The Diplomat's Wife Part 7

I hesitate. It would be heavenly to spend a few weeks exploring Paris without being worried about the future. I could visit the museums, do all of the things I had only read about in books. But looking down at my bag, I know that I do not have the option. "I still have to go to London," I say. "I have to see Rose's aunt."

"I could arrange to send her belongings on through the army," Paul offers.

I shake my head. "I need to go myself and tell her in person what happened. I owe Rose that much."

"I understand. But I wish you would reconsider. Traveling across the Channel alone. It's so dangerous."

Dangerous. Fighting with the resistance, being imprisoned by the n.a.z.is, those things were dangerous. Being alone in Paris without anywhere to go had been scary, too, in a different way. But now that Paul and I are together I feel safe. Really safe. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," he says reluctantly. "You go on to London tomorrow, while the visa is good. I'll get discharged and meet you there in two weeks and we'll go to America together and get married." He pauses, thinking. "Let's say Kings Cross Station, August 30 at seven in the evening. Agreed?"

I nod. "Paul, there's one other thing...."

He looks down at me. "What is it?"

"Well, if we're to be married...that is, you know that I'm Jewish?"

"I a.s.sumed it when we found you in the camp prison."

There were non-Jews in the camps, too, I want to say. But that is beside the point at the moment. "Does that bother you?"

He shakes his head. "Not at all. I mean, it might give the folks of Ruddy Springs, North Carolina, a start...." He pauses, seeing my expression is serious. "Is it a problem for you?"

I hesitate. Before the war, marrying a non-Jew would have been unthinkable. "No. But I wanted to mention it because if we were ever to have children, I would want them to be raised Jewish." I owe my parents that much.

He smiles down at me. "We can move to a bigger city, if need be. Somewhere with a synagogue and some other Jewish people. We'll work it out, I promise. It's getting late. Why don't you stay here? Technically we aren't allowed to have guests." He gestures toward the lobby. "But my guess is no one is really going to look too closely in this chaos. You're welcome to stay in my room." He raises his hand. "I don't mean that improperly. I can stay with one of my buddies so you have the room to yourself."

"Staying here would be great," I reply. "Thank you."

We stand and make our way up one flight of stairs, then another. Paul leads me down the hallway. "Room 303. This should be it." He unlocks the door and lets me in, then turns on the light. The room is small, barely wide enough for the single bed and washstand. The scent of mothb.a.l.l.s hangs heavy in the damp air. "It's not much, I'm afraid."

I turn back toward him. "It's fine. Thanks again."

"I'm going to bunk with Mickey. He's three doors down on the opposite side of the hall if you need anything. I think we pa.s.sed a washroom just down the hall to the right. I'll set the alarm and knock so you wake up in plenty of time for your train." He pauses, looking down at me. Several seconds pa.s.s. Then he leans down and kisses me. Heat rises inside me as his lips press against mine, soft and full. A second later, he straightens. "Good night, Marta." He walks toward the door.

"Wait," I call as he turns the doork.n.o.b.

He turns back. "What is it? Do you need something?"

I hesitate. "No. It's just that, you don't have to leave."

"I don't understand."

"Stay," I blurt out. "There's no need for you to sleep away, I mean, somewhere else. We already spent the night together once, in Salzburg, remember?"

He smiles. "I do. I just wanted to give you your privacy. Are you sure?"

I nod. In the morning, I will have to leave and then we'll be separated again for weeks. The last thing I want to do is spend these few hours apart. "I'll be right back." I walk past him, out of the room and down the hallway to the washroom. Music and voices drift upward from the bar below. I splash some water on my face, then stare into the mirror above the basin. Paul and I are going to be married. The idea still seems like a dream.

When I return to the room, Paul is kneeling on the tiny floor s.p.a.ce, making up a bed of blankets. "I took a few of the blankets from the bed, but you should still be warm enough," he says. "Just let me finish this and I'll step out so you can get changed."

