The Diplomat's Wife(59)
A short while later, the car turns off the roadway at an unmarked gate. We stop and I hear the driver talking to a guard in a low voice before the gate opens and we continue through. An airplane appears out of the darkness, then another, a row of sleeping giants. I have never seen one up close and did not realize they would be so large. Finally the car pulls up close to one of the planes. “This is it,” the driver says as he opens my car door.
I climb out and hesitate, staring at the enormous plane. An image of Paul pops into my mind. What was he thinking when he boarded the plane for England that last fateful flight? I imagine him laughing, joking with the other men. I am certain he was not worried. He had flown dozens of times, jumped out of a plane into enemy fire. The flight back to England was supposed to be nothing, the first step on the journey home. Perhaps he was daydreaming about our reunion.
“Ma’am?” The driver is beside me now, shouting to be heard over whirring propellers. He hands me my suitcase. “They’re ready to go. You’d better hurry up and board.”
I force Paul’s image from my mind and start across the tarmac. As I near the airplane steps, the wind from the propellers grows stronger, whipping my hair against my face. At the top, a woman in a navy-blue skirt suit stands in the open doorway holding a clipboard. Behind her, I see the pilots seated in the cockpit, dials and lights spread before them. My head grows light. “Miss Nedermann?” the woman asks. I nod, surprised to hear my maiden name. “I’m Nancy, the stewardess. May I take your bag?” I hand her my suitcase and she stows it in a small closet by the front of the plane, then leads me away from the cockpit into the main cabin. A column of single seats, five deep, lines each side of the aisle. “Sit here, please.” She points to the only open seat, second from the front on the right. “And don’t forget to fasten your seat belt.” She walks past me down the aisle.
Once seated, I look around at the other passengers. They are mostly young and male; a few wear military uniforms. Who are these people and why are they traveling to central Europe? My thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang as the stewardess shuts the plane door. The urge to stand up and run from the plane engulfs me. But it is too late; the engines roar as the plane begins to roll forward. I fasten the seat belt around my middle, my fingers trembling. Brave like Paul, I tell myself. But I cannot think of him without seeing the fiery crash. I force myself to picture Rachel instead, sleeping peacefully in her crib.
The engines grow louder as the plane picks up speed, pressing me back against the seat. There is a loud bump, then another. My breath catches as I feel the earth disappear beneath us. The plane seems to hover above the ground for several seconds, then begins to climb. Forgetting to be nervous, I look out the window at the sky, which is beginning to grow pink at the horizon.
“Tea?” Nancy stands in the aisle beside my seat, holding a tray.
I hesitate, surprised. I had not known that airplanes had waitresses. “May I have some water?”
“Certainly.” She pours a small glass, hands it to me. “Our flight to Munich should take about four hours, not counting the hour’s time difference.”
So that is our destination. “Thank you.” I turn back to look out the window once more. Munich. I shudder. It had not occurred to me that we would be landing in Germany. Dachau was near Munich. Don’t, I think, but it is too late. I feel the concrete prison floor beneath my head. Panic rises in me, making it hard to breathe. I dig my nails hard into my palms. I cannot go back there. It is too much. That was a lifetime ago, I think, forcing myself to breathe. The Nazis are gone now. Still, it seems inconceivable that in just a few hours I will be back in Germany again.
I glance around the cabin once more. Some of the other passengers have pulled out small pillows and blankets that are stowed under the seats. I barely slept before the alarm went off. I should try to get some sleep. I lean my head back and close my eyes, lulled by the gentle rumbling of the engines.
Suddenly there is a loud bumping sound. My eyes fly open. Is something wrong with the plane? I sit up. The other passengers do not look afraid but instead are gathering their belongings, buttoning coats. “Welcome to Munich,” Nancy says from the front of the cabin. “When you disembark, please proceed inside to Customs and Immigration.” I must have slept through most of the flight and the landing. I look out the window at the snow-coated grass beside the runway.
The plane rolls along the tarmac, then turns and continues for several more minutes. Finally we stop and the door opens. I follow the other passengers down the aisle, collecting my suitcase from Nancy before walking down the stairs. The air is cold and crisp, with a damp smell that suggests more snow is coming. “This way, please.” Nancy, who has come down the stairs, begins to lead the group toward a drab three-story building.
Suddenly someone bumps into me from the left. Startled, I jump. “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice, barely a whisper, says. As I turn toward the voice, a hand grabs my arm. Instinctively, I pull back. A petite young woman, wearing a dark, boxy man’s suit and brimmed hat, stands beside me. I do not recognize her from the plane. “Marta?” She does not wait for an answer. “I’m Renata, from the embassy.”
How did she recognize me? I note then that other than Nancy, I was the only woman on the flight. “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, but Renata draws me close, into a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, kissing me on the right cheek, then the left.