The Diplomat's Wife Page 3

  “Ten minutes,” Dava orders, her expression stern.

  “Ten minutes,” I repeat solemnly, winking so only Rose can see. Satisfied, Dava starts walking toward the building. When she is out of earshot, I turn to Rose. “She’s grumpy today.”

  “She’s just worried about us. And very tired.” Rose sounds so earnest I feel instantly guilty for my remark. The camp is short-staffed, and the nurses seem to work around the clock to make sure all of the patients receive the care they need. And Dava is particularly attentive to Rose and me, the youngest women in the ward by several years. She visits us whenever she has a free moment, often bringing extra food and sweets.

  “Dava’s really good to us,” I say. Rose nods in agreement. “She seemed sad when we were talking about the war, though. I wonder if something happened to her.”

  “She mentioned a man once,” Rose replies. “But I don’t know if he was her husband and she never said what became of him.”

  “Oh.” I wonder, with a stab of jealousy, why Dava shared this information with Rose and not me.

  “I’m glad she let us stay out a bit longer, though,” Rose adds, gazing up at the mountains.

  I look down at my dress, one of two that I was given when I was well enough to get out of bed. My forearms peek out from the light pink sleeves, tanned from the summer sun. They’ve grown thicker, too; I’ve put on weight quickly from the hearty camp meals and no longer see my ribs each time I change clothes. Unlike Rose. I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. Her hair has begun to grow in, forming a tight cap of blond curls, but she is still as thin and pale as the night she arrived. She eats little besides the few bites Dava or I can coax into her at each meal, and often she cannot even hold that down. Though Dava has not said so, I know that Rose’s condition is still very serious.

  As I watch Rose, a protective feeling rises up in me. We’ve become so close in the short time we’ve known each other. Back home, I doubt we would have even been friends. I would have dismissed her as too girlish and timid, too boring. But here, where the other women are older and we are both alone, our friendship seems natural.

  It was that way with Emma during the war, too, I realize, her face appearing in my mind. When my mother came back from her job at the ghetto orphanage one day and told me she wanted to introduce me to the new girl who had started working there, I was skeptical. Emma was nearly two years older than me and from the city, not the village like us. What could we possibly have in common? And I had little time for socializing between my official job as a messenger for the ghetto administration and my work for the resistance. But my mother persisted: the new girl seemed lonely. It would be a mitzvah for me to introduce her to some of my friends.

  I relented, knowing that it was pointless to fight Mama when she seized upon an idea. The next day, I went to the orphanage after work to meet Emma and invited her to join me for Shabbat dinner with the others at the apartment that served as the headquarters for the resistance. To my surprise, I found that I enjoyed Emma’s company—she had a quiet grace that made me instantly comfortable. I liked having someone to confide in; it was as though I had found the best friend I never knew I was missing. We began to spend a great deal of time together, talking over long walks through the ghetto streets after work in the evenings.

  Rose and I have developed a similar bond, becoming almost inseparable in our time here. I look past her now toward the sprawling west lawn of the palace. Dozens of large white tents stand in even rows. Residents who do not need medical attention live there, in the main part of the camp. I might have to move there soon, Dava told me the other day. I know that she’s kept me in the ward as long as possible for Rose’s sake, but she won’t be able to justify my occupying a bed that is needed for sicker arrivals much longer.

  I turn back toward Rose. Her chin is dipped slightly into her chest, her eyes half closed. “You look tired,” I offer.

  “I suppose. But let’s stay just a few more minutes.” I nod. Dava will be furious with me for keeping Rose out so long, but I cannot refuse her simple request. “Marta?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where will you go from here? After you leave the camp, I mean.”

  I hesitate, caught off guard by her question. I know that the camp is only temporary, that everyone will eventually leave or be relocated elsewhere. Would I return to Poland? I think about it sometimes. A few nights I have dreamed that I went back to our house in the village to find my mother cooking dinner, my father reading by the fire. But I know that things are different now; all of my family and friends are gone. I see the faces of our neighbors who stood by as the Nazis gathered us in the town square and marched us in double lines to the train station. Pani Klopacz, the elderly woman who bought milk from my father each day, peered through the curtains as we passed, her eyes solemn. Others whom we had known for years turned coldly away. No, I cannot live among them again. Nor can I bear the thought of returning to Kraków, which holds nothing but painful memories of Alek and the others who had died for the resistance. But where else can I go? I’ve heard some of the other women in my English class talking about emigrating to the United States, or even to Palestine. Dava mentioned putting me on the lists for visas to these places, but I know that without a relative to vouch for me, the wait could take years. And even if I could get a visa, how would I survive alone in a strange place? “I don’t know,” I answer at last, feeling foolish.

