Текст книги "The Diplomat's Wife"
Автор книги: Pam Jenoff
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 9 страниц]
CHAPTER 11
“Thank you,” I say as I step out of the black taxicab onto the curb. I close the door and, as the taxi pulls away, look up at the hulking Kings Cross train station. Throngs of travelers move briskly through its open double doors. A shiver of excitement runs through me. In less than an hour, Paul will be here.
I join the crowds and make my way inside. A long concourse of shops and kiosks runs down the right side of the station. To the left, perpendicular to the shops, sit a half-dozen train tracks, separated by platforms. Each runs beyond the open arch at the end of the station, then either curves away or disappears into the horizon.
I walk toward the large board that hangs above the tracks announcing train arrivals and departures. It clacks noisily as the numbers turn over, updating the train information. Paul did not say exactly where he would be coming from, or identify a specific train on which he would arrive. Indeed, when I studied a map of London a few days after arriving at Delia’s, I was surprised at his choice of station: Kings Cross is to the north of the city, with trains coming in from central England, not the Channel coast as I expected. But Delia explained that there were a number of American military bases located north of London in the Midlands and East Anglia. Paul would likely be flying in with his unit, she explained, and if so he would come to London on the line that ran down from Cambridge, arriving at Kings Cross. The board indicates that a train from Cambridge is scheduled to arrive on track three at seven-fifteen, forty-five minutes from now.
Paul’s train. I shiver again. Of course, I don’t know for certain that he will be on that one. Seven o’clock was a guess on his part, a prearranged time he had set when his travel plans were uncertain. He could have arrived already. I spin around and scan the concourse, half hoping to see him having a coffee or browsing at the magazine racks. But he is not there. It is not seven yet, I remind myself, pushing down my disappointment. I had set out from Delia’s house early to allow plenty of time to make my way across the city by Tube. But as I prepared to leave, Delia offered to come with me, or at least have Charles drive me to the station. I politely declined, wanting my reunion with Paul to be private, but she insisted on calling a cab and giving me money for the fare.
Delia’s full, smiling face appears in my mind. She’s been so hospitable, despite her sadness over losing Rose. “I’m going to show you the best of London,” she announced at breakfast the morning after my arrival. Over the next two weeks, she led me around the city with an energy that belied her age and size. We had tea at the elegant Food Hall at Harrods, rode a double-decker bus to see Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and Parliament, wandered through the antique stalls and secondhand shops at the Portobello Road market. One afternoon when it was too rainy for sightseeing, Delia took me to see Henry V, starring Laurence Olivier, at the massive Cinema Odeon in Leicester Square. We talked a great deal, over meals and as we walked, and I told her about Rose and our time together in Salzburg. Delia recounted her travels as a younger woman to Italy and the south of France and even to Morocco. As if by unspoken agreement, we avoided speaking of anything sad. I did not tell Delia of Rose’s condition when she had arrived at the camp, or the little I knew about how she had suffered during the war. Nor did I talk about what I had been through in prison. And Delia had her own unspoken stories of hardship, I knew, of long, terrifying nights in the recent war spent huddled in the cellar with Charles as the Nazi bombers roared overhead. It was as if neither of us could bear any more sorrow right now but were content to enjoy each other’s company and the memories of happy times.
I found the days with Delia pleasant and I was grateful for her generosity. But each night as I lay in bed, I marked off another day in the calendar in my head: eight days gone, six to go, nine days gone, five to go, and so on, counting the days until I would see Paul. Two days earlier, I received a postcard in the mail from him, bearing a black-and-white photograph of the Eiffel Tower. Counting the days till our reunion, he’d scribbled.
Reunion. My heart jumps at the word. I dreamed of this moment so many times over the past few weeks, it hardly seems real. I barely slept at all last night, but lay awake, fretting. What if things are awkward between us, if he doesn’t care for me as much as he thought? It is not as if we really know each other very well. Staring at the tracks now, I brush these fears aside. Things with Paul will be as wonderful as ever. But other, more practical, questions persist: What will happen once he arrives? Will he come to the second guest room that Delia graciously offered, or is he planning to stay at another servicemen’s hotel? I also wonder how long we will remain in London, what needs to happen before we can leave for America.
