Читать книгу The Diplomat's Wife - Pam Jenoff, Пэм Дженофф - Страница 8

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 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 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.”

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 glasses and brush my eyes with the back of my hand.

Suddenly I hear footsteps coming down the lawn. I replace my glasses 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 pass 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 grass, holding a fishing rod, a small dinghy docked at his feet. He eyes us warily as we pass. 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 prickling. 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 Nazis 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 shiver 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, pushing 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 shore, 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 goddamn—” 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 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.

Sometime later, I awake with a start. I blink several times in the darkness. Inhaling the musty air, I remember the boat and the storm. Was it all a dream? Then, feeling Paul’s arm wrapped around me under the blanket, I know that it was not. I look up at him. He smiles down at me, eyes wide. “Sleep well?”

I blush. How long has he been watching me? “Very well.” It is the truth. Despite sitting upright on a hard floor in soaking clothes, it was some of the most restful sleep I have had since the start of the war. I reach for my glasses. “How long was I out?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Hours?” I leap up and push open the door of the shed. Outside the rain has stopped and the sky just above the mountains is edged with pink. “It’s starting to get light.”

“Almost dawn,” he agrees, and I detect a note of reluctance in his voice. “We should get back.” He stands and rolls the blanket up. I try to smooth my hair with my hands. As I start through the door of the shed, Paul follows too closely behind me, brushing against my side. “Excuse me,” he says, stepping back awkwardly. I turn toward him. He is staring at me, the longing in his eyes unmistakable. My breath catches. I look away quickly, hurrying through the door.

Outside, the night air is cool and still. We walk to the bank and Paul helps me into the boat. Neither of us speaks as he rows quickly across the lake. The air is silent except for some geese calling to one another in the distance. Watching Paul guide the boat toward the opposite bank, I am overwhelmed with sadness. In just a few minutes, he will be gone. We reach the spot on the bank where the fisherman had been the previous night. He hops onto the shore, holds his hand out to me. As I step from the boat, my foot slides on the slippery mud and I stumble. Paul catches me by the shoulders. “Careful,” he says, still holding me. His breath is warm on my forehead.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Marta, I …” he begins softly, then falters. “I want, that is to say, I don’t want …” I lift my eyes to his face, which is strained with sadness and longing. He does not want to say goodbye, either, I realize. I cannot breathe. In that moment, I know that it is not his ex-fiancée he desires. I reach for him, standing on my tiptoes and placing my hand on the back of his neck. Instinctively, I pull him toward me, pressing my lips against his, taking what I’d been too afraid to accept just a few hours earlier. He hesitates for a second, surprised. Then he responds, his mouth warm and strong. Our lips open, drawing us farther into each other urgently.

A horn blares out suddenly and we break apart. Paul straightens, turning toward the noise. “They’re getting ready to go,” he says breathlessly. “We’d better hurry.” He helps me up the bank to the path and we walk quickly toward the palace in silence. Sadness rises in me. Don’t leave, I want to say. But I know that it is impossible.

In front of the palace, the trucks are assembled in a line, waiting to go. Paul turns to me once more. “Marta, I don’t know what is going to happen. I just wish that there was some way …”

“I know,” I reply quickly, forcing my voice not to crack. Everything is happening too fast. My eyes lock with his and I fight the urge to reach out and touch him again. “Be safe.”

“Come on, Paul!” a voice behind him calls impatiently. The first trucks are beginning to pull from the driveway.

“Bye,” he whispers, taking several steps backward, his eyes not leaving mine. Then he turns and runs toward the last of the trucks. I watch as one of the other men reaches down and helps him onto the back. The engine rumbles and the truck begins to move. As it pulls from the driveway, Paul turns back toward me. Our eyes meet again and he smiles, raising one hand. Then, as the truck turns the corner, he disappears.