by Pam Jenoff
I turn to the next page and stop, my hand suspended midair. It contains technical engineering plans and though the terminology is foreign to me, it is clearly a plan to fit the cargo ships with guns. A shiver runs through me. Was all Georg’s talk of peace a lie, intended for my benefit? I continue paging through, then stop at a map. Cities to the east are marked: Archangel, Murmansk, Brest. Though I do not understand the notations, I know this is what Ignatz wanted.
I remove the document from the stack, my hand trembling slightly. I’d done it. In the other room Georg snores, none the wiser. I am flooded with remorse. Georg is so earnest and he has brought me into his trust. I’ve betrayed him.
Georg cries out then in his sleep, a whimper that breaks open to a scream. I fold the paper hurriedly and tuck it in my dress. With any luck I can show it to Ignatz and return it before Georg notices that it is missing.
Back in the bedroom, Georg is agitated in his sleep. He is on the ship, reliving a battle as his body convulses from side to side—most likely the one that had taken his brother. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I throw my arms around him. His gown is soaked through with sweat, skin hot through the material. “I’m here and it’s okay.” He wraps himself around me, holding me tightly as though I might slip away.
A minute later, his grip relaxes and he begins to breathe evenly once more. I look at the clock on the nightstand. It is nearly eleven, and Papa might be back from his dinner, if he did not go to Celia’s. He will wonder where I’ve gone, but I cannot leave Georg and there’s no way to send word. I lean back wearily beside him on the wide bed.
I awaken sometime later. Where am I? Georg’s rooms, I remember, inhaling the familiar spearmint smell of his aftershave. I had not planned to fall asleep. The room clicks into focus as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I sit up quickly.
He shifts beside me, opens his eyes. “Margot.” He smiles, his face as relaxed and happy as I have ever seen. “You are here. I thought it was a dream.” He blinks. “Were you here all night?”
“Yes.” I study his face. Does he recall the things he said? But his expression is impassive, the awkwardness that would have been present if he remembered his declaration of feelings nowhere to be found.
Then his face clouds. “How improper of me. I never should have...”
“It’s fine. I came to you. It was my choice. I wanted to be here.”
Then a pained look crosses his face as his head begins to throb, bringing the memories of the previous evening into focus. “I’m so sorry. You should not have had to see me in such a state. You should go.”
He does not want me here. Stung by his curtness, I stand and start for the door. “Margot, wait.” He grabs my hand to stop me. I am instantly warm. What is it about this man that provokes such a reaction in me? It was never this way with Stefan, no matter how much I liked him.
Then he drops my hand just as quickly. “It’s just that when I sleep...” He turns away, embarrassed.
“I have nightmares, too,” I say, wanting to ease his embarrassment. “Not about anything as serious as yours, of course.”
“What do you dream about?” Before he finished the question, I realize my mistake: I cannot tell him about the fiancé and the inevitable marriage that haunts my sleep.
“I dream that I am trapped,” I say carefully, somewhere short of a lie. I hold my breath hoping that he will not press me to elaborate. “How are you feeling?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Much better.”
I touch his now-cool forehead. “The nurse said she would check back on you this morning.”
“You should go home and rest.”
Or at least wash. My hair is pressed flat to my head from sleep and I have a stale taste in my mouth.
“If I may trouble you for one thing before you go, I should like to shave.” I notice then the thick stubble that covers his cheeks. He is not used to being so unkempt.
“Certainly.” I fetch a bowl of warm water and his shaving kit from the basin. When I return to Georg’s beside, he has unbuttoned the collar of his nightshirt further, revealing a wide swath of skin. Warmth rises in me. He drapes his neck in a towel and dampens his face. But as he reaches for the razor, his weakened hand trembles. “Let me.” I work the cream into a lather as I have seen Papa do, then bring my hands to his cheeks. His skin is unexpectedly soft beneath my fingertips. I run the razor upward against his jawline, struggling to keep my hand still, not meeting his eyes.
“Much better,” he says when I have rinsed the lather. He pats his face dry with the towel I hand him. “Thank you.”
“Not at all.” I still cannot look at him.
“Margot, I am so grateful for your friendship.” I step back, caught off guard by the word. “I’m sorry, was that too forward of me? We’ve known each other for such a short time.”
“Not at all.” To the contrary, his description sounded cold and formal, something well short of how I feel. He does not consider me more. Of course not. Whatever was I expecting?
“I don’t think of it as you working for me, you see. I regard us as peers, colleagues, but the way we speak of so many things makes it something more than that....” He fumbles with these last words, then clears his throat. “Now, if you’ll bring me my papers.”
“You’re still too sick. That was our arrangement, remember? I shall keep working as long as you rest.”
“Yes, but now you are going.”
He has a point. I need to return to the apartment to freshen and make sure Papa is not worried. “I hate being idle like this,” he presses. “There isn’t any time to waste. Every day that passes decreases the chance of getting the report to the commission and making a real difference.”
“I can keep working,” I offer quickly. Then I stop. “I mean, not here, of course, but if I take the papers with me.”