Wiping my moist palms on my skirt, I turn back to look down the concourse. It is Friday evening and the station is thronged with travelers—men in suits carrying briefcases on their way home from work, families toting children and luggage for weekend excursions. But signs of the war remain everywhere. A wounded British soldier makes his way painfully across the station on crutches. At the station pub, a group of women, still wearing factory work clothes, talk over pints of beer. An advertisement for the latest autumn fashions sits beside a large sign admonishing that rationing is still in effect.
My gaze stops on the coffee kiosk, where four American soldiers cluster around a small standing table. I scan the group. Perhaps Paul came in at a different gate, arrived with friends. But he is not among them.
Behind me, a train horn sounds. I spin around as a large black locomotive comes into view at the top of track three. The train from Cambridge! As it pulls into the station, I rush forward. I stop, dangerously close to the edge of the platform, wobbling. Suddenly a conductor is at my side, grabbing my elbow to steady me. “Careful, miss,” he says. “Step back, please.” Red-faced, I comply. The train glides into the station, wheels screeching loudly as it comes to a halt. I smooth my hair quickly. As the doors open and the passengers begin to pour forth, I study the crowd, watching eagerly for Paul. Suddenly, a flash of olive-green uniform catches my eye. An American soldier is coming down the platform. I start toward him, heart pounding. Then, as I get closer, I stop again. The soldier is too short to be Paul, his hair too light.
The disembarking crowd begins to thin as the passengers make their way toward the main concourse. I turn from the now-empty train, desperately searching the passengers as they disappear behind me. Did I miss him? When the last passenger has made his way from the platform, I walk back toward the concourse, approaching the conductor who had steadied me. “When’s the next train?”
He cocks his head. “From Cambridge? In about an hour. Same platform.”
“Thank you.” He will surely be on that one. Reluctantly, I walk across the main concourse. Suddenly my stomach grumbles. I was too nervous to eat earlier, despite Delia’s attempts to coax me, her admonition that I would faint from hunger. I walk across the concourse to the kiosk where the group of soldiers stood a few minutes earlier and order a coffee and a cheese sandwich.
As I wait for the food, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the counter. I spent much of the day getting ready, taking a long bath and setting my hair. My dress is navy blue with white trim, one of three that Delia gave me shortly after my arrival. She told me that she had bought them at the secondhand shop months earlier, but I could tell from the crispness of the fabric that they were new and from the size that she had purchased them for Rose in anticipation of her coming to stay. For a second I imagine her beside me, whispering excitedly about Paul’s arrival. She should be here, I think guiltily for the hundredth time. Living with Delia, wearing this dress. Pushing this thought aside, I study my reflection once more. My curls, which I worked to smooth, have already returned to their normal frizziness that the London dampness seems to aggravate so much. Paul has seen me looking far worse, I know. But I so want to look beautiful for him, to make him glad about his decision to marry me.
The kiosk tables are full, so after I pay for the coffee and sandwich, I carry them down the concourse, eating as I look in the windows of the station shops. Pigeons peck at some spilled popcorn outside one of the stands until the shop clerk steps out from behind the counter, brandishing a broom and sending them scurrying to the rafters. I pause at the newsstand, scanning the headlines of the Times. Delia has the Guardian delivered to the house, and almost every night I sit down at the table with the paper and a dictionary, trying to understand as much as possible. But I did not have time today before leaving for the station. I finish my sandwich, then brush off my fingers and pick up the paper. The top article is about the occupation in Germany, I can tell. I do not want to think about the Nazis, not now. My eyes drop to another headline in the middle of the page. Polish Exiles Warn of Impending Disaster. I hold the paper closer, trying to make out what the article is saying. I do not understand all of it, but I gather that the Soviets are strengthening their grip on the Polish government. I remember my conversation with Simon Gold on the ship. The fight with the communists would be the next great war, he said. Even bigger than the last. I think sadly of Poland, now occupied by Soviet soldiers instead of Nazis. This is not how we thought it would turn out when we were fighting for our freedom.
“Oy, are you buying that?” the man behind the counter calls. “This isn’t a library.”
I place the newspaper back on the rack. “Sorry.” I look up at the large clock above the timetable. Eight-ten. I throw my empty coffee cup into a trash bin and make my way back to the platform, where another train is just pulling in. This one is emptier than the last, I realize as I scan the disembarking passengers. At the far end of the platform, I see a soldier get off the last car of the train. Paul! I start down the platform, almost running. But as I draw closer, I stop again. It is not him. For a second, I consider asking the soldier if he knows Paul. But he races past me, down the platform and into the arms of a young blond woman waiting at the edge of the concourse. I look away from their embrace, my stomach aching.
