The Diplomat's Wife(96)
Paul has been caught. I start toward the truck. I have to do something. Then Paul’s eyes flick toward me. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, then looks away. Keep going, I can hear him say. No matter what happens.
I hesitate for several seconds, my heart pounding. I cannot leave Paul. But if I stay here, I will surely be caught, too. Rachel’s face flashes through my mind. I have to get home to her. I cannot turn back now. I’m sorry, I think, looking back at Paul one last time. Then I begin to run desperately into the harbor, my ankle throbbing.
Away from the bushes, the harbor is open, exposed. I slow to a walk, not wanting to attract attention. Ahead, the pier juts out into the sea like a long finger, massive vessels lining either side. Stevedores carry large crates from trucks, loading them into the hulls of the ships.
As I near the dockside, I duck behind a tall stack of crates, then begin to scan the side of the boats. SS Bremen, I read, on the side of one vessel that sits at the far end of the pier to the right. I start toward it, crouching behind stacks of cargo, moving as quickly as I can. I hear a gunshot in the distance, followed by another. I stop and turn. Paul! I scream inside, my heart breaking. But there is nothing I can do for him now. I have to keep going. Desperately, I turn and race down the pier, past the stevedores, who have been distracted by the gunshots.
When I reach the base of the Bremen, I stop, staring up the massive ramp that leads upward toward the main deck of the ship, lined with trucks. I start up the ramp, keeping low beside the passenger sides of the trucks as I move. At the top, I duck behind a large pallet of boxes, then crawl away from the ramp toward the stern of the ship. I made it. I look back out at the pier. In my mind, I see Paul being dragged from the truck by the police. I fight the urge to run off the ship after him. If I can get back to Britain, I can send word to the Americans about what happened to him. Get him help. Then I remember the gunshots. It is too late for help, I realize numbly. I have lost him all over again. Goodbye, my darling Paul. Thank you for saving me once more. My eyes fill with tears.
A minute later, the trucks begin rolling off the ramp. Then a loud horn sounds and the ramp begins to retract from the deck. We are leaving. I must have made it just in time. I look behind me for a hatch, a way to get below deck out of sight. Suddenly I see something moving on the pier, a figure coming closer. I duck down below the railing. Has someone spotted me? Then I look up again at the figure running toward the ship. Recognizing the awkward gait, my heart leaps. Paul! He is alive and he is trying to make it.
Hurry, I pray, fighting the urge to call out to him. But the ramp has been lowered and the ship is beginning to pull away from the dock. He cannot possibly get on board. He keeps running toward the ship, looking straight ahead toward a small dingy attached low to the outside of the ship. Paul, coatless now, runs to the end of the dock and without hesitating jumps into the water. It must be nearly freezing! Surely he will not be able to survive long. My heart pounds as he swims toward the lifeboat with sure, swift strokes. Hurry. His hand catches the edge of the lifeboat, but slips off. Then he grabs it, firmer this time, and climbs in. He made it! But choppy waves, stirred up by the wake of the ship, crash over the sides of the tiny craft, battering him. He won’t be able to last long down there. He reaches up, grabbing the thick rope that holds the lifeboat to the side of the ship. I watch in amazement as he begins to climb, slowly, painstakingly, up the rope. I race to the side of the boat where the rope is secured. As he nears the top, I hold out my hand. Taking it, he hoists himself over the edge.
“Paul!” I cry. He is soaking wet and the front of his shirt is covered in blood.
“I told you I wouldn’t stand you up again,” he manages to say, then collapses to the deck.
CHAPTER 24
“Paul!” I kneel beside him, touching his blood-soaked shirt. His eyes are half open, his breathing weak. Oh, God. I have to get him out of the cold and out of sight. About twenty meters down the length of the boat there is a doorway. I do not know what is inside, but it has to be better than staying exposed on the open deck, waiting for someone to find us. “Paul, can you hear me?” He grunts. “I need your help. We can’t stay here and I can’t carry you. Can you move?”
He does not answer. I take his right arm and wrap it around my neck, then put my left arm around his waist. Taking a deep breath, I try to raise him to a standing position. But he remains limp, too heavy to lift. I shake him hard. “Paul, listen, I know you’re hurt. But I need you to help me, just for a few minutes. On the count of three. One, two…” Using all of my strength, I struggle to stand up again with him. This time, I feel a slight movement in his legs, his whole body trembling with the effort as he helps me to raise him. How badly is he hurt? I wonder. Panic rises within me as I drag him to the doorway.
Leaning Paul against the side of the ship for support, I open the door and roll him around the edge of the door frame. We are inside a stairwell, with one set of stairs leading up, one down. Above us I hear voices speaking in German. “Paul, downstairs, quickly,” I whisper. I do not know if there are more sailors below, but I have to chance it. He blinks, seeming to revive slightly. I help him down one flight of stairs, then another. We reach the bottom of the ship, and I blink to adjust my eyes. The cavernous hull seems to run endlessly into the darkness, filled with crates and boxes piled high to the ceiling. I inhale the damp air, which smells of wet wood and burlap. Hopefully no one will come down here until we reach England and they are ready to unload.