The Diplomat's Wife

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 scholarship.”

“Will you go back? After the war, I mean?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? I’m not sure of anything anymore. Damn war.” This time he does not bother to catch himself cursing. “My fiancée, Kim, wrote me a letter a month ago, saying that she was through with me and marrying someone else.” Fiancée. 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 Nazis 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 shelling 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 shore. 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 glasses. 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 shore. 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 shore.

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 coarse 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 splashing 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 pass 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.”

But I do not want to head back. I look up at him. His face hovers above mine and his eyes dart back and forth, as though searching for something. Then he lowers his head. His lips brush mine, questioning, asking permission. My first kiss. I am too stunned to react. His hand rises to my cheek and his lips press full and warm on mine. I respond, heat rising in me. Suddenly I freeze, putting my hand on his chest. “Wait …”

He pulls back. “I’m so sorry. I thought you wanted …”

“I do.” I pause, trying to catch my breath. “I mean, I thought I did. But you have a fiancée.”

“Had,” he corrects me. “I think it was over before I left. I mean, we were high school sweethearts. Getting married was what everyone expected us to do, but I’m not sure we were meant to be together, you know?” His words spill out quickly, making it difficult for me to understand what he is saying. “It’s more the idea of having someone back home that I miss.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’m sorry.” Our eyes remained locked. Kiss me again, I think. But I do not want to be the substitute for another woman, not again.

Finally, I turn away. Listening to the rain pound heavily on the roof, I know there will be no possibility of leaving for some time. I lean my head against Paul’s chest, pressing my cheek sideways and feeling the heat that radiates through the damp cloth. He rests his chin on top of my head gently. I take off my glasses, put them on the ground beside me. The shadows dim as the last of the candle burns down. Paul’s breathing grows long and even above me. Enveloped in the warmth of the blanket, I feel my eyes grow heavy.

Suddenly I remember another cabin, larger than this one, outside Lublin where Jacob and I used to hide. Don’t, I think, but it is too late. Jacob’s face appears in the shadows on the wall unbidden, reminding me of the long nights we spent together, anxiously waiting for our contact to arrive and deliver information or supplies. We never slept in that cabin, of course, or even dared to light a candle. Instead, we hid in a dark corner, our heads close to hear each other whispering, constantly afraid of being caught. But Jacob made those nights fun, telling me stories or jokes to pass the time.

Then one night, as Jacob was trying to explain some political concept that I did not quite understand, he stopped speaking. Outside the cabin came footsteps, too numerous and heavy to belong to our lone contact, followed by a dog’s bark. “Quickly,” he whispered, pulling back the bare carpet and opening a hidden panel in the floor. He pushed me down into the tiny crawl space, then climbed in, closing the door. He lay on top of me—there was no other choice—not moving, for what felt like an eternity as the Gestapo walked the floor above us, searching. His heart beat hard against mine. It was in that moment that I realized I was in love with him.

Then the Gestapo were gone, leaving as quickly as they had come. “Are you all right?” Jacob whispered, his breath warm.

“Yes.” My voice cracked. “Fine.”

“Marta …” he began, then hesitated. He lowered his head toward mine. I closed my eyes, expecting to feel my first kiss. But there was nothing. Then I felt him pull back slowly, his weight lessening. I opened my eyes again. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“We’ve grown close, you and I. And I like you.” Hope rose within me. “But Marta, I can’t. I’m married.”

Married. It was as if I had been punched in the stomach. “Who is she?”

“I can’t say. Not even to you, whom I’d trust with my life. We have to keep it secret for her safety. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner. Marta, I consider you one of my closest friends. I’m fond of you.” He cleared his throat. “But to be fair, I had to say something before I gave you the wrong impression or things went too far.”

But I want things to go too far, I thought desperately as he opened the crawl space door and climbed out. Of course I did not say this, but followed him out of the shed into the night.

Remembering now, I shiver. A tear runs down my cheek. Stop it, I think. This is not that cabin. Paul is not Jacob. Paul. I look up at him. His eyes are still closed, head tilted back against the wall. He holds me tightly as he sleeps, as though afraid I might slip away. It is madness to think he might like me, I know. And even if he does, in a few hours he will be gone. But at least for the moment, he is mine. I turn inward, pressing my cheek against his chest, clutching the front of his shirt in my hand. My eyes grow heavy.