The Diplomat's Wife

by Pam Jenoff

“A-about what you said before…” His voice trails off.

  I shake him lightly. “Paul, wake up.”

  “Mmm,” he mumbles.

  “You were asking me about something I said,” I remind him gently. “What was it?”

  “I—I can’t remember,” he replies.

  “Just rest. You need your strength.”

  The second man reappears at the top of the steps. “It’s all true,” he says, breathing hard. “Someone anonymously wired a message saying that there would be two stowaways aboard, a man and woman, British and American. They didn’t say anything about an injury.” Jan, I think. She tried to help by sending a message, but of course she hadn’t known about Paul being shot at the port. He turns to me. “The ambulances are coming now.”

  Ambulances, plural. “I don’t need medical attention,” I say.

  A minute later, I hear sirens in the distance, followed by more footsteps and voices overhead. Several medics race down the stairwell past the guards and come to Paul’s side. “Ma’am, if you would step aside so we can treat him,” one says. Reluctantly, I stand up and take a few steps back. “What happened?” the medic asks as he kneels.

  “He was shot,” I reply.

  “Any idea what kind of weapon?”

  I shake my head. “East German. Soviet, maybe. Beyond that I don’t know.”

  He looks up at me. “How long ago?”

  I realize that I have completely lost track of time. “Yesterday, I think.” The medic’s eyes widen. Turning back to Paul, he lifts Paul’s shirt and examines the wound, not speaking for several seconds. Finally, I can stand it no longer. “How is he?” I demand.

  The medic looks up at me, his expression grave. “Are you family?”

  “Yes,” I reply quickly. “I mean no. He doesn’t have any family. I—I’m a close friend.”

  “He’s seriously wounded and he’s going to need surgery immediately.” He turns to the other medics. “Let’s get him out of here.” As they lift Paul, he cries out in pain. I follow them as they carry him up the stairs.

  Outside on the dock, I blink, adjusting my eyes to the daylight. The sky is a blanket of thick, gray clouds, and light, misting rain is falling. The brackish salt air fills my lungs, replacing the dank, dusty air from the hull of the ship. I walk quickly to Paul’s side as the medics place him on a stretcher. “Paul,” I whisper. He does not respond.

  “We have to keep moving,” one of the medic says. I clutch Paul’s hand tightly, walking beside the stretcher as they wheel him from the deck, past several other ships, to one of the two ambulances waiting at the base of the dock.

  The medic opens the back doors of the ambulance, then turns to me. “We have a second ambulance for you.”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need medical attention.”

  “Yes, you do, but there’s no time to quarrel about it. You have to let him go.” I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. Arguing will only delay Paul’s care. I release his hand and the medics lift the stretcher into the ambulance, closing the doors quickly behind them. Then, as the ambulance drives away, I fall to the ground, sobbing.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Marta,” a voice calls in the darkness. Paul. Are we still in Germany? “Marta,” the voice says again. My heart sinks. The accent is British. It is not Paul.

  A hand touches my arm, shakes me. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. Simon stands above me, brow furrowed.

  “Simon,” I whisper. Simon, not Paul. I wonder if I am lying in our bed at home, if finding Paul alive and being reunited with him was just a dream. Tears fill my eyes.

  “Darling.” Simon touches my cheek, mistaking my tears for happiness. “You’re home now. Safe.”

  But I am not home, I realize, looking around the sterile, unfamiliar room. Suddenly I remember huddling with Paul in the bottom of the ship. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the hospital. We received a message at the Foreign Office the day before you arrived that you were coming back by ship, and then Customs reported finding two stowaways aboard the Bremen.” I picture the medics wheeling Paul away, the ambulance door closing. Where is he now? Is he all right? Simon continues, “You managed to tell them who you were and ask them to contact the Foreign Office. But then you became hysterical and refused to let the medics treat you, so they had to give you a sedative. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I reply, sitting up. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Just overnight. You were suffering from severe exhaustion and dehydration, but the doctor says you’re fine otherwise.”