Inwardly I smile. Paul is still trying to protect me. He does not understand. I could let him continue making the separate bed, I consider. It would be the proper thing to do. But lying apart in the darkness would be torture. I want him beside me. Desire wells up inside me as I kneel down beside him. "That won't be necessary." I take the pillow he is holding and put it back up on the bed, then put my hand in his. "I mean, after all, we are engaged."

"Practically married," he replies slowly, turning on his knees to face me. Our bodies press against each other, our faces close. He stands and helps me to my feet. His lips meet mine, probing. Still kissing me, he guides me to the bed, cushioning me with his arms as his weight pushes me gently downward. A second later, he breaks away. "Are you sure?"

I unfasten the top b.u.t.ton of his uniform. "Positive." I pull the jacket from his broad shoulders. Needing no further encouragement, he clamps his mouth on mine once more, drawing my breath from me, making me light-headed. Paul's hands run down my sides, cupping my hips, bringing his mouth to my neck. I reach for his white cotton undershirt, pulling it over his head, seeing for the first time the metal chain with three small square plates that hangs from his neck. I run my hands across his torso, his back, while he struggles to unzip his pants. As he caresses me through my skirt, fingers featherlight, a soft moan escapes my lips.

Paul rolls gently on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms. Suddenly an image flashes through my mind: Jacob above me as we hid in the crawl s.p.a.ce of the cabin, his scent close, lips forbidden. I freeze, caught by the memory.

Paul, sensing my hesitation, pulls back slightly. "I love you, Marta," he whispers, cradling my face in his hands.

I look into his wide, unblinking eyes. This is real. This is mine. "You, too," I whisper, drawing Paul hurriedly to me once more, finding his mouth. He reaches urgently for the hem of my skirt. There is a moment of fleeting pain. So this is it, I think suddenly. I remember watching Jacob furtively, wondering what it would be like with him. I could not have imagined. Above me, Paul tenses and cries out. Desire returns, deeper and more intense within me than before as I move with him. I gasp, then moan softly, not noticing as the vision of Jacob slides from beneath me and fades away.

Paul lies on top of me, not moving, legs intertwined with mine. His heavy breathing matches my own. "Wow!" he says finally, lifting his head to kiss my eyelids, my cheeks. Then he shifts his weight off me gently, rolling over onto his back.

I rest my cheek on his bare chest, feeling my body ache dully below. "'Wow' is good?"

He laughs, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. "Wow is great." He turns onto his side to face me, his expression serious. His eyelashes, I notice, though long and dark, are blond at the tips. "'Wow' is I never knew it could be like this." I do not respond. My first time. So different, so much more than what I expected. Paul continues, "I mean, to feel this way about someone so soon. I'm glad we're engaged. I only wish I had a ring to give you."

I shake my head. "It's not important."

"I'll get you a nice one when we get to America," he promises. Then he reaches around his neck and pulls off the chain. "My dog tags." He presses them into my hand. "You can wear these for now."

I study one of the engraved plates that hang from the chain. It bears his name and a series of numbers I do not recognize. "But I can't. I mean, this is your identification. You need this."

"Nah, these are important in combat, to identify me if something happens. But the war is over. I've got two weeks of paperwork until I'm done. Nothing is going to happen. Anyway, I'll go to the quartermaster tomorrow after you've gone, get another set made. Okay?" He places the chain around my neck.

I wrap my hand around the cool metal tags. A piece of Paul to keep close until we are together again. "Yes."

"You should try to get some rest," he says gently, pulling the blanket up around us. "You have a long trip ahead of you tomorrow." I nod, suddenly tired. I roll onto my side, facing away from him, and he presses against my back, cupping his legs beneath mine. His cheek is rough against my shoulder. I listen to the rain as it beats against the window, feeling safe and warm. We are going to be together like this every night. Married. My eyelids grow heavy and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I open my eyes with a start, trying to remember where I am. In the dim light of morning, I can make out the small hotel room, my bag lying in the corner. Paris, I remember. Paul. Suddenly, the events of the previous evening-the reunion with Paul, his proposal, our lovemaking-come rushing back. I roll over to find him propped up on one elbow, looking down at me. "Good morning," he says.

