The Ambassador's Daughter (35 page)

“I think,” he replies, “that you will never be ready. That’s what you wanted to talk to me about the other day, wasn’t it?” I nod. “Then don’t.”

I stare at him, mouth agape. “You mean, I don’t have to marry him?” Even now, I cannot bring myself to admit to Papa that we are already married.

“This isn’t the eighteenth century, darling. You don’t have to marry anyone. I’d like to see you settled, of course, while I’m still here. But there are worse things than being unsettled.” He is thinking of my mother and the years of loneliness he faced after she left.

“But the wedding is tomorrow.”

He waves his hand. “It’s just a big party,” he says, his words a refrain of what Georg had said earlier. “Now go find him.” The emphasis on this last word leaves no confusion about whom he is speaking.

My eyes widen. “You mean that?” It is the first time we have spoken of the situation since Paris.

He nods. “The light in your eyes every time you look at him would be hard for a father to miss—and unfair to deny. Shame on me for pushing what society expected over your happiness.” The illness has emboldened him somehow, made him view things more clearly. “Go. Be happy.”

My heart lifts. He is giving me his blessing, uttering the words I never thought I would hear. “I appreciate that. But I can’t hurt Stefan after all he has been through.” Then I picture Georg’s face, alienated and alone, as we said goodbye. He could never trust me again. “It’s too late, anyway.”

“If Celia and I are proof of anything, it’s that it is never too late. Never mind, you know best on that front. But, darling, if it truly cannot be, let it go. Don’t be a prisoner of the past.” Before he can say more, Celia and Krysia are back. He squeezes my hand, silently assenting to whatever decision I make.

“We should let you rest,” Krysia says.

I wait for Papa to protest. But he lies back, his face pale from the effort of conversation. “Look after her, will you?” he says, and Krysia, now an old friend, laughs conspiratorially.

“That silly woman, scaring me like that,” I say when we are out of earshot.

“You aren’t going to change Celia, or anyone else. Why drive yourself mad trying?”

“It was Celia, you know. She summoned Stefan to Paris to keep me from Georg.”

“I see.” Her tone makes it clear that she regards this bit of information about the past irrelevant. “Did you have the chance to tell your father the truth?”

“I did. He brought it up, actually.”

We stop in the hallway, the door to her room on one side, mine the other. “What are you going to do now?”

“There’s nothing to be done. It’s too late.”

“Even if it is too late for you and Georg, that doesn’t mean you have to stay here trapped with Stefan. Go to America, see the world.”

“I can’t leave Papa.”

“You aren’t your mother,” she says gently. “Children are supposed to leave. And he has Celia now.” She opens the door to her room and walks inside, closing it behind her.

As I cross the hallway, the phone in our sitting room rings and I rush to answer it before it disturbs Papa.
“Hallo,
Margot
hier.”

“Margot, it’s Stefan,” he says as though I might not recognize his voice.

I squeeze the receiver hard. “Stefan, is something wrong?” It is unusual for him to ring and I find myself praying for a small catastrophe, nothing too serious, just something that will necessitate postponing the wedding.

“Not at all. I wanted to call you one last time before tomorrow.” To confirm that it is real, make sure that I would be going through with it. “How’s your father?”

“Home and resting.”

“My cousins have tried to arrange a stag night,” he confides. “Out in the city, beer and cigars, the works.” There is a note of excitement in his voice, joy at being able to do the normal things a groom should do.

“Well, don’t strain yourself.”

“Perhaps I might call round afterward,” he teases. “A preview of the wedding night.”

“Don’t you dare!” A bit of playful creeps into my voice, reminding me of how we were before war and adulthood crashed down upon us. Perhaps our life together will not be altogether bad.

“But we’re already...”

“Shh.” I cut him off, suddenly apprehensive, as though it is not just he and I on the line and someone might learn our secret. Though, did it really matter that much anymore?

“Anyway, I just wanted to say good-night.” His call is a confirmation that all of this is real and that the wedding will happen as planned.

“I shall see you tomorrow.” I set the receiver back in its hook with a click. I might have had a hen night, the bride’s equivalent party, if I’d had the friends locally to plan one. But I don’t mind.

