by Pam Jenoff
I turn to gaze at the image of Rachel taken in the garden last spring. The idea of leaving her, even for a few days, is almost inconceivable. “I am thinking of her. Simon, Rachel is fortunate enough to be growing up in a safe place. For now. But I know firsthand how quickly things can change. You’ve said yourself that the communist threat is as real and dangerous as the Nazis….”
“Rachel is safe.” Simon walks toward me, placing his arms on my shoulders. His hands seem almost foreign. Simon seldom touches me. Now he is reaching out, attempting to get me to listen to him. I look from his hands to his beseeching expression, then back again. Even now, his touch is not affection, I realize sadly, but a tool of persuasion. “Rachel will always be safe here.”
“Maybe.” But I am thinking not only of Rachel. In my mind I see Emma and Lukasz, the orphaned rabbi’s son she cared for during the war. She had taken him with her when she fled and was surely raising him as her own, along with the child she was expecting when I last saw her. They are likely still somewhere in Eastern Europe while I am living here. What are their lives like? Guilt washes over me. “I have to try, Simon.” I look into his eyes, pleading for him to understand. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. It’s just a quick trip, a few days at most. I’m sorry,” I add.
He pulls back his hands as though burned. The concern disappears and the earlier anger reappears in his eyes. “So am I,” he replies coldly. Before I can speak further, he turns and walks from the room.
“Simon, wait…” I start after him, then stop again. He is upset, I know, at being defied. But this is not his decision to make.
A second later, the D.M. appears in the doorway. “I saw your husband leave…”
“He’s not happy with my choice.”
“Does that mean you’ll go?” I hesitate, then nod. The D.M. crosses the room. “That’s wonderful news.”
“On one condition. I have a young daughter. I cannot afford to be away from her longer than a week.”
“That won’t be a problem. All we need you to do is speak to Andek, get him to put you in touch with Marcelitis, get the cipher. That should take a day or two at most.”
“What if he won’t give it to me?”
“He’ll give it to you. He has to. While you and Simon were talking, I made some calls. A package is being put together for you to take. It contains our key contacts in certain Eastern European countries, information that is valuable to Marcelitis’s work. We’re also going to offer him sizable funds placed in a Swiss bank account that will finance his operations for some time. But he gets none of this unless he gives you the cipher. Once you’ve obtained it, we’ll have someone standing by to extract you.”
“Extract?” I repeat. The word makes it sound as though it will be difficult to leave.
“It’s just an expression,” he replies quickly. A strange expression crosses the D.M.’s face, then disappears again so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it. “So we are agreed?” he presses.
I swallow, forcing down my uneasiness. “Yes.”
“Excellent. You should take the rest of the day off and go home to prepare for the trip. I’ll finalize all of the arrangements when I return and send further details through Simon later this evening.” Simon. I remember his angry expression before he stormed from the office. “A car will come for you at six o’clock in the morning,” he adds.
Tomorrow morning. I had not imagined it being so soon. But the sooner I go, the sooner I will be home again. “I’ll be ready.”
“Thank you, Marta,” he says solemnly. “We owe you more than you know.” Then I watch as he turns and walks out of the office, wondering if I have just made the biggest mistake of my life.
CHAPTER 15
I tiptoe down the creaky wood stairs and across the darkened parlor. The house is still except for the ticking of the clock above the mantelpiece. Five-fifty, it reads, ten minutes until I am scheduled to depart. I walk to the front window and peer out into the deserted predawn street. The smell of roast beef from last night’s dinner hangs in the air.
I turn and look up the stairs, fighting the urge to check on Rachel once more. Earlier I stood in the doorway to her bedroom listening to her light, even breathing, punctuated by nonsensical babble as she dreamed. I crept to her crib and looked down, guilt washing over me. How could I leave her? I will be back in a few days, I told myself. She will not even know that I am gone. And someday when she’s old enough, I will be able to tell her what I did and why. I reached down and kissed her, inhaling deeply to trap her powdery scent and take it with me.
