The Diplomat's Wife (30 page)

That is the same question I asked her before about Marek, I recall, hesitating. “Simon is a good man. He’s kind to me and Rachel, like Marek is to you and the boys. But the kind of love that I had with Paul…”

“It only comes along once in a lifetime,” Emma finishes for me. “But at least with Simon, he’s the father of your child. I mean, he is, isn’t he?” I look away, not answering. “Oh, Marta!”

I cannot lie to Emma. “Simon thinks she’s his daughter. I didn’t mean to trick him. It just all happened so quickly. I wasn’t sure I was pregnant until after we were married, and then I didn’t have the heart to hurt him. I’ve never told anyone the truth.”

“Until now. Why are you telling me?”

“Because you are my best friend.” Not were, I realize as I say it. Are. “And to tell you that I understand now how you did the things that you had to do, even though you loved Jacob.”

Emma wipes her eyes. “Thank you, Marta. That means more to me than you know.”

I nod. “We don’t have a lot of time. You need to get back to your children and I need to get out of here before the police come.”

“How are you going to get to Berlin?” Emma asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

“You know, when Marek and some of the others went to Berlin, they would take the train to a town near the border. They would get off and walk across the border through the woods, then pick up a train on the other side.” I pause, considering her suggestion. The border is probably guarded more tightly than ever now with the coup. But it is my only chance. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Emma asks.

“No, I…” I begin, then stop. I need to send word back to Simon about my change of plans. If he thinks I simply disappeared from the streets of Prague, he will be frantic with worry. This way, maybe the Foreign Office can arrange my extraction from Berlin instead. “Emma, I need you deliver a message to the British embassy for me.” I walk over to the night table and picked up a pencil and a pad of paper.
Change of plans. Meeting Marcelitis in Berlin. Oranienburger Strasse.
I hand the paper to Emma. “Ask for a man named George Lindt in the consular section,” I add, remembering Simon’s mention of his former colleague. “Only him. Tell him the message is from me, that it is highly classified and urgent, and needs to be sent by secure telegraph to Simon Gold in the Foreign Office at once.”

“Can this man Lindt be trusted with the information?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I don’t have any other choice. Wait until morning to deliver the message. That way, even if he tells someone he shouldn’t, I’ll have a good head start. And you won’t attract attention by going to the embassy in the dead of night. Will you be able to get out of your house again with the police watching?”

“I can manage it,” Emma replies. “If I take the children for a walk during the day, they won’t suspect anything.”

“Good. I certainly don’t want to put you in more danger. I think we need to get going. You go first and I’ll leave a few minutes later so as not to attract attention. Take the back stairway again.”

“Wait, there’s one other thing.” Emma walks across the room and disappears into the bathroom. A minute later, she reappears, wearing only her slip. “Take this.” She hands me her dress. “Your clothes are too Western. They’ll stand out.”

I look from the coarse gray dress she handed me to my own silk blouse. She’s right, of course. I take off my clothes, then pull the dress over my head, Emma’s familiar almond scent wafting upward as I close the buttons snugly across my midsection. Then I walk to the armoire and take the second outfit I brought with me, a green dress, off the hanger. “Here.” Wordlessly, she slips it on. “The hem is a little short for you.”

“It’s perfect.” I can tell by the way she fingers the sleeve that she is unaccustomed to such fine fabric. Then she walks over to me and produces a scarf. “You should tie your hair back, too.” Neither of us speak as she helps me to put the scarf on my head, securing it firmly underneath my hair at the base of my neck.

“Now you’d better get back to your children,” I say.

Emma nods, then steps forward. “Thank you, Marta. For all that you’ve ever done.”

I kiss her on the cheek. “No, thank
you.
I know what you risked coming here tonight. Now go.” Emma turns and leaves the room quickly, closing the door behind her.

Berlin, I think, turning back inside the room. Will I be able to manage it? Should I? But there is no time to deliberate. I walk to the armoire and start to put my clothes into my bag. Then I stop. Renata was right. It is still better to leave my belongings behind so no one knows that I have gone. I can travel more quickly without these things, anyway. I pick up the gun from the carpet and put it in my purse, checking to make sure that my passport and the papers are inside. Then I pick up my coat and, taking one last look around, turn and flee from the room.