Restless now, I step from the apartment and make my way down the stairs. The portraits on the wall, solemn-faced men who had walked these corridors for centuries, look down on me piously, whispering. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I had missed dinner and lunch. I walk through the darkened foyer to the kitchen. It is deserted, the freshly polished stove gleaming in the moonlight. The smell of lemon cleanser hangs in the air.

I stare out the window over the sink into the night, replaying Papa’s words in my mind. The notion that he would support my decision to leave Stefan for Georg, despite the fact that he is not Jewish and a thousand other differences, is monumental. But it doesn’t matter—I am already married to Stefan and I have taken a vow to stand by him. Even if I could just walk away, I had pushed Georg away, this time for good. There is no going back.

There is a faint rustling, the movement of someone behind me. I turn. “Hello?” But the space is empty. Suddenly the familiar kitchen seems somehow chilling.

No longer hungry, I start back to the apartment. As I cross the foyer, I stop before the open door of the great room. It has been set for the wedding, the rows of chairs divided by a wide aisle. A chuppa, more modern than the lace canopy I’d wanted but a concession by Uncle Walter, nonetheless, stands at the front of the room. An image flashes through my mind of the room set just like this one. But a coffin stands at the front in place of the canopy. I stifle a scream. It is a nightmare that I’ve had so many times, but could not remember until just now. Tomorrow is not my wedding—it is my funeral.

Upstairs, I walk to the open window in my bedroom, where a gentle breeze blows the curtains inward. Suddenly, seized with the urge to jump, I step back, terrified by the thought.

Don’t be a prisoner of those who have gone,
Papa said. He was speaking of my mother, I know, and the way he had allowed her memory to stop him from living fully for so many years. But so had I. I’d been so caught up in trying to please everyone and fulfill expectations, I had not lived.

Leave,
a voice inside me says. I would not have to marry Stefan. Papa has Celia now. I could, as Krysia had suggested, see the world.

The idea is growing now, gaining strength. Impulsively, I pull out a small travel bag and throw a few things into it. I can buy the rest of what I need once I have gone. I grab the scarf Krysia had knitted for me from the back of the chair and head for the door.

I look across the hallway at the room where Krysia is staying. I cannot go without telling her, not after she has come all of this way. I rap on the door lightly so as not to wake Papa or anyone else. “Krysia?” I whisper. She does not answer. I try the knob, but the door is locked. I will have to leave her a note, and one for my father, as well. I return to our apartment and find two sheets of paper on Papa’s desk, then look without success for a pen.

I carry the paper and my bag downstairs, start toward Uncle Walter’s study to find a pen. The door is ajar, I notice. How odd. In contrast to Papa’s night-owl habits, my uncle has always kept a strict day schedule. I hope Papa hasn’t tried to get out of bed to do some work.

I push open the door. The study is empty, lights dark. One of the housecleaners must have left it open. As I turn to leave, a whiff of something familiar tickles my nose. The smell of lilac perfume.

“Hello...” I call into the darkness, a funny feeling tugging at my stomach. There is no answer and for a second I am relieved. But then, as if propelled by a force not my own, I move forward toward Uncle Walter’s desk. The papers I’d been holding drop from my hand and flutter to the floor.

There, crouched by a file taken from the safe, is Krysia.

Chapter 21

“What...?” I cannot finish the question. As Krysia slowly stands, I search for a possible explanation. Perhaps she was lost. She turns to me and, unable to mask the truth, her usually impassive face crumples.

“You,” I said, disbelief overcoming me. “You’re a spy.” She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. The document, clutched in her hand in my uncle’s darkened study, makes it impossible to deny. Had she done it for the money? Perhaps Ignatz had been blackmailing her, too.

Then, improbably, she laughs, swiping at the hair that has sprung forth from her usually well-ordered mane. “Spy. That’s such a grand term. People think that espionage is some vast sophisticated machine. In reality, it’s just lots of little bits, farmers and policemen and housewives living in border towns. There’s no giant conspiracy. People feel safer somehow believing such fears because it distracts them from the things they should worry about, harder questions of poverty and justice.” She is rambling now, as perturbed as I’ve ever seen her. Stalling for time. Fine perspiration coats her upper lip.

