by Pam Jenoff
I take a deep breath. “He was killed.” It is the first time I have said this aloud since the morning I learned of the crash.
Simon’s mouth opens slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“The plane crash in the Channel.” I dig my fingernails into the bench, willing myself not to cry.
He presses his lips together. “I read about that in the papers. Dreadful. All those brave soldiers lost. Again, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Thank you.” I look away. We drink our tea in silence. Across the grass, a group of children kick a football. Their shrieks of laughter ring out.
“So what are you going to do now?” he asks a few minutes later.
I take another sip of tea. “I’m still trying to figure that out. Stay in London, most likely. I don’t have any family back in Poland, or anywhere else. At least here, I have a place to stay with my friend Rose’s aunt. But I need to find a job.”
“You know, I’m still looking for an assistant.”
I remember then Simon offering me a job when we were on the ship. “Oh, my goodness, I certainly wasn’t hinting.”
“I know. But I told you on the boat that I would like for you to come work for me. My offer still stands.”
“Really?” He nods. I stare at him, surprised. I thought the offer was just talk, idle conversation. It had not occurred to me that he might have been serious. “But I haven’t any skills or office training.”
“All of that can be learned. You speak Polish, which is a huge asset in my work. And you can make out the other Slavic languages, too, I take it?”
“Yes. Czech and such. And a bit of Russian.”
He waves his hand. “We have loads of Russian translators. I’m really more interested in your Polish. We have translators for that, too, of course, but it’s so time-consuming to rely upon them for day-today matters. Having an assistant who can understand it directly would save a great deal of time.”
“I can understand German, too,” I add.
“And your English has improved a great deal. So what do you say?”
I hesitate. I had almost forgotten Simon’s offer on the ship and I wasn’t been prepared to consider it now. “I don’t know.”
“Look, Marta…” Simon leans in and lowers his voice. “The truth is you would be doing me an enormous favor. When we spoke on the ship I told you about the work we are doing to fight communism in Eastern Europe. I really can’t say any more until you’ve been hired and received a security clearance. But I can tell you that the situation has become much more serious in recent weeks.” His eyes burn with the same intensity I saw on the ship. “We desperately need good people, people like you, to help us. So you wouldn’t just be earning a living, you’d be helping Britain and your homeland. How can you pass up an offer like that?”
I bite my lip. “Can I think about it?”
A surprised look crosses Simon’s face, as if he is unaccustomed to people not immediately acquiescing to his requests. “Certainly.” He starts to hand me a business card.
“I have one already,” I say. “From the ship, remember?”
He puts the card back in his pocket. “Of course. I just didn’t want to presume that you had kept it. Call me either way and let me know what you decide. And don’t wait too long,” he adds. “I really need to fill this position.”
Then why hadn’t he filled it? I wonder, in the weeks since we last spoke. There had to be plenty of Polish immigrants in London looking for work. I stand, brushing off my skirt. “I really should be going.”
Simon rises and takes my hand. “It was good to see you again.”
I take a step backward before he can kiss my hand. “Good day.”
I walk quickly from the park, eager to get away. I am flustered by seeing Simon so unexpectedly and by his job offer. Walking up Whitehall past the imposing gray government buildings, I am flooded with doubt. Me, come to work each day, here? The idea of getting a job in London was frightening enough. I had imagined something simple, working in a store close to Delia’s house. A few weeks ago I did not even know if I could get into Britain. The notion of coming into central London and working at the Foreign Office every day seems incomprehensible. My English is not good enough. I do not have any office skills. Simon said that these things don’t matter. But in truth, my hesitation is more than that. It just feels too soon. I’m not ready to wake up from my memories of Paul, from my grieving.