I walk over to the conductor once more. “Next train from Cambridge?”
He shakes his head. “That’s the last one for the night, I’m afraid.”
Panic rises within me. Has Paul changed his mind? Or maybe he was delayed and did not get discharged from the army when he expected. I walk back to the concourse and sink down onto a bench. There are just two trains left on the timetable, one from Edinburgh and another from Newcastle. Maybe he’s not arriving by train at all. But he will be here. My stomach, uncomforted, gnaws.
I look down the nearly deserted concourse, uncertain what to do. Then I reach inside the neck of my dress and lift Paul’s dog tags. I have not taken them off since he gave them to me. I trace the letters that spelled out his name. Where are you? My shoulders slump. Half an hour, then an hour, passes. Soon the lights go out at the newsstand. A shopkeeper draws a metal gate closed across the front of the coffee stand.
“Ma’am?” I turn to find the conductor with whom I’d spoken earlier standing above me. “Do you want me to call you a cab? That is, I’m afraid we don’t allow people to stay overnight in the station. Loiterers and all that.” I look at him, puzzled, then turn back to the timetable. It is nearly ten o’clock. The station is empty and all of the trains are gone.
“That won’t be necessary,” a male voice says from behind me. Paul, I think for a second. But the voice is much older than Paul’s, the accent English. I turn to find Charles standing behind me. “Your car is waiting, miss.”
The conductor looks surprised. “Good evening, then.” He shuffles off.
“Hello, Charles.” It is difficult to mask my disappointment that he is not Paul. “What are you doing here?”
“Miss Delia sent me to make sure you are all right.”
“Fine, thank you. Paul’s train hasn’t come in yet, but I’m sure he’s just delayed….”
“Begging your pardon, miss,” Charles says gently, “but there are no more trains tonight.” He points up at the now-empty schedule board. I do not reply. “I can take you back to the house.”
“I have to wait here.” I can hear the stubbornness in my own voice.
“It’s not safe to stay here alone so late,” Charles protests. “You’ve given the gentleman our address, haven’t you?”
I nod. Charles is right, of course. Paul will be able to find me. I take a long last look around the train station, then follow Charles outside to the sedan parked at the curb. He holds the door for me and I climb numbly into the back. I lean my head against the cool, damp glass, stare blindly out the window as we make our way through the wet streets of north London.
The parlor lights still burn brightly as we pull up in front of Delia’s house. Inside, Delia hurries across the foyer to greet us. “What happened?”
I shake my head. “The gentleman did not arrive,” Charles replies for me.
“I’m sure he was just delayed,” Delia says quickly. “You gave him our address here?” I nod. “Good, he’ll come here as soon as he can.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“We’ll go to the embassy. The deputy chief is a good friend of mine and I’m sure they’ll know of various units coming into London. We’ll go first thing tomorrow, if he hasn’t arrived by then,” Delia promises.
She sounds so positive, I almost feel better. “Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. Now, why don’t you come sit and have some supper? I’ve kept it warm for you.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“Then at least some tea,” Delia presses.
“I’d prefer to just go to bed.” I bring my hand to my temple, which has begun to throb.
“Of course. You must be exhausted from all of the waiting.”
“I am.” I start up the stairs, then turn back. “You’ll wake me if…”
“The moment he arrives,” Delia promises.
Upstairs, I undress and climb numbly into bed. I know that the sooner I go to sleep, the more quickly morning will seem to come. But Paul’s face stares back at me in the darkness. Where are you? Have you changed your mind about me? His face remains impassive. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe evenly, a trick my mother taught me when I was restless at night as a child. Soon I drift off to sleep, but Paul’s face haunts me there, too. I dream that I am standing on the platform in the train station once more. A train pulls in and, as I watch the disembarking crowds, a familiar face appears. Paul! My heart lifts and I start toward him. But he turns away, speaking to the woman behind him. There, holding his hand, is the young woman from the café in Paris. “No…”
I awake with a start. Bright sunlight streams through the windows. The previous evening comes rushing back to me. Perhaps Paul arrived during the night. I sit up quickly, swinging my feet to the floor. But before I can stand up, a wave of nausea overtakes me. Easy, I tell myself. I reach for the pitcher of water that Charles always leaves fresh on my nightstand and pour a glass. I do not want to get ill just as Paul arrives. A feeling of certainty grows inside me. He will be here today.
