. The days passed like this, one after another. Delia, respecting my wishes, did not visit me again, at least not while I was awake. I knew, though, that she was keeping an eye on me through Charles, who brought me food of every variety, hearty stews that went uneaten, fruit that turned brown, ice cream that melted in the bowl. He knocked softly each time, bringing in the tray and setting it on the nightstand, then coming back for it a few hours later, without trying to engage me in conversation.

  Charles must have come while I was asleep this time, as the aroma of fresh bacon wafts over me. My stomach grumbles. For the first time in days, I am hungry. I sit up in bed and uncover the tray, then pick up a piece of toast. As I take a bite, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair is pressed flat against
my head. My skin is pasty, with dark circles ringing my eyes. Unwashed and secluded, not eating. It is as if I’ve put myself back in prison, I think, ashamed. As if everything that has happened since my liberation was for nothing.

  I finish the toast, take a few bites of bacon and eggs. Then I stand and walk to the toilet to wash. As I undress, Paul’s dog tags fall cool against my chest. I look down at them sadly. Every step forward I take is a step farther from Paul and the time we had together. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the urge to crawl back into bed. But that is not what he would have wanted, I think, remembering how I had scolded him for self-pity. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I finish washing and make my way back to the bedroom. Inside the armoire, my clothes hang freshly pressed. Delia must have had them cleaned. I have been such an ungracious guest. Quickly, I change into one of the dresses she gave me, green with a light floral pattern.

  Downstairs, the kitchen is deserted, the breakfast dishes put away. I scribble a note on the tablet that hangs by the telephone, telling Delia that I’ve gone out. Then I walk to the front door and step out onto the porch. It is a brisk September morning, the air pleasantly cool. Across the street, the leaves on the trees in the square are still green, but there is a crispness to their rustling that was not there a few weeks earlier. I close the front gate behind me, cutting across the square. As I wind my way through the quiet residential streets, the houses grow even larger and more impressive than Delia’s, their porches shielded from view by high hedges.

  Soon I reach the wide thoroughfare of Kensington Road, several lanes of cars and buses speeding by in both directions. On the far side of the street sits the wide green swath of grass and trees that signals the edge of Hyde Park. I remember walking the paths with Delia, planning to take Paul for a stroll there after his arrival. My view is suddenly obscured by a red double-decker trolleybus that screeches to a stop in front of me. “Getting on, miss?” the driver asks. I look up, realizing for the first time that I am standing in front of a bus stop. I hesitate. I have only taken the bus a few times with Delia, never alone. But I suddenly need to keep going, to get as far away from here as possible. “Yes, thank you.” I board the bus, pulling a three pence coin from my pocket to pay the driver. As the bus lurches forward, I grab the nearest pole to keep from flying toward the rear.

  When the bus stops at the next traffic light, I make my way up the stairs, clinging to the rail for support. The top deck is deserted, except for a lone man toward the rear, reading the Times. I remember suddenly the newspaper headline announcing Paul’s death, his grainy image staring back at me. Forcing the vision from my mind, I drop to a seat by the front of the bus.

  I look out the window as the bus reaches the end of Hyde Park and turns left, then quickly right again. The trees disappear and the street grows crowded with tall buildings and signs. Piccadilly, I recognize from my excursions with Delia. We pass Simpsons, the grand department store where she insisted on taking me shopping for new shoes, then the Ritz Hotel. Traffic is slow here, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians making their way between the shops. The bus stops every few minutes. I can hear the voices of the passengers as they board below. But these are commuters, oblivious to the view and they do not come upstairs. Soon we reach Piccadilly Circus. The buildings here are covered with enormous signs advertising products of every kind: Wrigley’s Gum, Brylcreem, Gordon’s Gin. Guinness Is Good for You. Gives You Strength, touts one. The bus grinds to a halt again. Ahead, the traffic does not move at all. All of a sudden I am eager to walk. I make my way down the stairs and step off the bus.

  At the corner, I pause, uncertain which way to go. The crowd surges around me and, following, I let myself be carried with the stream. No one here knows or cares what I have been through. For a few minutes, I can pretend that I am just like everyone else. I imagine myself a young British woman on my way to work, perhaps in one of the shops. The sun is higher and the air has returned to its summer-like closeness. My skin grows moist under my dress as I walk.

  The crowd loosens suddenly as the narrow street ends at an enormous square. In the center stands a tall obelisk. Trafalgar Square. My eyes travel from the height of the column to the four lion statues at its base, the adjacent fountains. I was here once with Delia on our way to a show in the West End. Then, as now, it seemed large and intimidating, worlds away from the quiet streets of South Kensington. I had not imagined coming this far on my own. A surge of confidence rises in me as I make my way through the swarms of pigeons and pedestrians to the far side of the square.