Forcing my thoughts away from Rachel, I walk to my small suitcase that sits by the door. Uncertain what to bring, I packed two changes of clothing and a few toiletries. I pick up my purse, which sits on top of the suitcase, opening it and checking that the papers I tucked into the lining are still there. Simon gave them to me last night when he returned from work. “From the D.M.,” he said coldly as he handed the envelope to me in the kitchen.
I took the envelope uncertainly. Was I supposed to open it? “Simon, please. I know you’re upset about my going, but I really need your help.”
I watched his face as he considered my words, his expression softening. “This contains a list of key contacts for Marcelitis, if he agrees to help us,” he explained. “Foreign nationals who work for us, in Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Poland and Germany.”
“They really agreed to give him this?”
“You said we had to give him something real to win his trust. This is as real as it gets. Using this list, Marcelitis will be able to forge contacts throughout the region, strengthen his network. I don’t have to tell you how valuable this information is, what certain of our enemies would do to get their hands on it.” I nodded, speechless. I had no idea that I would be carrying such important information.
“There’s also a wire number to a Swiss bank account containing half a million dollars. We could just take that and run away ourselves,” he added. For a second, I wondered if he was serious. “Of course, he doesn’t get any of this until he gives you the cipher.”
“Of course.” I held up the envelope. “May I?” He nodded. Inside was a letter addressed to someone named Uncle George, talking about a vacation. “I don’t understand.”
“The list is in code,” Simon explained.
“Will Marcelitis know the code?”
Simon shook his head. “No, he’ll need to go to the embassy and meet with our intelligence officer, George Lindt, who will provide him with the key. That will ensure that he’ll cooperate with us.” I wondered if Marcelitis would trust us enough to do that. “And this is from me.” He pulled from his pocket a small pistol.
I recoiled. “I—I don’t know…” I began.
“Don’t tell me that you don’t know how to use it.” Simon cut me off, and I could tell from his tone he was thinking of my newly discovered past with the resistance, wondering what else he did not know.
But my hesitation was sincere. The last time I held a gun was the night I shot the Kommandant. “I—I can’t take that.”
“I doubt you’ll need it,” Simon replied. “But it would make me feel better.” I took the gun from him. It was, I supposed, Simon’s way of showing concern. “I still wish you’d reconsider,” he added.
“Simon, we’ve been through this. You know why I’m going, why I can’t back out now.” I took a step toward him, wanting to make him understand. But before I could say more, he turned and walked upstairs.
I look up the darkened stairway now, wishing he would come down and say goodbye. I could tell from his shallow breathing as I dressed that he was only pretending to be asleep. He is really upset, I realize. But is he only worried about my safety? Part of me still wonders if he is jealous that I can help in a way that he cannot.
Taking one last look around the house, I pick up my suitcase, then open the front door and step out onto the porch. I shiver, drawing my coat more tightly around me against the crisp, late-autumn air. Bare tree br
anches scrape against the front of the house, blown by the wind. The paint is peeling around the door frame, I notice. I had meant to take care of that before the weather turned cold.
Behind me, a floorboard creaks. I turn to find Simon silhouetted in the doorway, a bathrobe over his pajamas. “Simon…”
“You forgot these.” He holds out a pair of gray wool gloves. “It’s liable to be much colder there.”
“Of course. Thank you.” I take the gloves, touched by his concern. I had nearly forgotten how much more bitter the Eastern Europe winters could be, how swiftly and soon the snows came. Suddenly the magnitude of where I am going threatens to overwhelm me. “Simon, I…”
“When Delia gets here today, I’ll explain that you were called away unexpectedly for a week or so to care for a sick relative of mine,” he offers. I can hear the anxiety in his voice. My departure, even for a few days, is unsettling to him, a shift in the immovable routine of his daily life. In my absence, there is a child for him to consider, arrangements to be made. “I’m thinking an aunt in Yorkshire would be best.”
