The Diplomat's Wife(70)
Paul. His face appears suddenly in my mind. I inhale, caught off guard by the image. I have seldom allowed myself to think of him since marrying Simon. The memories still creep in occasionally, of course, prompted by certain days on the calendar, like the anniversary of his death, a picture of Paris in a magazine, a driving rain on the roof that reminds me of our night together in Salzburg. Most days the memories are fuzzy, an out-of-focus photograph or half-remembered dream. But now Paul’s face appears so vividly before me, it seems that if I lifted my hand from the bathwater, I could actually touch him. My insides ache.
Enough. I shake my head, clearing the image. I cannot afford to think of him, not now. What is wrong with me? It is the stress of the mission, of all I have learned. I rub my eyes with wet fists. It is better that I did not tell Emma about Paul, I decide. We are not the friends we were years ago. And some secrets should be kept buried in the past.
A banging sound comes from outside the bathroom. I sit up quickly, sending water splashing over the edge of the tub. Is it the crowd on the street again? No, the sound comes again, louder and more persistent from the hallway. Someone is knocking on the door. Renata. “One minute,” I call. I stand up and step out of the tub, nearly slipping on the now-wet floor. Steadying myself, I reach for a towel, drying and dressing hurriedly. The knocking comes again as I cross the room. “Coming!” I cry, unlocking the door. I reach for the doorknob, then hesitate. “Who is it?”
“Renata.” The familiar voice comes through the door, low and urgent. “Open up, dammit.”
I open the door. Renata pushes past me into the room. She looks back out into the hallway, then closes the door and locks it. “Renata,” I say, “good news. I’m scheduled to meet—” I stop, noticing that her hair is disheveled and she is breathing hard. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” I shake my head. Renata looks around the room, as though someone else might be here. Then she pulls a small transistor radio from her bag and turns it on. The announcer speaks very rapidly in Czech, making it difficult to understand him through the static.
“What is he saying?” I ask.
Renata turns the volume lower. “The police have announced the discovery of a so-called plot by several cabinet ministers to conspire with the West against our great nation,” she says, her voice just above a whisper. “The ministers have been forced to resign. The communists have seized power.”
Uneasiness rises in me. “But surely Benes—” I begin.
“Shh!” Renata jerks her head to one side, reminding me the room could be bugged. “The president is weak. He’ll never stand, not without the army or the police behind him.”
I lower my voice. “But I don’t understand. The deputy minister told me nothing would happen here, not until the spring elections.”
Renata smiles wryly. “That’s Western intelligence for you. Either he didn’t know, which is possible, or he lied.”
Because he knew I never would have come if the situation was that dangerous. Simon wouldn’t have let me. A rock forms in my stomach. “But surely people…I saw the protesters earlier today…”
Renata shakes her head. “Nothing more than a few thousand students. They’re meaningless, unless the general public comes to their aid. Which they won’t. People are too afraid.”
“No…” I sink down on the edge of the bed. “Surely there must be something that can be done.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do for us anymore,” Renata says, sitting down beside me. “And you have to get out.”
“You mean, leave Prague? Give up and go home?”
Renata nods. “Right away. The borders have been closed.” Closed. Alarm rises in me at the notion of being trapped. She continues, “There’s a group of Westerners, diplomats’ families mostly, who have been given permission to fly out in about two hours. I’ve put your name on the list and I’ve come now to take you to the embassy.”
I pause, considering what she has said. “But…” I hesitate, looking at the clock. “I’m scheduled to meet with Marcelitis at midnight.”
“You need to be thinking of your own safety and the good of your family. It’s time to get out while you can.”
Renata’s words reverberate inside my head. I should just leave now. For my daughter’s sake, I should put my safety first. But I am so close, just hours away, from getting to Marcelitis. I stand and cross the room to the window once more. The crowds below are gone. Two police cars sit parked on opposite corners, lights flashing. I turn back to Renata. “Has there been any word from London?” I ask, wondering what Simon would want me to do.
“None. Communication is very difficult right now. The government has suspended international calls and telegraphs, so any news would have to go by underground wireless or messenger. I’m not even certain they’ve received news of the coup.”
So I am going to have to decide this one on my own. Looking out the window again, I remember the demonstrators as they stood in Wenceslas Square that morning, singing the Czech national anthem, Hans lying shot on the ground. I think of Emma and her children, who will have to live with whatever becomes of this country.
This is not your fight, a voice inside my head says. Go to the embassy, leave with the others. The D.M. will be disappointed, but he’ll understand. Simon, too—he never wanted me to come in the first place. But stubbornness wells up inside me, blocking thoughts of escape. “I still have to meet with Marcelitis. This is bigger than just Czechoslovakia. Getting the information to him could help in other countries. I’m sorry, Renata, but I can’t leave. Not now.”