The Diplomat's Wife(77)
“We know about the coup. We’ve been trying to get hold of the embassy, but the lines have all been down. There was a convoy of diplomats, we were hoping you would be with them. You have to get out. If you can get to Vienna, I can arrange—”
“Simon, there’s more.” Quickly I tell him about the bald man impersonating Marcelitis on the bridge. “Marcelitis didn’t show, but I have an address in Berlin. If I can get there, I still think I can get him to help us.”
“Marta, that’s crazy! You don’t even know where to find him.”
“I have an address, on Oranienburger Strasse.”
“But you have no support in Berlin. We don’t have an extraction plan—”
“I’ll be fine, Simon.” Suddenly I notice a policeman walking toward the phone booth, looking at me. “I have to go now. Tell Rachel I love her and I’ll see her soon.” I can still hear Simon talking as I hang up. I look out at the policeman, my heart pounding. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing my train.
I step from the booth. “Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm as I step around the policeman. I force myself to walk past him slowly, looking straight ahead. A few seconds later I reach the gate and join the queue of passengers boarding the train. When I look back, the policeman is in the phone booth, talking.
I board the train and make my way to an empty compartment in one of the second-class carriages. It is similar to the train I took from Salzburg, with three worn orange seats on each side of the compartment, facing one another. I sink into the seat closest to the window, then peer out. The policeman is still on the telephone. He had not been looking for me. Relieved, I lean back against the musty seat cushion.
Soon the train begins to move. As we pull away, the door to the compartment bangs open. I jump, thinking of the police. But it is just an elderly man, carrying a small suitcase. From the doorway, he gestures with his head toward the empty row of seats facing me, asking permission to sit. I nod. The man lifts his suitcase to the overhead rack, then takes the seat across from me nearest the door. He looks at me, and for a second I worry that he will try to start a conversation. Czech is close enough to Polish that I can get by, but my accent would never pass as native. And I cannot afford to stand out, not now. I pull out the newspaper, hoping to discourage him. The man produces his own newspaper and begins to read.
I press my head against the window, too tired to care if it is dirty. My entire body sags with fatigue. Was it really only the day before yesterday that I arrived in Prague? I see the bald man lunging at me, Renata dead in the car. The demonstrators fleeing. The reality of it all crashes down, overwhelming me.
I pick up the newspaper once more, scanning an article about the government. Though the article does not say so, I know that the implications of the coup are much broader than just Czechoslovakia. The country has always been a balancing point between East and West and it is possible that their takeover here might embolden the communists to seek more power elsewhere. I touch my bag, thinking of the papers inside. I have to get to Marcelitis.
Outside, daylight has broken. Hradcany Castle basks in the sunlight, impervious to the plight of the city below. If the state-controlled newspaper is at all correct, the communists will have complete power within days. I look up again at the receding skyline, apologizing silently to the place I have just abandoned.
Soon the city disappears and the landscape grows more rural, the buildings spaced fewer and farther between. I look across the compartment. The old man’s eyes are closed and he is snoring lightly. I realize then how dry and heavy my own eyes feel. Between my aborted meeting with Marcelitis and fleeing the city, I did not sleep at all the previous night. I blink hard, trying to stay alert. But I feel myself growing sleepier, lulled by the rocking of the train. Just a little nap should be fine. It is still several hours until we reach the border. I close my eyes, my bag clutched tightly in my arms.
I am startled awake by a loud screeching sound. The brakes, I realize groggily. Struggling to clear my head, I look up at the man seated across from me. “Dě?ín?”
He shakes his head. “This is Karlova. You still have another two stops.”
The station is small, just a single-story building and platform surrounded by trees. Fresh snow has fallen here, covering the ground in white. Pressing my head against the window, I can make out a small group of passengers boarding. At the back of the line, a tall man in a brimmed hat and dark trench coat catches my eye. He looks back before boarding the train, and as I catch a glimpse of his pale eyes, terror shoots through me. It is the bald man, the one who impersonated Marcelitis.
For a minute, I sit frozen, unsure what to do. How did he find me? I have to get off the train. Heart pounding, I stand up and walk to the door of the compartment, looking into the corridor. To the left, I see the bald man entering the compartment behind several other passengers. I can tell from the way he looks in both directions that he has not seen me. I slip out of the car and turn to the right, keeping my head low. “Excuse me,” I say, pushing by several boarding passengers, squeezing past their luggage. I reach the end of the compartment, cross through into the next, trying to get far enough away so that the bald man won’t notice me when I step off onto the platform. I look back over my shoulder. I cannot see him anymore, but I am certain that he is not far behind. I reach the dining car, walking as quickly through it as I can without attracting attention. Now, I think, as I reach the end of the car and approach the door. Get off the train now.