He turned to Zosia’s jewelry box and opened it. He knew what he would see: nestled there in the box was the necklace he had bought her, and beside it was the gold ring he had placed on her finger not even a year ago. In the back of his throat, spreading down his arms, he felt an old, familiar pain. His fingers ached with the sensation he knew so well. He did not try to stop the pain he felt coursing through his body; he had learned long ago how useless that was. He had learned to accept it as an almost daily fact of life. It was only a deep and abiding sense of being alone. Nothing more.
He showered and put back on the clothes he had worn up the mountain although they were still damp with sweat. He thought for a moment of visiting Marysia, or one of his friends, and getting something to eat, but then opted instead for the herrings, beans, and a lone tomato that he found on the vines. As he chewed his food, his mind strayed to the heaping quantities of meat that the Americans had served. Heaping quantities of everything, in fact. The volume of meat that he was expected to consume was particularly unappealing, and quite ironically the dinner conversation often turned around weight-loss programs as each person had shoveled more onto his or her plate. He laughed at the images as he carefully ran his finger around the sharp edge of the tin so he could collect the last of the oil clinging to the metal.
After eating, he cleaned some of the mess, stacking things into the corners so he could clear a path for walking. Then he sat and waited. After a while he decided to nap and finally fell asleep. It was late by the time Zosia returned. She came in yawning and squeaked her surprise when he sat up to greet her. She looked awkwardly large and carried herself uncomfortably, but still she was achingly beautiful to him.
“Oh my God, you scared me!” she gasped.
“But you knew I was coming back today.”
She smacked her forehead. “Forgot!”
“Why were you out so late?” he asked without thinking.“You should be resting.”
“Don’t start telling me what to do!” she snapped angrily as she maneuvered herself through the room.
Stunned by her response, he almost snapped back at her, but managed to say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just getting worried.”
She sighed. “Look, I’m tired, can we talk about this in the morning?”
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever . . .” She turned toward the bedroom.
“Zosiu.”
“What?” she responded tiredly.
“Do I get a hello?”
“What? Oh, hello. Sorry about the mess, I kept thinking you were coming back tomorrow,” she said between yawns.
“No problem,” he lied.
“Did you get something to eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Good night, then. I’m exhausted.” She yawned again. “Oh, I don’t know if anyone told you, we’re on alert. Make sure you carry your weapon whenever you’re outside and follow strict procedure.”
“Why?”
She turned back toward the bedroom.“Nothing special. Good night.”
“Good night,” he replied quietly as she disappeared into the bedroom. A moment later he called out, “Zosia?”
“What?”
“Do you want me . . . should I stay on the couch?”
“Wherever you’re comfortable,” she called out in reply. “Good night.”
The next morning he cornered her long enough to find out where all his stuff had been stored, and then she was off to do whatever it was she spent the day doing. He tapped his fingers a bit, wondering at his penchant for setting himself useless, thankless tasks; then giving in to his inclinations, he spent the day cleaning their apartment and restocking their pantry. By seven in the evening he was exhausted but finished. There was still no sign of Zosia so he poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a volume of the cryptanalysis books that Alex had managed to send him, and had just begun to read when the door opened and Zosia came in.
He stood to greet her and was surprised to see Tadek follow her into the flat. Peter looked questioningly at her, but she was too busy looking around. She then turned to Tadek and said, “See! I told you it would be clean!” She turned back toward Peter and asked, “Did you cook anything for dinner?” as she tossed her files onto the coffee table and sat down heavily.
“No. I only just finished cleaning this place.”
“But you were reading!”
“I said I only just finished. I haven’t thought of preparing anything yet,” he explained with exaggerated patience. He glanced meaningfully from her to Tadek and back again, but he could think of no clear way of expressing his feelings.
She nodded her understanding. “We can wait.”
We? he mouthed, but Zosia did not notice as she was busy motioning Tadek into the room.
Tadek looked somewhat hesitant. “You didn’t know I was coming?” he asked Peter.
Peter shook his head.“No, we haven’t spoken about anything yet.”
Tadek threw Zosia a rather annoyed glance and said, “I think we should do this some other time.”
“No, don’t go! I’m sure Peter will throw together something nice. Won’t you?” she asked, turning her attention from one to the other.“Use the meat ration.”
“We only got two pieces of rabbit for the entire week,” Peter protested.
“I know. This rationing! Still, I’m sure you can make something nice. Come on, Tadek, pour us a drink, just water for me, okay? Then come and sit down!”
Tadek shrugged, moved past Peter into the kitchen, and began pouring drinks for the three of them.
Peter stood still, contemplating her, considering his options. He had wanted to be helpful, that was the stated reason for his return. He looked at the puffiness of her face, the bloated feet and hands. That must have been why she had removed her ring. She looked tired and there was a light sheen of sweat on her face even though it was quite cool in the room. And both she and Tadek had been working all day. Was it so unreasonable to make a meal for the three of them?
