The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  “Saw Marcelitis where?” a voice farther down the table asks. “We have no idea where to find him.”

  “He’s like a ghost,” the D.M. agrees. Around the table, heads nod. The communist authorities in various countries have long sought to arrest him, as had the Gestapo before them. As a result, Marcelitis operates from behind the scenes, not keeping a permanent address or residing in one country for very long. I remember Alek saying once that Marcelitis was able to do what he did so well because he had no ties, no wife or family to keep him in one place.

  “I’ve heard that Marcelitis may be on the ground in Prague,” Roger replies. “It would make sense with everything that is going on there.” Czechoslovakia, I knew from past meetings, had managed to resist Soviet domination, its government a delicate balance of communists and noncommunists. But the situation there had grown increasingly unstable, the communist interior minister, backed by the police, trying to force out government ministers with pro-Western leanings. There was talk of a possible coup.

  “But even if Marcelitis is there, and has the cipher Dichenko stole, that doesn’t mean he’ll cooperate,” Simon adds.

  “Perhaps,” the D.M. concedes. “But we have to try. Marcelitis is our best, make that our only option, for getting the cipher.” He looks down at his chargé d’affaires, seated immediately to his left. “Johnson, who are our contacts in Prague, the ones who may be able to access Marcelitis?”

  Johnson rustles through his notes. “There aren’t many. Karol Hvany, for one…”

  A voice comes from farther down the table. “I’m sorry, sir, but Hvany was arrested a few weeks ago.”

  Johnson continues reading. “Demaniuk, the fellow from the countryside.”

  “We have reason to believe he’s been compromised,” Simon replies.

  The D.M. takes the paper from Johnson and scans it. “And Stefan Bak died six months ago.” He throws down the paper. “Damn! There has to be someone.” A few of the men at the table exchange furtive glances, surprised at the D.M.’s uncharacteristic outburst.

  Johnson picks up the paper from the table and scans it once more. “There is one other possibility. Fellow named Marek Andek.”

  Marek Andek. Suddenly it is as if someone kicked me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me. Marek Andek. I repeat the name in my head, wondering if I heard him correctly.

  “What do we know about Andek?” the D.M. asks. My heart seems to stop for a second and then beat again very rapidly. Marek was one of the resistance leaders, second in command under Alek.

  “Not much,” Johnson replies. “Except that he is a civil servant and loosely affiliated to the opposition leadership. Andek is known to have gone to Berlin to see Marcelitis a few months ago. Problem is, we don’t have anyone who knows him.”

  “I do,” I blurt out. All heads snap in my direction.

  “Excuse me?” Johnson asks, his voice a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. “Did you say something?”

  I take a deep breath. “Y-yes, I said that I know Marek Andek.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The room is completely silent. I look down, desperately wishing that the floor would open and swallow me whole. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Simon’s stunned expression. Secretaries do not ever speak in meetings. To do so in here, where the D.M. is present, is unthinkable.

  “You know Andek?” the D.M. repeats incredulously.

  I hesitate, wondering if I should recant, say that my outburst was a mistake. But it is too late to stop. “Y-yes,” I reply, my voice trembling. A murmur ripples through the room.

  “Marta,” Simon warns in a low voice, then stands up to face the D.M. “Sir, I am terribly sorry for this interruption. My assistant seems to have forgotten herself.” His assistant, not his wife. “There is no way she knows this man. I’m sure there’s some mistake.” I open my mouth to say that there is no mistake. Then, seeing Simon’s furious expression, I close it again.

