Читать книгу The Diplomat's Wife - Pam Jenoff, Пэм Дженофф - Страница 12

Paul! Though I had asked about him at the desk, I never really thought … I blink several times, wondering if he is an illusion, expecting him to disappear. But he remains seated at the café table, smiling broadly, eyes wide. It does not seem possible. What is he doing here? Joy surges through me. I take a step forward. Then, focusing on the pretty young woman seated beside him, I stop. Who is she? Anger rises in me as I watch him smile, then say something to the woman. Was his story about shipping out to the Pacific a lie?

I should give him a good piece of my mind, I decide, starting toward him once more. Then, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the patisserie window, I stop again. My plain pink dress, the same one he saw me wearing two days ago, is wrinkled from the long train ride. Dark circles ring my eyes and there are chocolate smudges on my lips. A disheveled Polish country girl. As I look over at the Frenchwoman, with her perfectly coiffed chignon and low-cut silk blouse, my heart crumbles. How could I ever think that Paul really liked me?

I turn blindly away, crashing into a waiter who is carrying a tray between the patisserie and the café. Cups and plates crash noisily to the pavement. “Oh!” My face grows hot as I stand helplessly, staring at the scattered dishes. I feel the scornful eyes of the café patrons upon me as the waiter begins to berate me in French. Desperately, I push past the waiter and race down the sidewalk. A moment later I hear the waiter’s heavy footsteps behind me. I panic. Is he going to try to make me pay for the broken dishes? Has he called the police? I run faster.

“Marta, wait.” Not the waiter, I realize. Paul. He must have seen me when the dishes fell. I keep running, uncertain what to do. But Paul reaches me easily with his long strides, catches my arm. “Marta, please.” I stop, too embarrassed to face him. “Are you okay?” I nod. “I’m so glad, that is, surprised …” He pauses. It is the first time I have heard him at a loss for words. “I mean, what on earth are you doing here?”

“I—I …” I falter, my English failing me. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I was on my way to London. I had to stop here to try to get my visa extended at the British embassy.”

“What visa?”

I hesitate, looking up. At the sight of him so close, my heart jumps. “Rose’s, actually.”

“I don’t understand….”

“She died, right after you left.”

“Oh, Marta, I’m so sorry.” He moves his hand from my arm to my shoulder, but I pull back. I don’t want his sympathy now.

“She had a visa to London, so Dava arranged to have it transferred to me.”

“And you’re traveling to London all by yourself?” I nod again, unable to bring myself to tell him about my failure to get the visa extension. “We just got into Paris a few hours ago. I haven’t even checked into the hotel yet.” I notice then that he is still wearing the same uniform as in Salzburg, but has added a matching jacket. His hair is freshly combed. In spite of my anger, I grow warm inside. “We’ve been given three days’ leave before shipping out for the Pacific.”

Paul is leaving again. He really is going to the Pacific, thousands of miles away. And meanwhile I am stuck here with no place to call home. Suddenly, I burst into tears. “Marta, what is it? What’s wrong?”

I can hold back no longer. Quickly, I tell him about Rose’s visa expiring, the embassy’s refusal to help. “I don’t know what to do,” I manage to say between sobs.

“So they wouldn’t extend the visa for you?”

I shake my head. “The woman said they couldn’t.”

An angry expression crosses Paul’s face. As he looks at his watch, I can see his mind working. “Come on.” He starts down the street toward the Servicemen’s Hotel.

I follow, looking back over my shoulder at the café, where the Frenchwoman has risen to her feet. “What are you doing?”

He does not answer but leads me to the hotel. At the gate, he takes my arm. This time, I do not pull away. His hand is warm through my thin cotton sleeve as he guides me inside, through the lobby to the bar, packed thick with soldiers. “Where’s Mickey?” he asks the bartender, shouting to be heard over the din of music and voices. The bartender points to a blond-haired soldier seated at the far end of the bar. His back is to us and he seems to be telling a story of some sort to a group of men around him. “Give me your visa,” Paul instructs. I reach into my bag and hand it to him. “Wait here.”

