The Diplomat's Wife Part 2

"Marta," I say, staring hard at the gra.s.s.

"Oh, right, Marta. Sorry." I feel him studying my face. "It's just that you look so different. And I didn't think you spoke English," he adds.

"I didn't." My cheeks begin to burn again. "I mean, I don't, very well. I've had the chance to study since coming here." I am suddenly aware of my accent, of the way I struggle to choose each word.

"Well, you've done great." He finishes gathering the papers. As he puts them in the box, the back of his hand brushes mine. Reminded of his strong, gentle touch as he tended to me in prison, I am suddenly light-headed. Then he leaps to his feet, extending his hand to me.

"Allow me," he says. I look up and our eyes meet. A troubled expression flickers across his face, so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. Pity, perhaps, for the girl he rescued in prison?

I hesitate, then put my fingers in his. Warmth, too strong to ignore, rises in me once more. "Th-thank you," I stutter as he helps me to my feet. He releases my fingers slowly, eyes still locked on mine. Finally, I turn away, struggling to breathe normally as I place the box on the table and brush the dirt from my dress. Across the lawn the other soldiers are loading supplies onto trucks. "Are you leaving again fast?" I ask, looking up at him. His brow wrinkles. "I mean, soon?"

He nods. "We're trying to make Munich tonight. Then we're s.h.i.+pping out. Haven't told us where, but I'm guessing the Pacific."

"Oh." I take a deep breath. "I never had the chance to thank you. For saving me, I mean."

He waves his hand. "It's not necessary. I was just doing my job."

Before I can reply, another soldier approaches the table. "Hey, Mattie, change of plans. One of the trucks has a busted axle." The soldier's words come out in rapid bursts, making it difficult for me to understand. "It's going to take a few hours to fix. Major Clark ordered us to camp here, then head for Paris at first light." Paul is not leaving yet, I realize, suddenly excited. The other soldier continues, "He said we can take the jeep if we want, go into Salzburg to have a look around and get some food."

"I could use a drin-" Paul begins. Then he stops, turning to me.

"Want to come with us?"

I hesitate, surprised. Paul is asking me to join him in town. My head spins. But camp residents are not allowed to leave the grounds. "I can't."

Paul looks from me to the soldier, then back again. "Give me a minute, Drew, okay?" The other soldier shrugs his shoulders. "I'd better go with them," Paul says to me when he has gone.

"Salzburg really is lovely." I fight to keep my voice even.

Paul reaches out and touches my sleeve. "It was good seeing you again, Marta. I'm glad to know you're okay."

"Goodbye," I reply. Then I turn and walk back across the lawn, still feeling the warmth of his touch. As I round the side of the palace, my eyes begin to sting. What is wrong with me? I should be glad that he is gone. He was drunk and not at all what I expected. I walk down to my favorite spot by the water's edge, beneath the willow tree. Then I drop to the ground and lean over, studying myself in the lake. My wild curls and too-large spectacles stare back. What were you thinking? my reflection demands. Did you really expect him to stay here with you, instead of going into town with the other soldiers? I take off my gla.s.ses and brush my eyes with the back of my hand.

Suddenly I hear footsteps coming down the lawn. I replace my gla.s.ses and turn, expecting to see Dava, coming to chastise me for being outside so long. But it is Paul, standing behind me, hands in his pockets. He carries a small backpack on his shoulders that I had not noticed before. "Sorry to sneak up on you again."

I swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. "If you need directions into town..."

He shakes his head. "Nah, I decided not to go."

I inhale sharply. "Oh?"

"I'm kinda tired and the jeep was too crowded. I spend enough time with those knuckleheads, anyway." He takes a step forward. "Mind if I join you?" Before I can answer, he drops down close beside me, leaning back and planting one arm on the ground for support. "It's really beautiful here." I am too surprised to respond. He did not go with the others after all. We gaze up at the mountains, neither speaking. Out of the corner of my eye, I peek down at his forearm, tanned and muscular. Desire rises in me.

Paul turns toward me. I look away quickly, staring hard at the water and praying he did not notice me watching him. "I'd love to go for a walk before it gets too dark," he says, gesturing to a dirt path to the right of where we are sitting that runs along the perimeter of the lake. My heart sinks. He's going to go off and leave me again. But he is still looking at me expectantly. "Care to join me?"

I hesitate, too surprised to respond. A walk, just the two of us? The idea sounds like a dream. But technically, the path is beyond the camp grounds, off limits to residents. And I barely know Paul; it would hardly be proper to go off alone with him, especially since not an hour ago he was drunk. His eyes are clearer now, though, his face the one I remember from prison. And I cannot bear the thought of him leaving again so soon. I have to find a way to go with him. "Wait here for a minute." I stand up and run back into the palace, looking for Dava. The foyer is empty so I walk quickly into the ward. I spot Dava at the far end of the room, checking Rose's temperature.