  The D.M. looks from Simon to me, then back. “Very well.” He turns to the table. “Keep looking for contacts in Prague who…” I sit motionless, unable to hear him over the ringing in my ears. Marek’s fat face and squinty eyes appear in my mind. I never liked Marek. He was boorish, with none of Alek’s charm or Jacob’s wit. I last saw Marek at a cabin outside Kraków that had served as one of our hideaways, the day after the resistance had bombed the Warszawa Café. He was going over the border to Slovakia, he said, to try to make contact with other resistance groups. Watching him as he stood in the door of the cabin clutching his rucksack, I was flooded with disbelief. He was the only one capable of leading our group now—how could he possibly be leaving? Alek never would have abandoned us if he had lived. But Marek fled, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Within days, the remainder of the resistance had disintegrated.

  It is the same Marek Andek, I am certain. He must have survived the border crossing and the war, then somehow linked up with Marcelitis. Had he seen or heard from Emma and Jacob? Digging my nails into my palms, I force myself to concentrate on the meeting once more. The D.M. is making some concluding remarks, ending much sooner than I had anticipated. Does the abrupt conclusion have to do with the message from the minister’s office? Or with my outburst?

  When the meeting ends, I slip quickly from the room, not wanting to face Simon. He is usually so calm and even-tempered, I reflect as I make my way down the corridor. But decorum and appearances, his place in the department, mean everything to him. No wonder he was furious. I stop at the ladies’ toilet. As I wash my hands at the sink, I berate myself inwardly. I should not have spoken out like that. I have never told Simon about my work with the resistance. I had to tell him the truth about my coming to England on Rose’s visa so that he could straighten out the paperwork when applying for my residency and our marriage license. Beyond that all he knows is that I was liberated from the camps. Why hadn’t I said anything? In the beginning, I feared that the truth would be too much, that Simon would not want me working for him for fear that my past would come to light and taint him. And later, when we were married and it seemed that I should have told him already, the not telling became a bigger problem than the secret itself. More recently, it had simply become a part of my distant past that I seldom considered, something that no longer mattered. Until today.

  When I return to the office, Simon is standing in front of my desk, arms crossed. “What were you thinking?” he says. Alarmed, I take two steps back, trying to get as far away from him as I can in the tiny, windowless reception area. “Are you trying to ruin my career?”

  Fear rises in me. I have never seen him this angry. “Simon, I’m so sorry,” I begin. “I didn’t mean…”

  “You cannot go forgetting your place, embarrassing me, just because you’re my wife.” His nostrils flare. “Especially because you’re my wife. And what makes you think you know this person? I am sure that there is more than one Marek Andek in all of Eastern Europe!”

  “But…” I hesitate. I am sure it is the same man, but I cannot tell Simon this without explaining my entire past.

  “Why do you think you know Marek Andek?” he demands.

  “That is something I would like to know myself,” a voice from behind Simon says. We spin around to find the D.M. standing in the doorway.

  “Sir,” Simon says, surprise replacing anger in his voice. I, too, am taken aback. It is the first time I have ever known the D.M. to come to Simon’s office.

  The D.M. looks over his shoulder into the hallway, then back into the room. “Perhaps we should go into your office to talk.”

  He is looking at both of us, I realize. I pick up a notepad and follow the two men into Simon’s office. It is about three-by-four meters, more than twice the size of the reception area, with a wide window looking down on a grassy area. Simon’s desk is dark, institutional wood, and completely bare except for a picture of Rachel in the upper left-hand corner. Aside from a large map of Europe, only his Cambridge diploma and a few certificates of recognition f
rom various government officials hang on the walls.

  “Sir, I apologize again for my assistant’s outburst,” Simon begins after I have closed the door behind me. His assistant again. “I was just telling Marta that just because she knew a man called Andek in Poland, there’s no reason to think that this is the same one she knew.”

  The D.M. turns to me. “What do you think?”

  I swallow, unaccustomed to the question. “I think he may be.”

  “But that’s impossible,” Simon interjects. “For one thing, Andek is Czech, not Polish.”

  “Actually, he’s not,” the D.M. replies. “Our intelligence reflects that he fled Poland during the war.”

  I nod. “He told me he was going south over the border the last time I saw him.”

  The D.M. crosses the room, drawing close to me. “Describe him.”