  I swallow. “We ran out of water and…” I take a deep breath, wondering how much Simon knows about Paul. “The man they found in the boat with me. How is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon replies. “He was in pretty bad shape when they found you two. Shot, I believe, losing a great deal of blood.”

  I try to keep my voice calm. “Did they say who he was?”

  “Apparently an American intelligence operative. Michael something-or-other.”

  He called Paul by his assumed cover identity, I note with relief. He does not know that the man on the ship is the same man I was engaged to before we were married. “Can I see him? To thank him, I mean.”

  “Impossible, I’m afraid. They transferred him to a military hospital for surgery.” My stomach twists. “Would you like me to find out how he’s doing?”

  “Please.” I struggle to keep my voice even. Then I notice a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the nightstand. “Did you bring those?”

  “I wish I could take credit, but those are from the D.M. He sends his tremendous gratitude and congratulations on a job well done.”

  I look back at him. “The mission was a success?”

  Simon nods. “The medics found the cipher on you when they brought you in and turned it over to me. It’s being used to decode the list as we speak. Marcelitis has already been in touch with the embassy and is helping us to identify key contacts throughout Eastern Europe. And the Americans are very excited to work with us on this, too.” He pauses, cocking his head. “How did you and that Michael fellow meet up anyway?”

  In a prison in Salzburg, I think. “It’s a long story,” I say aloud. “Would you mind if we talked about it later?”

  “Of course, you must still be exhausted. There will be plenty of time for debriefing once you’ve been home and had a chance to rest.”

  Home. “Where’s Rachel? How is she?”

  “She’s with Delia and doing just fine.”

  “Delia,” I repeat slowly. “Does she know?”

  Simon shakes his head. “Only that you are in the hospital. She thinks you took ill while tending to my aunt.” I wince inwardly at the lie, further compounded. “Anyway, Rachel is fine,” he continues. “She’ll be very excited to see you, I’m sure. She’s invited to a birthday party this weekend.”

  I gaze out the window, across the road at the rolling fields, blanketed in thick fog. Children’s birthday parties. Two days ago I was running from the police in Berlin. With Paul. It seems like another lifetime. In my mind’s eye, his face grows fainter, like a dream. Then I look back up at Simon. “When can I go home?”

  I settle against the sofa cushion and adjust the blanket that is draped over my legs. Then I pick up the still-warm cup of tea Delia brought me and look out the window. Outside Delia and Rachel play with a ball on the front lawn. As if she knows she is being watched, Rachel looks back over her shoulder and smiles widely at me. Even from this distance, I can see the flash of white where a new baby tooth has started to come in. I missed that while I was away. Swallowing my guilt, I wave and blow her a kiss.

  I lean back once more, looking across the room to the fire that burns brightly in the fireplace. It has been nearly three weeks since I woke up in the hospital. Simon was right—there was nothing wrong with me other than a little dehydration, and I was discharged the following day. I could have gone back to work almost immediately, but Simon insisted that I take a few weeks off t
o rest and recover. At first I resisted, thinking of Jan and the others, the promises we made to help them. “You’ve done your part,” Simon said. “Let others pick up the baton.” So reluctantly, I agreed to a brief sabbatical. Delia still came every day, again at Simon’s insistence, to keep me company and help care for Rachel. But I spend almost all of my time playing with Rachel or watching her. She seems completely unaffected by my absence, which bothers me a bit in a selfish way. She does not understand how close I came to not making it home. I will go back to work in time, but I know that I will never leave her like that again.

  A few minutes later, I watch as Delia scoops up Rachel and carries her into the house. Rachel pouts, her tiny upper lip quivering. “What’s wrong, darling?” I ask as Delia brings her over to me.