He disappears into the crowd and I stand alone, self-conscious at being the only woman in the bar. A minute later, Paul appears by the blond-haired soldier, pulling him off his stool and away from the others. I see Paul hand him my papers. Watching as he talks to the soldier, I remember our kiss goodbye, how he held me as I slept in the gardener’s shed by the lake. Warmth grows inside me. But then I see the soldier shake his head. Paul returns to my side, his face fallen. “No dice.”

I tilt my head. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought my pal Mickey could help with the extension. He’s helped a few people.” Struggling to hear and understand him over the noise, I lean closer. He bends his head toward me at the same time, causing our cheeks to brush. Closer now, I can smell his familiar pine scent, mixed with soap and spearmint gum. “He’s got a girl over at the British embassy who’s sweet on him. Or had, I should say. It seems they’re on the outs. I’m sorry, Marta.”

“I appreciate your trying,” I say, trying to contain my disappointment.

As Paul looks down at me, his expression changes, his jaw clenching stubbornly. “I have another idea.” Without speaking further, he takes my forearm and leads me toward the door of the hotel. I force myself not to shiver at his touch.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he guides me through the hotel garden and out onto the street.

“Back to the embassy.” As we walk back down the street, past the café, I glance at the tables, hoping that neither the Frenchwoman nor the waiter can see us.

I want to tell him that it is hopeless, that the embassy cannot renew the visa from here. “I didn’t think you would be in Paris, at least not so soon,” I offer instead as we pass the American embassy.

“Me, neither,” he replies. “That axle busted again not long after we left the camp. So rather than crowd us all into the other trucks, they let a few of us hop on a transport flight. We just arrived a few hours ago.”

As we reach the corner of the British embassy, my heart sinks. The visa line is as long as ever. If we wait, it is going to take hours. “You don’t have to …” I begin, but Paul leads me past the line and up the steps. I can feel the stares of the other applicants as we pass, wondering who I am, why I am getting special treatment by this soldier.

“Which one?” he asks as we enter the crowded waiting room.

“The woman,” I say, pointing to the window on the right.

“Hope she isn’t Mick’s girl,” he mutters under his breath. Leaving me at the back of the waiting room, he walks to the window. When the applicant who is standing there is finished, Paul steps in. The woman behind the glass opens her mouth to protest. Then her eyes dart to the sleeve of Paul’s uniform. Before she can speak, Paul pulls my visa from his pocket and slides it under the glass. He begins talking, gesturing to me, but I cannot hear what he is saying. The woman looks over Paul’s shoulder at me, but her expression is blank. She does not remember my situation; I am just one of many applicants she has seen that day. Her face remains impassive as she says something in reply. She’s going to refuse, I realize, watching the conversation. Not even Paul can help me this time. But she scribbles something on the visa, stamps it and hands it back to him.

“What happened?” I demand as he walks over.

“Your visa, milady,” he says, handing the papers to me. I look down at the papers in disbelief. The original date has been crossed out and a new stamp bearing tomorrow’s date added. One stamp. That was all the woman had to do to change a life.

“She would only extend it till tomorrow, so you’ll have to leave first thing in the morning. But you’re all set for England.”

“Really?” Relief washes over me. Impulsively, I jump up and wrap my arms around him. “Thank you.”

His arms close around me, warm and strong. For a second, it is as if we are in Salzburg once more. Then I hear someone clapping from the visa line behind us. My mind clears. We are not in Salzburg, I remind myself, stepping back from him. Remembering Paul seated beside the Frenchwoman at the café, I clear my throat. “We should go.”

A confused expression crosses his face. “Okay.” I refold the visa and tuck it back into my bag as I follow Paul from the waiting room and down the steps. “Now we can go to the hotel and get your tickets …” he begins as we reach the street.

“That’s not necessary,” I say, cutting him off. “I mean, I really appreciate all of your help, but I am sure you have other things to do.”

Paul stops, his brow furrowing. “Other things?”

“Yes.” I pause, swallowing. “Your friends from the café will be wondering where you have gone.”

“You mean my buddy, John?”

“Actually, I was talking about the Frenchwoman.” I can hear the jealousy in my own voice.