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"I slept a bit. You?"

"Like a baby," I reply honestly. "I seem to sleep well around you. But what time is it? I mean, my train-"

"It's okay. It's not yet five. You don't have to leave for an hour or so." He draws me close once more. A jolt of electricity shoots through me as his hand slides down my side. He pauses at my lower torso, feeling the roughness of my scar. A concerned expression crosses his face.

I pull away, suddenly self-conscious. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. But I was wondering how you got that."

I bite my lip. I have not told anyone the story of what happened that night on the bridge, nor the events leading up to it. Not Dava, not even Rose. Now, as I lie in Paul's arms, I am seized with the urge to tell him everything. But will he be horrified, repulsed? It doesn't matter. If we are going to be married, he should know the truth. I take a deep breath. "In Krakow, during the war, there was a..." I hesitate, trying to find the right words in English. "A movement of Jews within the ghetto. Fighting back. How do you say?"

"Resistance?" he suggests.

"Yes. Have you heard of it?"

Paul shakes his head. "I've heard of the one in Warsaw, not Krakow."

All of the struggling, so many had died. And we were still not even a footnote in history. "The resistance used to try to do things against the n.a.z.is. One time, we exploded a bomb in a cafe full of S.S. officers."

"We?" Paul asks. I nod and he whistles low under his breath. "I had no idea you were a partisan. No wonder you're so fearless." Fearless. A warm feeling grows inside me. "That's why the n.a.z.is had you in the special prison cell, isn't it?"

I nod. "They wanted me to give up information about the others. I didn't."

"So were you shot during the cafe bombing, or did that happen later, when they tried to arrest you?"

"Neither, actually. There was another girl in the resistance, Emma. She was my best friend." And the wife of the man I loved, I think. But I cannot bring myself to speak of Jacob to Paul, not now. "Emma was Jewish too, but she was living under another name as a non-Jew." I speak slowly, trying to find the right English words to explain. "She worked for a n.a.z.i, a very big one, and was able to get things for us-security pa.s.ses, information. She became involved with him. In order to get information," I add quickly. I do not want Paul thinking ill of Emma, wondering as I sometimes had, why she had really become involved with Kommandant Richwalder. "She became pregnant." Paul's eyes widen. "The Kommandant wanted to take her away from Krakow and marry her, so we had to get her out of the city. I was in charge of helping her to get out and meet up with her husband."

"She was already married?"

"Yes, to another resistance member. He had been injured in the cafe bombing and was being hidden outside of town." Suddenly, I am back in Krakow, waiting for Emma in the bushes outside her aunt's house. I was supposed to pick her up at dawn, but I knew she would never leave Krakow without saying goodbye to her father. Shortly after I arrived, the door to the house opened and Emma slipped out, a shawl over her head. As I followed her silently through the dark, still streets toward the ghetto, anger rose in me. So much was being risked to help her escape and now she was selfishly putting all of us in further danger.

"Marta, are you all right?" Paul is still watching me, a concerned look on his face.

I blink several times, clearing the vision from my mind. "Fine, sorry. Before we could escape, the Kommandant found Emma and discovered that she was Jewish." I recount hiding in the shadows, watching the Kommandant confront Emma. "I had hoped she might be able to somehow talk her way out of it. He seemed to have genuine feelings for her so I thought he might understand. But when he pulled out his gun, I had to do something. I shot him."

"Oh, Marta." Paul touches my cheek.

"I killed him. But he managed this first." I touch my side. "Then the Gestapo came and arrested me and, well, you know the rest."

"And Emma?"

"She escaped. When I realized I was shot, I told her to go on without me."

"She left you?"