  Rose opens her mouth, but before she can speak a pained expression flashes across her face.

  I lean toward her. “What is it?”

  “N-nothing.” But her voice is strained and her face has gone pale.

  I stand up quickly. “We need to get you inside.”

  “In a minute,” Rose implores. Her voice is a bit stronger now, as if whatever was hurting her has eased. “Don’t tell Dava, please.”

  “Hey!” A voice yells behind us. Our heads snap in the direction of the palace. As if on cue, Dava is storming across the lawn toward us, hands on her hips.

  “Uh-oh,” Rose whispers. I look upward at the early-evening sky, wondering how much time has passed.

  “Ten minutes,” Dava says, crossing her arms as she approaches. “I said ten minutes.”

  “I’m sorry,” I begin. “We lost track of time. I can take her inside.”

  Dava shakes her head. “You’d probably go by way of Vienna and then I wouldn’t see either of you for days.” I open my mouth to protest but Dava raises her hand. “Anyway, I need your help with something, if you’re feeling up to it.”

  “I’m fine. What is it?”

  “We have a small transport of refugees coming in tonight from Hungary and the woman who usually helps with admissions is unwell. Want to do it?”

  “Sure,” I reply eagerly. I had noticed other residents working around the camp, in the kitchen and the gardens. Several times I pressed Dava to let me help. But she explained that residents of the medical ward were not allowed to have jobs, that I would have to wait until I moved over to the main camp. They must be really desperate for assistance to break the rules now.

  “Great. They should be here any minute. Just go around to the table on the front lawn and Dr. Verrier will explain what to do.”

  “No problem.” I look down at Rose. “Sleep well.”

  As Dava wheels Rose toward the door, I start around the side of the palace. Several army trucks have rumbled through the gate from the main road. They sit now on the grass on either side of the long dirt driveway. Soldiers climb from the trucks, open the back doors. One by one, refugees appear, still clad in their tattered, striped prison clothes. Many lean on the soldiers, unable to stand or walk unassisted. All are emaciated, skeleton thin. Did I look like that just a few months ago?

  “Excuse me,” a man calls in German. I force myself to turn from the refugees. A man with dark hair and spectacles wearing a white coat stands by a folding table a few meters away. Though he is not one of the doctors who treated me, I recognize him from the ward. “
Are you the help?”

  “Yes.” I walk toward the table and sit in the folding chair he indicates.

  “Your job is to verify the information for each person on the arrival list—name, nationality, date of birth, if they have it. Then I will tell you whether he or she is going into the medical ward or the main camp. Do you understand?” I nod, studying the line of refugees as they approach the table. They all look as though they will need medical attention. I wonder if there will be room for them in the wards.

  I take a deep breath, then look up at the first of the arrivals, a gaunt, bedraggled man. “Name?” I ask.

  The man hesitates, a panicked expression crossing his face. Then he glances down at the row of dark numbers on his forearm. Though I did not receive one, I know that prisoners in the main camps were tattooed by the Nazis. This man is unaccustomed, I realize, to being thought of as anything but a number. I take a deep breath, start again. “Hello,” I say in Yiddish, smiling gently. “I’m Marta Nedermann. What’s your name?”

  The man’s expression relaxes. “Friedrich Masaryk.”

  I check him off the list. “Hungarian. Born November 18, 1901. Is that correct?” The man nods. He is only in his forties. With his white hair and hunched posture, I would have taken him for at least sixty.

  Dr. Verrier examines the man. “Herr Masaryk, you are undernourished, but otherwise well enough to go to the main camp.” I make a note on the chart as one of the soldiers escorts Herr Masaryk away.

  The next arrival, a woman, lies on a stretcher, borne between two soldiers. I look up at Dr. Verrier, who shrugs. “Camp rules, I’m afraid. Even the unconscious have to be registered.”

  “Lebonski, Hannah,” one of the soldiers bearing the stretcher reads from the woman’s forehead.

  I check the list quickly. “I don’t see it.” I scan the list again. “In fact, I don’t see any women’s names….”

  “Is there another list?” Dr. Verrier asks.

  “Dammit,” one of the soldiers swears. “Mattie forgot to give us the list from the women’s camp. Jim!” He shouts over his shoulder to another soldier who stands several meters away by one of the trucks. Behind him, I see several of the arrivals cringe. The sound of a soldier yelling, even an American, is still terrifying to them. “Where’s Mattie?”

  The other soldier points toward the palace with his head. “I think I saw him go around the side.”