I nod. Delia knows I have no family of my own. I hate lying to her, though. Yesterday, when I returned home from the office to find her baking cookies with a jubilantly flour-covered Rachel, I desperately wanted to tell her about my trip. But sharing such classified information was out of the question, even with Delia. “I’m sure she’ll offer to stay and care for Rachel while I’m gone.”
Behind me, I hear the rumble of a car engine, growing louder. I turn to see a black sedan pulling up in front of the house. “Time to go,” Simon says.
I face him once more, needing him to understand. “Simon, I…”
He raises his hand. “Time to go,” he repeats. He bends down and kisses me stiffly on the lips. “See you soon. Be careful.”
“Goodbye.” I turn and walk slowly down the porch steps and through the gate. A man in a dark suit whom I do not recognize stands by the open rear door of the car. “Hello,” I say as I climb into the car. The man does not answer but takes my suitcase and closes the door behind me. I look out the window at the porch, hoping to see Simon. But he has disappeared back inside and the house is dark once more.
The car pulls away from the curb, then turns right from our street onto Hampstead High Street. Suddenly I realize that I have no idea where I am going. I tap on the darkened glass that separates the back of the sedan from the front. The driver opens it. “Ma’am?” he says, not turning around.
I lean forward. “Where are we going?”
“Northholt Air Base.” He closes the glass again before I can ask anything further.
An airport. I am flying to Prague. I sit back once more, digesting this information as the streets of north London disappear outside the car windows. I do not know why I am surprised, except that there had not been time to consider how I was going to get there at all. It makes sense; given the urgency of my mission, a slow ferry and train journey would have been out of the question.
We pass by the industrial warehouses on the outskirts of the city. Then the buildings disappear and the roadside grows empty and dark. I have only been north of London once before. Simon took me on a day trip shortly after we were married to show me Cambridge, where he had been a student. We took the train then, and as we rode through the flat grasslands that seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon, Simon explained to me that those were the fens of East Anglia. I imagine the countryside that way now, though I cannot see beyond the edge of the roadway.
A short while later, the car turns off the roadway at an unmarked gate. We stop and I hear the driver talking to a guard in a low voice before the gate opens and we continue through. An airplane appears out of the darkness, then another, a row of sleeping giants. I have never seen one up close and did not realize they would be so large. Finally the car pulls up close to one of the planes. “This is it,” the driver says as he opens my car door.
I climb out and hesitate, staring at the enormous plane. An image of Paul pops into my mind. What was he thinking when he boarded the plane for England that last fateful flight? I imagine him laughing, joking with the other men. I am certain he was not worried. He had flown dozens of times, jumped out of a plane into enemy fire. The flight back to England was supposed to be nothing, the first step on the journey home. Perhaps he was daydreaming about our reunion.
“Ma’am?” The driver is beside me now, shouting to be heard over whirring propellers. He hands me my suitcase. “They’re ready to go. You’d better hurry up and board.”
I force Paul’s image from my mind and start across the tarmac. As I near the airplane steps, the wind from the propellers grows stronger, whipping my hair against my face. At the top, a woman in a navy-blue skirt suit stands in the open doorway holding a clipboard. Behind her, I see the pilots seated in the cockpit, dials and lights spread before them. My head grows light. “Miss Nedermann?” the woman asks. I nod, surprised to hear my maiden name. “I’m Nancy, the stewardess. May I take your bag?” I hand her my suitcase and she stows it in a small closet by the front of the plane, then leads me away from the cockpit into the main cabin. A column of single seats, five deep, lines each side of the aisle. “Sit here, please.” She points to the only open seat, second from the front on the right. “And don’t forget to fasten your seat belt.” She walks past me down the aisle.
