The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  “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 cur
tain 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.

  In the distance, a clock chimes nine. It is still three hours until my meeting with Marek, too early, I know, to leave for the park. But I’ve never been to Prague before, and once I deliver the message to Marcelitis, I will be leaving again. If all goes well, I might be headed for home as early as tomorrow. This morning might be my only chance to see the city.

  The previous night, when she dropped me off a block from the hotel, Renata offered to drive me to my meeting.

  “Marek told me to come alone,” I reminded her.

  She waved her hand impatiently. “I can leave you at the edge of the park. Wait somewhere else, where Andek won’t see me.”

  “Um, that’s very nice of you, but I don’t think it will be necessary.”

  Renata looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “Alone means alone. I don’t want to chance him seeing me with someone else.”

  “But the park is all the way on the outskirts of the city.”

  “I’m from this part of the world, remember? I can still navigate the buses.”

  “They may be the one thing the communists do well,” she replied, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. You can take the C bus from the corner on the far side of the hotel. The park is the second stop from the end.”

  “Thanks. Does the same bus run through the Mala Strana?”

  “No, that would be the sixteen…” Renata hesitates. “Why? Where are you planning to go?”

  “Nowhere,” I replied quickly. “I mean, I just want to take a quick walk around the Old Town before my meeting. This might be my only chance to see Prague.”

  “I don’t like it, Marta. The city is dangerous right now with all of the unrest.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I don’t like it,” Renata repeated. “But I can’t stop you. Just stay in the central public areas, Wenceslas Square and such. And don’t talk to anyone.”

  Remembering now the map I consulted in the hotel room the previous night, I turn left and begin walking in the direction of the Old Town Square. The narrow, winding streets around the hotel are humming with morning activity, deliverymen unloading wagons in front of shops, women walking with bags of groceries. At the corner, there is a man selling snacks from a wooden cart. I fish some of the coins Renata gave me from my bag, buy a coffee and two braided rolls. As I continue walking, I tuck one of the rolls into my bag for later. Then I take a bite of the other, washing it down with a sip of coffee.

  At the next corner, I turn right, then stop. Across the street stand three policemen, watching the crowd. My pulse quickens. Easy, I think. They are not interested in you. I force myself to keep walking down the street, trying to look like I belong. As I pass, I sneak a glance at them out of the corner of my eye. Have they noticed me? On the next corner, there are two more policemen. Perhaps Renata was right about this walk not being a good idea. Still looking sideways at the police, I bump into something. “Excuse me,” I say in Czech, turning to find that I have collided with a woman exiting a bakery with a small child. I bend to pick up her package, which has fallen to the ground. Her eyes do not meet mine as I hand it to her. She looks nervously from me to the police, then back again before dragging the child down the street.

  I watch the woman as she disappears around the corner. She is afraid. Just like we were during the war. I recall seeing the Gestapo drag a man from a store as I crossed the market square in Kraków on an errand. Caught stealing fruit, I gleaned from a passerby. People hurried quickly away from the commotion, not stopping or looking as the police pushed the man against the wall of a building. A lone gunshot rang out across the square. Later, when I passed the site on my way home and the police had gone, I crossed back to the site. The man lay motionless on the ground, his blood seeping into the pavement, still clutching the apple he had taken. Crowds continued to walk past his lifeless body, eyes averted, too afraid to acknowledge what had just happened. It is like that here, I realize. The people do not want to draw attention to themselves. They are terrified.

  I continue walking, and a few minutes later the street ends at a large, open plaza. Tall, Gothic houses with ornate, sculpted roofs line two sides of the oddly shaped square. On the third side sits a larger stone building, the Old Town Hall. There is a colorful, elaborate clock on the front of the building. I study the design: a gold circle with numbers one to twenty-four run along its inner rim, a smaller circle, ringed with Roman numerals, inside it.

