The Diplomat's Wife Part 1

The Diplomat's Wife.

PAM JENOFF.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

One of the most remarkable aspects of becoming a published author has been meeting the many talented people who work so hard to bring my books to life. I am forever grateful to everyone at MIRA Books, including my gifted editor, Susan Pezzack, and the editorial team; Heather Foy and her wonderful colleagues in public relations; Amy Jones and the other brilliant folks in marketing; Maureen Stead who always ensures smooth travels; Jayne Hoogenberk and Adrienne Macintosh for their fabulous work on the eHarlequin.com materials; the terrific sales team; and many others too numerous to count. I would also like to thank the amazing MIRA U.K. team for their stellar work, including Catherine Burke, Oliver Rhodes, Clare Somerville, Sarah Ritherdon, Alison Byrne, Bethan Hilliard and all of their colleagues. I am also grateful to publicists Margot Weale at Midas PR in London and Gail Brussel in New York for their work on my behalf.

Another wonderful facet of this experience has been the thousands of people who have come into my life from reading my book. To that end, I would like to thank the many booksellers and librarians who have promoted my work, the readers who have reached out to tell me how my writing affected them and the book clubs who have welcomed me into their homes. I am also grateful to the many authors who have so generously shared the benefit of their experiences with me, and to the writers in my writing group for their feedback on my work. I would also like to recognize the Leighton Studios at the Banff Centre for the Arts. The days I spent there during the formative stages of this book were invaluable.

Then there is the continuing joy that comes from those who have been with me from the start. Thanks to my rock-star agent, Scott Hoffman, and his team at Folio Literary Management, for their flawless judgment, tireless efforts and endless patience in guiding me through the publis.h.i.+ng experience. To my friends and colleagues who have walked this journey with me every step of the way. And most important, to my family: Mom, Dad, Jay and Phillip (and Casey and Kitty, too)-without you, none of this would be possible or worthwhile.

CHAPTER 1.

I do not know how many hours or days I have lain on this cold, hard floor, waiting to die. For some time, it seemed certain that I already was dead, shrouded in the dark stillness of my grave, unable to move or speak.

A sharp pain shoots through my right side. It is not over. Sound comes back next in tiny waves: rats scratching inside the walls, water dripping beyond my reach. My head begins to throb against the icy concrete.

No, not dead. Not yet, but soon. I can take no more. In my mind I see the guard standing above me, an iron bar raised high above his head. My stomach twists. Did I talk? No, a voice within me replies. You said nothing. You did well. The voice is male. Alek, or Jacob perhaps. Of course, it could be neither. Alek is dead, captured and shot by the Gestapo. Jacob might be gone, too, if he and Emma did not make it across the border.

Emma. I can still see her face as she stood above me on the railway bridge. Her lips were cool on my cheek as she bent to kiss me goodbye. "G.o.d bless you, Marta." Too weak to reply, I nodded, then watched as she ran to the far end of the bridge, disappearing into the darkness.

After she was gone, I looked down at the bridge. Beneath me a dark red stain seeped into the snow, growing even as I watched. Blood, I realized. My blood. Or maybe his. The Kommandant's body lay motionless just a few meters away. His face looked peaceful, almost innocent, and for a moment I could understand how Emma might have cared for him.

But I had not; I killed him.

My side began to burn white-hot where the bullet from the Kommandant's gun had entered. In the distance, the sirens grew louder. For a moment, I regretted telling Emma to leave, rejecting her offer to help me escape. But I would have only slowed her down and we both would have been caught. This way she had a chance. Alek would have been proud of me. Jacob, too. For a moment I imagined that Jacob was standing over me, his brown hair lifted by the breeze. "Thank you," he mouthed. Then he, too, was gone.

The Gestapo came then and I lay with my eyes closed, willing death to come quickly. For a moment, when they realized that I had shot the Kommandant, it seemed certain that they would kill me right there. But then one pointed out that bullets were scarce and not to be wasted, and another that I would be wanted for questioning. So instead I was lifted from the bridge. "She'll wish we had killed her here," one said as they threw me roughly into the back of a truck.