“Oh!” A light dawns in his eyes. “Marta, I know how it must have looked, but it isn’t like that at all. Last year, our unit was in Paris several times.” So he didn’t just meet the Frenchwoman, I realize, my heart sinking further. Perhaps she is his girlfriend. Paul continues, “John has been dating one of the women, Collette, long distance since then. Emilie, the other woman, is Collette’s cousin. Collette had to bring Emilie along, or she wouldn’t have been able to see John at all today. They invited me along so Emilie wouldn’t feel awkward. But I’m not interested in her.”

“Oh?” I study his face, wanting to believe him. “But don’t you need to get back to them?”

“I’m sure old Johnny can handle two Frenchwomen just fine on his own. And now that you’re here … I never imagined, I mean, I’m so glad …” He hesitates, a faint blush creeping into his cheeks. “Have dinner with me.”

My breath catches. Is it really possible that Paul wants to spend time with me, not the beautiful Frenchwoman? I open my mouth to accept his invitation, then hesitate. There is nothing I would rather do. But I cannot afford dinner, and I still have nowhere to stay tonight. I need to get to the Red Cross shelter. “I don’t know—”

“Please,” he pleads. “I’ll have the hotel clerk change your train and ferry tickets. Unless you would rather have that done at your hotel.”

“No,” I reply quickly. “I—I mean, they only seem to understand French at my hotel. I’m afraid they won’t get it right.” The lie slips out too easily.

“Then we’ll have it done at mine,” he says decisively. “And grab some chow, I mean, have dinner, while we wait for the tickets.”

Looking into his eyes, I cannot help myself. I would sooner sleep on the street tonight than leave Paul now. “That would be nice, thank you.”

“Excellent.” He claps his hands. “Where are you staying? I mean, do you want to go freshen up before dinner?”

“Th-the Hôtel Dupree,” I fib quickly. I hate lying to Paul, but I cannot bring myself to admit that I was planning to go to the refugee shelter. I glance down at the small satchel that holds everything I own, wondering if it might make him suspicious. But he does not seem to notice. “It’s rather far away, though. Is there a ladies’ room at your hotel where I can freshen up?”

“Sure.” We start down the street in the direction of the Servicemen’s Hotel. As we walk, I steal glances at him out of the corner of my eye. I am in Paris with Paul. It is almost too much to believe.

A few minutes later we reach the hotel and cross through the garden. Inside the lobby, Paul points to a hallway leading off to the right. “I passed a ladies’ room over there earlier. I don’t know what shape it’s in. Doesn’t seem to get much use these days. And while you’re doing that, I’m going to check in and get my key. Why don’t you give me your train and ferry tickets? I’ll see about having the front desk change your reservations and book you on the train to Calais for tomorrow morning.”

“That would be great.” I reach into my bag. As I hand my tickets to him, our fingers touch. We remain still, neither pulling away. Our eyes meet and I recognize in his eyes the same longing look I saw as we left the gardener’s shed that morning. I draw back, my hand trembling.

Inside the ladies’ room, I plug the sink and turn the left tap. As the basin fills with warm water, I look into the small, cracked mirror above it, horrified at the disheveled figure that stares back at me. If only I could take a bath, put on my other dress before dinner. I turn off the tap, then splash water on my face and smooth my curls as well as I can.

“Feel better?” Paul asks when I return to the lobby. I nod. “Good. Let’s go.” I follow him out the front door of the hotel to the street. He raises his hand and a taxi pulls up at the curb. “I know a great little bistro in St. Germain,” he explains. I nod, as though familiar with the area. “It’s not fancy, but the food is delicious.” He opens the rear door and gestures for me to get in, then climbs in beside me and closes the door, leaning forward to tell the driver the address.

The cab lurches forward. “My French is awful,” Paul remarks. He sits back, closer to me than is necessary on the wide seat.

“Mine, too.” The warmth of his leg against mine is mesmerizing. I force myself to breathe normally, to look out the window. We turn onto a wide thoroughfare lined with elegant shops and cafés. Since arriving in Paris, I’ve been so preoccupied—first by my rush to reach the embassy and later with my panic at not receiving the extension—I barely noticed the city. Now I stare wide-eyed at the magnificent architecture, the elegant shops that line the boulevard. “This is the Champs-Elysées. And that,” Paul says, pointing to the right, “is the Arc de Triomphe.” I follow his hand, taking in the massive stone arch.

