The Diplomat's Wife(78)

The train lurches as it begins to move. My heart sinks as the station begins to recede. I am trapped. I look back over my shoulder, the cold wind blowing against my face. The bald man has entered the dining car. His eyes meet mine. I take a step forward, looking through the door at the snowy ground that flies by quicker now. As the bald man starts across the carriage, I know that I have no choice. I take a deep breath and, clutching my bag, leap from the moving train into the whiteness below.

I hit the snow-covered ground with a soft thud, then roll several times down a steep embankment. I am fine, I realize, except for having the wind knocked out of me. As I stand up, I see another figure fly from the receding train. The bald man has jumped, too. I begin to run away from the tracks, across the field toward a thick pine forest. But the ground is soft here, making it difficult to move quickly. Don’t look back, I think, but I cannot help it. The bald man runs down the hill, gaining on me with long strides. My lungs burn as I reach for the forest, fifteen meters, then ten. I have to go faster. I run into the darkness of the pine trees, tumbling blindly through the thick branches. Suddenly, my foot sinks into a hole. Pain rips through my ankle as I fall to the ground. I struggle to pull myself up with my arms again, but my leg folds uselessly under me. I cannot go any farther.

I look up in horror as the bald man reaches the edge of the trees. The gun, I remember, reaching inside my bag and pulling it out. With trembling hands, I cock the lever as he descends upon me. I prepare to fire in three, two, one…I squeeze the trigger and a shot cracks through the forest. The bald man stops suddenly less than two meters from me, mouth agape.

A second shot rings out. The bald man falls sideways to the ground. I look at the gun, puzzled. Had I fired again? Behind the spot where he fell, a figure emerges from the trees, holding a pistol larger than mine. It is a man in a long, dark-brown trench coat. A knit hat is pulled low over his forehead so that it almost meets his wide scarf, obscuring his face. The bald man might have had an accomplice, I remember, seeing Renata dead in the car. I sit up, aiming the gun at the second man.

He drops his gun to the ground, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. An accomplice would not, I realize, have shot the bald man. But that doesn’t mean he is a friend. “Who are you?” I demand in Czech.

The man shakes his head. He picks up his gun, then walks toward me, taking the pistol from my hand. “Hey!” I cry, but before I can react, he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder effortlessly, then begins to carry me deeper into the forest. I am too surprised to struggle. My mind races. Who is this man? Is he kidnapping me? Clearly he is not working with the bald man, but he could still be after me or the information that I am carrying.

Several hundred meters deeper into the forest, the man sets me down on the ground. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle, then limp over to a large stone. We are in a clearing of some sort, beside a large rock formation. The man turns away, bending over and putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. I turn back in the direction from which we came. Should I try to escape while he is not looking? But the path is obscured by the trees, and I know that I would not make it far on my injured ankle.

“Who are you?” I ask again. “Or maybe you could just tell me what you want? My husband is highly placed with the British government, so I’m sure whatever you want can be arranged.”

“In English, please,” a familiar voice says. I gasp. “You know I’m terrible with languages.”

The man turns toward me, and as he does, he pulls the scarf away. “Oh, my God,” I whisper, and in that moment I am certain that it is I, not the bald man, who has died.

There, standing in front of me, is Paul.

“Hello, Marta,” he says.



“Marta…” a voice calls in the darkness. “Marta, wake up.” I open my eyes slowly, blinking. I am lying on the ground. Above me kneels Paul, wearing a worried expression. My mind reels with confusion. Am I in the Nazi prison? No, I quickly realize, noticing the bare tree branches forming a canopy splayed against white sky. Paris, perhaps? No, that happened years ago, before Paul died.

But Paul is here, staring down at me. I do not understand. It must be a dream, I decide. Maybe I hit my head. I close my eyes once more, not wanting to wake up and lose the vision of him. “Marta, no. Open your eyes.” Something warm presses against my cheek. I reach up, closing my fingers around it. A hand. Paul’s hand. I know then that I am not dreaming. I must have passed out…. I snap my eyes open, tightening my grip, terrified that he will disappear. But he is still looking down at me. “That’s better.” His face breaks into its familiar half smile.

“You’re alive,” I whisper, clutching his hand tightly against my cheek. Joy rises in me, mingling with disbelief. “I don’t understand…”

“I’m alive,” he repeats, his eyes not leaving mine. “And I’ll explain everything, I promise. But first things first. Are you all right?”

“F-fine,” I manage to say, still staring at him.

“You went down hard and I was afraid you’d hurt yourself. Can you stand?” I nod. “Good. There’s an army barracks not far from here and someone may have heard the shots. We have to keep moving.” He slides his arm behind my back and helps me to my feet. I wince as I try to put weight on my ankle. “You can’t walk on that,” Paul says. “Not until we can make sure it’s not broken.” Before I can respond, he scoops me up and begins to carry me again. “There’s a shelter close by where we can stop, at least for a bit. Hang on.”