Remembering his words now, I s.h.i.+ver. Most days he is right. That was some months ago. Or even years; time here blends together, endless days of loneliness, starvation and pain. The solitude is the hardest part. I have not seen another prisoner the whole time I have been here. Sometimes I lie close to the wall, thinking that I hear voices or breathing in the next cell. "h.e.l.lo?" I whisper, pressing my head against the crack where the wall meets the floor. But there is never any response.

When the footsteps in the corridor do come at last, I am always filled with dread. Is it the kitchen boy, who stares at me with dark, hollow eyes as he sets down the tray of moldy bread and brown water? Or is it one of them? The torture sessions come in sudden, unpredictable bursts, none for days or weeks, then several in rapid succession. They ask the same questions over again as they beat me: Who were you working for? Who ordered you to shoot Kommandant Richwalder? Give us the names and we'll stop, they promise. But I have not spoken and they do not stop, not until I have pa.s.sed out. Once or twice they have revived me and begun again. Most times, like today, I wake up back in my cell, alone.

Yet despite everything, I have said nothing. I have done well. I smile inwardly at this. Then my satisfaction disappears. I thought, almost hoped, that this last beating would mean the end. But I am alive, and so they will surely come again. I begin to tremble. Each time is worse than the last. I cannot take any more. I must be dead before they come.

Another sharp pain shoots through my side. The n.a.z.is operated on me shortly after I arrived at the prison, removing the bullet. At the time, I didn't understand why they would try to save me. Of course, that was before the interrogations began. The pain grows worse and I begin to sweat. Suddenly, the room grows colder and I slip from consciousness once more.

Sometime later, I awaken. The smell of my own waste hangs heavy in the air. In the distance, I hear a low, unfamiliar rumbling sound. Through my eyelids I sense light. How much time has pa.s.sed? I raise my hands to my face. My right eye is sealed shut by a fresh, round welt. I rub my left eye, brus.h.i.+ng away the thick crust that has formed in the outside corner. Blinking, I look around the cell. The room is blurry, as everything has been since they confiscated my gla.s.ses upon arrival. I can make out a pale beam of daylight that has found its way in through the tiny, lone window by the ceiling, illuminating a small puddle on the floor. My parched throat aches. If only I could make it to the water. But I am still too weak to move.

The rumbling sound stops. I hear footsteps on the floor above, then on the stairwell. The guards are coming. I close my eye again as the key turns in the lock. The cell door opens and I can hear low male voices talking. I force myself to remain still, to not tremble or give any indication that I am awake. The footsteps grow louder as they cross the room. I brace myself, waiting for the rough grasp and blows that will surely come. But the men pause in the middle of the room, still talking. They seem to be having a disagreement of some sort. They aren't speaking German, I realize suddenly. I strain to listen. "...too sick," one of the voices says. The language is not Russian or Slavic at all. Englis.h.!.+ My heart leaps.

"She must go." I open my eye quickly. Two men in dark green uniforms stand in my cell. Are they British? American? I squint, trying without success to make out the flag on their sleeves. Have we been liberated?

The shorter man has his back to me. Over his shoulder, I can see a second man, pointing toward the door. "She must go," he repeats, his voice angry. The shorter man shakes his head.

I have to get their attention. I try to sit up, but the pain is too much. I take a deep breath and cough, then raise my arm slightly. The man who had been pointing looks in my direction. "See?" he calls over his shoulder as he races toward me. The other man does not reply, but shakes his head and walks out of the cell.

The soldier kneels beside me. "h.e.l.lo."

I open my mouth to respond, but only a low gurgling sound comes out. "Shh." He puts a finger to his lips. I nod slightly, feeling my cheeks redden. He reaches out to touch my arm. I jerk away. For so long, human contact has only meant pain. "It's okay," he says softly. He points to the flag on his sleeve. "American. It's okay." He reaches out again, more slowly this time, and I force myself not to flinch as he lifts my arm, pressing his large, callused fingers against my wrist. I had nearly forgotten that a person could touch so gently. He feels for my pulse, then brings his other hand to my forehead. His brow furrows. He begins to speak quickly in English, his blue eyes darting back and forth. I shake my head slightly. I do not understand. He stops midsentence, a faint blush appearing in his pale cheeks. "Sorry."

