The Diplomat's Wife. Pam Jenoff

back the curtains, I gasp. Majestic, snow-capped mountains line the horizon, their jagged peaks climbing to the star-filled sky. The Alps, I realize. Goose bumps form on my arms. A wide lake sits at the base of the mountains, reflecting their vistas in its glasslike surface.

      I stare up at the mountains again, blinking. It is hard to believe that such beauty still exists. What am I doing in this place? How have I been lucky enough to come here, to be alive, when so many others are not? Tears fill my eyes. Should I pray, thank God? I hesitate. I stopped believing long ago, the day I saw my father hanged in the main square of our village for sneaking food to a boy the Nazis had wanted to starve as punishment for stealing bread. I should have died, too, that night on the bridge, or in prison. But I am here, and I cannot escape the sense that some force, something larger than myself, has helped me to survive.

      I take one last look at the mountains, then let the curtains fall back into place. I start to lie down once more, then stop suddenly. A young woman is in the bed beside mine. They must have brought her in while I was asleep.

      “Hello?” I whisper. She does not respond. Her breathing is shallow, and I wonder if she is unconscious. I lean in closer and study her face. She looks about my age, though she is so emaciated that it is hard to tell for certain. Her high cheekbones protrude against her skin as though they might break through at any second and her eyes twitch beneath paper-thin lids. Her hair has been shorn so close that bald patches of scalp shine through.

      I scan the room, hoping to see Dava or one of the other nurses to ask about the girl. But the floor is empty. I look down at the girl once more. Her fingers clutch the edge of the pillow, as though someone might try to take it away. The blanket has fallen from her shoulders, revealing a patch of pale collarbone above her hospital gown. I reach over and pull up the blanket to cover her. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a clipboard on the edge of her bed. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, I pick it up, scanning the top sheet. It is a medical chart of some type, with many long, unfamiliar words written in English. At the top of the page, I can make out a single word: Rose.

      “Rose,” I say aloud, setting down the clipboard and looking back at the girl’s face. Her eyes flutter beneath their lids. I repeat her name. Slowly, her eyes open and she stares at me, blinking. “Hello,” I greet her in Polish. When she does not respond, I switch to Yiddish. “I’m Marta.” The girl does not respond but continues to stare at me with large, almond-shaped violet eyes. I suddenly recall my own confusion at waking up here. She must be terribly afraid. “You’re safe,” I whisper quickly, remembering how Dava comforted me earlier. “This is a refugee camp run by the Allies.” She still does not answer and for a second, I wonder if she is unfriendly. Just then, Rose reaches out her hand across the space between our beds. I take her thin, burning fingers in my own. “I’m sure you’ve been through some really awful experiences. Me, too. But that’s all over now.” I squeeze her hand gently. “We’re safe now. We’re in a good place and it’s only going to get better, I promise. Do you understand?” Rose does not answer but closes her eyes once more.

      I study Rose’s face, wondering if waking her had been a mistake. Should I call for a nurse? She does not seem to be in any distress. I lay back in my own bed, still holding Rose’s hand. I wish that it was morning so I could ask Dava where Rose came from, what had happened to her.

      I think then of the bright stars above the mountaintops. Too tired to sit up again, I crane my neck upward to see them. Through the break in the curtains, I catch a glimpse of a star. Do I dare to wish on it as I did when I was little? I hesitate. It seems greedy to ask for anything when I should be grateful just to be alive. Still, I cannot help but wonder what I should wish for, what life has in store for me now that I have survived.

      I turn to Rose to tell her about the mountains. But she is breathing evenly now, her expression peaceful. I will not wake her again. There will be time to show her tomorrow. Still holding Rose’s hand, I lie back and gaze up at the stars once more.

      CHAPTER 3

      We sit on the terrace behind the palace, Dava and I on one of the benches, Rose in her wheelchair close beside us. Rose reads aloud in English from Little Women, the book she holds in her lap. “‘I know I do—teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I’m longing to enjoy myself at home …’”

      “Those sisters sure can complain,” I interrupt in Yiddish.

      “Marta …” Dava shoots me a warning look.

      “I mean, really,” I persist. “They’re supposed to be in the middle of a war, but they’re safe and warm in their own home. Yet one sister is complaining that she has to teach …”

      “Meg,” Rose clarifies.

      “And one of the others is upset because she has to sit in a big house and read to her aunt.”

      “That’s Jo. But, Marta,” Rose says, “they suffered from the war, too, in their own way. I mean, they didn’t have a lot to eat and their father was off fighting …”

      “I think that the American Civil War was very different for people who didn’t live close to the battlefields,” Dava offers slowly in English, teaching. “Not like here.” Battlefields indeed. Here our lives were the battlefields. “War can affect people in many ways,” she adds. She presses her lips together, a faraway expression in her eyes.

      Rose raises the book. “Do you want me to keep going?”

      “Yes,” Dava replies, patting Rose’s hand. “You’re doing great.”

      Rose continues reading aloud, but I do not try to follow along. I have been listening for nearly an hour and my head aches from the constant effort of translating each word. Instead, I look up. It is only seven o’clock. Usually, the August sky would still be bright for more than another hour, but the sun has dropped behind thick, gray-centered clouds. I can barely see the hooked peak of the Untersberg through the fog.

      I inhale deeply, savoring the sweet honeysuckle smell from the gardens that line the edge of the terrace. It has been more than two months since my arrival at the camp. My health has improved steadily since then, much more quickly, Dava said, than the doctors expected. The incision where my wound had been is nearly healed. It barely aches at all anymore, except when it rains.

      “Marta,” Rose says. I turn to find she is holding out the book to me. “Do you want to try a line or two?”

      I hesitate, running my hand along the warm stone bench. Earlier, Dava stopped Rose and let me try one of the easier passages, but as I struggled through the first few words, it was obvious that the text was still too difficult for me. “No, thanks.” Rose is nearly fluent in English, owing to summers spent with her aunt in London as a child. I, on the other hand, have been taking the English classes offered each morning in the palace library with some of the other camp residents. I’ve been able to pick up the spoken language fairly easily, but I still struggle to read much beyond children’s books. Dava helps me whenever she has the time. Her language skills are remarkable, owing, she told us once, to the fact that her father was a translator. She was schooled in English and French, in addition to her native Russian and Yiddish, and the German she learned growing up in Austria.

      As Rose resumes reading, I turn back toward the palace, awed as ever at its size and grandeur. Schloss Leopoldskron is three stories high, with two massive wings jutting out on either side. Large paned windows dot the light-gray stone facade. The ground floor, I discovered when Dava let me get out of bed a few days after my arrival, is taken up by our ward, and a second ward, where the ballroom had once been, houses male patients. The two are separated by a grand foyer with an enormous crystal chandelier hanging from its high ceiling. Two curved marble staircases lead from the foyer to the first floor, where the library and a small chapel are located. The second floor, where the camp administrative offices are located, is off-limits to residents.

      Rose pauses reading at the end of a chapter. “We should stop now,” Dava says. “I don’t want you overdoing things.”

      Concerned, I study Rose’s face. Her complexion is pale and dark circles seem to