  Dr. Verrier turns to me. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” I stand up and walk quickly around the palace. The back lawn is tranquil, a world away from the chaos of the new arrivals. I scan the terrace, but it is deserted. Perhaps the soldier was mistaken about the one with the list being here. I pause, uncertain what to do. I will ask Dava to help me, I decide, starting for the palace door. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the tall grass down by the lake. I take a step forward. A dark-haired soldier is half sitting, half lying by the water’s edge. That must be him. I walk quickly down the lawn. He does not look up as I approach. “Excuse me,” I say. Slowly, as though he had been sleeping, the soldier sits up and starts to turn. As his face comes into view, I gasp.

  It is Paul, the soldier who saved me.

  CHAPTER 4

  I stand motionless, staring down at the soldier. Is it really Paul? His wide blue eyes are instantly recognizable. My breath catches. “Can I help you?” he asks, cocking his head. Paul’s voice, low and melodic, is the one I remember from prison. But his words are formal, his expression unfamiliar. He does not recognize me.

  Of course not. He has probably liberated hundreds of people since we met. I hesitate, wanting to tell him who I am, to thank him for saving me. Then I remember the queue of sick and weary arrivals. There is no time for small talk. I clear my throat. “I—I need…” I stammer, my English faltering. Taking a breath, I try again slowly. “One of the soldiers said…Mattie.”

  “That’s me. Mattie. Paul Mattison, actually.” Paul Mattison, I think. Looking down at him, I feel a strange tug inside me. I have replayed that moment in the prison so many times. It is hard to believe he is here. “Did they send you for the list?” he asks. I nod. He yawns and stretches slowly, then pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and holds it out to me. “Here.”

  As I take a step toward him, my heart flutters. He is even more handsome than I remembered. But closer now, his eyes are bloodshot, as if he has not slept for several days. Fine, dark stubble covers his chin and cheeks and his uniform is coated in dust. As I bend down to take the paper, I recognize his earthy pine scent. There is another smell, too, though, both sickly sweet and sour at the same time. Alcohol, I realize. Paul is drunk, or was. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to flee. “Thank you.” I snatch the paper, then turn and start toward the palace. Picturing Paul’s face, I am disappointed. Is that drunk, sullen soldier really the same man who rescued me?

  “Miss,” a voice calls. I turn to find Paul making his way unsteadily up the bank of the lake. “Wait a minute.” As he approaches, I notice that his hair and face are now wet, as though he dunked his head in the lake. The smell of stale water mingles with the pine and alcohol. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  My heart races. He remembers. Then, looking at his unfocused eyes, I realize that it does not matter. “I—I don’t think so,” I manage to say.

  He stares at me puzzled. “But…”

  “Przeprasz…” I begin. In my nervousness, I have reverted to Polish. “Excuse me, I have to get back to the arrivals.” I turn and walk around the side of the palace.

  Dr. Verrier stands by the table, arms crossed. “I’m sorry,” I say as I sit down. The soldiers, who had placed the stretcher with the woman on the ground, pick it up again. I unfold the crumpled list, locating the woman. “Lebonski, Hannah.” Dr. Verrier quickly directs the soldiers to take her to the ward, then moves to the next patient.

  As I try to concentrate on my work, my heart pounds. Paul is here. Should I have told him who I am? I lift my head and scan the soldiers who are helping arrivals from the trucks. Paul is not among them. Then I spot him sitting under a tree across the lawn, head in his hands. Drunk and lazy, I think, as I start to process a skeletal older woman. How could I have been so wrong? But through my disgust, I feel something else, low and warm in my stomach. Suddenly he lifts his head and turns in my direction. Our eyes meet for a split second. I look quickly down at my papers once more, my cheeks reddening. The warmth in my stomach grows as I feel his eyes still on me, watching, trying to remember.

  Twenty minutes later, when the line has dwindled, I glance over at the tree again. Paul is gone. It is for the best, I tell myself over the small stab of disappointment in my chest. I would rather remember him as I had seen him the day of my liberation, not like this. I finish processing the last refugee, then put the extra forms back into the box and stand up. “I do know you!” a voice exclaims behind me. Startled, I drop the box, sending forms scattering across the grass. I turn to find Paul standing there, arms crossed.

  Suddenly it is as if someone knocked the wind out of me. “You startled me!” I say, when I am able to speak again. I bend and start to gather the forms.

  “Sorry.” He kneels beside me to help pick up the papers. The smell of alcohol is gone, replaced by spearmint gum, and his movements are steadier now, as though he has begun to sober. “It’s just that I remembered where I know you from.” He reaches toward me for one of the papers near my right ankle, bringing our faces close. “You were the girl in the prison at Dachau. Mary? Martha?”

  “Marta,” I say, staring hard at the grass.

  “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 d
one 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 shipping 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.”