  “About this tall.” I raise my hand above my head. “Brown hair. And he has a scar here.” I move my hand in a semicircle under my right eye, recalling the wound he received when a bomb he was building detonated accidentally. “Jewish,” I add. “He was a member of the resistance against the Nazis.”

  “And how do you know that?” Simon demands.

  I turn, meeting his eyes. “Because I was a member of the resistance, too.”

  There is silence for several seconds. “The resistance?” Simon repeats slowly, disbelieving. I nod.

  The D.M. pulls out one of the two chairs in front of Simon’s desk. “Tell us everything.”

  I sit down, then take a deep breath. “I was living in the Kraków ghetto with my mother when I was recruited by the resistance,” I begin.

  The D.M. looks at Simon. “In Kraków? I thought the resistance was in Warsaw.”

  “There was a resistance movement in Kraków, too,” Simon replies. “I remember reading about it in a cable. Smaller, not as significant.” His words stab at me.

  “Go on,” the D.M. says.

  “I worked as a messenger for the resistance, traveling the countryside and gathering information and weapons.” Staring out the window, I tell them about the bombing of the Warszawa Café, how the resistance was decimated in the aftermath. I do not tell them about my friendship with Emma or how I killed Kommandant Richwalder to save her, nor about Jacob. “And so after the café bombing, most of the resistance leadership was killed or arrested, like me. But Andek was neither, and he told me he was going over the border to Slovakia to connect with partisans there.”

  When I finish, I look up. Simon stares at me, stunned. The D.M. turns to him. “You had no idea?”

  He shakes his head. “We ran a background check for security purposes when she started working here, of course. But it’s difficult to get information. All of the papers were destroyed during the war.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” the D.M. asks me.

  “I was afraid,” I reply truthfully. “I came here on someone else’s visa. I thought I might be sent back. Plus, I spent a long time in a Nazi camp.” I omit the prison, fearful of raising more questions. “I was trying to forget that part of my life.”

  “You’re very brave,” the D.M. observes. “You should be honored for what you did. And I’m sure our war crimes office would like to talk to you at some point to debrief. But right now we have more pressing matters to contend with. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you again how important it is that we get the cipher from Marcelitis.”

  “No, sir, I understand.”

  “And it seems that the only hope of doing so is getting to Andek.” He pauses. “Will you help us?”

  I hesitate, uncertain how I can be of use. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Sir,” Simon interjects. “What do you have in mind? Do you have an idea of how we can somehow reach Andek from here?”

  The D.M. shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t know of any secure phone or telegraph line to reach the man. And there’s no time to send a courier back and forth. No, I think our only hope is to have Marta speak with him face-to-face.”

  Simon stares at the D.M., mouth agape. “Surely you aren’t suggesting…”

  I look from Simon to the D.M., then back again. “I don’t understand.”

  The D.M. sits down in the chair beside mine. “I am asking if you will go to Prague to speak with Andek directly.”

  I am too surprised to react. For a second I wonder if the D.M. has misspoken. “Me?” I ask finally. “You want me to go to Prague?”

  “Sir, with all due respect…” Simon splutters. I have never heard him sound so upset, much less in front of his boss. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

  The D.M. crosses the room toward Simon. “I’m deadly serious, Gold. Andek is our only link to Marcelitis, and Marta is the only one who can get to Andek.”

  “But she isn’t a spy, for God’s sake! She’s not even a diplomat. She’s a secretary.”

  “She’s a former member of an insurgent group.” I have never heard the resistance referred to as this before. “She has experience with covert operations, firearms. Frankly, she’s more qualified than most men.”

  Amid my confusion, pride rises in me. I had fought alongside Alek, Jacob and the other men. I am glad not to have to hide it any longer. But Simon is not placated. “She’s my wife. We have a small child and—”

  “What is it that you would want me to do?” I interrupt, curious.