Once seated, I look around at the other passengers. They are mostly young and male; a few wear military uniforms. Who are these people and why are they traveling to central Europe? My thoughts are interrupted by a loud bang as the stewardess shuts the plane door. The urge to stand up and run from the plane engulfs me. But it is too late; the engines roar as the plane begins to roll forward. I fasten the seat belt around my middle, my fingers trembling. Brave like Paul, I tell myself. But I cannot think of him without seeing the fiery crash. I force myself to picture Rachel instead, sleeping peacefully in her crib.
The engines grow louder as the plane picks up speed, pressing me back against the seat. There is a loud bump, then another. My breath catches as I feel the earth disappear beneath us. The plane seems to hover above the ground for several seconds, then begins to climb. Forgetting to be nervous, I look out the window at the sky, which is beginning to grow pink at the horizon.
“Tea?” Nancy stands in the aisle beside my seat, holding a tray.
I hesitate, surprised. I had not known that airplanes had waitresses. “May I have some water?”
“Certainly.” She pours a small glass, hands it to me. “Our flight to Munich should take about four hours, not counting the hour’s time difference.”
So that is our destination. “Thank you.” I turn back to look out the window once more. Munich. I shudder. It had not occurred to me that we would be landing in Germany. Dachau was near Munich. Don’t, I think, but it is too late. I feel the concrete prison floor beneath my head. Panic rises in me, making it hard to breathe. I dig my nails hard into my palms. I cannot go back there. It is too much. That was a lifetime ago, I think, forcing myself to breathe. The Nazis are gone now. Still, it seems inconceivable that in just a few hours I will be back in Germany again.
I glance around the cabin once more. Some of the other passengers have pulled out small pillows and blankets that are stowed under the seats. I barely slept before the alarm went off. I should try to get some sleep. I lean my head back and close my eyes, lulled by the gentle rumbling of the engines.
Suddenly there is a loud bumping sound. My eyes fly open. Is something wrong with the plane? I sit up. The other passengers do not look afraid but instead are gathering their belongings, buttoning coats. “Welcome to Munich,” Nancy says from the front of the cabin. “When you disembark, please proceed inside to Customs and Immigration.” I must have slept through most of the flight and the landing. I look out the window at the snow-coated grass beside the runway.
The plane rolls along the tarmac, then turns and continues for several more minutes. Finally we stop and the door opens. I follow the other p
assengers down the aisle, collecting my suitcase from Nancy before walking down the stairs. The air is cold and crisp, with a damp smell that suggests more snow is coming. “This way, please.” Nancy, who has come down the stairs, begins to lead the group toward a drab three-story building.
Suddenly someone bumps into me from the left. Startled, I jump. “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice, barely a whisper, says. As I turn toward the voice, a hand grabs my arm. Instinctively, I pull back. A petite young woman, wearing a dark, boxy man’s suit and brimmed hat, stands beside me. I do not recognize her from the plane. “Marta?” She does not wait for an answer. “I’m Renata, from the embassy.”
How did she recognize me? I note then that other than Nancy, I was the only woman on the flight. “Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand, but Renata draws me close, into a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, kissing me on the right cheek, then the left.
“Act as if you know me,” she whispers close to my ear in crisp, accented English. “I need to tell you this now, because once we are in the car you must assume that our conversation is being listened to, possibly recorded. I’ve been sent to get you. I know why you’ve come and I’m here to help you.” I am too surprised to respond. Renata pulls me away from the group. “Come, we have a long drive ahead of us.” I notice for the first time a black sedan like the one that had picked me up at home parked to one side of the plane. She leads me to it and opens the rear door. Inside, she leans forward and says something to the driver, then sits back and removes her hat, revealing a tight cap of dark hair. Her cheeks are pockmarked, scars from past acne, but her features are striking, her eyes a deep chocolate-brown. “How was your flight?” she asks in a loud voice as the car begins to move. I realize that she is making small talk for the benefit of whoever might be listening.
“Fine,” I reply.
She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and holds it out to me. I shake my head. “You’re lucky that the weather wasn’t worse,” she remarks, taking a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with a sleek silver lighter. “We’ve had some early snow.” She cracks the window open so the smoke wafts away from me.