I take a few sips of water and my stomach settles. Then I wash and dress quickly, and make my way downstairs. Delia is seated at the kitchen table. As usual, a full English breakfast has been laid out: fried eggs, bacon, stewed tomatoes, beans and toast. My stomach begins to turn again. Delia looks up from the heaping plate in front of her. “Hello, dear. How did you sleep?”
“I don’t suppose there’s been any sign of…”
Delia shakes her head. “No, but I wouldn’t worry. Even if he had arrived in London during the night, I’m sure he’s too well mannered to go knocking on strange doors at all hours.”
Like I did, I think. But I know her words are not a rebuke. “I suppose.”
“The embassy opens at nine and we’ll be there when they do. Now, come eat.” I start to reply that I am not hungry. My stomach is too knotted to eat. But I do not want to seem ungracious. Reluctantly, I sit down and take a piece of toast, buttering it as Delia pours me a cup of tea.
There are footsteps in the hallway, followed by a rustling noise. Charles appears, carrying a bag of groceries. “Good morning, Charles,” Delia says. “Breakfast is delicious, as always.”
Charles does not respond but stands awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “What is it?” Delia asks.
“Miss Delia, if I might have a word…”
Delia’s expression turns puzzled. “Excuse me,” she says to me before following Charles into the hallway.
I watch as Charles speaks to Delia in a low voice, his head down and close to hers. It is unlike Charles to whisper so rudely in front of me. Then he pulls a newspaper from the bag, shows it to Delia. Uneasiness rises in my chest. I put the toast back on the plate and stand up. “What is it?” I ask.
Charles stops speaking and they both look up hesitantly as I approach. “What is it?” I repeat, louder this time. I can hear the harshness in my voice but I do not care. I gesture toward the newspaper. “What does it say?”
“Marta, dear.” Delia takes a step toward me. I reach around her and before she can stop me, snatch the paper from Charles’s hand. The headline is so large it covers nearly half the front page. American Military Plane Crashes in Channel: All Killed.
A rock slams into my chest. I scan the article, not breathing. A military plane traveling from Paris to London yesterday experienced mechanical trouble over the Channel. The plane crashed, killing all on board. Dread rises in me. Delia puts her hand on my shoulder. “Marta, it probably isn’t his unit.”
“There are thousands of American troops passing through England right now,” Charles adds.
I do not answer but continue reading. The men were part of the Fighting 502nd, a unit that fought in every major battle since Normandy. I remember Paul calling his unit by that name. Bile rises in my throat. At the bottom of the article, there is a list of soldiers killed in the crash. I scan the names. Paul’s is not among them. Maybe he wasn’t traveling with his unit. Perhaps he had received permission to leave early, knowing he was coming to meet me. “He’s not on the list,” I whisper, sagging with relief.
Then, at the bottom of the list of names I notice an asterisk, followed by the words “unidentified soldier.” My hand drops to the dog tags around my neck. Paul promised me he would get another set.
It is a mistake. It has to be a mistake. In the middle of the page, there is a grainy picture of the unit, standing in front of a tank. I scan the faces, which all look remarkably similar with their short hair and helmets. My eyes lock on a familiar face in the third row, far right. Paul’s eyes stare out at me unblinkingly. I know then why he had not come for me.
The paper falls from my hands. “He’s gone,” I say aloud. A scream that I do not recognize as my own fills the air. Then the ground slides sideways beneath me and everything goes black.
CHAPTER 12
I stand in front of the timetable at Kings Cross Station, looking out across the platforms. Bright sunlight shines through the slats in the roof, reflecting off the top of the trains. I clutch my purse nervously, waiting. I am early again, of course. But this time I let Charles drive me, gratefully accepting his offer to wait outside with the car until Paul arrives. It had been a mistake, the telegram that arrived this morning had said. Paul had missed his flight, the one that had crashed. He will be arriving today.
A train appears at the top of track three. I start forward, excitement surging through me. Then I stop. Something is wrong. The train does not slow as it enters the station, but barrels forward at full speed toward the end of the platform. It is going to crash. I turn and start running away from the train. A second later, there is a massive explosion behind me, followed by an enormous gust of hot air that slams me forward into the ground. When I lift my head and look over my shoulder, the train has disappeared, engulfed by a ball of fire. “No!” I cry aloud.