She interrupted his thoughts to ask, “So, any news?”
“At least one thing. I have a way of getting through the bad nights without drinking.”
“Oh, that is good news. What do you do?” she asked, accepting the glass Tadek handed her.
“I write letters to you,” he answered while walking to his satchel to pull out the stack of letters to show her.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed as if alarmed. “I’ll never have time to read all that! You don’t want me to read it all, do you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t figure you would. I just wanted to show them to you.”
“Vodka?” Tadek interrupted to ask. Peter nodded.
“Wasn’t it dangerous carrying them with you?” Zosia asked as she struggled to get her shoes off.
Peter walked over and knelt down and removed them for her. “I didn’t think so.”
“Ah,” she sighed happily, “thanks.”
He went over to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and placed the stack of papers in it. “I made a space for them here. Don’t throw them out. Please?”
“Oh, I’d never do that,” she assured him, wiggling her toes, sounding relieved.
Tadek handed Peter a glass and he sipped the vodka, wondering if Zosia would remember her promise long enough to keep it. “And I found three diaries my mother wrote,” he offered as his other major bit of news.
“Uh-huh.” She picked up one of her papers. “This is the document that I think Katerina was referring to,” she said to Tadek. “What she didn’t tell you . . .” Zosia looked up at Peter. “What did you say?”
“I located some diaries my mother wrote.”
“Oh! Goodness! How did you do that?” she said, finding the appropriate response like a coin under a sofa cushion.
“They were hidden in our old flat,” he explained without feeling. “It was being torn down.”
“Oh.” She turned her attention to the papers. She paged thr
ough them as if trying to find something.
“I’m putting them in this drawer as well. They’re very important to me. Don’t throw them away.”
“Sure. Here it is.” She waved the document in Tadek’s direction.
“Did you hear me?” Peter pressed.
“Yes, of course, don’t throw them away. Of course I won’t,” she dutifully parroted. “Well, are you going to make dinner? I’m famished.”
“Of course,” he sighed, and went over to the kitchen. He boiled some beets and potatoes, fried some onions, and set aside some sour cream to make a borscht. Then as that cooked, he chopped up the rabbit, cooked it on the stovetop to speed things up, added some onions, potatoes, and carrots to try to give the pathetic bits of meat some substance, mixed up a wine sauce, threw that in, and tossed the concoction into the oven, rather indifferent to how it might taste. The entire time he cooked, Tadek and Zosia conversed about their day’s work. They debated the merits of an appeal that had been filed by a district, requesting to have their taxation reorganized in recognition that they had not produced anything that autumn. The German authorities had already seized their seed corn for the spring, and they were facing possible starvation over the winter.
Tadek argued that the region had already been terribly hard hit by the recent upheavals and they should not be taxed, but Zosia countered that the Underground had to extort its fair share in order to avoid setting a terrible precedent.
“Why not collect the taxes,” Peter suggested, “then give them a grant to see them through the winter. You could make the grant contingent upon their being discreet.”
Zosia and Tadek both looked up at him in alarm. “Peter, I’m sorry,” Zosia said. “You’re not cleared for this. I didn’t realize you were listening in!”
Listening in? This was exactly the sort of thing they had always talked about! How many times had he read and analyzed reports for her? How many times had he suggested solutions that she had later claimed as her own? Angry words leapt to his lips, but he glanced across the room at Tadek and let them die away unspoken. Listening in, she had said. In his own home. “I’m not,” he finally assured her, and turned his back to finish the soup. “Could one of you set the table?”
As they ate the borscht, Peter told them about his time in London and what the city was like now. The conversation flowed smoothly, and though he had not planned to have a guest that evening, it was still quite enjoyable. After the soup, he got up to pull the casserole out of the oven and distribute it onto three plates. Zosia and Tadek began discussing Council business again, but as Peter returned to the table with the plates, Tadek gave Zosia a meaningful look.
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, “we should discuss this later.” She turned to Peter and smiled.“Maybe you could go for a walk or visit someone after dinner?”
Without answering, Peter set a plate in front of her, then the other in front ofTadek. Zosia raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer. He set his own plate in the center of the table. “I’ll go now. There’s really not enough food for three in any case, and I’ve been eating well recently. Go ahead and split my portion.” He went to the door to pick up his boots, then sat down and began to pull them on.
“Peter! Don’t go now, I said after dinner!” Zosia called out.
He ignored her and stood to pull on his coat.
Tadek stood. “Look, I’ll go. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
“No, Tadek, don’t run off so quickly! Stay a bit. Finish your meal!” Zosia pleaded. “Both of you! Stay!”
Tadek glanced at Peter, who stood silent and unmoving by the door, ready to leave. “I don’t think so,” Tadek answered.
“You must at least have a drink,” she insisted.
“I think you two need to be alone right now,” Tadek replied, obviously uneasy.
“Nonsense! Tell him, Peter.”