The cab turns left and the arch disappears from view. We start across a bridge and I look back to steal a glimpse of the buildings that line the river. As I turn, my eyes catch Paul’s, locking with his. “It’s beautiful,” I say, my heart fluttering.

The taxi reaches the far side of the bridge and begins to climb upward through narrow, winding streets. The architecture is different here, the buildings close-set, rustic. A few minutes later, the taxi pulls up to the curb and Paul pays the driver. He slides across the seat and opens the door, moving away from me. Don’t, I want to cry out, instantly missing his warmth. He holds out his arm to me. “Shall we?”

I hesitate. I could have ridden around the city taking in the beautiful views all night. Reluctantly, I reach out and wrap my hand around his forearm, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt. Paul leads me to a bistro with wide-paned windows and a simple wood sign in front that reads Henryk’s. Inside, the dimly lit restaurant is overcrowded and warm. A dozen or so tables, covered in red-checked cloths, fill the room to capacity. The aroma of something garlicky hangs in the air, making my stomach growl.

I hang back behind Paul, overwhelmed by the noisy room. A few times during the war, I sat in one of the cafés that ringed the market square in Kraków with Alek and the others during a meeting. But I have never been to a proper restaurant. Staring at the fine plates and wineglasses, my mind flashes back to the café by the Servicemen’s Hotel earlier today. I can almost hear the tray of dishes crashing to the ground.

Suddenly, a burly man with a mustache rushes forward to greet us. “Ah, Monsieur Paul!” he exclaims, taking Paul’s hand and pumping it.

Paul steps aside so that I am no longer behind him. “Henryk, this is my friend, Marta.” Friend. My heart sinks. “Marta, this is Henryk.”

Henryk steps forward and plants a kiss on each of my cheeks. “Welcome, beautiful lady!” Caught off guard by his effusive greeting, I forget to be nervous. Henryk leads us to the only empty table, close to the front window, then lights the half-melted candle that sits in the center. “Monsieur Paul comes to see me whenever he is in Paris.” Henryk’s English, though heavily accented, is slow enough to understand. “But he has never brought a ladyfriend to my restaurant,” he adds as he pulls out my chair. I cannot help but smile at this. “Usually he come alone, with a book. I tell him this is no good for the digestion. I bring you wine.” He hustles off toward the kitchen.

Paul sits down across from me and unfolds his napkin. I watch him nervously. I have walked with Paul, even spent the night beside him. But sitting face-to-face with him like this feels intimate, intense. I unfold the napkin as he has done, hoping he does not notice my nervousness. “The restaurant has been in Henryk’s family for four generations,” he explains. “But he closed it during the occupation, rather than serve the Germans.” His leg bumps mine under the table. “Sorry,” he mumbles, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He’s anxious, too, I realize suddenly. It is hard to imagine anyone being nervous around me, but the thought is strangely comforting.

“What books?” I ask, eager to break the tension. He cocks his head, not understanding. “Henryk said you usually come with a book.”

“Oh, that.” He smiles sheepishly. “I like to read. Hemingway, Steinbeck.” Now it is my turn to cock my head. “Those are American authors, although some of Hemingway’s books are set in Europe. Classics, too, Dickens and such. Pretty much anything I can get my hands on in English over here.”

“I was reading Little Women with Rose,” I offer. “Before, that is.”

Henryk reappears with a bottle of red wine and a basket of bread. He uncorks the wine and pours three glasses, handing one to each of us. “To love,” he proposes, raising the third glass. Startled by his toast, I pull back, sending the wine splashing dangerously close to the edge. I do not meet Paul’s eyes but look away quickly, feeling my cheeks go warm. “Dinner will be out shortly,” Henryk announces, before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“He’s so subtle,” Paul says wryly. He holds up the bread basket, offering it to me.

I pull out a still-warm roll. “He said that dinner is coming, but we didn’t order anything.”

“I always let Henryk decide for me,” Paul explains. “His choices are better than anything I could pick.”