I nod. "I made her go. She didn't want to, but there was no other choice. I told her where Jacob-that's her husband-was hiding. The plan was for them to meet up, cross the border into Slovakia. I don't know if they made it. Anyway, that's how I wound up in prison where you found me."

He stares at me, his expression one of amazement. "I had no idea..."

I swallow over the lump that has formed in my throat. "If you don't want to, I mean, if this changes your mind about me, I understand," I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

"What? Oh G.o.d, Marta, that's not it at all."

"I mean, it's a lot to deal with, I know. I killed a man."

"You killed a n.a.z.i," he corrects me. "To save your best friend."

"Sometimes it doesn't feel like that." I burst into tears.

He draws me close and I bury my head in his chest. "It's okay," he whispers, stroking my hair.

A few minutes later, I pull back, wiping my eyes. "I'm sorry," I say between gulps of air.

"Don't be. I still see the faces of the Germans I killed, too. There was this one soldier, a boy, really. He couldn't have been older than twenty. There were others, of course, but this one...I was only about five feet away." Though he speaks quickly, I am able to follow his clear, familiar cadence. "After I hit him he looked so surprised. I think he expected me to take him prisoner instead. Maybe I should have. But his unit had just killed my best friend, David. Grenade in our foxhole. It would have been me, too, if I hadn't gotten up to relieve myself three minutes before. I came back and there was blood everywhere, on our packs, on the cards we'd been playing gin with minutes earlier. I held David while he died."

"I'm so sorry." I squeeze my arms tighter around him.

"Me, too. I'm sorry for everything we both had to go through. But it's over now. Just two more weeks." He smiles. "I can't wait for you to meet my mom. She's just going to love you. And the ranch! There's a corner of the property, where the stream leads into the woods. I think we should build our house there."

Our house. "It sounds perfect."

"Then we can fill it with, like, twenty kids," he adds.

I laugh. "Twenty kids? Let's just start with one." Suddenly I am concerned. "Paul, promise me that you'll be careful."

"I will." His expression is solemn, but there is a twinkle in his eye. "I won't eat too many croissants. And I won't dance with a single Parisian girl, I swear."

"Very funny." I punch his arm lightly. "I'm serious. The war is over. Just be careful and hurry back to me."

"I won't take any chances," he promises. "Not now. Not when we have so much to lose." He looks over my shoulder at the clock. "But we should leave and get you to your train."

Reluctantly, I roll away from him and climb out of bed. "You stay here."

He sits up. "I want to take you to the station."

I shake my head. "The city is quiet now. I'll be fine. It's better this way. Please." Saying goodbye was going to be hard and I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. The only train station I want to see you at is the one in London, two weeks from now. And, anyway, I want to remember you just like this," I add, pointing to the bed and trying to sound light.

He leans back for a second, relenting. Then he reaches over to his bag, which lies on the floor beside the bed, and pulls out a small notepad and pencil. "Write down the address where you'll be in London for me."

Uneasiness rises in me. "In case your plans change?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing will change. I just want to send you a postcard." I pull my papers from my bag and copy the address from the visa. "Thanks," he says as I hand the notepad back to him. I dress quickly. A minute later, I sit down beside him on the bed.

"Do you have enough money?" he asks.

"Yes," I lie, nodding quickly.

He takes my face in his hands. "Two weeks."

"Two weeks," I repeat solemnly. "Be careful."

"No chances," he promises again. "You, either." He looks long into my eyes, then kisses me hard. I close my eyes, inhaling his scent, wanting to hold on to the moment forever. But a second later I hear church bells in the distance, chiming the hour.

"I have to go." Reluctantly, I pull away from him, then stand up and walk to the door. I turn back, fighting back the tears that fill my eyes. "Goodbye, Paul."

He smiles. "See you soon. I love you, Marta. We're going to have a great life together." I nod, unable to answer without crying. Then I open the door and walk through, pulling it closed behind me.