Retracing my steps through Trafalgar Square, I make my way back to Piccadilly Circus and board a bus that is going toward South Kensington. I pay the driver, then sink into a seat, not bothering to climb to the upper deck. As the bus lurches forward, I think about Simon’s offer once more. A chance to help, he said. I think guiltily of Emma, left behind in Eastern Europe. What was her life like now? Working with Simon, I might be able to make a difference. A shiver runs through me and I remember like a faint dream the feeling I used to have when working for the resistance of fighting for something that mattered. Maybe losing myself in the challenge is just what I need. And it will surely pay more than a job in the shops. I will ask Delia’s opinion when I get back to the house, I decide.
I stare out the window at the shops as we make our way down Piccadilly. A few minutes later, as we reach the edge of Hyde Park, exhaustion washes over me. It must be from all of the walking after lying in bed for so many days, I think, my shoulders slumping. The driver slams hard on the breaks, bringing the bus to an abrupt halt. I raise my hand as I am thrown forward to keep from slamming into the seat in front of me. “Sorry folks,” the driver calls. “A dog ran across the road.” As I straighten, a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me. I leap from my seat and race to the front of the bus. “I need to get off,” I say weakly to the driver.
“But ma’am, we’re in the middle of traffic. I’m not allowed to let you off where there’s no stop.”
I bring my hand to my mouth. “Please, I feel very ill.”
The driver shakes his head and I run down the steps and dash hurriedly through the traffic. Horns blare. I cross the sidewalk and reach the bushes on the far side just in time to duck my head behind them. Retching violently, I bring up the ice cream and the tea, then the breakfast I’d eaten that morning. A minute later, when my stomach calms, I look up. The grass and benches nearby are dotted with people eating lunch and talking or reading. None seem to have noticed me being sick. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, then make my way to a nearby bench. A cool sweat breaks out on my forehead. What is wrong with me? I cannot afford to get sick, not now. Perhaps it’s food poisoning. But I was nauseous the morning after Paul did not arrive, too, and that was a week ago. Paul. Suddenly I see his face above me in the Paris hotel room, silhouetted in the moonlight. It has been nearly a month since our night together. An uneasy feeling rises in me.
Impossible, I think. I cannot be pregnant, not from that one night. But the idea nags at me. I remember my last period in Salzburg, count the days. It was due some time ago, I realize now for the first time. In my preoccupation with Paul’s death, I had not thought to notice. Dread slices through me. My cycle must be off, I think desperately, from the stress of all that has happened. It will come any day now. But my uneasiness persists as I stand up and make my way back to the road.
Thirty minutes later I walk through the front door of Delia’s house. I find Delia in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough. It looks as though a bag of flour exploded—the countertops, stove and floor are covered in white. “Hello, dear,” she says, not looking up. “I’m just baking some scones.”
I smile. Though Charles does most of the cooking, Delia likes to bake. Or try. More than once, I have seen Charles wait patiently while Delia puts her creations in the oven, then clean up the mess she has made. Later, he will dispose of many of the scones, telling her that they were so delicious he ate them.
The odor of food makes my stomach turn once more. “That smells good,” I fib, dropping into a kitchen chair. “I’m sorry I was g
one so long.”
“I saw your note. I was glad to see you up and about. Where did you go?”
“Walking.” I describe my route. “I would have been back earlier but I ran into someone whom I had met on the ship coming over.” I tell her about Simon and his work for the Foreign Office. Then I pause. “He offered me a job.”
Delia looks up, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“He works on East European affairs for the Foreign Office. He said he needs an assistant who speaks Polish. He made the same offer when we met on the ship.” I swallow. “Then, of course, I thought I would be leaving for America after a few weeks. But now…”
“Does that mean you are thinking about staying in England permanently?”
I hesitate. “I am,” I reply slowly. “I mean, where else would I go? There’s no one, nothing back in Poland for me. And nothing in America anymore.” I force down the lump that has formed in my throat. “Of course, I would find my own place to live. I don’t expect you to put me up forever.”