I take a bite of the warm roll. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that it is the first thing I have eaten today, other than the chocolate torte I purchased earlier. Feeling Paul’s eyes on me, I force myself to chew slowly, to pause before taking a second bite. I look around at the other patrons. Young couples and a few larger groups seem to fill the tables, talking and laughing over heaping plates of food and bottles of wine. “We’re in the Latin Quarter, near the university,” Paul explains. “Not that many students can afford to eat out. But you get a lot of academics, artists, writers. Fewer soldiers and foreigners than across the river.” He gestures across the restaurant with his head. “Look.” I follow his gaze to a table in the corner where an elderly couple eat in silence. “I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve been here. But I’ve never heard them speak.”

“They look like they’ve been together for many years,” I observe. “Maybe they’ve run out of things to say.”

“Maybe,” he agrees with a laugh. “Or maybe they’ve been together so long they don’t need to talk out loud.” His expression turns serious. “It would be nice, you know? To spend your whole life with someone, grow old together.” He turns toward the window, a faraway look in his eyes, and I wonder with a pang of jealousy if he is thinking of his ex-fiancée.

Henryk reappears carrying two large bowls. “First course, vichyssoise,” he announces as he sets the bowls down before us, then disappears into the kitchen once more.

I pick up the same spoon from the table as Paul, then try a mouthful of the soup. “Potato soup. It’s supposed to be cold,” Paul explains, noticing my puzzled expression.

I nod, embarrassed not to have known. “Delicious.”

Classical music begins to play. I look toward the back of the restaurant. A woman, stout and fiftyish, is seated at a grand piano. “That’s Henryk’s wife, Marie,” Paul says. “Married thirty years and they’re still completely in love.”

That word again, love. Paul’s eyes lock with mine. Suddenly it is as if the other patrons disappear. Neither of us speak for several seconds. Then Paul clears his throat. “I’m glad to see you again, Marta. I mean, when I left Salzburg, I thought …” His voice trails off and he looks away. “And you, being here now. It’s just unbelievable.”

I nod, unable to speak. Clearing my throat, I force myself to look down at the soup, take another mouthful. A minute later, I glance up again, peeking at Paul out of the corner of my eye as he eats. Taking in his strong jaw, the dimple in his chin, I am reminded of our kiss by the lake. Will he kiss me again? The very thought makes my stomach ache with longing. But we may not have much time together after dinner. How would he manage it? Where? Flustered, I accidentally bang my hand against the table, sending my spoon clattering to the floor.

“Oh!” I cry, starting to go after it, but Paul reaches across the table and touches my forearm, restraining me.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently. He pulls away as a waiter, not Henryk, appears and puts a clean spoon beside my plate.

A few minutes later, Henryk returns, looking down at our half-eaten bowls of soup with surprise. “You do not like?”

“It’s delicious,” I reply quickly. “I’m just saving room.”

Paul winks. “Good answer,” he mouths as Henryk clears the bowls.

A minute later Henryk brings the main course. “Poulet à la Henryk,” he declares, uncovering the plates. The dish is a thick stew, served in a brown sauce over rice.

“The city is still under rationing, but Henryk works wonders with what he can get,” Paul remarks after Henryk has gone. “After the crap—I mean stuff—we ate during the war … Our mess officer, Tommy, tried, God bless him, but there were times last winter …” He stops. “I’m an idiot. Complaining about food after all that you went through.” A shadow crosses his face and I can tell he is remembering finding me in the prison, starving and near death.

“That’s all right,” I say quickly. I do not want him to pity me, not now. “Tell me about America,” I suggest, trying to change the subject.

“America?” He pauses, considering the question as he takes a bite of chicken. “That’s a tough one. It’s such a big place. You’ve got the south, where I’m from, then places farther south where they talk even funnier.” I cock my head. “That was supposed to be a joke. Not all Americans talk like me. The states in America are kind of like your countries over here, but instead of languages, we just have different ways of speaking English, faster, slower, pronouncing words differently. Anyway, there’s the Midwest and California, which I’ve never seen. Then there are the big cities, New York, Chicago. There’re just so many places to go.” He takes another bite. “When I get back after the war, I’d like to drive across the United States. Maybe get a convertible—that’s a car where the roof comes off—and just drive, see the whole thing.” His eyes dance, as if he’s considering the idea for the first time. I imagine myself, seated beside Paul in a car, with my hair pulled back in a kerchief, wearing large dark sunglasses like the women I’ve seen in the movies. “I could go visit the guys from my unit,” he adds.