She has not denied it. “It isn’t possible,” I say slowly.

“Why? Because I’m a woman?”

“You’re a musician. I would not have thought...”

But she does not appear to take offense. “Everyone played a role during the war. Nuns obtained information from prisoners and convalescents. Young girls watched the train routes to detect enemy movement. I was approached early in the war, years before we ever met, by another musician who asked if I wanted to help. I found that I was good at it. Our touring for concerts gave us the perfect excuse to move between countries, to carry papers and information over borders. No one would think to check the lining of a violin case for documents. A piano might become a drop box.” Drop box. My head swims. “Even music became a kind of code.”

I recall then the man who had come to the piano at the dinner party that night. “The sheet music...”

“An effective way for sharing information,” she concedes. “Invisible in plain sight.”

“You betrayed me. Got close to me in order to steal information from my father and Georg.”

“I never planned it. When you found me and started asking questions, it seemed like an inconvenience. It was only after Ignatz discovered how useful you could be...”

“That you decided to use me for your own purposes,” I finish bitterly. I see the past months replayed as a movie but it is all different now, each scene orchestrated like a puppet theater. Every conversation where I had confided and she had listened sympathetically was a setup, her mining each sentence for information. “He said you weren’t involved.”

“That was a lie. In part, because he wanted to take credit for having found you and persuaded you to help—in part, to protect my leadership.” Red Thorn—it is not a man at all—Krysia is the head of the organization. She was not doing this out of desperation or for money. She believed in the work that she was doing.

“I never planned it,” she repeats. “Our friendship was real, Margot, you must believe that. I felt a connection to you from the first, even before I realized who you were. But yes, I am involved with intelligence work. No one is watching out for our interests but ourselves. Not now and not a hundred years from now.” Is she talking about her interests personally, or her country’s? “I’m sorry,” she says, but her voice dispassionate, somewhere short of cold. “I was doing what I had to do. You would have done the same.”

I would not, I want to tell her. But the point is moot. “And Marcin?”

“Sweet Marcin is a cellist—a very gifted cellist. He knows nothing of this. I cannot burden him with such worries and he would be furious knowing the risks that I have taken. He’s a pragmatist, like your father, believing people are neither altogether as good nor as bad as they seem, that everything cycles with time and we cannot altogether make a difference.” More composed now, she points at the bag that sits by my feet. “Going somewhere?”

“I...” I falter, instantly on the defensive. “You told me to see the world. Take charge of my destiny.”

“There is a difference between going on an adventure and running away.” She has a point. I had fled Paris, now Berlin. If I left like this, secretly in the middle of the night, I was somehow always going to be running away.

“The document from Georg’s study,” I say, unwilling to let her change the subject for long. “You took it, didn’t you?” She looks away and in her hesitation I see layers of the onion not yet peeled back. She had brought me the herbs for Georg’s tea, perhaps intending to steal the document from him herself. But I had drunk them instead and then, when I had grown drowsy and fallen asleep, she’d made her move. “But why would you go to all of that trouble? I was going to give the document to Ignatz, anyway.” Impulsively, I reach down and grab the document that is in her hands. It is a blueprint of the villa, showing entrances to the house, the underground pathways built a century ago between the servants’ cottages and the mansion. Access to the house. But she already had access. No, the document was for someone else.

“Krysia...” There is a moment of interminable silence between us. “You aren’t working for the communists, are you?” She does not answer. “Then who? The Americans?” I stand up straight, meeting her eyes. “You can tell me or you can tell the police.”

“What is it that you want from me?”

“The truth. You owe me that much.”

“The West.” Her shoulders slump. “The British, to be precise. I really did start working with a musician friend to help the communists. But British intelligence was onto me quickly and they approached me and asked me to work for them. ‘Turned me,’ I guess is the term. Not that it was hard—I couldn’t have continued once they knew. And the communists were in such disarray at that point, all of the turmoil and infighting. Working for the West really did seem like the best way to help the war effort and to secure a future for Poland.”