“Nonsense,” Peter repeated without inflection.
Zosia glared at him, turned helplessly back toward Tadek. “Please . . . ,” she began, but did not know what to say.
“Thanks for the soup, it was delicious, but I really must go.” Tadek headed toward the door.
“Tadek!” Zosia followed him to the door pleading, but he was already gone. She turned back toward Peter. “That was so damn rude! What the hell is your problem?”
“Why did you invite Tadek this evening?”
“Did I need your permission?” she asked pointedly.
“No,” he answered carefully, “I just wanted to know why tonight, before we’ve even had a chance to be alone.”
“We were in the middle of important discussions. I forgot you were back. But it shouldn’t matter, I’m not going to ignore everyone just because you’re here.”
He stood there looking at her, feeling the same sensation down his right arm that he had felt the night before: the sudden shock of aloneness. Alone with another person, with a body that breathed air and said words but was not really there. Alone with a stranger.
Zosia shook her head at his silence. “I would think that with all your acting ability, you’d be able to act gracious to my guests!”
“I was myself,” he answered, his heart aching with an undefinable sadness.
She shook her head. “For Christ’s sake, what do you want from me? I have a life, there are important things going on!” she almost cried. “As soon as you’re here, you want me to be something I’m not, and you sabotage every aspect of my life that isn’t centered on you.” She burst into tears. “Everything becomes so impossibly complicated!” she moaned between sobs. “It’s you, you’re impossible!”
“So I’ve heard,” he replied as he removed his coat.
Later that night, he awoke to find her missing from their bed. By the time he walked into the living room, she was at the door.
“Been to the loo.” She belched. “Oh, God, what I’d give for a night without all this indigestion. I’m so tired and my stomach is just churning!”
“Why don’t you sleep in tomorrow and not go to work.”
“Good idea. We can go for a walk. Would you like that?”
“You know I would.”
“Great, it’s a date,” she said, yawning.
“Zosia?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about this evening.”
She looked at him as if annoyed by his words. She said nothing though, just stared at him. He cocked his head, curious as to why she had not responded. Was he forgiven? Unforgiven? Did she understand her part in it all? He watched with growing hurt as she said nothing, then she shook her head and disappeared wordlessly into the bedroom.
No point in arguing, he thought. They were past that now—there was no point in arguing because there was nothing left to save. She was just biding her time in silence until he was gone again, until she could be rid of him. He stood staring into the gloom for a long time. Eventually she emerged from the bedroom and tugged at his arm. “Come to bed,” she whispered. So he did.
42
THE NEXT MORNING he woke late after a good night’s sleep. No dreams or nightmares or anything that he could remember. It left him feeling irrationally optimistic, and as he watched Zosia sleeping, he reviewed his interactions with her and decided that he had been somewhat harsh. She was tired, distracted, burdened with weight and water and hormones and expectations. She was not the excitable sort in any case, and if she had not fallen all over him in welcome, perhaps it meant nothing more than that her mind was on other things. It had been unfair of him to be so overly sensitive to her suggestion: business was business, his clearance wasn’t as high as hers, and he should have taken that walk and left her to do her job. He had, after all, ostensibly returned to be helpful; he was not a guest, he was her husband and the father of their child.
Even as she slept, he could see the baby kick and squirm beneath her stomach. It looked crowded in there and he wondered if Zosia felt a lack of space and privacy. She was so independent, so self-contained. He mused about what it
must feel like for her to be inextricably bound to another being for so long.Inseparable. For months they were inseparable; if one hiccuped, the other knew about it.
Zosia’s eyelids fluttered and she blinked awake.“Hi, there.” She smiled at him.
“Hi, beautiful. How are you doing?”
She moaned and stretched and burped noisily. “Well enough. And how are you?”
“I had a dreamless night.”
“Great!” She contemplated him as he sat there bent over her. She reached up, touching his unfamiliar dark brown hair, stroking some loose strands off his forehead, letting her hand stray across his face and then down along his back, her fingers skimming lightly over his scars. “Do you ever think of killing them?” she asked as she pulled her hand away.
He tilted his head in surprise at her question.“Not often,” he answered at last.
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “That’s the way I was programmed.”
“You think they programmed you?”
“I know they did.”
“But you always insisted—”
“I was wrong.”
“But if you didn’t even know they did it, how did they manage it?”
“Remember, I was a research project.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They probed for my weaknesses and went right for them.”
“Which weaknesses?”
“Oh, things unique to me,” he answered evasively. “They would have done something different to someone else, I guess. There were all those interviews, and I never credited their techniques, but I think they were rather clever—I think they learned exactly where to hit me. It wasn’t the physical torture—that was fairly straightforward; it was the direction they pushed me in with that torture, and with the drugs. The words they used, the concepts they forced on me . . .” Worthless, he thought, unwanted, unimportant. Obliged to earn a right to live. He sniffed in amusement at how familiar it all was!
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