The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

  I step from the washroom, inhaling deeply to clear my nostrils with the scent of freshly brewing coffee. Then I start toward the departure board to read the listings that have begun to appear. Across the station, I spot two policemen. One holds a German shepherd on a leash. I freeze. Easy, I tell myself. The city is under martial law. There are going to be police. But my heart pounds harder as I force myself to continue walking, looking up at the departure board as though I am any other traveler. There is an express train to Berlin at six-forty-five, though I do not dare take it. A second train, fifteen minutes later, will go to Děčín, a town I recognize from my drive to Prague with Renata as being close to the German border. I will take that one, I decide. I walk to the ticket counter, using most of the money Renata gave me to purchase a ticket, round trip so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I make my way to one of the now-open kiosks, buy a newspaper and a coffee. I sit down at a table and open the newspaper, pretending to read. Peering out over the top of the paper, I see that the policemen have gone.

  Relaxing slightly, I look across the station. It has grown crowded now, travelers rushing in all directions toward the trains. My eyes lock on a tall man in a dark trench coat, crossing the station. There is something about his awkward gait, his dark curly hair, that reminds me of Paul. I stand up to get a better look, nearly spilling my coffee. But the man disappears into the crowd. I stare after him. Suddenly I am not in Prague at all but at Kings Cross, waiting for Paul, watching the disembarking crowds in vain. Then, noticing the woman at the next table looking up at me, I sit down again. I pushed thoughts of Paul away for so long. Why am I seeing ghosts now? It must be because I am back on the continent again, I decide. Or because I was just talking about him to Emma.

  A minute later, I finish my coffee and stand, carrying the empty cup to a nearby trash bin. The train to Děčín has been listed for platform four. As I start across the station, a phone booth catches my eye. Do I dare call Simon? Renata said communications were down, but at least I can try. Hurriedly I rush to the phone booth and pick up the receiver. “International operator,” I request in Czech. A second later, an operator answers in English and I give her the number. The phone rings once, then a second time. Answer, Simon, I think; pick up before the ringing wakes Rachel. “Hallo,” Simon’s voice, thick with sleep, comes over the line.

  “International call,” the operator says. “Accept the charges?”

  “Yes,” Simon replies, instantly awake.

  “Simon, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Still in Prague. But, Simon, about Marcelitis—”

  “We know about the coup. We’ve been trying to get hold of the embassy, but the lines have all been down. There was a convoy of diplomats, we were hoping you would be with them. You have to get out. If you can get to Vienna, I can arrange—”

  “Simon, there’s more.” Quickly I tell him about the bald man impersonating Marcelitis on the bridge. “Marcelitis didn’t show, but I have an address in Berlin. If I can get there, I still think I can get him to help us.”

  “Marta, that’s crazy! You don’t even know where to find him.”

  “I have an address, on Oranienburger Strasse.”

  “But you have no support in Berlin. We don’t have an extraction plan—”

  “I’ll be fine, Simon.” Suddenly I notice a policeman walking toward the phone booth, looking at me. “I have to go now. Tell Rachel I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I can still hear Simon talking as I hang up. I look out at the policeman, my heart pounding. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing my train.

  I step from the booth. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm as I step around the policeman. I force myself to walk past him slowly, looking straight ahead. A few seconds later I reach the gate and join the queue of passengers boarding the train. When I look back, the policeman is in the phone booth, talking.

  I board the train and make my way to an empty compartment in one of the second-class carriages. It is similar to the train I took from Salzburg, with three worn orange seats on each side of the compartment, facing one another. I sink into the seat closest to the window, then peer out. The policeman is still on the telephone. He had not been looking for me. Relieved, I lean back against the musty seat cushion.