He pulls a metal bottle from his waistband and opens it, pouring some liquid into the cap. Then he takes one hand and places it behind my neck. I allow myself to relax against the warmth of his touch. His sleeve gives off an earthy scent that stirs a childhood memory, pine needles on the forest ground. He lifts my head slightly, cradling it as one might an infant's, bringing the cap to my lips. "Drink." I swallow the water he pours into my mouth. It has a salty, slightly metallic taste, but I do not care. I drink all that is in the first cap and a second, too.

As I drink, I study his face. He is no more than a few years older than me, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. His dark hair is very short on the sides but wavy on top. Though his expression is serious now, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes make me think he has smiled a lot. He looks kind. And handsome. I am suddenly aware of my soiled prison dress and matted curls, caked thick with dirt and blood.

I take one last sip. Then, exhausted from the effort, I go limp as he gently lowers my head to the floor. Don't, I want to say, as he slides his hand out from under my neck. His touch is familiar now, comforting. Instead I smile, trying to convey my grat.i.tude. He nods, his eyes wide and sad. I can feel him wondering how I have come to be here, who would do this to me. He starts to stand. Panicking, I struggle to reach up and grab his hand.

"It's okay." He kneels beside me once more, gesturing toward the door of the cell with his head. "Doctor." He means to bring me help. I relax slightly, still clinging to him. "It's okay," he repeats slowly, squeezing my hand. "You will go." Go. My eyes start to burn. The nightmare is over. It is almost too much to believe. A single tear rolls hot down my cheek. He reaches out to brush it away.

He clears his throat, then touches his chest with his free hand. "Paul."

Paul. I stare up at him, repeating his name in my mind. I do not know if I can speak. But I need for him to know my name, too. I swallow, then take a deep breath. "M-Marta," I manage to say. Then, overwhelmed by the effort and all that has happened, I collapse into darkness once more.

CHAPTER 2.

"Awake now, are we?" A woman's voice, brisk and unfamiliar, cuts through the darkness. Have the Germans returned? I inhale sharply. Something is different. The air is no longer thick with waste, but with smells of rubbing alcohol and fresh paint. Gone are the sounds of the rats and dripping water, too. They have been replaced by gentle rustling, voices talking softly.

Snapping my eyes open, I am stunned to discover that I am no longer in my cell, but in a large room with bright yellow walls. Where am I? A woman stands by the foot of the bed. Though her face is blurry, I can see that she is wearing a white dress and cap. She comes up beside me and touches my forehead. "How are you feeling?" I swallow uncertainly. There is still pain in my side, but it is duller now, like a toothache. "My name is Dava. Do you know where you are?" She is not speaking Polish, but I understand what she is saying. Yiddish, I realize. I have not heard it since leaving the ghetto. But Yiddish is so close to German, and the woman speaks it with some sort of an accent. Perhaps this is just another n.a.z.i trick to get me to talk. The woman, seeming to notice my distress, quickly answers her own question. "You are in a camp run by the Allies for displaced persons, just outside Salzburg."

Camp. Salzburg. My mind races. "n.a.z.is...?" I manage to say. My throat aches as much from saying the word as from the effort of speaking.

"Gone. Hitler killed himself and what was left of the German army surrendered. The war in Europe is over." She sounds so sure, so unafraid. I relax slightly, letting her words sink in as she reaches above my head to a window and adjusts the curtains to block some of the sunlight that is streaming through. Don't, I want to say. I have lived in darkness for so long. "There, that's better." I look up at her. Though her full figure gives her a matronly appearance, I can tell by her face that she is not more than thirty. A lock of brown hair peeks out from beneath her cap.

Dava pours water from a blue pitcher into a gla.s.s on the low table beside my bed. I start to sit up, but she presses against my shoulder with her free hand. "Wait." She takes a pillow from the empty bed beside mine and, lifting me up slightly, places it atop the one already beneath my head. I notice then that I am wearing a hospital gown made of coa.r.s.e, light-blue cotton. "Your body has been through a great deal. You need to move slowly." I lift my head as Dava brings the gla.s.s to my lips. "Slowly," she repeats. I take a small sip. "That's good, Marta." I look up, wondering how she knows my name. "It was written on your forehead when they brought you in," she explains. Then, noticing my surprise, she adds, "The soldiers who are liberating the camps often write things, names or conditions directly on the patients. They either don't have paper or they're afraid the information would be lost on the way in."

