The Diplomat's Wife. Pam Jenoff

still falls in heavy sheets, forming a large puddle at the base of the stairs. I look back at the front of the church. Stone columns stand to either side of the entranceway. I make my way toward the one on the right. There, where the column meets the building, is a shallow nook, a meter wide and half as deep. No one can see me here, I think, stepping into the space. I sink to the cold, hard floor, grateful for a place to stay out of the rain. A damp scent rises from the stone.

      Wrapping my arms around my knees, I look out into the street at the cold, unfamiliar city. How did I get here? Suddenly I recall once being in the woods outside Lodz. Jacob had left me hidden in a cluster of trees while he went to find our contact. Later I would learn that he had become lost on his way back to me. But in that moment, as I huddled in the pitch darkness, strange, unseen noises coming from the woods around me, I was terrified. What if he never came back for me? Remembering now, a chill runs down my spine. Until that moment, I had not understood what it meant to be completely alone. It was a thought that would later haunt my long, lonely days in prison. I had not thought of it since being liberated, but alone now, I am caught by the memory once more.

      My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps. The man who had been sweeping stands in the doorway of the church, still holding his broom, looking at me. We stare at each other for several seconds. Without speaking, he disappears back inside the church. My heart pounds inside my chest. Is he going to make me leave, even call the police? A second later, the man reappears in the doorway and starts toward me, carrying something. A blanket, I see, as he sets it by my feet. “Merci,” I say, but he turns and walks back inside the church without speaking, closing the door behind him.

      I stare after him for several seconds, caught off guard by his simple act of kindness. Then I reach down and unfold the wool blanket, pulling it up around me. The blanket smells of dirt and cigarettes. I wonder if it is his own, if he has shared it with others who have stayed here. I lean back, the scratchy fabric comforting against my arms. Not so completely alone after all. I look beyond the edge of the cathedral at the rain-soaked street, then up at the dark, cloudy sky, wondering what tomorrow will bring.

      CHAPTER 7

      I refold the blanket, looking toward the front door of the church. I would like to hand it back to the janitor and thank him, but the door is closed, the man nowhere to be found. Instead, I set the blanket neatly in the corner where I spent the night, then make my way down the steps.

      It is morning now and the sun shines brightly, drying the last of the dampness from the pavement. The park is nearly empty, except for one disheveled old man I think I recognize from the previous evening, curled up on one of the benches under a damp coat. Did he spend the night there? I am more grateful than ever for the shelter of the church roof and blanket.

      On the other side of the park, I pause, looking up at the Union Jack that flies high above the British embassy. My breath catches as I imagine walking up those steps and through the door, convincing whoever waits on the other side to extend the visa. It has to work. I cross the street and walk to the entrance, where a different guard from the previous evening occupies the booth. I take a deep breath. “I—I’m here about a visa,” I manage to say in English.

      He points to the left. “Entrance is around the corner.”

      “Thank you.” I walk to the end of the block. As I turn the corner, my heart sinks. There is a line of people starting at the corner and running all the way down the street. I walk to the man who stands at the end of the line, then hesitate. The few French words I know seem of little use. “Visa?” I ask hopefully, pointing at the door. Perhaps all of these people are waiting for something else. He shrugs, turns away. I walk quickly back around the corner to the guard booth. “Excuse me, I know you said that the entrance for visas is around the corner. But all of those people …?”

      “Are waiting for visas, too. Take a number.”

      I cock my head, puzzled. I did not see any numbers. “I already have a visa,” I say, trying again. “I need an extension.”

      “Same line,” the guard replies, pointing once more.

      I turn and start back around the corner, my shoulders slumped in disappointment. The line has grown even longer in the minute I was away, two more people joining the queue. I file in behind them quickly. There must be at least a hundred people ahead of me, men and women of every size and age. Some carry babies or hold small children by the hand. If only I had known, I could have waited here all night instead of sleeping by the church.

      In the distance a clock chimes nine. Slowly the line begins to shuffle forward. Perhaps this will not be so bad, after all. But then the line comes to a complete stop. Thirty minutes pass, then an hour. I turn and look behind me. At least another twenty people have joined the queue, giving the appearance that it has not shortened at all. We stand motionless for what seems like an eternity, shuffling forward a few meters every half an hour or so. The clock chimes eleven and the sun grows higher in the morning sky, making the air warm and humid.

      It is lunchtime, I think a while later, my stomach growling. I have not eaten since finishing the last sandwich the previous evening. The line seems to move more slowly as time passes. People lean against the embassy fence or drop to the pavement and sit in line. I can tell by the weary, accepting expressions on the faces of some of the people around me that they have done this before and are unsurprised by the wait. Anxiety rises in me as the early afternoon passes. What if they do not get to me? I look around, desperately wanting to ask someone if there is a quota, if they take only a certain number of people each day. But I do not know enough French to ask the others in the queue and I cannot leave the line to ask the guard.

      Another hour of shuffling and waiting. Finally, I reach the gate and make my way, slowly, painstakingly, up a set of stairs and through a door. Inside, the line snakes through a waiting room. Three glass windows line the far wall, a woman and two men seated behind them. The air here is pungent from too many people in a cramped, warm space. Typewriters clack in the background. I watch as each of the people in front of me in line approaches one of the windows. Some present papers, others simply talk. I cannot hear what they are saying. At the middle window, a woman argues with one of the male clerks for several minutes. When she turns away, I can see that her cheeks are wet.

      Finally, it is my turn. “Next,” the woman in the far right window calls. I step forward, my heart pounding. As I reach the window, I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I am supposed to be Rose.

      The woman holds out her hand. “Yes?”

      Catching my reflection in the glass, I hesitate. My dress is wrinkled, my hair wild from sleeping outside. I should have taken time to freshen up. But it is too late now. I push my papers through the slot at the bottom of the window. “I have a visa to England, but it expired yesterday.” My words, which I practiced on the train, tumble out in a rush, accented and, I fear, nearly unintelligible. “I was not able to get a train out of Salzburg until yesterday and we were detoured to Paris because of broken tracks. So I am unable to make it to England in time. I tried to come yesterday but the embassy was already closed. I was wondering if it would be possible to get an extension.”

      The woman scans the papers. “You cannot renew this class of visa here.” Her tone is cold, her French accent thick. “The inviting person must apply for an extension.” She pushes the papers back through the slot at me.

      “I have to get to England. Please.”

      The woman’s expression remains impassive, as if she hears such things every day. “I’m sorry, but it’s beyond my control.”

      “But what am I supposed to do?” My voice rises with panic.

      The woman shrugs. “As I said, the only possibility is to get the person who invited you to England to apply for an extension. But you will need to go back to your home country or the country of origin while you wait.”

      “Dominique,” a male voice calls from behind the window. “Telephone.” The woman speaks to someone I cannot see in a low voice. Then she turns back to me. “I’m afraid there’s really nothing to be done about it.” Her voice is curt, dismissive. “Good