  The D.M. walks quickly back toward me. “We need you to go to Prague. We can create some sort of cover for your trip, say that you are there for meetings at the embassy. We have some very good people on the ground there who can help you find Andek.”

  “And then what? If I find him, I mean.”

  “Ask him to let you speak with Marcelitis. Don’t explain too much to Andek alone—we don’t have the intel on him to know if he can be trusted. Instead, use your history with him to gain his trust so he introduces you to Marcelitis. I’ll give you something written from the foreign minister formally asking for the cipher.”

  “Is that all, sir?” I ask.

  “What do you mean, is that all?”

  “I mean, what are we offering Marcelitis in exchange for giving us the cipher?” I can feel Simon’s stunned glare. A secretary questioning the D.M. on policy is unthinkable.

  The D.M. pauses, as though the idea had not occurred to him. “Assurances, I suppose. That Britain is behind them and that we won’t allow the Soviets to roll over Czechoslovakia.”

  I take a deep breath, emboldened by the role he is asking me to play. “That won’t be enough, sir.”

  “What do you mean? Why?”

  “Once, before the war, the Czech people believed in the West. We all did. But the West looked on while the Germans took the Sudetenland, then Prague. People have been bitten by empty promises before, and from what I understand, Marcelitis is especially distrustful. If he is to be persuaded to give us the cipher, we will need something concrete.”

  The D.M. paces back and forth, stroking his goatee. “That’s a fair point. We would have to put together some sort of package, provide something as a measure of good faith. I’ll start working on the needed clearances right away and then—”

  “This is madness!” Simon explodes. I turn toward him, stunned by the sharpness of his tone toward the D.M. His cheeks have turned bright red with anger. “You are proposing to send my wife back to Eastern Europe to a country that might fall to the Soviets at any minute? For God’s sake, she almost died there just three years ago!”

  “We have no reason to think that anything is going to happen imminently with the Czech government. The coalition ministers are resisting resignation and that alone will keep the communists occupied for weeks. Even if they are successful, it will be months until they can form a new government. Nothing will happen before the elections next June.”

  “How long?” I ask. “I mean, if I agree to go, how long would I need to be gone?”

  “A few days,” the D.M. replies quickly. “A week at most. Less if you ar
e able to find Andek and get to Marcelitis quickly.”

  “Marta, you can’t be seriously considering this,” Simon interjects.

  I turn to the D.M. “Sir, may we have a moment in private?”

  “Certainly, though I’m afraid I must ask you to be brief. I need to get over to the minister’s office right away, and they’re going to want an answer on how we plan to handle the situation.” He walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.

  I turn to Simon, who stares at me from the far side of his desk for several seconds. “The resistance,” he says slowly, his voice a mixture of anger, hurt and disbelief. “You could have told me, Marta.”

  “I wanted to,” I reply, thinking guiltily of all of the other things he still does not know. “But it was such a painful part of my past. I was afraid.”

  Simon crosses the room and drops down in front of my chair on one knee to face me at eye level. “Marta, this idea of the D.M.’s is madness. Please tell me you aren’t seriously considering it.”

  I do not answer but study Simon’s face. This is the most interest he has shown in me since we have been married, I realize. For a moment I wonder if he is simply jealous that I can contribute something here that he cannot. But the concern in his eyes is genuine. Something tugs inside me. For so long, he has seemed to see right through me. Is it possible that he might actually miss me if I was gone?

  I stand up and walk to the window, considering the D.M.’s request. Prague. Eastern Europe. Inwardly, I wince. That part of the world was home to me once. But now that I am safe in London, it seems dark and desolate, the place of a thousand painful memories and broken dreams. How can I possibly go back? Across the park, I can see the edge of the Parliament building. I faulted the British for doing nothing the last time, during the war. How can I now do the same? I turn back. “Simon, if I am really the only one who can help…”

  “What about our daughter?” he demands, gesturing to the picture that sits on the corner of his desk.