The Diplomat's Wife(19)

I stretch, looking around the train car. Three seats, including mine, face another three a meter or so apart. The carriage is dilapidated, the seat cushions torn and stained. There was an older man seated across from me by the door when I boarded, but we did not speak and he is gone now. The air has grown warm and stuffy overnight and smells of sour milk. I reach up to open the window, which refuses to budge.

I peer out the train window once more. How much farther do we have to go? It must be about nine o’clock, judging by the position of the sun—at least another six hours until we reach Lille, according to the itinerary Dava gave me. My stomach rumbles. I didn’t eat at all yesterday, with everything that had happened with Paul and Rose and my leaving. I open my satchel, which sits on the seat beside me. Dava packed three sandwiches for me, one meat and two cheese. I unwrap one of the cheese sandwiches and take a bite. The bread is dry, but thick and familiar, a comforting reminder of the camp.

As I eat, I watch the fields roll by. A large, charred piece of metal the size of a horse wagon sits in the grass. It must have been a tank. I saw those in Kraków during the occupation. Little more than a year ago, these peaceful fields were battlegrounds. An image appears in my mind of soldiers, lying motionless on the ground. I think longingly of Paul. It is hard to believe it has been just a day since we said goodbye. The fighting is over in Europe now, but he said he would likely be shipped to the Pacific. I wonder where he is and, selfishly, if he has thought of me.

I eye the two remaining sandwiches. I am still hungry, but I don’t dare eat more now—we are still several hours from the coast, and I have no idea what food will be available at the port or on the boat, or how much it might cost.

Outside, a loud screeching noise jars me from my thoughts. We’re slowing down, and the landscape begins to pass more slowly. The braking sound grows louder as the train grinds to a halt. Pressing my head against the glass, I crane my neck, searching for a town or station ahead. But the fields are unbroken as far as I can see. Why are we stopping?

Five minutes pass, then ten. My uneasiness grows. Is something wrong? Have we broken down? Through the door of the carriage, I see the conductor pass by. Taking a deep breath, I stand up and walk to the door and open it. I hesitate. I speak almost no French. “Entschuldigen sie, bitte,” I say in German. Excuse me.

The conductor turns back, annoyed. “Ja?”

I hesitate. “Why have we stopped?”

“The tracks are broken ahead and we had no word of it when we were sent this way.” I struggle to understand his thickly accented German. “We’ll be backing up to the nearest junction shortly and heading for Paris.”

Panic rips through me. “But, sir, my ferry leaves from Calais at six tonight. I have to get there.”

“You’re not the only one with a boat to catch, miss,” he replies tersely. “There’s nothing to be done about it. You can take a train from Paris to Calais tomorrow. There will be other boats.” He turns and continues down the corridor.

I let the carriage door close and sink into the nearest seat. My visa expires tonight. I’ll never make it in time. A rock forms in the pit of my stomach. What am I going to do? I doubt the money that Dava gave me is enough for a return ticket to Salzburg. If I cannot get to England, I will be stranded with nowhere to go.

Desperately, I reach in my satchel and pull out the visa, scanning the document and trying to understand the foreign words. My eyes go to the seal at the top of the page. There must be a British embassy in Paris. Perhaps if I go there and explain, I can get an extension. I hesitate, considering the idea. Do I really dare walk into the embassy with a visa that isn’t even really mine? It is my only hope. Still clutching the papers, I lean back and pray for a miracle as the train begins to roll slowly backward.



I stand by the door, satchel in hand, as the train pulls into Gare l’Est. I open the door and leap to the platform as we slow, not waiting to come to a complete stop. It has been more than seven hours since we stopped in the countryside and began our slow, painstaking detour to Paris. As the train crawled through the seemingly endless countryside, I fought the urge to scream. Instead I hounded the harried conductor for directions to the British embassy, practiced over and over again what I would say when I arrived.

I race down the platform, then pause, staring helplessly at the unintelligible French signs. The massive train station is awash with travelers—commuters mingle with groups of soldiers and families seeming to carry all of their possessions in large bags. To the right, I see a sign with a large M on it. The conductor told me the quickest route to the embassy was to take the Métro to the Madeline station.

Weaving my way through the crowds, I run to the entrance of the Métro, then hesitate, staring down the steps into the black hole. The smell of urine wafts upward. Can this possibly be right? Though I have read about subways, I have never actually taken one. But the conductor said it was too far to walk and he did not give me directions by bus. And it is four-twenty, just forty minutes until the embassy will likely close. I take the stairs two at a time, holding the railing so as not to fall. At the bottom, I pause to consult a map and identify a pink line that runs between the Gare l’Est and Madeline stations. Quickly, I buy a ticket from the kiosk, then follow the signs for the pink line to a crowded platform. A few minutes later, a train rumbles noisily into view. I board with the other passengers and find myself pressed uncomfortably into the center of the car between an old man and a group of schoolgirls. There is nowhere to sit, so I reach out and hold on to a nearby pole for balance.