I watch as he considers the idea. The delegation is worried about material slipping out, concerns about espionage growing by the day, though whether legitimate or just paranoia it is impossible to say. Papa has told me before that they even play the gramophone as they work, symphonies and operas at a decibel that makes it hard to think, to prevent anyone from listening. “I’ll take them from here to our rooms and nowhere else,” I promise. “I’ll bring them back tonight.”
“I suppose your suite really is just an extension of the delegation space here,” Georg concedes. I wait for him to admonish me to be careful. But he doesn’t. He trusts me, something which I suspect does not come easily to him. Something I do not deserve.
“I will check on you later. Stay in bed and rest. I can show myself out.” I slip from the apartment before he has the chance to argue, taking the binder with me.
A few minutes later, I unlock the door to our apartment. The sitting room is still, I note with relief, untouched since the previous day. It is the first time I have ever been glad that Papa had spent the night with Celia. I set the binder on the desk then pull out the map I’d taken from Georg’s rooms out of my dress. Will it be enough to satisfy Ignatz?
I place the document in the middle of the stack of papers in the binder, then walk to the toilet to wash. As I dress twenty minutes later, I glance over at my bed, the rose duvet bathed in sunlight. I am tired from my night of caring for Georg and the pillow beckons invitingly. But I promised Georg I would keep working.
I put on the kettle in the small kitchenette and a moment later return to the parlor with a cup of tea, which I set down on the low table by the divan before sitting. I pull out the sachet of herbs Krysia gave me the previous day for energy. I’d forgotten to put them in Georg’s broth, but perhaps they will give me a bit of energy, as well. I tap a bit into the teacup, savoring the floral smell that wafts upward. I take a sip, then turn to the binder and remove the documents. But as I start on one of the memos, the words blur, making it difficult to read. I blink several times and take another sip of tea. I rub at my dry eyes, then set the papers down. Perhaps just a quick rest. I tilt my head back.
I sit up with a start, disoriented by flashes of dreams, dark scenes of the ocean, reaching for Georg’s hand before sinking below the rough surf. How much time has passed? I struggle to adjust my eyes to the dim room. Though I had meant to rest only a few minutes, I can tell by the heaviness of my limbs and the way the scant late-afternoon light filters through the curtains that it has been hours.
The binder has fallen from my lap to the floor, documents scattering everywhere. How careless of me. I take the papers and fold them neatly back in the stack. I’d meant to go find Ignatz this afternoon and show him the report so that I could return it to Georg’s study this evening, but it is too late now. I reach into the middle of the binder for the loose document I’d hidden there. As my hand closes around emptiness, my stomach tightens. Hurriedly, I page to the middle of the binder.
The report I’d stolen from Georg is gone.
Chapter 9
I stare down at the binder in disbelief, paging through the documents a second, then a third time. The map had been there, I am sure of it. I retrace my route from when I entered the apartment, looking under the divan and table. But it is gone. I race to the window. Could it possibly have fallen in the street? I thought I had been so careful.
I put on my shoes and start for the door. But before I can turn the knob, it opens from the other side and standing there, glowering, is Papa. “There you are!” he exclaims, nostrils flaring as he enters the apartment. I have never seen him so angry. “I tried to ring you last night and then again early this morning and finally was so worried that I came to check as soon as I was able. You were at the hotel, weren’t you?”
“Papa, I...” I search for another explanation that would explain my absence at such hours and find none.
“I knew it! You said you were just checking on Captain Richwalder briefly.”
“I hadn’t planned to stay. But he was so sick, and there was no one else to help.”
“And then walking out of the hotel the next morning, like some...I cannot even say. It isn’t proper.”
“Is that what matters now? It was a very urgent circumstance.”
But he is too far gone to back down. “What will the other members of the delegation think?” His voice raises and a vein stands out on the left side of his head.
I should hope that the other delegates have more important things to worry about than my comings and goings, I want to say. Papa has never been one to trouble about appearances, but his tenuous position here at the conference has made him subject to scrutiny. “Papa, your pressure,” I remind him instead, alarmed that the fight will be too much strain on his health. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I add, trying to calm him.
“Working for Captain Richwalder on some translations is one thing.” His tone softens slightly. “But staying out all night and playing nursemaid...”
“Papa, I’m not a child.”
“Exactly. And I expect you to make adult decisions.” Or if not, decisions will be made for me, is the silent, unfinished implication. For years, Papa has encouraged me to think on my own, but now I see that is intended to go only so far, like an animal perceiving it has free rein because it has not comprehended the contours of its cage. “Spending time with Georg when you are an engaged woman. It isn’t proper,” he repeats.
“And you and Tante Celia,” I spit, unable to hold back. “Is that proper?” He blinks and his cheeks flush as though I have slapped him.
“I’m not...” He stops short, unable to finish the denial. “That’s entirely different.” But my recriminations hang in the air between us. In all of the years the affair has gone on, it is the first time either of us has spoken of it.