“But I love having you here!” Delia exclaims. “Can’t you see that? It’s just me and Charles in this big old house. Having a young person around has given it new life.” I can tell from Delia’s voice that she is sincere. I look up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time the places where the plaster had shaken loose from the bombing. They suffered here, too. Maybe not in the same way as we had back home, but no one escaped the war unscathed. Delia continues, “I understand, a young woman might want her own space. But I really wish you would consider living with us.”
I look around, amazed at how much Delia’s house has come to feel like home. “I would love to stay.”
Delia’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Wonderful!”
“But not for free. As soon as I start working, I’ll be able to pay room and board.”
“That’s not necessary,” Delia says quickly.
“I know, but I want to. It would make me feel better.”
“We can discuss that later,” Delia relents. “So what did you tell him? Mr. Gold, I mean. Are you seriously thinking about taking the job?”
“I don’t know. It’s a big step. Originally, I was thinking of something closer by, like a job in one of the shops. But this would pay well, I think, and be interesting.”
“And this Mr. Gold, is he married?”
“Oh, Delia,” I say, not knowing the answer. I remember the way he looked at me as he kissed my hand. “I’m not thinking of that. It’s too soon.” In truth, I cannot imagine ever wanting to be with someone else. For a second, I consider sharing with Delia my fear that I might be pregnant. But I am too embarrassed. It is probably nothing. “I think he just needs an assistant.”
“Are you sure you’re ready to go to work?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But he needs someone to start right away. It may be a good thing, to be busy, to find some purpose again. Sitting around and thinking about what could have been with Paul much longer is going to kill me.”
“It sounds like you’ve decided,” Delia says, and I know then that I have. She gestures to the phone that hangs on the kitchen wall. “Why don’t you go ahead and call Mr. Gold and tell him you’ll take that job?”
CHAPTER 13
“The embassy in Budapest delivered an official communiqué protesting the handling of certain matters with respect to the repatriation of ethnic minorities…” Ian St. James, the white-haired deputy minister, reads from the notes prepared by his aide, papers held close to his spectacles. He has been speaking for more than an hour about the political situation in Hungary and I am still not sure what he is trying to say. His voice is monotone and nasal, its rhythm unchanging regardless of whether he is talking about war or the weather. I imagine him announcing the Allied invasion of Normandy in much the same manner.
I cross and uncross my legs, flexing my feet back and forth to relieve the cramping sensation I always get from sitting in the stiff wooden chairs for too long. I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, then replace them and scan the long conference room table that occupies much of the room. The men seated around it—middle-aged, dark-suited and pale to a one—are the heads of the European Directorate, or in the case of a few of the larger departments, their deputies. Some head up individual countries or groups. (“I’m Benelux,” I heard one man say at a party, which Simon later explained meant that he was in charge of Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg.) Others work in topical areas, economic recovery or political-military. A few, including Simon, specialize in intelligence. They listen to the deputy minister (or the “D.M.” as he is often called, though never to his face) with varying degrees of interest, some seeming to hang on to his every word, others shuffling through papers in front of them, reading surreptitiously. One man I do not recognize is sleeping, his eyes shut and mouth slightly agape. The perimeter of the room is ringed with other women, secretaries like me in dark pencil skirts and long-sleeved blouses. If they are bored, they give no indication, but sit erect, heads down, scribbling diligently as the D.M. speaks.
I shift my weight, straightening. My eyes travel down the row of men to Simon, who sits close to the head of the table. He wears a scowl, and for a moment I wonder if he noticed me fidgeting and is displeased. His gaze catches mine. A weary smile, echoing my own feelings of boredom and impatience, flickers across his face so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it. Then he looks up at the D.M., his expression impassive once more.
Simon. My eyes linger on his face. My husband. Though we have been married for more than two years, it is still sometimes hard to believe. Simon first asked me out a few days after I came to work for him at the Foreign Office. His overture was small and tentative: an invitation to drinks after work. “You should not feel obliged to accept,” he said quickly. “Just because of our professional relationship.”