  I turn right onto Whitehall. The wide thoroughfare is lined on both sides with government buildings, large and institutional. I soon reach an intersection. To the left sits the hulking yellow Westminster Palace, Big Ben jutting upward from its foreground. Looking up at the enormous Parliament building, I imagine the politicians inside, making decisions that affect the rest of the world. Suddenly, remembering how the West stood by while the Nazis marched across Europe, I am filled with anger. Why couldn’t they have done something sooner?

  Big Ben begins to chime. Eleven o’clock. Nearly two hours have passed since I left Delia’s house. Ahead sits Westminster Abbey, its spires climbing high above the trees. I cross the wide street toward the grassy park area in front of the church. An ice-cream vendor sits at the corner. I hesitate. I should not spend the money, but I can practically taste the chocolate. I buy a small cone, licking it even as I make my way to the nearest empty bench.

  Savoring the rich chocolate, I watch two squirrels playing in the grass. Then I look back across the road toward Whitehall at the pedestrians, men in suits, a few women. They walk with purpose, going to their jobs and other places in their lives. Sitting on the park bench with my ice cream, I suddenly feel very helpless and silly. What am I going to do with my life now? It is a question I have never had to answer. Growing up in our village, my future had been presumed: marriage, to someone of a similar, lower-class, Jewish background, perhaps slightly better off if I was lucky. Then children, as many as could be had. That had all changed when the Nazis had come. Even after the war, my plans had not been wholly my own; I agreed to come to London at Dava’s insistence, then later accepted Paul’s proposal to marry him and move to America.

  Now, for the first time, there is no one telling me what to do or offering me a plan. I have been at Delia’s house for nearly a month, first waiting for Paul and then mourning him. I cannot impose on her hospitality forever. But where can I go? There is nothing for me in Poland, or in Salzburg anymore. I could apply for a visa to Palestine. Or to America. I imagine meeting Paul’s family, paying my respects. But I have no money for the trip, no means of survival once I am there. And Paul’s family would hardly welcome a strange immigrant girl, even if she was wearing their dead son’s dog tags. We were engaged so quickly I doubt he even had time to let them know about me. To those who loved and will remember him, I never existed. My eyes burn with tears.

  Enough. I cannot think about that, not now. Staying in England, where I have a roof over my head, makes the most sense. But I need to get a job, earn some money of my own so I can offer to pay for room and board. It will not be easy. I know from the papers and my conversations with Delia that with the soldiers returning and the economy still struggling to recover, it is hard for women to find work at all right now, much less a girl with a heavy accent and no experience. But Delia knows people, can make inquiries for me. A job in a shop. Boarding with Delia. My head swims. It is not the life I had expected. But it is a life.

  Across the park, I spy a group of American soldiers taking pictures of Westminster Abbey. For a second my heart leaps. What if one of them was Paul, if we were magically reunited as we had been in Paris that day? But of course that is impossible. I look down at the ice-cream cone, suddenly disgusted by its gooey sweetness. I walk to the nearest bin to throw it away.

  “You know, that’s very wasteful,” a male voice says from behind me. I freeze, wondering for a second if my fantasy has come true, if
Paul really is there. But the accent is British.

  Unexpectedly I am angry. It is my ice-cream cone. How dare some stranger tell me what to do? “That’s none of your…” I turn to confront the stranger. Simon, the diplomat from the ship, stands behind me. “Oh!”

  “Simon Gold,” he says. He steps forward and, before I can react, takes my free hand and kisses it. “We met on the boat.”

  “Of course,” I reply, caught off guard. I remember our conversation over tea, my telling him of my engagement to Paul. It seems like a million years ago.

  “My office is just around the corner.” He gestures vaguely toward Whitehall. “I was just out for my daily constitutional.” I cock my head, unfamiliar with the term. “It means walk,” he explains.

  “Oh.” I feel something cold and sticky running down my hand. The ice cream has begun to melt.

  “And I was only trying to say that Mitchell’s homemade ice cream is too good to be wasted.” I nod, too surprised to respond. “But it looks like that cone’s had it.” He reaches out and takes the melting cone from my hand. Holding it at arm’s length so as not to drip on his light-gray suit, he tosses it in the trash bin. “Wait here.” I watch as Simon walks quickly over to the vendor where I purchased the ice-cream cone. I am glad to see him, I realize with surprise. A familiar face. A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups. “Here,” he says, handing me a napkin. I wipe my hands. “I thought maybe the ice cream had been too cold, so I took the liberty of getting us some tea.”

  “Thank you.” I take one of the cups from him.

  “Let’s sit for a minute.” I follow him to the bench where I had been sitting minutes ago, balancing the tea carefully so as not to spill. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you still here. I thought you’d be long on your way to America by now with your fiancé.”