  “She didn’t want to come in.” Delia answers for Rachel who, still bundled, points out the window. “She was hoping that Sammie would come out and play with her after he returns from nursery.” Sammie, the little boy across the street, is almost three. I look at Rachel in amazement. Can she really have a crush at her age? Delia continues, “But the sun is going down and it’s getting colder. She needs a bath before bed.”

  I smile. Delia keeps Rachel’s schedule with the efficiency of a general. “You can play outside again tomorrow,” I say to Rachel. “Maybe Mama will even join you. Now, give me a kiss.”

  Delia lowers Rachel and I kiss her cold cheek, inhaling the smell of fresh earth in her dark, curly hair. In the kitchen, the telephone rings. Delia looks over her shoulder. “I should get that.” I know she worries about Charles, home alone all day with only Ruff for company.

  “Here,” I say, taking Rachel from Delia. “I’ll hold her.” Rachel settles against my chest, babbling.

  “Hello?” I hear Delia say in the other room as I unbutton Rachel’s coat. “Hello?” There is silence followed by a click. A moment later, she reappears in the doorway.

  “No one there?” I ask. She nods. “Strange.”

  “It happened once yesterday, as well,” she says as she crosses the room to me. “I meant to tell you.”

  I shrug. “Probably just a wrong number. If it happens again, I’ll call the phone company.”

  “Bath for you, young miss,” Delia says to Rachel, taking her from me and carrying her to the stairs. “There’s a roast in the oven,” she calls over her shoulder. “I’ll fix you a plate after I put her down.”

  I start to reply that it is not necessary, but Delia disappears up the stairs, talking to Rachel. I look back at the fire, still seeing my daughter’s face. She reminds me more of Paul than ever since I came home. Suddenly I see him as the medics carried him away from me on the dock, face pale, eyes closed. A few days ago, Simon told me in an offhand way that he had news of the American. “He made it through the surgery and is recovering at one of the military hospitals.” I was barely able to contain my relief. “He’s to be shipped back to the States as soon as he’s well enough to travel,” Simon added. I wondered if this last part was true. Paul told me that he never goes back to America; he will surely head out on his next mission as soon as he is well enough. My heart ached at the thought of him leaving England. “If you’d like to send a note to offer your good wishes, I have the address of the hospital,” Simon offered.

  “I’m sure the Foreign Office has thanked him sufficiently,” I replied. What would I say? That since coming back from Germany, I have thought of him every waking moment? That when I do sleep, I see him endlessly in my dreams? The truth is unspeakable. And to say less would feel like a lie. No, I decided, a note from me would just hurt him more by reminding him of everything that could never be.

  The phone rings in the kitchen, jarring me from my thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I call to Delia, standing. There is a second ring as I cross the parlor to the kitchen. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I say. There is no response. I think then of the two earlier calls Delia had mentioned. “Hello?” A wrong number perhaps, or a bad connection? But I can hear breathing on the other end of the phone. There is something familiar about the sound, the way the caller inhales, breath seeming to catch and hold for a second. My heart skips a beat. “Paul?” I whisper.

  “I’m an idiot,” he says remorsefully. “Calling like I’m a twelve-year-old boy with a crush.”

  At the sound of his voice, strong and deep, warmth rises in me. I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” he replies quickly. “I called earlier but someone else answered so I hung up.”

  “That was Delia.”

  “I figured. And just now, well, I guess when you answered, I almost lost my nerve. I know I shouldn’t be calling. But I couldn’t help it.” He pauses. “I needed to hear your voice.”

  I bring my hand to the mouthpiece. “Me, too,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I clear my throat. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”

  “That’s the official story. We’ve said that because…” He stops, catching himself. Is he afraid of speaking openly on the phone, or of telling me too much? In Germany, we were a team. But now, back in our separate worlds, there are things that cannot be said.

  “I’m glad to know you’re well,” I say.

  “I’m not,” he replies. “That is, physically I’m on the mend. But I can’t stop thinking about us, about…” His voice trails off.