I take another sip, then lay my head down on the pillow once more. Suddenly I remember the soldier helping me drink on the prison floor. "How did I get here?"

Dava replaces the gla.s.s on the table. "The Americans found you in the n.a.z.i prison when they liberated Dachau, just outside Munich. We're just two hours south, not far from the German border, so many of the liberated are brought here. You've been unconscious since they brought you in more than a week ago. Your wound was infected and you had a very high fever. We weren't sure if you were going to pull through. But you're awake now, and the fever is gone." Dava looks over her shoulder across the room, then turns back to me. "You rest for a few minutes. I'm going to let the doctor know you're awake."

As she walks away, I lift my head again. Although my vision is blurry, I can make out two rows of narrow, evenly s.p.a.ced beds running along the walls of the long, rectangular room. Mine is in the farthest corner, pressed against a wall on one side. All of the beds seem to be filled, except the one beside me. Several women dressed in white move briskly between them.

Dava returns a few minutes later carrying a tray, an older man with thick gla.s.ses in tow. He picks up my wrist with one hand and touches my forehead. Then he lifts the blanket and reaches for the corner of my gown. Surprised, I recoil.

Dava sets down the tray on the empty bed behind her and steps forward. "He just needs to examine the wound to make sure it is healing properly." I relax slightly and let the doctor lift my gown, trying not to feel his cold, unfamiliar hands as they press on my stomach. Then he pulls the gown back farther, revealing the wound. I am surprised to see fresh st.i.tches along the incision line. "They had to operate again when you first arrived here," Dava explains. "There was a piece of bullet still inside you and you had developed an infection." I nod. In prison I often wondered why my side still ached so long after the n.a.z.is operated on me. Now, not long after the second surgery, it already feels much better.

The doctor replaces my gown and turns to Dava, speaking to her in German too brisk and accented for me to comprehend. Then he hurries away. "He said you're healing really well. And that you should try to eat something. Are you hungry?" Before I can answer, Dava picks up a bowl from the tray behind her. "Soup," she announces brightly. I sit up slowly and this time she does not stop me, but brings the bowl close under my chin. A rich aroma wafts upward. Nausea rises in me and a cold sweats break out on my forehead. Noticing, Dava sets the bowl down on the table and picks up a cup and saucer from the tray. "Let's just start with some tea."

I swallow, my stomach calmer now. "I can hold it."

Dava hands me the cup and I take a sip. The liquid is lukewarm and soothing to my throat. Cradling the cup in both hands, I look upward. The ceiling is high and decorated with a pattern of some sort. I squint to try to make it out.

"This used to be a formal dining room," Dava explains. "The whole camp is housed on the grounds of Schloss Leopoldskron, which was one of the Hapsburg palaces. The n.a.z.is confiscated it from its previous owners, and we took it from them. The palace is very beautiful, as are the grounds. I'll give you a tour when you are well enough."

"Thank you." I take another sip of tea.

Dava points upward. "If you look there, you can see the Baroque influence. The detail is really quite extraordinary."

"I can't..." I begin, then hesitate. "That is, I can't see it."

"What do you mean?" Dava's voice is heavy with concern. "Did the n.a.z.is do something? A blow to the head, perhaps? Or did you fall?"

I shake my head. "Nothing like that," I reply quickly, though of course they had struck me in the head many times. "It's just that I am very nearsighted. And my gla.s.ses were confiscated when I was arrested."

"Oh, my goodness, why didn't you say something? We have a whole boxful of gla.s.ses in the supply room." What happened to their former owners? I wonder. Dava continues, "As soon as you've finished eating, I'll bring you a few pairs to try out. Now, let's give the soup another go." She takes the teacup from me and puts it back on the tray, then picks up the bowl once more. My stomach rumbles with antic.i.p.ation. I swallow the first mouthful Dava spoons for me, savoring the warm, salty broth as it runs down my throat. Neither of us speak as she feeds me a second spoonful, then a third. "Let's slow down for a minute and see how that sits," she says.