My eyes fly open. Where am I? The familiarity of Delia’s house rushes back as I recognize the pale-blue walls. I sit up, trying to catch my breath. At the foot of the bed, early-morning light dances in patterns on the duvet. Voices of children on their way to school ring out as they call to one another from the pavement below. My own unwashed smell mingles with that of fried eggs, left on the nightstand while I was asleep.
Paul is dead. It has been more than a week since I read the news of the plane crash, saw him staring up at me from the photograph. I do not remember dropping the newspaper or fainting, only waking up some time later in bed, not knowing how I had made it there. Delia was seated beside me. “Hello, darling.” She leaned over and put her arms around me.
“He’s gone.” My voice was heavy with disbelief.
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
First Rose, now Paul. The war was over. This wasn’t supposed to be happening, not now. Guilt crashed down on me: It was my fault Paul was coming to London. If it had not been for me, he would still be alive. Deep down I knew that wasn’t true—Paul’s entire unit was on the flight. But the idea suited my grief, its painful jabs welcome through my numbness. Suddenly, I hated Delia, this house, all that was England. “I just want to be left alone,” I blurted out. A hurt expression crossed her face. “I mean, I’m very tired.”
“Of course.” Delia stood up quickly. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.” I turned away, closing my eyes once more.
After that day, I did not speak with anyone, or even get out of bed, except to go to the toilet. Mostly I slept, through the days and nights, trying to escape the pain. But it was no use—I dreamed fitfully of Paul, saw him die a thousand different ways, shot in the Nazi prison as he tried to rescue me, drowned in the lake at Salzburg. Once I dreamed that I was back on the bridge in Kraków, the dead body beside me Paul’s instead of the Kommandant’s. I dreamed of the others who had died, too, my parents, Rose. Suddenly it seemed that I was to blame for all of their deaths, as well.
Each morning when I woke up, the reality would crash down upon me anew. Paul is dead. The pain was searing, fresh, as though I was hearing the news for the first time. I lay in the semidarkness for hours, seeing Paul’s face. I replayed happy memories: Salzburg, Paris, even our first meeting in prison, ran through my head like a movie over and over again, until I drifted to sleep once more. The days passed like this, one after another. Delia, respecting my wishes, did not visit me again, at least not while I was awake. I knew, though, that she was keeping an eye on me through Charles, who brought me food of every variety, hearty stews that went uneaten, fruit that turned brown, ice cream that melted in the bowl. He knocked softly each time, bringing in the tray and setting it on the nightstand, then coming back for it a few hours later, without trying to engage me in conversation.
Charles must have come while I was asleep this time, as the aroma of fresh bacon wafts over me. My stomach grumbles. For the first time in days, I am hungry. I sit up in bed and uncover the tray, then pick up a piece of toast. As I take a bite, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair is pressed flat against my head. My skin is pasty, with dark circles ringing my eyes. Unwashed and secluded, not eating. It is as if I’ve put myself back in prison, I think, ashamed. As if everything that has happened since my liberation was for nothing.
I finish the toast, take a few bites of bacon and eggs. Then I stand and walk to the toilet to wash. As I undress, Paul’s dog tags fall cool against my chest. I look down at them sadly. Every step forward I take is a step farther from Paul and the time we had together. Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the urge to crawl back into bed. But that is not what he would have wanted, I think, remembering how I had scolded him for self-pity. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I finish washing and make my way back to the bedroom. Inside the armoire, my clothes hang freshly pressed. Delia must have had them cleaned. I have been such an ungracious guest. Quickly, I change into one of the dresses she gave me, green with a light floral pattern.
Downstairs, the kitchen is deserted, the breakfast dishes put away. I scribble a note on the tablet that hangs by the telephone, telling Delia that I’ve gone out. Then I walk to the front door and step out onto the porch. It is a brisk September morning, the air pleasantly cool. Across the street, the leaves on the trees in the square are still green, but there is a crispness to their rustling that was not there a few weeks earlier. I close the front gate behind me, cutting across the square. As I wind my way through the quiet residential streets, the houses grow even larger and more impressive than Delia’s, their porches shielded from view by high hedges.