“The others, they are not from North …” I struggle, trying to remember the name of his home.

“Carolina?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Well one of the guys, Bill McCauley, is, but he’s from clear across the state. The rest are from all over, Texas, New Jersey, Maine. It’s funny, we’ve lived together, sleeping and eating, for so long. It’s hard to imagine going back to our own separate lives.”

“You’ve grown close to them,” I observe, taking a sip of wine.

“Like brothers,” he agrees. Suddenly his expression grows grave. “I had one, you know. A brother. Jack was five years older than me. He got killed in a car accident when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry.” I fight the urge to reach across the table, put my hand on his.

“It was really hard,” he continues, looking away. “I mean, I love my parents, adore my baby sister, Maude. But Jack was my hero.”

“He would be really proud of you,” I offer.

“You think so?” He looks back, his eyes brightening. I nod. “I hope you’re right. That means a lot. Thanks, Marta.”

We continue eating in silence. I think about Paul losing his brother. I was an only child. Friends like Emma and Rose and Alek are the closest I have come to siblings. Rose. My heart aches as I see her lying in bed the night before she died. I reach down and touch my bag beside my feet, thinking of her possessions inside. I will get to England for you, Rosie, I vow silently.

I look up. Paul has stopped eating and is gazing at me, his eyes intense. My breath catches and I look away quickly, feeling heat rise from my collar. Then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the restaurant window. My hair is still frizzy, my face plain behind my spectacles. What can he possibly see to make him stare so?

When I turn back, Paul is focused on his plate, eating the last of the chicken, scraping the sauce from the plate. But his wineglass is still nearly full. “Don’t you like the wine?”

He shakes his head. “The wine is wonderful. I could drink the bottle without thinking twice. But you …” He breaks off, looking away. “There was this girl who made me see I was drinking too much out of self-pity. So I’ve pretty much decided to stop.”

“Oh.” I think back to our conversation on the lake, struck that my words had such an effect on him. “I’m sorry if I was preachy.”

“You were right.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand once more. “You reminded me who I used to be before the war. I want to be that person again.” This time I do not pull away.

Henryk appears at the table then and clears his throat. “Dessert?”

Remembering the chocolate torte earlier, I am tempted, but I don’t want to appear unladylike. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“I think we’d best be going,” Paul adds, handing Henryk several bills.

Henryk puts the money in his apron pocket without counting it. “Before you go I would like for Mademoiselle Marta to meet my Marie.” Before either Paul or I can respond, Henryk takes me by the arm and leads me through the restaurant. The dark-haired woman at the piano stops playing midsong as we approach. Up close, she is elegant, with sparkling green eyes and large gold hoop earrings. Henryk speaks to her in French, then turns to me. “This is my wife.”

Marie stands and takes my hand, her bangle bracelets jingling. “Enchanté.” She turns to her husband, speaking rapidly in French, still holding my hand.

“My wife is quite good at reading palms,” Henryk says. “She wants to know if she can look at yours.”

I hesitate. Growing up in Poland, I had heard of gypsies from the Roma community who could tell the future from the lines of the palm, but I have never met anyone who claimed she could actually do it. I shrug.

Henryk nods to his wife. She turns my hand over, cradling it in hers. Then she raises it to the light, running her thumb over my palm several times, and speaking to Henryk, who translates. “You have suffered through hard times.” That is hardly a prediction, I think. Everyone suffered during the war. “But your life line is strong, and your heart line is very deep. You will have great love …?” As he says this, Henryk looks meaningfully at Paul, who has come up behind me. I shiver. “And that love,” Henryk prompts, but Marie stops, placing her hand on Henryk’s arm to silence him. A troubled look crosses her face. She runs her hand over my palm twice, as if wiping something away. Then she drops my hand as if it is hot and looks up, shaking her head.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Henryk replies quickly, but I can tell from his tone and his wife’s expression that there is more. “I should get back to the other guests.”

