The Diplomat's Wife. Pam Jenoff

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