I race toward them. "What's wrong?"

"Rose has a slight fever." Dava's voice is calm but there is concern in her eyes.

"I'm fine," Rose insists, struggling to sit up. "How did it go with the new arrivals?"

"Fine." I force my uneasiness down. "Dava, I need to ask you a favor."

She does not look up. "What is it?"

"I need permission to leave the grounds and go around the lake, just for a little while. I saw someone I know. That is, the American soldier who saved me at Dachau."

"Paul?" Rose asks eagerly.

I nod. "Anyway, I want to go for a walk with him."

"You know the rules, Marta," Dava replies. "Residents are not permitted off the palace grounds."

"I know. But I was hoping you could make an exception, just this once. Please."

Dava hesitates. "Curfew is in less than an hour."

"I was hoping you could sign me in at bed check." Dava frowns and I can tell that I am pressing my luck.

Rose reaches up, touches Dava's arm. "Let her go, Dava. For me."

Dava looks slowly from me to Rose, then back again. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. "Take this pa.s.s in case anyone questions your being off grounds," she says, scribbling something on the paper before handing it to me. "But I want you back by midnight and not a minute longer."

"I will be. Thank you." I lean down and kiss Rose on the cheek.

"And thank you," I whisper. "But if you aren't feeling well..."

"I'm fine," Rose replies softly. "And I'm really happy for you, Marta."

I race out of the ward and back through the foyer. When I reach the patio, I stop. The spot where Paul sat minutes earlier is deserted. He's gone, I think. My heart sinks. Perhaps he became tired of waiting for me and went after the other soldiers into town. Hurriedly, I scan the banks. Paul is standing farther to the right along the edge of the lake, head down, back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the last rays of the setting sun. Studying the way his torso tapers to his narrow hips, I feel a tightness in my chest, strong and sudden. I have never felt this way before, not even with Jacob. Easy, I think. It is just a walk, something for him to do while he waits to leave again. I force myself to breathe slowly, struggling to regain my composure.

I start toward him, and as I near, he turns, his face breaking into a wide smile. "Look," he says in a low voice, gesturing toward the water with his head. Closer, I can see that his attention has been caught by a mother duck and four fuzzy, yellow ducklings that have drifted close to the bank, heads tucked in sleep. I study his face, boyish with wonder as he watches them.

"Ready?" He looks up from the water, his eyes meeting mine. He blinks, and the serious expression I noticed earlier on the lawn appears on his face once more. Not pity, I decide. Something else.

I swallow over the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. "Y-yes." I follow him toward the low white gate that marks the edge of the palace grounds. He holds the gate open for me and I step through onto the dirt path. A few meters farther along the water's edge, an elderly man sits in the gra.s.s, holding a fis.h.i.+ng rod, a small dinghy docked at his feet. He eyes us warily as we pa.s.s. What a strange pair we must make, I realize. The American soldier and the refugee. But Paul does not seem to notice. He whistles softly under his breath as we walk, looking up at the mountains through the trees.

"It's just beautiful here," he remarks. "Reminds me of our ranch in North Carolina. My family farms tobacco, just at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our mountains aren't as dramatic as these." He gestures toward the Untersberg. "But it's still beautiful countryside." He steps too close to me on the path and our sides brush. "Sorry."

I feel a twinge of disappointment as he moves away. "I'm from the country, too," I offer, eager to have this in common.

He looks down at me. "Really?"

"Yes, our village, it's called Bochnia, is close to the Tatra-" I stop midsentence, interrupted by the sound of voices. Down the path, there is a group of teenagers coming toward us, laughing loudly. A knot forms in my chest.

Paul notices my reaction. "What is it?" I do not answer, but gesture with my head toward the youths. "Do you want to go back?"

"No," I reply quickly. "It's just that..." I hesitate, my skin p.r.i.c.kling. I have seen so few people, other than the camp staff and residents, since coming here. Staying on the palace grounds, it is easy to forget that we are in Austria, a country that embraced the n.a.z.is so readily. But now, seeing the teenagers, I am terrified.

"I understand. Wait here." Before I can respond, Paul walks back in the direction from which we had come, leaving me alone in the middle of the path. Despite my anxiety about the teenagers, I cannot help but notice Paul's long legs, his awkward coltlike gait. He approaches the fisherman, gesturing toward the boat. But Paul does not speak German, I realize, watching the fisherman shake his head. I see Paul reach into his pocket and hand the man something.

I walk toward him. "What are you doing?"

Paul gestures to the boat. "Your chariot, milady."

