The Diplomat's Wife(97)

Beside me Paul wobbles. He cannot last much longer on his feet. I help him farther into the hull, finding a narrow path through the piles of crates. Soon we reach a small clearing where three stacks of boxes seem to form an alcove against the wall of the ship. “Let’s rest here,” I suggest. Paul does not respond but lets me help him to the ground. I gather some empty burlap sacks that lie nearby, propping them against the wall to form a makeshift pillow behind him. “Now, let me see your wound.”

“I’m okay,” he says, breathing heavily.

Lifting his shirt, I gasp. His lower torso is bathed in thick, fresh blood. I have to stop the bleeding. I look around desperately for something to use as a bandage. Then I remember the gauze Paul used to tape my foot. “Do you have more gauze?” I ask him. He does not answer. I move up to study his face. His eyes are half open and his face is pale. It must be the blood loss. “Paul,” I say. He does not respond.

I reach over and open his pocket. Inside, I push aside his pocketknife and some soggy crumpled papers. At the bottom, I see a small photograph. Curious, I pull it out. It is a picture of me and Paul, the one taken in Paris the night he proposed. I stare at the picture, stunned. How could he possibly still have this, after everything he had been through?

I put the photo down beside him, then check his other pocket for gauze but find none. Desperately, I unwind the piece that Paul had used to wrap my ankle, now black with dirt. I cannot put this near his wound without risking infection. I reach around to his back pocket and pull out the flask, but it is empty. I look up at the crates that fill the hull. There has to be something here that can help. Standing up, I scramble through the boxes, trying to read the labels in the near darkness. A familiar word catches my eye: Zyborowa. Polish vodka! Quickly, I try to open the crate but it is sealed shut. I race back to where Paul lies, pulling the pocketknife from his jacket and carrying it back to the crate. I work at the seal with the knife, then use it as a lever to open the box. Inside there are dozens of bottles of vodka, cushioned in straw. I take one, opening the top as I carry it back to Paul.

I kneel beside him once more. Dousing the gauze in vodka, I use it to wipe the blood from Paul’s wound. I touch his skin lightly, studying the site. The bullet pierced his midsection, slightly to the left. It is almost the exact spot where my own gunshot wound was. He groans as I lift him slightly to study his lower back. “Sorry,” I say. There is a neat hole where the bullet exited. But as I set him down again, the blood pours fresh from the front of his torso. I have to dress the wound, try to stop the bleeding. I pick up the bottle of vodka and rinse the now-red gauze once more. Then I lean over and put my head next to his ear. “This is going to hurt,” I whisper, “but it’s for your own good.” I put my hand over his mouth so that he does not attract attention if he screams. Taking a deep breath, I pour the vodka directly onto his wound to clean it. He cries out weakly. I wrap the gauze around his midsection as tightly as I can, tucking in the end.

I study the dressing. Blood is already beginning to seep through the gauze, but it will have to do. I pull his shirt down over the wound, then touch his forehead, which is burning hot and covered with a fine layer of perspiration. My panic grows. There has to be something else I can do. Suddenly, I remember the canteen he had been carrying. Praying that it is still there, I reach around to the far side of his waist, careful not to touch the wound. Relief washes over me as my hand closes around the canteen. There is only a tiny bit of water left, I note as I shake it. Paul would tell me to save the water, that we will need it later in the journey. But if I don’t bring his fever down, there might not be a later.

“Paul,” I say. There is no response. I shake him and repeat his name, louder this time. He grunts, as though being awoken from a deep sleep. Carefully, I fill the cap of the canteen with water. Cupping his head and lifting it, I bring the water to his lips. The same way he did with me in the prison, I think. But there is no time for nostalgia. I pour a few drops of the water into his mouth. “Swallow,” I implore. He does not respond, and a second later, the water trickles out of the corner of his mouth. Desperately, I tilt his head back slightly, pouring the rest of the capful of water through his barely parted lips. “Drink.” This time, his Adam’s apple moves slightly and the water does not reappear. Picking up the canteen again, I pour a few of the remaining drops of water on my hand, then rub Paul’s forehead to cool it.

I replace the cap on the canteen, studying his face again. There is nothing more to be done. He shivers. I crawl across the ground, grabbing some more of the burlap sacks and dragging them back over to Paul. I lie down beside him and pull the sacks over us for warmth. Then I place my head on his chest and close my eyes, willing the ship to sail more quickly toward Britain. A few hours ago, I dreaded reaching our destination, knowing that upon arrival we would be forced to say goodbye. But now, reaching land and getting medical attention, if it is not too late, is Paul’s only hope. I’m not going to lose you again, I think, wrapping my arm around him protectively.

My eyes grow heavy with the gentle rocking of the ship. I should stay awake, I think. But it does not matter anymore. If someone discovers us, it will not matter if we are asleep. We have done everything we can. Everything we set out to do. Now it is only a question of whether or not we make it back alive to deliver the cipher. Clinging tightly to Paul, I drift off to sleep.

Sometime later, feeling Paul move, I awaken. I sit up quickly, studying his face. His eyes are open slightly. “Can you hear me?” I ask. He nods. “How are you feeling?”