  Soon the train begins to move. As we pull away, the door to the compartment bangs open. I jump, thinking of the police. But it is just an elderly man, carrying a small suitcase. From the doorway, he gestures with his head toward the empty row of seats facing me, asking permission to sit. I nod. The man lifts his suitcase to the overhead rack, then takes the seat across from me nearest the door. He looks at me, and for a second I worry that he will try to start a conversation. Czech is close enough to Polish that I can get by, but my accent would never pass as native. And I cannot afford to stand out, not now. I pull out the newspaper, hoping to discourage him. The man produces his own newspaper and begins to read.

  I press my head against the window, too tired to care if it is dirty. My entire body sags with fatigue. Was it really only the day before yesterday that I arrived in Prague? I see the bald man lunging at me, Renata dead in the car. The demonstrators fleeing. The reality of it all crashes down, overwhelming me.

  I pick up the newspaper once more, scanning an article about the government. Though the article does not say so, I know that the implications of the coup are much broader than just Czechoslovakia. The country has always been a balancing point between East and West and it is possible that their takeover here might embolden the communists to seek more power elsewhere. I touch my bag, thinking of the papers inside. I have to get to Marcelitis.

  Outside, daylight has broken. Hradcany Castle basks in the sunlight, impervious to the plight of the city below. If the state-controlled newspaper is at all correct, the communists will have complete power within days. I look up again at the receding skyline, apologizing silently to the place I have just abandoned.

  Soon the city disappears and the landscape grows more rural, the buildings spaced fewer and farther between. I look across the compartment. The old man’s eyes are closed and he is snoring lightly. I realize then how dry and heavy my own eyes feel. Between my aborted meeting with Marcelitis and fleeing the city, I did not sleep at all the previous night. I blink hard, trying to stay alert. But I feel myself growing sleepier, lulled by the rocking of the train. Just a little nap should be fine. It is still several hours until we reach the border. I close my eyes, my bag clutched tightly in my arms.

  I am startled awake by a loud screeching sound. The brakes, I realize groggily. Struggling to clear my head, I look up at the man seated across from me. “Děčín?”

  He shakes his head. “This is Karlova. You still have another two stops.”

  The station is small, just a single-story building and platform surrounded by trees. Fresh snow has fallen here, covering the ground in white. Pressing my head against the window, I can make out a small group of passengers boarding. At the back of the line, a tall man in a brimmed hat and dark trench coat catches my eye. He looks back before boarding the train, and as I catch a glimpse of his pale eyes, terror shoots through me. It is the bald man, the one who impersonated Marcelitis.

  For a minute, I sit frozen, unsure what to do. How did he find me? I have to get off the train. Heart pounding, I stand up and walk to the door of the compartment, looking into the corridor. To the left, I see the bald man entering the compartment behind several other passengers. I can tell from the way he looks in both directions that he has not seen me. I slip out of the car and turn to the right, keeping my head low. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing by several boarding passengers, squeezing past their luggage. I reach the end of the compartment, cross through into the next, trying to get far enough away so that the bald man won’t notice me when I step off onto the platform. I look back over my shoulder. I cannot see him anymore, but I am certain that he is not far behind. I reach the dining car, walking as quickly thro
ugh it as I can without attracting attention. Now, I think, as I reach the end of the car and approach the door. Get off the train now.

  The train lurches as it begins to move. My heart sinks as the station begins to recede. I am trapped. I look back over my shoulder, the cold wind blowing against my face. The bald man has entered the dining car. His eyes meet mine. I take a step forward, looking through the door at the snowy ground that flies by quicker now. As the bald man starts across the carriage, I know that I have no choice. I take a deep breath and, clutching my bag, leap from the moving train into the whiteness below.

  I hit the snow-covered ground with a soft thud, then roll several times down a steep embankment. I am fine, I realize, except for having the wind knocked out of me. As I stand up, I see another figure fly from the receding train. The bald man has jumped, too. I begin to run away from the tracks, across the field toward a thick pine forest. But the ground is soft here, making it difficult to move quickly. Don’t look back, I think, but I cannot help it. The bald man runs down the hill, gaining on me with long strides. My lungs burn as I reach for the forest, fifteen meters, then ten. I have to go faster. I run into the darkness of the pine trees, tumbling blindly through the thick branches. Suddenly, my foot sinks into a hole. Pain rips through my ankle as I fall to the ground. I struggle to pull myself up with my arms again, but my leg folds uselessly under me. I cannot go any farther.