  “That’s the Astronomical Clock,” a voice from behind me says. He is speaking Czech, close enough to Polish for me to understand. I spin around to face a tall man in a bright yellow jacket. He points up at the clock. “The outside ring is meant to function as a normal clock, with the inside circle showing the position of the earth in the heavens. It was built in medieval times and functioned for centuries, but it hasn’t worked since the Germans hit it during the war.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised at his friendliness, this spontaneous offer of information. He is young, not more than twenty-five, I would guess, with a thin face and brown goatee that remind me of Alek. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m Hans, by the way.” He extends his hand.

  I hesitate, remembering Renata’s admonition not to talk to anyone. Then I reach out and shake his hand. “Marta.”

  “You aren’t from here,” he observes.

  I shake my head. “Is my accent that obvious?”

  “Your accent is fine. You just don’t see many people staring at the clock. Those of us who live here have grown immune to its charms. And we don’t get many tourists these days.”

  I curse inwardly at having stood out, hoping that no one else has noticed. “I’m here on business,” I say slowly, trying my cover story for the first time. “A cultural project at the British embassy.”

  “I see.” I study his face, wondering if he believes me. But he is looking over my shoulder, distracted. I turn, following his gaze to the far end of the square where a group of people have gathered by a statue. “I’m sorry, but I really must go. It was nice to meet you.” He strides off in the direction of the group.

  “Wait…” I begin, but he is already halfway across the square. As he approaches, the group grows larger. People, mostly young men and women, come from all directions until there are several dozen assembled. They begin to walk toward one of the streets that leads from the square. I hesitate. I should head back to the hotel. But, curious, I start across the square, following the group. Ahead, I see Hans toward the front of the crowd, his yellow coat bobbing in a sea of darker colors.

  The crowd makes its way down one narrow street, then another. Something is different here, I realize. The stores are closed, metal grates pulled close across their fronts. T
he windows in the apartments above are dark, shades tightly drawn. Other than the people who walk with Hans, there are no shoppers or pedestrians on the street. I remember again the passersby who ignored the man shot by the Nazis in Kraków. The people are afraid. They do not want to be a part of whatever is about to happen here. I should walk away, too. But I find myself pressing forward, part of the crowd now, compelled to see what this is all about.

  A moment later, the street ends at another square, much larger than the previous one. It is rectangular, narrow at the base where we have entered, with two long sides running upward toward a large, gold-domed building. The National Museum, I recognize from the tour book in my hotel room I thumbed through last night when I could not sleep. This must be Wenceslas Square. As the group surges forward, they are joined by hundreds of others, appearing individually or in small groups. They seem to be mostly students, though I see a smattering of older people, too. Some carry crude homemade signs I cannot read from a distance. A political protest. The group swells and surges forward toward the museum building. At the top of the museum steps, a line of police stand shoulder to shoulder, forming a barricade.

  I hang back as the crowd pushes forward around me. I cannot afford to get caught up in this, not now. “Democracy!” the protesters chant over and over. I inch forward, standing on the tips of my toes to get a better view. These are the very people we are trying to help, I realize, scanning the crowd. Perhaps Marek, or even Marcelitis himself, is here. But I do not see Marek, and I have no idea what Marcelitis looks like. They would be too smart to get caught in something so dangerously public, anyway. Someone a few meters in front of me starts singing the Czech national anthem. The song seems to catch fire throughout the crowd, until it seems that all of the protesters have joined in one enormous voice. Looking at the determined faces around me, I am reminded of our own resistance movement during the war. If only we’d had this kind of support from our people, things might have been different.

  As the anthem concludes, the protesters surge closer to the museum building, pressing up the stairs. “No communism!” they chant in unison. “Democracy now!” The front of the crowd climbs the steps, reaches the barricade. Some of the protesters exchange heated words with the police. Though I cannot make out what they are saying, they seem to be demanding entry to the building. A policeman pushes a demonstrator roughly, sending the man flying backward down the steps onto the pavement. Shouts erupt in the crowd. Scuffles between the demonstrators and police break out. The rest of the throng, incensed by the conflict, presses forward.