CHAPTER
20

I
peer out of the doorway of the ladies’ room across the deserted train station. Five-fifty, reads the clock on the far wall of the station. I arrived nearly two hours earlier after making my way across the city by foot, hoping to catch a night train. But the departure board was blank and the concourse deserted, except for a Roma family that had set up camp at the base of one of the platforms. The father, a swarthy man with a heavy mustache, informed me that with the curfew, there would be no trains until morning. Not wanting to attract attention by waiting out in the open station, I ducked into the washroom. At first I nearly gagged at the damp, fetid odor that reminded me so much of prison. Then I remembered how to breathe shallowly through my mouth until the smell was barely there at all.

A loud screeching noise comes from the far end of the station. I turn to see a man opening the metal grate on the front of a kiosk, the first sign that the station is coming to life. A few minutes later, I notice an older woman with thick shoes and a kerchief on her head much like the one I now wear, sweeping one of the platforms. The earliest of morning travelers begin to trickle into the station.

I step from the washroom, inhaling deeply to clear my nostrils with the scent of freshly brewing coffee. Then I start toward the departure board to read the listings that have begun to appear. Across the station, I spot two policemen. One holds a German shepherd on a leash. I freeze. Easy, I tell myself. The city is under martial law. There are going to be police. But my heart pounds harder as I force myself to continue walking, looking up at the departure board as though I am any other traveler. There is an express train to Berlin at six-forty-five, though I do not dare take it. A second train, fifteen minutes later, will go to Děčín, a town I recognize from my drive to Prague with Renata as being close to the German border. I will take that one, I decide. I walk to the ticket counter, using most of the money Renata gave me to purchase a ticket, round trip so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I make my way to one of the now-open kiosks, buy a newspaper and a coffee. I sit down at a table and open the newspaper, pretending to read. Peering out over the top of the paper, I see that the policemen have gone.

Relaxing slightly, I look across the station. It has grown crowded now, travelers rushing in all directions toward the trains. My eyes lock on a tall man in a dark trench coat, crossing the station. There is something about his awkward gait, his dark curly hair, that reminds me of Paul. I stand up to get a better look, nearly spilling my coffee. But the man disappears into the crowd. I stare after him. Suddenly I am not in Prague at all but at Kings Cross, waiting for Paul, watching the disembarking crowds in vain. Then, noticing the woman at the next table looking up at me, I sit down again. I pushed thoughts of Paul away for so long. Why am I seeing ghosts now? It must be because I am back on the continent again, I decide. Or because I was just talking about him to Emma.

A minute later, I finish my coffee and stand, carrying the empty cup to a nearby trash bin. The train to Děčín has been listed for platform four. As I start across the station, a phone booth catches my eye. Do I dare call Simon? Renata said communications were down, but at least I can try. Hurriedly I rush to the phone booth and pick up the receiver. “International operator,” I request in Czech. A second later, an operator answers in English and I give her the number. The phone rings once, then a second time. Answer, Simon, I think; pick up before the ringing wakes Rachel. “Hallo,” Simon’s voice, thick with sleep, comes over the line.

“International call,” the operator says. “Accept the charges?”

“Yes,” Simon replies, instantly awake.

“Simon, it’s me.”

“Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Still in Prague. But, Simon, about Marcelitis—”

“We know about the coup. We’ve been trying to get hold of the embassy, but the lines have all been down. There was a convoy of diplomats, we were hoping you would be with them. You have to get out. If you can get to Vienna, I can arrange—”

“Simon, there’s more.” Quickly I tell him about the bald man impersonating Marcelitis on the bridge. “Marcelitis didn’t show, but I have an address in Berlin. If I can get there, I still think I can get him to help us.”

“Marta, that’s crazy! You don’t even know where to find him.”

“I have an address, on Oranienburger Strasse.”

