The Diplomat's Wife(33)

“Practically married,” he replies slowly, turning on his knees to face me. Our bodies press against each other, our faces close. He stands and helps me to my feet. His lips meet mine, probing. Still kissing me, he guides me to the bed, cushioning me with his arms as his weight pushes me gently downward. A second later, he breaks away. “Are you sure?”

I unfasten the top button of his uniform. “Positive.” I pull the jacket from his broad shoulders. Needing no further encouragement, he clamps his mouth on mine once more, drawing my breath from me, making me light-headed. Paul’s hands run down my sides, cupping my hips, bringing his mouth to my neck. I reach for his white cotton undershirt, pulling it over his head, seeing for the first time the metal chain with three small square plates that hangs from his neck. I run my hands across his torso, his back, while he struggles to unzip his pants. As he caresses me through my skirt, fingers featherlight, a soft moan escapes my lips.

Paul rolls gently on top of me, supporting his weight on his forearms. Suddenly an image flashes through my mind: Jacob above me as we hid in the crawl space of the cabin, his scent close, lips forbidden. I freeze, caught by the memory.

Paul, sensing my hesitation, pulls back slightly. “I love you, Marta,” he whispers, cradling my face in his hands.

I look into his wide, unblinking eyes. This is real. This is mine. “You, too,” I whisper, drawing Paul hurriedly to me once more, finding his mouth. He reaches urgently for the hem of my skirt. There is a moment of fleeting pain. So this is it, I think suddenly. I remember watching Jacob furtively, wondering what it would be like with him. I could not have imagined. Above me, Paul tenses and cries out. Desire returns, deeper and more intense within me than before as I move with him. I gasp, then moan softly, not noticing as the vision of Jacob slides from beneath me and fades away.

Paul lies on top of me, not moving, legs intertwined with mine. His heavy breathing matches my own. “Wow!” he says finally, lifting his head to kiss my eyelids, my cheeks. Then he shifts his weight off me gently, rolling over onto his back.

I rest my cheek on his bare chest, feeling my body ache dully below. “‘Wow’ is good?”

He laughs, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Wow is great.” He turns onto his side to face me, his expression serious. His eyelashes, I notice, though long and dark, are blond at the tips. “‘Wow’ is I never knew it could be like this.” I do not respond. My first time. So different, so much more than what I expected. Paul continues, “I mean, to feel this way about someone so soon. I’m glad we’re engaged. I only wish I had a ring to give you.”

I shake my head. “It’s not important.”

“I’ll get you a nice one when we get to America,” he promises. Then he reaches around his neck and pulls off the chain. “My dog tags.” He presses them into my hand. “You can wear these for now.”

I study one of the engraved plates that hang from the chain. It bears his name and a series of numbers I do not recognize. “But I can’t. I mean, this is your identification. You need this.”

“Nah, these are important in combat, to identify me if something happens. But the war is over. I’ve got two weeks of paperwork until I’m done. Nothing is going to happen. Anyway, I’ll go to the quartermaster tomorrow after you’ve gone, get another set made. Okay?” He places the chain around my neck.

I wrap my hand around the cool metal tags. A piece of Paul to keep close until we are together again. “Yes.”

“You should try to get some rest,” he says gently, pulling the blanket up around us. “You have a long trip ahead of you tomorrow.” I nod, suddenly tired. I roll onto my side, facing away from him, and he presses against my back, cupping his legs beneath mine. His cheek is rough against my shoulder. I listen to the rain as it beats against the window, feeling safe and warm. We are going to be together like this every night. Married. My eyelids grow heavy and I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.



I open my eyes with a start, trying to remember where I am. In the dim light of morning, I can make out the small hotel room, my bag lying in the corner. Paris, I remember. Paul. Suddenly, the events of the previous evening—the reunion with Paul, his proposal, our lovemaking—come rushing back. I roll over to find him propped up on one elbow, looking down at me. “Good morning,” he says.

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I slept a bit. You?”

“Like a baby,” I reply honestly. “I seem to sleep well around you. But what time is it? I mean, my train—”

“It’s okay. It’s not yet five. You don’t have to leave for an hour or so.” He draws me close once more. A jolt of electricity shoots through me as his hand slides down my side. He pauses at my lower torso, feeling the roughness of my scar. A concerned expression crosses his face.

I pull away, suddenly self-conscious. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. But I was wondering how you got that.”

I bite my lip. I have not told anyone the story of what happened that night on the bridge, nor the events leading up to it. Not Dava, not even Rose. Now, as I lie in Paul’s arms, I am seized with the urge to tell him everything. But will he be horrified, repulsed? It doesn’t matter. If we are going to be married, he should know the truth. I take a deep breath. “In Kraków, during the war, there was a…” I hesitate, trying to find the right words in English. “A movement of Jews within the ghetto. Fighting back. How do you say?”