“Of course,” Paul replies, shaking Henryk’s hand as Marie turns back to the piano. We make our way to the front of the restaurant and onto the street. It is getting dark now and the gaslights have come on, casting a yellow glow on the pavement. “They’re lovely people, but palm reading is a silly game.”

“Perhaps,” I reply slowly, still troubled by Marie’s refusal to say all that she had seen.

“Are you tired?” Paul asks. I shake my head quickly, not wanting my night with Paul to end. “Good. Why don’t we walk?” He leads me away from the restaurant along a winding street. The buildings here are narrow, seeming to lean on one another. Voices and laughter spill out from the cafés and bars onto the street. Paul points at the window of an apartment on the third floor of one of the buildings, illuminated in yellow light. A young woman sits on a bed reading to three small children clustered around her. “Can you imagine growing up here?”

I do not answer. In my mind, I imagine this street during the occupation. What had those children been through? I think then of the children in the ghetto orphanage where my mother and Emma had worked. What had become of them? I wonder, my stomach aching at the memory.

We walk in comfortable silence. Soon the street ends at the river. “Look.” Paul points to an island where an enormous cathedral sits, its turrets and buttresses bathed in light. “Notre Dame.” I stop, staring up at the massive structure. The church that seemed so massive when I sought shelter the previous night is dwarfed by comparison. “You know, they call Paris the City of Lights,” Paul offers.

I continue to gaze at Notre Dame as Paul leads me left along a path that runs parallel to the Seine. Soon we reach a wide stone bridge that crosses the river. “Careful,” he says, taking me by the arm to guide me onto the pedestrian sidewalk, away from the cars that race on and off of the bridge. A jolt of electricity runs through me. Would I ever be able not to shiver at his touch? “This is the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris.” He whistles softly under his breath as we make our way across the bridge. When we reach the midpoint, he stops, pointing at the skyline in the opposite direction from Notre Dame. “Look.”

In the distance, I can see the Eiffel Tower, climbing toward the sky. I lean against the wall of the bridge, staring. “This city … I mean, I couldn’t have imagined …”

“It kind of defies words,” Paul agrees, moving so that he is standing close behind me. “Hard to believe just a few months ago it was still occupied by the Germans.” He puts his arms around me from behind and I can feel his warmth, his heart beating against my back. Other than our brief embrace in the bar, we have not been this close since Salzburg. My desire swells and breaks wide open.

Suddenly, there is shouting on the street behind us, followed by a series of small explosions. We turn toward the commotion. “What on earth …?” Paul steps forward, putting me behind him protectively. His hand drops to the gun holstered at his waist. There is more shouting, followed by someone singing. On the bridge, traffic has stopped. Car horns begin to blare.

“Sounds like a celebration of some sort,” I suggest.

Paul does not answer but takes my hand and leads me across the bridge to the street, where a small crowd has gathered, shouting and cheering. Some people are drinking directly from bottles, others dancing alone or in pairs. The gathering swells as dozens more revelers come running from all directions. Paul grabs an American soldier by the sleeve as he runs past us. “What’s going on?”

“The Japs have surrendered. The war is over!” The soldier lets out a whoop, then continues running to join the crowd.

Paul turns to me and we stare at each other, too stunned to speak. “The war is over,” he repeats at last. He bends down and picks me up. “The war is over!” He spins me around, faster and faster, until the city is just a blur of lights. Then he sets me down, his arms still around me. We look at each other breathlessly for several seconds. Suddenly he brings his lips to mine, and without hesitation I am kissing him back, my mouth open, body pressed tight to his. It is as if we will never stop, as if the street and the people and the world around us no longer exist.

There are more explosions, breaking us apart. “I’m sorry,” Paul says quickly.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” I take a step back, smoothing my skirt. “Look.” I point across the water. Bright flashes of light, red and blue, fill the night sky.