“But you have no support in Berlin. We don’t have an extraction plan—”

“I’ll be fine, Simon.” Suddenly I notice a policeman walking toward the phone booth, looking at me. “I have to go now. Tell Rachel I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I can still hear Simon talking as I hang up. I look out at the policeman, my heart pounding. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing my train.

I step from the booth. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm as I step around the policeman. I force myself to walk past him slowly, looking straight ahead. A few seconds later I reach the gate and join the queue of passengers boarding the train. When I look back, the policeman is in the phone booth, talking.

I board the train and make my way to an empty compartment in one of the second-class carriages. It is similar to the train I took from Salzburg, with three worn orange seats on each side of the compartment, facing one another. I sink into the seat closest to the window, then peer out. The policeman is still on the telephone. He had not been looking for me. Relieved, I lean back against the musty seat cushion.

Soon the train begins to move. As we pull away, the door to the compartment bangs open. I jump, thinking of the police. But it is just an elderly man, carrying a small suitcase. From the doorway, he gestures with his head toward the empty row of seats facing me, asking permission to sit. I nod. The man lifts his suitcase to the overhead rack, then takes the seat across from me nearest the door. He looks at me, and for a second I worry that he will try to start a conversation. Czech is close enough to Polish that I can get by, but my accent would never pass as native. And I cannot afford to stand out, not now. I pull out the newspaper, hoping to discourage him. The man produces his own newspaper and begins to read.

I press my head against the window, too tired to care if it is dirty. My entire body sags with fatigue. Was it really only the day before yesterday that I arrived in Prague? I see the bald man lunging at me, Renata dead in the car. The demonstrators fleeing. The reality of it all crashes down, overwhelming me.

I pick up the newspaper once more, scanning an article about the government. Though the article does not say so, I know that the implications of the coup are much broader than just Czechoslovakia. The country has always been a balancing point between East and West and it is possible that their takeover here might embolden the communists to seek more power elsewhere. I touch my bag, thinking of the papers inside. I have to get to Marcelitis.

Outside, daylight has broken. Hradcany Castle basks in the sunlight, impervious to the plight of the city below. If the state-controlled newspaper is at all correct, the communists will have complete power within days. I look up again at the receding skyline, apologizing silently to the place I have just abandoned.

Soon the city disappears and the landscape grows more rural, the buildings spaced fewer and farther between. I look across the compartment. The old man’s eyes are closed and he is snoring lightly. I realize then how dry and heavy my own eyes feel. Between my aborted meeting with Marcelitis and fleeing the city, I did not sleep at all the previous night. I blink hard, trying to stay alert. But I feel myself growing sleepier, lulled by the rocking of the train. Just a little nap should be fine. It is still several hours until we reach the border. I close my eyes, my bag clutched tightly in my arms.

I am startled awake by a loud screeching sound. The brakes, I realize groggily. Struggling to clear my head, I look up at the man seated across from me. “Děčín?”

He shakes his head. “This is Karlova. You still have another two stops.”

The station is small, just a single-story building and platform surrounded by trees. Fresh snow has fallen here, covering the ground in white. Pressing my head against the window, I can make out a small group of passengers boarding. At the back of the line, a tall man in a brimmed hat and dark trench coat catches my eye. He looks back before boarding the train, and as I catch a glimpse of his pale eyes, terror shoots through me. It is the bald man, the one who impersonated Marcelitis.

For a minute, I sit frozen, unsure what to do. How did he find me? I have to get off the train. Heart pounding, I stand up and walk to the door of the compartment, looking into the corridor. To the left, I see the bald man entering the compartment behind several other passengers. I can tell from the way he looks in both directions that he has not seen me. I slip out of the car and turn to the right, keeping my head low. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing by several boarding passengers, squeezing past their luggage. I reach the end of the compartment, cross through into the next, trying to get far enough away so that the bald man won’t notice me when I step off onto the platform. I look back over my shoulder. I cannot see him anymore, but I am certain that he is not far behind. I reach the dining car, walking as quickly through it as I can without attracting attention. Now, I think, as I reach the end of the car and approach the door. Get off the train now.