A moment later, he clears his throat. “I have to return to Paris for dinner now that I know you are all right. You are to stay here.”
“I’ll not be a prisoner.”
“That’s rather dramatic. You can leave the apartment. But you aren’t to go to Captain Richwalder.”
I start to protest. “Papa...” He goes to his room and closes the door hard. I stare after him, defeated. How can he possibly tell me I cannot continue to work with Georg, or to see him when he is ill? And then to assume how I feel.... Papa has always tried to guide with a gentle touch. But this seems to be the one exception.
I walk from the apartment, then hesitate. For a minute I consider defying Papa’s order and going back to Georg. Suddenly this has become a power struggle. What will happen if I refuse to listen? I am an adult, after all, and a person of my own accord. Papa could turn me out like Krysia’s parents initially did when she became pregnant. For all of the conflict, though, he has no wish to alienate me. He could make trouble for Georg with the delegation. But Papa isn’t the type to make waves. No, there is not likely to be any tangible repercussions from my going against his will. Still, fighting with him even for a few minutes makes me ill.
Remembering the lost document, I hurry down the street, check the gutters and the scraps of newspaper that blow along the roadside. It is nowhere to be found. What now?
Krysia. She will know what to do. I start in the direction of the train station. It is nearly dark outside now, the shops closing. At the end of the street, I gaze back longingly at the hotel. Georg will be waiting for me, wonder why I have not come. I walk to the guard at the front of the hotel and scribble a note for Georg, making my excuses.
An hour later, I ring the bell at the entrance to Krysia’s apartment building. When I reach the top of the stairs, the door opens and Krysia appears in a long flowing robe.
“I’m so sorry. I should have called,” I add, repeating our now-familiar refrain without humor.
“I think we’re long past that,” she replies wryly. Then, noticing my distress, her face grows serious. “What is it?” I twist my hands reflexively around my purse, embarrassed to be running to Krysia with my problems yet again. “Come in.”
Inside, I scan the apartment warily, relieved to see that Marcin is not there. Krysia does not prepare coffee as she usually does but instead, sensing the need for something stronger, pulls a bottle of brandy and pours small amounts into two glasses. “Drink,” she orders when I look at her hesitantly. I obey, the strong liquor burning my nose and throat. “Now,” she says, “what’s wrong?”
Hurriedly, I tell her about taking the document. “I tried to do what Ignatz wanted. Only now it’s missing.”
“You searched your apartment?”
“I looked everywhere.”
“It will turn up. These things do.” She seems strangely untroubled.
“Perhaps I should tell Georg....”
“No,” she replies quickly. “Do you really think he would understand?” She’s right, of course. Telling him would mean revealing my deception and he would never forgive me. “There’s still time for you to try again and get something else.”
“Again?” I explode. I cannot help it. Taking from Georg once was bad enough. But the thought of doing it a second time... “I can’t.”
“We’ve been through this before. There’s no other way.”
“But betraying him like this when he trusts me...I feel horrid.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You care for him.”
“Hardly.” My voice raises a note too high in protest. “We disagree about everything.” I search my memory to find an example. “Like the other day we fought about Palestine.”
“He didn’t see the need for a Jewish state?”
“No, quite the opposite actually. He thought it would be good for the Jews to have a place. But I am a German and I didn’t see the necessity.” It sounds so trivial now. What is it about Georg that brings out such a strong reaction in me? “What do you think?”
“About Palestine? I believe that Jews enjoy relative calm and stability in Europe right now. Especially in places like Germany.” I nod in agreement. Back home we are integrated into almost every part of society, academics like Papa, businessmen like Uncle Walter. “But in the East, where I come from, it wasn’t always that
way. There were these terrible pogroms where the Jews were forced from villages at best or even beaten or killed, their homes burned, often with no notice at all. In recent years there have been sudden outbursts of violence, even where the Jews had lived peacefully among their neighbors for centuries. I think that’s why so many of them don’t mind the communists—it has to be better than what they suffered under the czars.”
I try to imagine the violence of the world Krysia described. Poland is Germany’s eastern neighbor again, or will be now that it has been re-created at the conference. The places where this happened are just hundreds of miles from Berlin, but the barbarity is so foreign it might have taken place centuries ago.
“I suppose it really doesn’t matter what we quarreled about,” I say, returning to the subject of Georg in spite of myself. “We just don’t see eye to eye on anything.”
“Why should you? You’ve got nothing in common.”
Is that true? Our backgrounds are quite dissimilar. Yet there is a connection between Georg and me when we speak that makes all of the differences disappear. “I don’t know about that, exactly,” I say slowly. “He’s just so stubborn.”
She let out a chuckle, uncharacteristically abrupt, almost a snort. “You’re rather headstrong yourself, my dear. And that’s a good thing. Headstrong holds its own in a headwind, my grandmother used to say.”
“Maybe that’s why we argue so much.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s because you like him,” she says again.
I stop drinking midmouthful, heedless of the brandy that lingers on my tongue, burning. “Like him?” I repeat the words, buying time in which to formulate a real response.