“Fireworks,” Paul remarks. I nod, staring in wonder at the waves of color that fill the sky like confetti. I have heard of fireworks but never seen them before. “You would think after all of the bombings, everyone would have had enough of things exploding,” he says a minute later. “Let’s get out of here.” For a second I hope we will return to the bridge and gaze at the skyline once more. But he leads me through the streets back, I can tell, toward the Servicemen’s Hotel. The war is over, I think, as we walk in silence. I was thirteen years old when the war began and I spent the past six years running for my life.

“What are you thinking?” Paul asks.

“Lots of things. Mostly about what I lost during the war.”

He smiles. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like me.”

Recalling how I had chastised him for self-pity the night on the lake, I laugh. “I suppose I am. I really was preachy, wasn’t I?”

“Not at all. You were right about being grateful to be alive, earning the chance we’ve been given. And now, with the war ending, getting to go home. It really is a second chance, isn’t it?”

Home. Paul will be leaving, returning to America for good. He stops walking and turns to me suddenly, his expression troubled. “The only bad thing is leaving you.” My heart pounds against my chest. “I mean, I realize we haven’t known each other very long, but … I’m going to miss you, Marta.”

So don’t go, I want to scream. “I’ll miss you, too.”

We stand staring at each other for several seconds, neither speaking. “Well, it’s getting late,” he says at last. “We should get back and pick up your papers.” We continue walking and, a few minutes later, approach the Servicemen’s Hotel.

Through the closed hotel door, I hear shouting and singing, soldiers celebrating the end of the war. “Why don’t you wait here?” Paul suggests. “Once I get your papers from Mickey, I can escort you back to your hotel.”

My hotel, I think, panicking. In my excitement at seeing Paul, I had nearly forgotten that I was supposed to get to the Red Cross shelter. “That won’t be necessary …” I begin, but Paul is already through the hotel door.

A minute later, he reappears. “All set,” he says. There is a new number scrawled across the front of the train ticket. “Front desk called the station and reserved you a seat on the seven-fifteen train to Calais. It’s a bit early, I’m afraid, but the only way you’ll make the ferry.”

“Thank you again.” I tuck them into my bag as he leads me down the path to the curb, hailing a taxi.

“Paul, my hotel is clear across town,” I say as the taxi pulls up. “There’s no need for you to ride all the way there.”

He opens the rear door. “But the city is crazy right now with all of the celebrating. I’m glad to escort you.”

“I know. But I’d rather you don’t. Please.” It begins to rain then, thick drops splattering on the pavement.

“I don’t understand …”

“If I don’t say goodbye to you now …” I hesitate, looking down the street, then back at Paul again. I take a deep breath. “If I don’t say goodbye to you now, it is going to break my heart.” I reach up and kiss him, quick and hard. Then, before he can respond, I leap into the back of the taxi and close the door. “Drive, please,” I manage to say in French.

“Where to?”

“Away,” I reply. Paul is still standing outside the cab. Desperately, I come up with the only place in Paris I remember. “To the Louvre.” I have no idea what a taxi costs, how far away the Louvre may be. I will stop the taxi and get out, I decide, as soon as I am away from here.

“But the Louvre is closed….”

“Just drive, please!” The cab lurches forward. Don’t look back, I think. As we start to move, tears well up, overrunning my eyes. Suddenly there is a banging on the roof of the cab, as though someone has dropped a large rock on it. I jump. “Mon dieu!” the driver exclaims, slamming on the breaks. There is another banging noise. It’s not coming from the roof, I realize, but the back window. I spin around. Perched on the trunk of the taxi on all fours, is Paul.

He jumps down, then comes around to the side of the taxi. I roll down the window. The rain falls heavily now, plastering Paul’s hair to his forehead, but he does not seem to notice. “What on earth are you doing?” I demand. “Jumping onto a moving car like that, you could have been killed!”

“I needed to stop you,” he replies simply, opening the taxi door.

“Why? What’s wrong? Did you forget to give me some of the papers?”

He does not answer, but falls to the ground. “Oh!” I reach down. “Are you hurt?”

Paul does not answer but looks up, still kneeling. He hasn’t fallen, but has dropped down on one knee deliberately, as though tying his shoelace. He reaches up and takes my hand. “Marry me, Marta.”