  “Me, neither.” I pause as a vision of the cellar in Berlin, Paul’s torso beneath me, flashes through my mind. Then I remember Delia and Rachel, just one floor above me. Simon could be home any minute.

  “But we can’t do this, Paul.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked. “Goodbye, Marta.”

  “Paul, wait…” There is a click and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for several seconds. Paul called me. He has not forgotten. Tears fill my eyes. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver once more, ring the operator. “I’d like to get the last number that called this line,” I say. There is a pause. I jot down the numbers that she recites on a pad of paper. I start to dial, then stop again. What would I say to him? Calling Paul will only make things worse for both of us. But he sounded so upset when he hung up, and the notion of him being sad or angry with me is unbearable. I start to dial the number.

  Suddenly, there is a noise behind me. I drop the receiver, which clatters to the counter, and turn. Delia is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Y-you startled me,” I say, picking up the receiver and replacing it on the hook.

  “Another empty call?” she asks, crossing to the stove.

  “Yes,” I reply, feeling guilty at my lie. “I was just going to try to get the number from the operator.”

  Delia does not respond but turns on the stove burner beneath the tea kettle. Then she opens the oven door and begins pouring some of the juices that have formed in the bottom of the pan over the roast. “Rachel went right down,” she says a moment later, closing the oven door. “Nearly fell asleep in the bath.”

  “She was more tired than she knew.” I sink to one of the chairs at the table.

  “More tea?” I shake my head, still reeling from my conversation with Paul. Suddenly, unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears. “What is it, dear?” Delia asks, startled. She rushes to the table and sits down beside me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say through my sobs.

  “There, there,” Delia says, stroking my hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s all catching up with you.”

  I look up at her, puzzled. How much does she know? I consider telling her that it is the stress of caring for Simon’s aunt and getting sick. Then suddenly I can lie to her no longer. “Delia, I need to tell you something. When I was gone, I wasn’t actually caring for—”

  Delia raises her hand. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  She nods. “Simon isn’t a terribly good liar.”

  “I’m sorry for not telling you the truth. It was government business.”

  “My
dear, there is no need.”

  “Anyway, while I was gone, I saw…” I hesitate, studying her face. I should stop there, I know. But I have to tell someone about what happened in Germany, to make it real and make sense of it all. And Delia was with me when I lost Paul the first time. “Do you remember Paul, the American soldier whom I was supposed to marry?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s alive!” I blurt out.

  Delia’s jaw drops. “I don’t understand.” Quickly, I tell her how Paul had survived the crash, followed me to Prague and rescued me from the bald man. Watching her eyes widen, I realize how unbelievable my story must seem.

  “Oh, my goodness!” She brings her hand to her mouth. “That is really quite remarkable. Where is he now?”

  “At one of the U.S. military bases. And the calls,” I say, gesturing to the phone on the wall. “They weren’t wrong numbers.”

  “I see.” She studies my face. “He still has feelings for you?” I nod. “And you?”

  I hesitate. “I’m married.”

  “Yes, and you have a daughter…” Delia stops, remembering. “Rachel was premature. That is, she really wasn’t, was she?”

  “No,” I admit. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time.”

  “I understand,” Delia replies quickly. “But you don’t have to be ashamed. You were young and in love.” I bite my lip. I cannot bring myself to tell Delia that I was with Paul again in Germany, that I betrayed my marriage. “Does Paul know that Rachel is his?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to tell him on the ship, but he was half conscious at the time.”

  Delia looks away, staring out the window. “You’ve never asked me why I didn’t marry or have children.” She raises her hand before I can reply. “Oh, don’t worry. I know you were just being polite. I was in love once many years ago. We wanted to get married, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. He said he would disinherit me if I shamed the family by marrying a man who worked as our butler.”

  “Charles?” I interrupt, surprised. I had known for some time that their relationship was more than a working one, but I had no idea the history went back so many years.