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…”