"I don't understand."

"You wanted to get away from those kids, right?" I nod. "But you didn't want to go back. So I rented the boat from this man. Indefinitely, if need be." The fisherman turns back to his rod, disinterested. He would not have loaned his boat to a stranger; Paul must have paid him enough to buy it outright. "Ready?" He holds out his hand.

I hesitate. I have never been on the lake and it is nearly dark out. But the teenagers are almost upon us now, their voices growing louder with each second. I reach out and Paul's fingers, large and warm, close around mine, sending a s.h.i.+ver through me. I let him lead me to the water's edge. Paul helps me into the boat and I make my way gingerly to the wide wood bench at the far end. The boat wobbles slightly as Paul steps in with one foot, pus.h.i.+ng off from the bank with the other. He sits on the middle bench opposite me and picks up the oars. Then he begins to paddle with small strokes, steering us toward the center of the lake. As we pull farther away from the bank, I relax and look around. It is nearly dark now and the gaslights surrounding the lake are illuminated, their reflections large fireflies in the water. I watch Paul as he looks over his shoulder, aiming for the center of the lake. Warmth rises in me once more.

As the boat continues gently away from the sh.o.r.e, the teenagers' voices fade away and the air grows still. In the distance, a cricket chirps. I swat at a mosquito that buzzes by my ear, then turn back toward the palace. Yellow lights glow behind each of the windows. "Penny for your thoughts," Paul says. I shake my head, puzzled. "It's an expression. I was asking what you were thinking."

"About my friend, Rose. She wasn't feeling well tonight."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He stops rowing and rests the oars in his lap. "There, that's better."

He leans forward, resting his chin in his hands and gazing up at the mountains. I study his face out of the corner of my eye once more. He is really here, I marvel. At the same time, disbelief washes over me. Even before the war, in the best of times, I was never the girl whom boys sought out, took for boat rides. I want to ask him why he is here with me. "So how long have you been in Europe?" I say instead.

"About a year."

"Do you like it?"

"Depends what you mean by 'it.' Europe? It's beautiful from what I've seen. The army? I've made some of the best friends of my life, at least those of them that have survived. But this war...my unit, the Fighting 502nd, they call us, dropped in on D-Day. We've fought in every major battle since. I mean, I would be happy if I never see another G.o.dd.a.m.n-" He stops suddenly, noticing my expression. "Pardon my language. I've been around soldiers so long, I don't know how to speak in proper company anymore."

"I understand." And I really do. There are some things that only cursing can describe.

Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. "Thirsty?"

I shake my head and cringe as he takes a large swig, remembering his drunkenness earlier. "Do you do that a lot? Drink, I mean."

He looks away. "More than some, not as much as others. More than I used to. That's for dam-I mean darn sure."

I want to know why, but I'm afraid of appearing rude. "What did you do before joining the army?"

"College. I was six months short of graduating from Princeton when I was drafted. Not that I was any great brain-I went on a football scholars.h.i.+p."

"Will you go back? After the war, I mean?"

He shrugs. "Who knows? I'm not sure of anything anymore. d.a.m.n war." This time he does not bother to catch himself cursing. "My fiancee, Kim, wrote me a letter a month ago, saying that she was through with me and marrying someone else." Fiancee. The word cuts through my chest. Paul had been engaged when he liberated me. "And I'm one of the lucky ones." There is a hollowness to his voice I have not heard before. "My cousin Mike was killed at Bastogne. Two guys in my unit died, another lost his legs."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. Paul does not respond but stares out over the water, lips pressed together, jaw clenched. I feel an ache rise within me, my own losses echoed in his. My parents, my friends. I remember lying on the prison floor, realizing that there was no one left who cared, no one who would come looking for me. The idea was as unbearable as any physical pain the n.a.z.is had inflicted. Then Paul had come. Until now, I thought of him and the other soldiers only as liberators, heroes. I never thought of what they sacrificed, how they might resent us for bringing them here. I want to reach out and touch him, to try to offer comfort. "I'm sorry," I repeat instead.

"It's not your fault," he replies, shoulders sagging. "It's just that sometimes it seems that I've lost everything."

"No," I blurt out.

"No, what?"

"No, you did not lose everything. Did you lose your parents?" He shakes his head. "Your entire family and all of your friends?" Another shake. "You did not lose your home." I can hear my voice rising now. "Or your health."

He looks down, chastised. "You lost much more than me, I know."

"That's not my point. I'm just saying that you didn't lose everything. Neither did I. We're here. Alive."

