The Diplomat's Wife(44)

“I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of…”

Delia shakes her head. “No, but I wouldn’t worry. Even if he had arrived in London during the night, I’m sure he’s too well mannered to go knocking on strange doors at all hours.”

Like I did, I think. But I know her words are not a rebuke. “I suppose.”

“The embassy opens at nine and we’ll be there when they do. Now, come eat.” I start to reply that I am not hungry. My stomach is too knotted to eat. But I do not want to seem ungracious. Reluctantly, I sit down and take a piece of toast, buttering it as Delia pours me a cup of tea.

There are footsteps in the hallway, followed by a rustling noise. Charles appears, carrying a bag of groceries. “Good morning, Charles,” Delia says. “Breakfast is delicious, as always.”

Charles does not respond but stands awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What is it?” Delia asks.

“Miss Delia, if I might have a word…”

Delia’s expression turns puzzled. “Excuse me,” she says to me before following Charles into the hallway.

I watch as Charles speaks to Delia in a low voice, his head down and close to hers. It is unlike Charles to whisper so rudely in front of me. Then he pulls a newspaper from the bag, shows it to Delia. Uneasiness rises in my chest. I put the toast back on the plate and stand up. “What is it?” I ask.

Charles stops speaking and they both look up hesitantly as I approach. “What is it?” I repeat, louder this time. I can hear the harshness in my voice but I do not care. I gesture toward the newspaper. “What does it say?”

“Marta, dear.” Delia takes a step toward me. I reach around her and before she can stop me, snatch the paper from Charles’s hand. The headline is so large it covers nearly half the front page. American Military Plane Crashes in Channel: All Killed.

A rock slams into my chest. I scan the article, not breathing. A military plane traveling from Paris to London yesterday experienced mechanical trouble over the Channel. The plane crashed, killing all on board. Dread rises in me. Delia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Marta, it probably isn’t his unit.”

“There are thousands of American troops passing through England right now,” Charles adds.

I do not answer but continue reading. The men were part of the Fighting 502nd, a unit that fought in every major battle since Normandy. I remember Paul calling his unit by that name. Bile rises in my throat. At the bottom of the article, there is a list of soldiers killed in the crash. I scan the names. Paul’s is not among them. Maybe he wasn’t traveling with his unit. Perhaps he had received permission to leave early, knowing he was coming to meet me. “He’s not on the list,” I whisper, sagging with relief.

Then, at the bottom of the list of names I notice an asterisk, followed by the words “unidentified soldier.” My hand drops to the dog tags around my neck. Paul promised me he would get another set.

It is a mistake. It has to be a mistake. In the middle of the page, there is a grainy picture of the unit, standing in front of a tank. I scan the faces, which all look remarkably similar with their short hair and helmets. My eyes lock on a familiar face in the third row, far right. Paul’s eyes stare out at me unblinkingly. I know then why he had not come for me.

The paper falls from my hands. “He’s gone,” I say aloud. A scream that I do not recognize as my own fills the air. Then the ground slides sideways beneath me and everything goes black.





CHAPTER 12




I stand in front of the timetable at Kings Cross Station, looking out across the platforms. Bright sunlight shines through the slats in the roof, reflecting off the top of the trains. I clutch my purse nervously, waiting. I am early again, of course. But this time I let Charles drive me, gratefully accepting his offer to wait outside with the car until Paul arrives. It had been a mistake, the telegram that arrived this morning had said. Paul had missed his flight, the one that had crashed. He will be arriving today.

A train appears at the top of track three. I start forward, excitement surging through me. Then I stop. Something is wrong. The train does not slow as it enters the station, but barrels forward at full speed toward the end of the platform. It is going to crash. I turn and start running away from the train. A second later, there is a massive explosion behind me, followed by an enormous gust of hot air that slams me forward into the ground. When I lift my head and look over my shoulder, the train has disappeared, engulfed by a ball of fire. “No!” I cry aloud.

My eyes fly open. Where am I? The familiarity of Delia’s house rushes back as I recognize the pale-blue walls. I sit up, trying to catch my breath. At the foot of the bed, early-morning light dances in patterns on the duvet. Voices of children on their way to school ring out as they call to one another from the pavement below. My own unwashed smell mingles with that of fried eggs, left on the nightstand while I was asleep.

Paul is dead. It has been more than a week since I read the news of the plane crash, saw him staring up at me from the photograph. I do not remember dropping the newspaper or fainting, only waking up some time later in bed, not knowing how I had made it there. Delia was seated beside me. “Hello, darling.” She leaned over and put her arms around me.

“He’s gone.” My voice was heavy with disbelief.