At first, I declined. Just weeks after Paul’s death, I had no interest in fun. But Simon persisted, asking me to join him for lunch the next day. I remember him standing over my desk, his watery-blue eyes hopeful. “Fine, thank you,” I relented.
After I accepted his first invitation, he quickly grew more forward, inviting me to dinner or the theater several times per week. Once I accompanied him to a party thrown by a diplomat and his wife who had just returned from a tour in Bombay at their stylish Notting Hill home. I sampled spicy curry dishes that made my nose run, sipped an exotic cocktail called a kir.
“I’m proud of you, Marta,” Delia remarked once. “For having moved on so bravely with your life after, well, the American boy…”
“Mmm,” I had replied vaguely. Of course, I had not really moved on. Simon’s company was pleasant enough. He talked passionately about international politics, told fabulous stories of his travels in Eastern Europe as a student that reminded me of my childhood home. Our dates were a welcome distraction, an escape from the long evenings at Delia’s, haunted by my memories of Paul. And I was grateful to Simon, of course, for my job. But sometimes as he squired me to dinners and parties, I felt guilty. Was I misleading him? Simon knew about my engagement to Paul and my recent loss, though, and still seemed eager to court me. I had not thought of it as more, though, and so I was quite stunned when, just four weeks after he first asked me out, Simon proposed marriage.
It was on a day trip to Brighton as we strolled along the promenade by the sea that Simon turned to me and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. “I know we’ve only been seeing each other for a short time. But I’m very fond of you, Marta, and I think we can have a fine life together.”
I did not answer right away but gazed out across the Channel. Considering his tepid proposal, I could not help but think of Paul, dropping to one knee on the rain-soaked Paris street, eyes burning, as he asked me to marry him. I had not considered marrying anyone else. Simon was not Paul. I could never love him in that way. But Paul was gone. I looked back at Simon, who had taken the ring from the box and was holding it out toward me. He was not unattractive, and I knew from the oth
er secretaries that, as one of the only single men in the department, he was considered quite a good prospect, if something of an enigma. He liked me, and he would not be unkind. “Fine,” I said, realizing too late that mine was not the most gracious of responses. “I mean, I would love to marry you.”
We were married in a small ceremony in Delia’s parlor the following week by a rabbi Simon knew. Neither of us seemed to want a long engagement, or a big wedding. Simon was an only child and his parents had both died, his mother at a young age of cancer and his father of a heart attack shortly after Simon had left for college. I, of course, had no family. So the wedding consisted of Delia and Charles on my side, a few colleagues on his. Simon was unable to get away from work for a honeymoon just then, but he promised me a trip somewhere grand over the winter holiday.
But the honeymoon never took place. A few weeks after we were married, the nausea I felt in the park that day worsened, often making it difficult for me to get to work in the mornings. The doctor Simon insisted I see confirmed my unspoken suspicion: I was pregnant. Seven months later, I gave birth to a baby girl, Rachel.
Voices at the conference room table pull me from my thoughts. The D.M. has indicated that we will conclude for the day, and now the men at the table are standing, shuffling papers as they speak to one another. Inwardly, I groan. I had hoped that the meeting would have finished in one sitting, even if it meant working a bit late. But now the meeting will resume tomorrow morning. I do not relish the prospect of staying awake through a second day of the D.M.’s droning.
As I stand, I try to catch Simon’s eyes again. Perhaps I can find an excuse to skip the morning session tomorrow, plead an excess of correspondence to type. But he is engaged in conversation with one of the men across the table and does not meet my gaze. I will ask him tonight, if he does not get home too late. I take my notebook and walk from the conference room toward the elevator, press the down button. Simon and a few of the men enter the corridor behind me, still debating a point about Hungary. The elevator door opens and I step inside, but the men do not follow. As the doors close, I look in Simon’s direction one more time. He does not notice, but remains engrossed in conversation.