The Diplomat's Wife(45)

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

First Rose, now Paul. The war was over. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, not now. Guilt crashed down on me: It was my fault Paul was coming to London. If it had not been for me, he would still be alive. Deep down I knew that wasn’t true—Paul’s entire unit was on the flight. But the idea suited my grief, its painful jabs welcome through my numbness. Suddenly, I hated Delia, this house, all that was England. “I just want to be left alone,” I blurted out. A hurt expression crossed her face. “I mean, I’m very tired.”

“Of course.” Delia stood up quickly. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.” I turned away, closing my eyes once more.

After that day, I did not speak with anyone, or even get out of bed, except to go to the toilet. Mostly I slept, through the days and nights, trying to escape the pain. But it was no use—I dreamed fitfully of Paul, saw him die a thousand different ways, shot in the Nazi prison as he tried to rescue me, drowned in the lake at Salzburg. Once I dreamed that I was back on the bridge in Kraków, the dead body beside me Paul’s instead of the Kommandant’s. I dreamed of the others who had died, too, my parents, Rose. Suddenly it seemed that I was to blame for all of their deaths, as well.

Each morning when I woke up, the reality would crash down upon me anew. Paul is dead. The pain was searing, fresh, as though I was hearing the news for the first time. I lay in the semidarkness for hours, seeing Paul’s face. I replayed happy memories: Salzburg, Paris, even our first meeting in prison, ran through my head like a movie over and over again, until I drifted to sleep once more. The days passed like this, one after another. Delia, respecting my wishes, did not visit me again, at least not while I was awake. I knew, though, that she was keeping an eye on me through Charles, who brought me food of every variety, hearty stews that went uneaten, fruit that turned brown, ice cream that melted in the bowl. He knocked softly each time, bringing in the tray and setting it on the nightstand, then coming back for it a few hours later, without trying to engage me in conversation.

Charles must have come while I was asleep this time, as the aroma of fresh bacon wafts over me. My stomach grumbles. For the first time in days, I am hungry. I sit up in bed and uncover the tray, then pick up a piece of toast. As I take a bite, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair is pressed flat against my head. My skin is pasty, with dark circles ringing my eyes. Unwashed and secluded, not eating. It is as if I’ve put myself back in prison, I think, ashamed. As if everything that has happened since my liberation was for nothing.

I finish the toast, take a few bites of bacon and eggs. Then I stand and walk to the toilet to wash. As I undress, Paul’s dog tags fall cool against my chest. I look down at them sadly. Every step forward I take is a step farther from Paul and the time we had together. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the urge to crawl back into bed. But that is not what he would have wanted, I think, remembering how I had scolded him for self-pity. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I finish washing and make my way back to the bedroom. Inside the armoire, my clothes hang freshly pressed. Delia must have had them cleaned. I have been such an ungracious guest. Quickly, I change into one of the dresses she gave me, green with a light floral pattern.

Downstairs, the kitchen is deserted, the breakfast dishes put away. I scribble a note on the tablet that hangs by the telephone, telling Delia that I’ve gone out. Then I walk to the front door and step out onto the porch. It is a brisk September morning, the air pleasantly cool. Across the street, the leaves on the trees in the square are still green, but there is a crispness to their rustling that was not there a few weeks earlier. I close the front gate behind me, cutting across the square. As I wind my way through the quiet residential streets, the houses grow even larger and more impressive than Delia’s, their porches shielded from view by high hedges.

Soon I reach the wide thoroughfare of Kensington Road, several lanes of cars and buses speeding by in both directions. On the far side of the street sits the wide green swath of grass and trees that signals the edge of Hyde Park. I remember walking the paths with Delia, planning to take Paul for a stroll there after his arrival. My view is suddenly obscured by a red double-decker trolleybus that screeches to a stop in front of me. “Getting on, miss?” the driver asks. I look up, realizing for the first time that I am standing in front of a bus stop. I hesitate. I have only taken the bus a few times with Delia, never alone. But I suddenly need to keep going, to get as far away from here as possible. “Yes, thank you.” I board the bus, pulling a three pence coin from my pocket to pay the driver. As the bus lurches forward, I grab the nearest pole to keep from flying toward the rear.

When the bus stops at the next traffic light, I make my way up the stairs, clinging to the rail for support. The top deck is deserted, except for a lone man toward the rear, reading the Times. I remember suddenly the newspaper headline announcing Paul’s death, his grainy image staring back at me. Forcing the vision from my mind, I drop to a seat by the front of the bus.

I look out the window as the bus reaches the end of Hyde Park and turns left, then quickly right again. The trees disappear and the street grows crowded with tall buildings and signs. Piccadilly, I recognize from my excursions with Delia. We pass Simpsons, the grand department store where she insisted on taking me shopping for new shoes, then the Ritz Hotel. Traffic is slow here, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians making their way between the shops. The bus stops every few minutes. I can hear the voices of the passengers as they board below. But these are commuters, oblivious to the view and they do not come upstairs. Soon we reach Piccadilly Circus. The buildings here are covered with enormous signs advertising products of every kind: Wrigley’s Gum, Brylcreem, Gordon’s Gin. Guinness Is Good for You. Gives You Strength, touts one. The bus grinds to a halt again. Ahead, the traffic does not move at all. All of a sudden I am eager to walk. I make my way down the stairs and step off the bus.