I open my mouth to start to protest. It is the first fresh food I have tasted in months and I do not want to stop. But I know that she is right. I lean back and look around the ward. "I've been wondering, the rest of the room looks so crowded, but there is no one here." I gesture to the empty bed beside my own.

"You mean, why are you being kept separate from the others?"

"Yes."

Dava hesitates. "The others are from the camps."

"I don't understand. You said I was in Dachau. Wasn't that a camp?"

"Yes, of course. But where you were kept, in the prison, you were not in the general population with the other women." I study Dava's face. Does she know why I was in that special prison cell? "The conditions in the general populations of the camps like Dachau were very bad," she adds.

"Worse than where I was?" I try to imagine what could be more horrible than the beatings, starvation and isolation I endured.

"Not necessarily worse, but different. There were lots of diseases, dysentery, typhus." Typhus. My mother died of typhus in the Krakow ghetto. I see her sore-ravaged body, hear her crying out in the delirium brought on by high fever. "We didn't want to risk you catching something while you were weak from the surgery and infection, so we kept you as separate as we could. That's about to change, though. We're expecting another transport and we'll likely have to use all of the beds then, so you'll be getting a neighbor. But enough about that. Let's have some more soup."

As Dava spoons the broth for me, I look over her shoulder. Most of the other women lie still in their beds. I am suddenly aware of noises I hadn't heard before, low moans, the whirring and beeping of medical equipment. There is another smell, too: the faint, metallic odor of blood.

I turn back to Dava, studying her face with interest. "Where are you from?"

"Russia originally, but my family moved to Vienna when I was a child. My parents died in Buchenwald."

"You're Jewish?" I cannot keep the surprise from my voice. With her ample figure, Dava does not look like she spent time in the camps.

She nods. "I was in the south of France studying languages when the war broke out. My family wouldn't hear of me coming back. So I signed up as a nurse with the Allies, made my way back to Austria as soon as I was able. But my parents, our house, it was all gone."

Mine, too, I think, my eyes burning.

"All gone," Dava repeats a minute later. But her tone is bright and I realize as she sets the bowl back down on the tray that she is talking about the soup now. Gone. Suddenly I am back in my cell without any food, wondering when the next meal will come, whether I will eat again that day. Panic shoots through me. Dava, accustomed to dealing with survivors, seems to read my thoughts. "Don't worry." She pats my shoulder. "The Red Cross supplies our kitchen. There's plenty of soup, and many other kinds of food as well. If you're still hungry and manage to hold down what you've just eaten, I can bring you bread in an hour. But you have to stop eating for now. It's for your own good."

I lean back, relieved. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." Dava stands up. "Now I need to go check on some of the other patients. I want you to get some rest. You need to regain your strength."

My eyelids suddenly seem to grow heavier. "I am a little sleepy," I admit.

"It's the food. You rest. Sleep is good for your healing." Dava picks up the tray and starts to leave.

"Dava," I call after her, struggling to sit up again.

She turns back. "Yes?"

"I have another question." I pause, picturing the soldier hovering over me in prison. "You said that the Americans brought me in. Do you know any of their names?"

Dava's brow furrows. "I'm afraid not. Why do you ask?"

"There was one soldier I remember helping me before I pa.s.sed out. I think he was called Paul." My heart flutters as I say his name aloud.

"What was his surname?"

I hesitate, trying to remember. There had been dark writing on the green lapel of his uniform. I close my eyes, straining without success to read it from memory. "I don't know."

"There are thousands of American soldiers in Europe right now, liberating the camps," she replies gently. My heart sinks. "I'll ask around when the transports come in from the various camps, but I wouldn't count on too much. Now, you rest. I'll be back when I finish my rounds."

I sink back in bed, watching Dava as she walks away. Then I look around the ward once more. This is not a dream. I really have been saved. Exhaustion overcomes me and I lean my head back against the crisp white sheets, drifting to sleep.