  I look up in horror as the bald man reaches the edge of the trees. The gun, I remember, reaching inside my bag and pulling it out. With trembling hands, I cock the lever as he descends upon me. I prepare to fire in three, two, one…I squeeze the trigger and a shot cracks through the forest. The bald man stops suddenly less than two meters from me, mouth agape.

  A second shot rings out. The bald man falls sideways to the ground. I look at the gun, puzzled. Had I fired again? Behind the spot where he fell, a figure emerges from the trees, holding a pistol larger than mine. It is a man in a long, dark-brown trench coat. A knit hat is pulled low over his forehead so that it almost meets his wide scarf, obscuring his face. The bald man might have had an accomplice, I remember, seeing Renata dead in the car. I sit up, aiming the gun at the second man.

  He drops his gun to the ground, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. An accomplice would not, I realize, have shot the bald man. But that doesn’t mean he is a friend. “Who are you?” I demand in Czech.

  The man shakes his head. He picks up his gun, then walks toward me, taking the pistol from my hand. “Hey!” I cry, but before I can react, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder effortlessly, then begins to carry me deeper into the forest. I am too surprised to struggle. My mind races. Who is this man? Is he kidnapping me? Clearly he is not working with the bald man, but he could still be after me or the information that I am carrying.

  Several hundred meters deeper into the forest, the man sets me down on the ground. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle, then limp over to a large stone. We are in a clearing of some sort, beside a large rock formation. The man turns away, bending over and putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. I turn back in the direction from which we came. Should I try to escape while he is not looking? But the path is obscured by the trees, and I know that I would not make it far on my injured ankle.

  “Who are you?” I ask again. “Or maybe you could just tell me what you want? My husband is highly placed with the British government, so I’m sure whatever you want can be arranged.”

  “In English, please,” a familiar voice says. I gasp. “You know I’m terrible with languages.”

  The man turns toward me, and as he does, he pulls the scarf away. “Oh, my God,” I whisper, and in that moment I am certain that it is I, not the bald man, who has died.

  There, standing in front of me, is Paul.

  “Hello, Marta,” he says.

  “Marta…” a voice calls in the darkness. “Marta, wake up.” I open my eyes slowly, blinking. I am lying on the ground. Above me kneels Paul, wearing a worried expression. My mind reels with confusion. Am I in the Nazi prison? No, I quickly realize, noticing the bare tree branches forming a canopy splayed against white sky. Paris, perhaps? No, that happened years ago, before Paul died.

  But Paul is here, staring down at me. I do not understand. It must be a dream, I decide. Maybe I hit my head. I close my eyes once more, not wanting to wake up and lose the vision of him. “Marta, no. Open your eyes.” Something warm presses against my cheek. I reach up, closing my fingers around it. A hand. Paul’s hand. I know then that I am not dreaming. I must have passed out…. I snap my eyes open, tightening my grip, terrified that he will disappear. But he is still looking down at me. “That’s better.” His face breaks into its familiar half smile.

  “You’re alive,” I whisper, clutching his hand tightly against my cheek. Joy rises in me, mingling with disbelief. “I don’t understand…”

  “I’m alive,” he repeats, his eyes not leaving mine. “And I’ll explain everything, I promise. But first things first. Are you all right?”

  “F-fine,” I manage to say, still staring at him.