Soon I reach the wide thoroughfare of Kensington Road, several lanes of cars and buses speeding by in both directions. On the far side of the street sits the wide green swath of grass and trees that signals the edge of Hyde Park. I remember walking the paths with Delia, planning to take Paul for a stroll there after his arrival. My view is suddenly obscured by a red double-decker trolleybus that screeches to a stop in front of me. “Getting on, miss?” the driver asks. I look up, realizing for the first time that I am standing in front of a bus stop. I hesitate. I have only taken the bus a few times with Delia, never alone. But I suddenly need to keep going, to get as far away from here as possible. “Yes, thank you.” I board the bus, pulling a three pence coin from my pocket to pay the driver. As the bus lurches forward, I grab the nearest pole to keep from flying toward the rear.
When the bus stops at the next traffic light, I make my way up the stairs, clinging to the rail for support. The top deck is deserted, except for a lone man toward the rear, reading the Times. I remember suddenly the newspaper headline announcing Paul’s death, his grainy image staring back at me. Forcing the vision from my mind, I drop to a seat by the front of the bus.
I look out the window as the bus reaches the end of Hyde Park and turns left, then quickly right again. The trees disappear and the street grows crowded with tall buildings and signs. Piccadilly, I recognize from my excursions with Delia. We pass Simpsons, the grand department store where she insisted on taking me shopping for new shoes, then the Ritz Hotel. Traffic is slow here, the sidewalks thick with pedestrians making their way between the shops. The bus stops every few minutes. I can hear the voices of the passengers as they board below. But these are commuters, oblivious to the view and they do not come upstairs. Soon we reach Piccadilly Circus. The buildings here are covered with enormous signs advertising products of every kind: Wrigley’s Gum, Brylcreem, Gordon’s Gin. Guinness Is Good for You. Gives You Strength, touts one. The bus grinds to a halt again. Ahead, the traffic does not move at all. All of a sudden I am eager to walk. I make my way down the stairs and step off the bus.
At the corner, I pause, uncertain which way to go. The crowd surges around me and, following, I let myself be carried with the stream. No one here knows or cares what I have been through. For a few minutes, I can pretend that I am just like everyone else. I imagine myself a young British woman on my way to work, perhaps in one of the shops. The sun is higher and the air has returned to its summer-like closeness. My skin grows moist under my dress as I walk.
The crowd loosens suddenly as the narrow street ends at an enormous square. In the center stands a tall obelisk. Trafalgar Square. My eyes travel from the height of the column to the four lion statues at its base, the adjacent fountains. I was here once with Delia on our way to a show in the West End. Then, as now, it seemed large and intimidating, worlds away from the quiet streets of South Kensington. I had not imagined coming this far on my own. A surge of confidence rises in me as I make my way through the swarms of pigeons and pedestrians to the far side of the square.
I turn right onto Whitehall. The wide thoroughfare is lined on both sides with government buildings, large and institutional. I soon reach an intersection. To the left sits the hulking yellow Westminster Palace, Big Ben jutting upward from its foreground. Looking up at the enormous Parliament building, I imagine the politicians inside, making decisions that affect the rest of the world. Suddenly, remembering how the West stood by while the Nazis marched across Europe, I am filled with anger. Why couldn’t they have done something sooner?
Big Ben begins to chime. Eleven o’clock. Nearly two hours have passed since I left Delia’s house. Ahead sits Westminster Abbey, its spires climbing high above the trees. I cross the wide street toward the grassy park area in front of the church. An ice-cream vendor sits at the corner. I hesitate. I should not spend the money, but I can practically taste the chocolate. I buy a small cone, licking it even as I make my way to the nearest empty bench.
Savoring the rich chocolate, I watch two squirrels playing in the grass. Then I look back across the road toward Whitehall at the pedestrians, men in suits, a few women. They walk with purpose, going to their jobs and other places in their lives. Sitting on the park bench with my ice cream, I suddenly feel very helpless and silly. What am I going to do with my life now? It is a question I have never had to answer. Growing up in our village, my future had been presumed: marriage, to someone of a similar, lower-class, Jewish background, perhaps slightly better off if I was lucky. Then children, as many as could be had. That had all changed when the Nazis had come. Even after the war, my plans had not been wholly my own; I agreed to come to London at Dava’s insistence, then later accepted Paul’s proposal to marry him and move to America.
