The Diplomat's Wife(46)

At the corner, I pause, uncertain which way to go. The crowd surges around me and, following, I let myself be carried with the stream. No one here knows or cares what I have been through. For a few minutes, I can pretend that I am just like everyone else. I imagine myself a young British woman on my way to work, perhaps in one of the shops. The sun is higher and the air has returned to its summer-like closeness. My skin grows moist under my dress as I walk.

The crowd loosens suddenly as the narrow street ends at an enormous square. In the center stands a tall obelisk. Trafalgar Square. My eyes travel from the height of the column to the four lion statues at its base, the adjacent fountains. I was here once with Delia on our way to a show in the West End. Then, as now, it seemed large and intimidating, worlds away from the quiet streets of South Kensington. I had not imagined coming this far on my own. A surge of confidence rises in me as I make my way through the swarms of pigeons and pedestrians to the far side of the square.

I turn right onto Whitehall. The wide thoroughfare is lined on both sides with government buildings, large and institutional. I soon reach an intersection. To the left sits the hulking yellow Westminster Palace, Big Ben jutting upward from its foreground. Looking up at the enormous Parliament building, I imagine the politicians inside, making decisions that affect the rest of the world. Suddenly, remembering how the West stood by while the Nazis marched across Europe, I am filled with anger. Why couldn’t they have done something sooner?

Big Ben begins to chime. Eleven o’clock. Nearly two hours have passed since I left Delia’s house. Ahead sits Westminster Abbey, its spires climbing high above the trees. I cross the wide street toward the grassy park area in front of the church. An ice-cream vendor sits at the corner. I hesitate. I should not spend the money, but I can practically taste the chocolate. I buy a small cone, licking it even as I make my way to the nearest empty bench.

Savoring the rich chocolate, I watch two squirrels playing in the grass. Then I look back across the road toward Whitehall at the pedestrians, men in suits, a few women. They walk with purpose, going to their jobs and other places in their lives. Sitting on the park bench with my ice cream, I suddenly feel very helpless and silly. What am I going to do with my life now? It is a question I have never had to answer. Growing up in our village, my future had been presumed: marriage, to someone of a similar, lower-class, Jewish background, perhaps slightly better off if I was lucky. Then children, as many as could be had. That had all changed when the Nazis had come. Even after the war, my plans had not been wholly my own; I agreed to come to London at Dava’s insistence, then later accepted Paul’s proposal to marry him and move to America.

Now, for the first time, there is no one telling me what to do or offering me a plan. I have been at Delia’s house for nearly a month, first waiting for Paul and then mourning him. I cannot impose on her hospitality forever. But where can I go? There is nothing for me in Poland, or in Salzburg anymore. I could apply for a visa to Palestine. Or to America. I imagine meeting Paul’s family, paying my respects. But I have no money for the trip, no means of survival once I am there. And Paul’s family would hardly welcome a strange immigrant girl, even if she was wearing their dead son’s dog tags. We were engaged so quickly I doubt he even had time to let them know about me. To those who loved and will remember him, I never existed. My eyes burn with tears.

Enough. I cannot think about that, not now. Staying in England, where I have a roof over my head, makes the most sense. But I need to get a job, earn some money of my own so I can offer to pay for room and board. It will not be easy. I know from the papers and my conversations with Delia that with the soldiers returning and the economy still struggling to recover, it is hard for women to find work at all right now, much less a girl with a heavy accent and no experience. But Delia knows people, can make inquiries for me. A job in a shop. Boarding with Delia. My head swims. It is not the life I had expected. But it is a life.

Across the park, I spy a group of American soldiers taking pictures of Westminster Abbey. For a second my heart leaps. What if one of them was Paul, if we were magically reunited as we had been in Paris that day? But of course that is impossible. I look down at the ice-cream cone, suddenly disgusted by its gooey sweetness. I walk to the nearest bin to throw it away.

“You know, that’s very wasteful,” a male voice says from behind me. I freeze, wondering for a second if my fantasy has come true, if Paul really is there. But the accent is British.

Unexpectedly I am angry. It is my ice-cream cone. How dare some stranger tell me what to do? “That’s none of your…” I turn to confront the stranger. Simon, the diplomat from the ship, stands behind me. “Oh!”

“Simon Gold,” he says. He steps forward and, before I can react, takes my free hand and kisses it. “We met on the boat.”

“Of course,” I reply, caught off guard. I remember our conversation over tea, my telling him of my engagement to Paul. It seems like a million years ago.

“My office is just around the corner.” He gestures vaguely toward Whitehall. “I was just out for my daily constitutional.” I cock my head, unfamiliar with the term. “It means walk,” he explains.

“Oh.” I feel something cold and sticky running down my hand. The ice cream has begun to melt.

“And I was only trying to say that Mitchell’s homemade ice cream is too good to be wasted.” I nod, too surprised to respond. “But it looks like that cone’s had it.” He reaches out and takes the melting cone from my hand. Holding it at arm’s length so as not to drip on his light-gray suit, he tosses it in the trash bin. “Wait here.” I watch as Simon walks quickly over to the vendor where I purchased the ice-cream cone. I am glad to see him, I realize with surprise. A familiar face. A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups. “Here,” he says, handing me a napkin. I wipe my hands. “I thought maybe the ice cream had been too cold, so I took the liberty of getting us some tea.”