The Diplomat's Wife(98)

“It hurts,” he replies matter-of-factly. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know.” I touch his forehead, which feels hotter than before. Then I reach for the canteen.

He raises his hand slightly. “Save it.”

“Paul, you’re burning up. I’ll find more water later.”

He does not answer but lets me bring the canteen cap to his lips, grimacing as he swallows. I remember then how in prison, I tried to forget pain by pretending I was somewhere else, was back in my family home in the village, or at Shabbat dinner with my friends in the ghetto. “Let’s pretend we’re not here,” I suggest. “Remember the night in Salzburg, how we stayed up in the gardener’s shed talking, listening to the rain?”

He manages a faint smile. “That was wonderful. So quiet after all the months of fighting, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.” Then his expression grows serious again. “The whole war, I managed not to get shot. And now…” He lifts his hand slightly in the direction of his wound.

“This is all because of me,” I say. “You never would have been here otherwise. I’m so sorry.”

“It was worth it,” he replies quickly. “I love you, Marta.”

“I love you, too. But when I saw the port guards pull you from the truck and heard the shots, I thought…”

“That you lost me again?” Paul finishes for me. I nod, suddenly overcome with all that has happened. My eyes well. “Nah, you won’t get rid of me that easily. They were about to cuff me and then I would have been sunk,” he adds. “But I was able to slip out of my coat and grab the gun of the one who was holding me. I shot him, wounded the other two.” His voice cracks, as much from the memory of shooting the men as the effort of speaking. I see in his eyes the same remorse as I had in the Berlin police station, looking down at Hart’s body. Killing did not come easily to Paul, even when it was to save his life.

Or mine.

“I love you,” I repeat, lowering my lips to his, wanting to take away his pain.

“Me, too. I do wish you hadn’t moved on quite so quickly, though.” He tries to sound light, but there is a seriousness to his expression that belies his pain.

I know then that I have to tell him. I take a deep breath. “I didn’t.”

Paul looks up at me. “I don’t understand. Didn’t what?”

I hesitate. Telling Paul will change everything. But he needs to know the truth in case…I shudder. The thought is almost too unbearable to finish. But if something happens to him, I want him to know. “I didn’t move on,” I say at last.

Paul’s expression is puzzled. “But you married your husband so quickly…”

“I didn’t marry Simon because of my feelings for him, or because I had forgotten you. I married Simon because I was pregnant.”

“But you wouldn’t have slept with him if…” Paul’s voice trails off and a light of recognition appears in his eyes. “You didn’t, did you?”

“Sleep with him? No. Not until we were married.”

“So the baby…?”

I nod. “Rachel is your daughter. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” I add.

I watch his face as he processes the information. Is he angry? “Daughter,” he mumbles softly, closing his eyes again. I lean over quickly to check his shallow, even breaths, wondering if the shock was too much. He is just delirious from the fever, I decide, touching his forehead. He will not even remember what I told him. But at least he knows. I lie back down beside him, holding him tight. Whatever happens now, he knows. I drift off to sleep once more.

Sometime later, I blink my eyes open, feeling the gentle rocking of the boat and smelling the damp wood. Paul has fallen away from me and lies motionless on his side. Dammit, I swear, crawling over to him. I never should have let myself sleep. “Paul,” I whisper, touching his cheek, then his forehead. He seems cooler now, but his eyes remain closed. I roll him back toward me, lifting his head into my lap. “Paul, wake up, please.”

His eyes flutter open. “Oh, hello,” he says, half smiling.

“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”

He raises his hand to his side. “Still hurts.”

I pull back his shirt to examine the wound. Blood seeped through the gauze at some point, but he does not seem to be bleeding further now. I should redress the wound, I know, but there is nothing else to bandage it with. I let the shirt fall once more. “The bleeding seems to have stopped,” I report. “At least as far as I can see.”

He nods. “There’s something still going on inside, though. I can feel it.”

“You’re less feverish.” I try to keep the worry from my voice. “You should drink a bit more.” I reach behind me and pick up the canteen.

“I can do it,” he says, taking the bottle from me. “Not much left. Did I drink all of that?”

“Some. And I used some to bring your fever down.”

“Did you drink any?”

“Yes,” I lie, looking away.

“Marta…” He reaches up and touches my lips. I had not realized until then that they are dry and cracked with dehydration. “You need to drink, too.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’ll go find some more water for us soon.” I look around the hull, which remains in perpetual semidarkness. “I wonder what time it is.”