He does not respond. Have I angered him? I look out over the water, cursing myself inwardly for saying too much. "This is so great," Paul says a minute later. I look back, surprised to find him smiling. Happiness rises inside me. "The quiet, I mean." My heart sinks. For a minute, I thought he was talking about being with me. "You can't imagine the noise, the months of sh.e.l.ling and artillery. Even at night when the fighting stopped, there was no peace because you never knew when it might start again. It's been better since the war ended, but there are still always a hundred guys around, talking and making noise. Don't get me wrong." He raises his hand. "I love my unit like brothers. But being in this beautiful place tonight..." He pauses, looking deep into my eyes. "Seeing you again..."

His words are interrupted by a low, rumbling sound. "Storm's coming," Paul observes as I turn. The sky over the mountains has grown pitch-dark. Thunder rumbles again, louder this time, and raindrops begin hitting the water around us. "We should go back."

I look from the darkening sky to the sh.o.r.e. We have drifted toward the far edge of the lake, nearly a kilometer from where we started. "We'll never make it back in time."

"Then we need to find shelter somewhere," he replies. "It's dangerous being on the water in a storm like this." The rain is falling heavily now, puddling in the bottom of the boat, soaking through my clothes. "Over there." Paul points to the bank closest to us.

I wipe the water from my gla.s.ses. A few meters back from the water's edge, nestled in the trees, sits a small wooden hut. "Probably a gardener's shed," I say.

"Perfect." There is a large flash of lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder. Paul begins rowing toward the sh.o.r.e. His arm muscles strain against his uniform as he stabs at the water with short, hard strokes, inching the boat forward into the wind. As we near the bank, he hops out into the shallow water and pulls the boat in, securing it. "Here." He holds his hand out to help me to the sh.o.r.e.

We race down the muddy path toward the shed, my hand clasped tightly in his. Paul pushes against the door, which opens with a loud creak. Inside the air is damp, smelling of turpentine and wet wood. I feel a pang of sadness as Paul releases my hand, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a match. He lights the match, illuminating a workman's bench covered with tools. "A gardener's shed. You were right." He walks to the bench and rummages around. "Aha!" He pulls out a small stump of a candle and lights it. The air glows flickering orange around us.

"Th-that's better," I say, my teeth chattering.

Paul's brow furrows. "You're soaking wet." He opens his backpack and pulls out a coa.r.s.e brown blanket. "Here." He wraps the blanket, which smells of smoke and coffee and sweat, around my shoulders. As he brings the edges of the blanket together in front of me, I am drawn nearer to him. We stand, not moving, our faces close. Suddenly, it is as if a giant hand is squeezing my chest, making it difficult to breathe. What is happening here? I wonder.

He reaches down and takes my hand underneath the blanket and for a second I think he means to hold it. But he brings my hand to the edge of the blanket, placing it where his own had been to keep it snugly wrapped around me. Then he steps back, clearing his throat. "I wish we had some dry wood for a fire," he remarks.

I drop to the dirt floor, holding the blanket close. "Probably better if we don't draw attention."

Paul reaches into his bag and I expect him to bring out another blanket or perhaps a towel. But instead it is the flask again. He opens the cap and takes a large swig.

It is not, I decide, the time for a lecture on drinking. "Can I have a sip?"

His eyes widen. "Do you want some? I mean, I'm sorry, I just didn't think that you would...?"

"Drink?" I smile, remembering nights with Jacob and Alek and the other boys from the resistance. We would meet for long hours into the night, planning operations, arguing about strategy. Someone always found a bottle of vodka, and many shots were poured and drunk to the traditional Polish and Hebrew toasts of nazdrowa (to your health) and l'chaim (to life). "Not often," I tell Paul now as he drops to the ground beside me.

As he hands me the flask, our fingers touch. I jerk my hand back, sending the liquid splas.h.i.+ng against the inside of the container. Whiskey, I note, as I raise the flask to my lips. The fumes are strong against my face as I take a sip, tilting my head backward like Jacob taught me so I don't taste the alcohol as much. I feel the familiar burning in my throat as I swallow, then my stomach grows warm. "Thanks." I pa.s.s the flask back to Paul and his hand brushes mine once more. This time I do not pull away. His fingers linger warm atop mine. Suddenly I notice that his sleeve is dripping water. "You're soaked, too," I say.

"I guess I am." Paul looks down, as though noticing his wet clothes for the first time. He shrugs. "It's not a big deal." It occurs to me then that he has given his only blanket to me.

"Here." I pull the blanket open. "It's big enough to share."

He hesitates, then moves toward me, taking the edge of the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. Trembling, I slide closer along the ground, bringing him farther inside the blanket. "May I?" He lifts his arm, asking permission to put it around me. Before I can answer, he draws me close. "Is this okay?"

"Fine," I reply, hoping that he cannot feel how fast my heart is beating.

"I'm sure the rain will stop soon. Then we can head back."