Sometime later, I open my eyes. How much time has pa.s.sed? The ward is nearly dark now, illuminated only by a beam of moonlight that stubbornly makes its way through the drawn curtains behind me. The room buzzes with the thick, labored breathing of sick women trying to sleep. In the distance, I hear someone crying softly.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat. Pus.h.i.+ng myself up to a sitting position, I reach for the gla.s.s on the table beside my bed, which Dava left half full of water. I take a sip, and as I set the gla.s.s down I notice several metal objects on the far side of the nightstand that were not there before. Gla.s.ses! Curious, I reach over and pick up a pair. I put them on but the room remains blurry. They are too weak. Quickly I try the next pair, which are weaker than the first. Disappointment rises in me as I take them off. What if none work for me? The lenses in the third pair are too strong, making my temples ache when I try to focus. I look at the table once more. Only two pairs left to try. Are there more, if none of these are right? I pick up the next pair, holding my breath as I put them on. The room suddenly comes into focus. They are nearly perfect. I can see again!

I turn toward the window, my side aching from the sudden movement. Pulling back the curtains, I gasp. Majestic, snow-capped mountains line the horizon, their jagged peaks climbing to the star-filled sky. The Alps, I realize. Goose b.u.mps form on my arms. A wide lake sits at the base of the mountains, reflecting their vistas in its gla.s.slike surface.

I stare up at the mountains again, blinking. It is hard to believe that such beauty still exists. What am I doing in this place? How have I been lucky enough to come here, to be alive, when so many others are not? Tears fill my eyes. Should I pray, thank G.o.d? I hesitate. I stopped believing long ago, the day I saw my father hanged in the main square of our village for sneaking food to a boy the n.a.z.is had wanted to starve as punishment for stealing bread. I should have died, too, that night on the bridge, or in prison. But I am here, and I cannot escape the sense that some force, something larger than myself, has helped me to survive.

I take one last look at the mountains, then let the curtains fall back into place. I start to lie down once more, then stop suddenly. A young woman is in the bed beside mine. They must have brought her in while I was asleep.

"h.e.l.lo?" I whisper. She does not respond. Her breathing is shallow, and I wonder if she is unconscious. I lean in closer and study her face. She looks about my age, though she is so emaciated that it is hard to tell for certain. Her high cheekbones protrude against her skin as though they might break through at any second and her eyes twitch beneath paper-thin lids. Her hair has been shorn so close that bald patches of scalp s.h.i.+ne through.

I scan the room, hoping to see Dava or one of the other nurses to ask about the girl. But the floor is empty. I look down at the girl once more. Her fingers clutch the edge of the pillow, as though someone might try to take it away. The blanket has fallen from her shoulders, revealing a patch of pale collarbone above her hospital gown. I reach over and pull up the blanket to cover her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a clipboard on the edge of her bed. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I pick it up, scanning the top sheet. It is a medical chart of some type, with many long, unfamiliar words written in English. At the top of the page, I can make out a single word: Rose.

"Rose," I say aloud, setting down the clipboard and looking back at the girl's face. Her eyes flutter beneath their lids. I repeat her name. Slowly, her eyes open and she stares at me, blinking. "h.e.l.lo," I greet her in Polish. When she does not respond, I switch to Yiddish. "I'm Marta." The girl does not respond but continues to stare at me with large, almond-shaped violet eyes. I suddenly recall my own confusion at waking up here. She must be terribly afraid. "You're safe," I whisper quickly, remembering how Dava comforted me earlier. "This is a refugee camp run by the Allies." She still does not answer and for a second, I wonder if she is unfriendly. Just then, Rose reaches out her hand across the s.p.a.ce between our beds. I take her thin, burning fingers in my own. "I'm sure you've been through some really awful experiences. Me, too. But that's all over now." I squeeze her hand gently. "We're safe now. We're in a good place and it's only going to get better, I promise. Do you understand?" Rose does not answer but closes her eyes once more.

I study Rose's face, wondering if waking her had been a mistake. Should I call for a nurse? She does not seem to be in any distress. I lay back in my own bed, still holding Rose's hand. I wish that it was morning so I could ask Dava where Rose came from, what had happened to her.