  “You went down hard and I was afraid you’d hurt yourself. Can you stand?” I nod. “Good. There’s an army barracks not far from here and someone may have heard the shots. We have to keep moving.” He slides his arm behind my back and helps me to my feet. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle. “You can’t walk on that,” Paul says. “Not until we can make sure it’s not broken.” Before I can respond, he scoops me up and begins to carry me again. “There’s a shelter close by where we can stop, at least for a bit. Hang on.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me along the bumpy terrain. His familiar scent overwhelms me. Paul is alive. I wonder again if this is real. My head swims with confusion. How did he survive? And what is he doing here? I stare, dumbfounded, at the back of his neck. His hair is longer now, not military, with dark curls kicking up against the edge of his collar.

  A few minutes later, we reach a cave. Inside, it is dark and damp. In the distance, water trickles against rocks. Paul sets me down gently on the dirt floor against the wall. “I need to see your ankle.” He kneels in front of me and takes off my shoe. I shiver at the touch of his fingers against my bare skin. “It doesn’t seem to be broken. Probably just a bad sprain. I’ll tape it for you in a minute.” He takes a canteen from his belt and unscrews the cap. Filling it with water, he offers it to me. “Here.”

  I look from his face to the canteen then back again. He looks different somehow. There is a long scar running from his temple to his chin and his nose juts to one side, as though it has been broken. His hair, once jet-black, is flecked with premature gray. And there is a hardness to his face, the boyishness gone. But his blue eyes are unmistakable. Paul is alive! I throw myself forward, sending the capful of water flying as I wrap my arms around him. A sob rips from my throat. “You’re really here,” I say, burying my head in his neck. I start to cry then, great heaving waves of grief and joy.

  He wraps his arm around me, cradling the back of my head tightly. “Marta,” he whispers.

  I inhale deeply, drinking in his scent. Paul is alive. But where has he been all of this time? I pull away from his embrace, sitting straight up. “Tell me,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Tell me everything.”

  If Paul is surprised by my sudden change in demeanor, he gives no indication. “I was on my way to meet you in London when our plane went down.” I nod as the horror of the morning after I’d gone to Kings Cross comes rushing back to me. “It was terrible. One of the engines exploded and we seemed to fall forever. Then everything went black. I awoke in a military hospital in England weeks later. I’d broken twelve bones, had three surgeries for internal injuries. And I was the lucky one. I was the only person who survived, Marta. All of my guys were gone.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I’m sorry.” I reach out and put my hand on top of his. Our eyes lock. Suddenly it is as if we are back in the gardener’s shed outside Sa
lzburg, where the rest of the world ceased to exist. But the rest of the world does exist, I remember. Rachel exists. And Simon. I am married now. I have a child. I pull my hand back.

  A confused expression crosses Paul’s face. He clears his throat. “Anyway, I spent months recovering in a military hospital north of London.”

  He was so close the whole time, I think. If only I had known. “But why didn’t you come…”

  He raises his hand to my mouth, silencing me, then brings a finger to his lips. “Shh.” He jerks his head toward the entrance of the cave. In the distance, I can hear a rustling noise, voices. He leaps silently to his feet. Then, grabbing me firmly underneath my arms from behind, he slides me farther into the cave, wedging us both into a tiny hiding space between two rocks. “No matter what happens, don’t make a sound.” I nod. The voices grow louder. It sounds as though they are standing directly above the cave now. A dog barks. Surely the dog will smell us in here. I tremble, pressing my head against Paul’s shoulder. He puts his arm around me, drawing me close.

  Outside the cave, the voices fade. I exhale. They are moving away from us. Soon the air is silent once more. I look up at Paul. So he survived the crash after all. All of that pain and grief for nothing. But why hadn’t he come for me? And what on earth is he doing here now?

  “They’ve gone,” Paul says at last, his voice still a whisper. He pulls away slowly, looks down at me. “That was a close one. We should probably wait here for a while.” He unfolds himself from the hiding place and gestures to the open area of the cave. “Why don’t you let me tape your ankle?”

  I slide over to the spot he indicates and he pulls out a roll of gauze from his rucksack. As he reaches for my ankle, I lean over, catching his hand. “Paul, wait a minute. First I want to know what you are doing here.”