Paul sits down across from me and unfolds his napkin. I watch him nervously. I have walked with Paul, even spent the night beside him. But sitting face-to-face with him like this feels intimate, intense. I unfold the napkin as he has done, hoping he does not notice my nervousness. “The restaurant has been in Henryk’s family for four generations,” he explains. “But he closed it during the occupation, rather than serve the Germans.” His leg bumps mine under the table. “Sorry,” he mumbles, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He’s anxious, too, I realize suddenly. It is hard to imagine anyone being nervous around me, but the thought is strangely comforting.

“What books?” I ask, eager to break the tension. He cocks his head, not understanding. “Henryk said you usually come with a book.”

“Oh, that.” He smiles sheepishly. “I like to read. Hemingway, Steinbeck.” Now it is my turn to cock my head. “Those are American authors, although some of Hemingway’s books are set in Europe. Classics, too, Dickens and such. Pretty much anything I can get my hands on in English over here.”

“I was reading Little Women with Rose,” I offer. “Before, that is.”

Henryk reappears with a bottle of red wine and a basket of bread. He uncorks the wine and pours three glasses, handing one to each of us. “To love,” he proposes, raising the third glass. Startled by his toast, I pull back, sending the wine splashing dangerously close to the edge. I do not meet Paul’s eyes but look away quickly, feeling my cheeks go warm. “Dinner will be out shortly,” Henryk announces, before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“He’s so subtle,” Paul says wryly. He holds up the bread basket, offering it to me.

I pull out a still-warm roll. “He said that dinner is coming, but we didn’t order anything.”

“I always let Henryk decide for me,” Paul explains. “His choices are better than anything I could pick.”

I take a bite of the warm roll. My stomach gurgles, reminding me that it is the first thing I have eaten today, other than the chocolate torte I purchased earlier. Feeling Paul’s eyes on me, I force myself to chew slowly, to pause before taking a second bite. I look around at the other patrons. Young couples and a few larger groups seem to fill the tables, talking and laughing over heaping plates of food and bottles of wine. “We’re in the Latin Quarter, near the university,” Paul explains. “Not that many students can afford to eat out. But you get a lot of academics, artists, writers. Fewer soldiers and foreigners than across the river.” He gestures across the restaurant with his head. “Look.” I follow his gaze to a table in the corner where an elderly couple eat in silence. “I’ve seen them almost every time I’ve been here. But I’ve never heard them speak.”

“They look like they’ve been together for many years,” I observe. “Maybe they’ve run out of things to say.”

“Maybe,” he agrees with a laugh. “Or maybe they’ve been together so long they don’t need to talk out loud.” His expression turns serious. “It would be nice, you know? To spend your whole life with someone, grow old together.” He turns toward the window, a faraway look in his eyes, and I wonder with a pang of jealousy if he is thinking of his ex-fiancée.

Henryk reappears carrying two large bowls. “First course, vichyssoise,” he announces as he sets the bowls down before us, then disappears into the kitchen once more.

I pick up the same spoon from the table as Paul, then try a mouthful of the soup. “Potato soup. It’s supposed to be cold,” Paul explains, noticing my puzzled expression.

I nod, embarrassed not to have known. “Delicious.”

Classical music begins to play. I look toward the back of the restaurant. A woman, stout and fiftyish, is seated at a grand piano. “That’s Henryk’s wife, Marie,” Paul says. “Married thirty years and they’re still completely in love.”

That word again, love. Paul’s eyes lock with mine. Suddenly it is as if the other patrons disappear. Neither of us speak for several seconds. Then Paul clears his throat. “I’m glad to see you again, Marta. I mean, when I left Salzburg, I thought…” His voice trails off and he looks away. “And you, being here now. It’s just unbelievable.”

I nod, unable to speak. Clearing my throat, I force myself to look down at the soup, take another mouthful. A minute later, I glance up again, peeking at Paul out of the corner of my eye as he eats. Taking in his strong jaw, the dimple in his chin, I am reminded of our kiss by the lake. Will he kiss me again? The very thought makes my stomach ache with longing. But we may not have much time together after dinner. How would he manage it? Where? Flustered, I accidentally bang my hand against the table, sending my spoon clattering to the floor.

“Oh!” I cry, starting to go after it, but Paul reaches across the table and touches my forearm, restraining me.

“Don’t worry,” he says gently. He pulls away as a waiter, not Henryk, appears and puts a clean spoon beside my plate.

A few minutes later, Henryk returns, looking down at our half-eaten bowls of soup with surprise. “You do not like?”

“It’s delicious,” I reply quickly. “I’m just saving room.”

Paul winks. “Good answer,” he mouths as Henryk clears the bowls.

A minute later Henryk brings the main course. “Poulet à la Henryk,” he declares, uncovering the plates. The dish is a thick stew, served in a brown sauce over rice.

“The city is still under rationing, but Henryk works wonders with what he can get,” Paul remarks after Henryk has gone. “After the crap—I mean stuff—we ate during the war…Our mess officer, Tommy, tried, God bless him, but there were times last winter…” He stops. “I’m an idiot. Complaining about food after all that you went through.” A shadow crosses his face and I can tell he is remembering finding me in the prison, starving and near death.

“That’s all right,” I say quickly. I do not want him to pity me, not now. “Tell me about America,” I suggest, trying to change the subject.

“America?” He pauses, considering the question as he takes a bite of chicken. “That’s a tough one. It’s such a big place. You’ve got the south, where I’m from, then places farther south where they talk even funnier.” I cock my head. “That was supposed to be a joke. Not all Americans talk like me. The states in America are kind of like your countries over here, but instead of languages, we just have different ways of speaking English, faster, slower, pronouncing words differently. Anyway, there’s the Midwest and California, which I’ve never seen. Then there are the big cities, New York, Chicago. There’re just so many places to go.” He takes another bite. “When I get back after the war, I’d like to drive across the United States. Maybe get a convertible—that’s a car where the roof comes off—and just drive, see the whole thing.” His eyes dance, as if he’s considering the idea for the first time. I imagine myself, seated beside Paul in a car, with my hair pulled back in a kerchief, wearing large dark sunglasses like the women I’ve seen in the movies. “I could go visit the guys from my unit,” he adds.

“The others, they are not from North…” I struggle, trying to remember the name of his home.

“Carolina?” He shakes his head. “Nah. Well one of the guys, Bill McCauley, is, but he’s from clear across the state. The rest are from all over, Texas, New Jersey, Maine. It’s funny, we’ve lived together, sleeping and eating, for so long. It’s hard to imagine going back to our own separate lives.”

“You’ve grown close to them,” I observe, taking a sip of wine.

“Like brothers,” he agrees. Suddenly his expression grows grave. “I had one, you know. A brother. Jack was five years older than me. He got killed in a car accident when I was twelve.”

“I’m so sorry.” I fight the urge to reach across the table, put my hand on his.

“It was really hard,” he continues, looking away. “I mean, I love my parents, adore my baby sister, Maude. But Jack was my hero.”