“But ma’am, we’re in the middle of traffic. I’m not allowed to let you off where there’s no stop.”

I bring my hand to my mouth. “Please, I feel very ill.”

The driver shakes his head and I run down the steps and dash hurriedly through the traffic. Horns blare. I cross the sidewalk and reach the bushes on the far side just in time to duck my head behind them. Retching violently, I bring up the ice cream and the tea, then the breakfast I’d eaten that morning. A minute later, when my stomach calms, I look up. The grass and benches nearby are dotted with people eating lunch and talking or reading. None seem to have noticed me being sick. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, then make my way to a nearby bench. A cool sweat breaks out on my forehead. What is wrong with me? I cannot afford to get sick, not now. Perhaps it’s food poisoning. But I was nauseous the morning after Paul did not arrive, too, and that was a week ago. Paul. Suddenly I see his face above me in the Paris hotel room, silhouetted in the moonlight. It has been nearly a month since our night together. An uneasy feeling rises in me.

Impossible, I think. I cannot be pregnant, not from that one night. But the idea nags at me. I remember my last period in Salzburg, count the days. It was due some time ago, I realize now for the first time. In my preoccupation with Paul’s death, I had not thought to notice. Dread slices through me. My cycle must be off, I think desperately, from the stress of all that has happened. It will come any day now. But my uneasiness persists as I stand up and make my way back to the road.

Thirty minutes later I walk through the front door of Delia’s house. I find Delia in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough. It looks as though a bag of flour exploded—the countertops, stove and floor are covered in white. “Hello, dear,” she says, not looking up. “I’m just baking some scones.”

I smile. Though Charles does most of the cooking, Delia likes to bake. Or try. More than once, I have seen Charles wait patiently while Delia puts her creations in the oven, then clean up the mess she has made. Later, he will dispose of many of the scones, telling her that they were so delicious he ate them.

The odor of food makes my stomach turn once more. “That smells good,” I fib, dropping into a kitchen chair. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“I saw your note. I was glad to see you up and about. Where did you go?”

“Walking.” I describe my route. “I would have been back earlier but I ran into someone whom I had met on the ship coming over.” I tell her about Simon and his work for the Foreign Office. Then I pause. “He offered me a job.”

Delia looks up, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“He works on East European affairs for the Foreign Office. He said he needs an assistant who speaks Polish. He made the same offer when we met on the ship.” I swallow. “Then, of course, I thought I would be leaving for America after a few weeks. But now…”

“Does that mean you are thinking about staying in England permanently?”

I hesitate. “I am,” I reply slowly. “I mean, where else would I go? There’s no one, nothing back in Poland for me. And nothing in America anymore.” I force down the lump that has formed in my throat. “Of course, I would find my own place to live. I don’t expect you to put me up forever.”

“But I love having you here!” Delia exclaims. “Can’t you see that? It’s just me and Charles in this big old house. Having a young person around has given it new life.” I can tell from Delia’s voice that she is sincere. I look up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time the places where the plaster had shaken loose from the bombing. They suffered here, too. Maybe not in the same way as we had back home, but no one escaped the war unscathed. Delia continues, “I understand, a young woman might want her own space. But I really wish you would consider living with us.”

I look around, amazed at how much Delia’s house has come to feel like home. “I would love to stay.”

Delia’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Wonderful!”

“But not for free. As soon as I start working, I’ll be able to pay room and board.”

“That’s not necessary,” Delia says quickly.

“I know, but I want to. It would make me feel better.”

“We can discuss that later,” Delia relents. “So what did you tell him? Mr. Gold, I mean. Are you seriously thinking about taking the job?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big step. Originally, I was thinking of something closer by, like a job in one of the shops. But this would pay well, I think, and be interesting.”

“And this Mr. Gold, is he married?”

“Oh, Delia,” I say, not knowing the answer. I remember the way he looked at me as he kissed my hand. “I’m not thinking of that. It’s too soon.” In truth, I cannot imagine ever wanting to be with someone else. For a second, I consider sharing with Delia my fear that I might be pregnant. But I am too embarrassed. It is probably nothing. “I think he just needs an assistant.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to go to work?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But he needs someone to start right away. It may be a good thing, to be busy, to find some purpose again. Sitting around and thinking about what could have been with Paul much longer is going to kill me.”

“It sounds like you’ve decided,” Delia says, and I know then that I have. She gestures to the phone that hangs on the kitchen wall. “Why don’t you go ahead and call Mr. Gold and tell him you’ll take that job?”

CHAPTER 13

“The embassy in Budapest delivered an official communiqué protesting the handling of certain matters with respect to the repatriation of ethnic minorities…” Ian St. James, the white-haired deputy minister, reads from the notes prepared by his aide, papers held close to his spectacles. He has been speaking for more than an hour about the political situation in Hungary and I am still not sure what he is trying to say. His voice is monotone and nasal, its rhythm unchanging regardless of whether he is talking about war or the weather. I imagine him announcing the Allied invasion of Normandy in much the same manner.

I cross and uncross my legs, flexing my feet back and forth to relieve the cramping sensation I always get from sitting in the stiff wooden chairs for too long. I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, then replace them and scan the long conference room table that occupies much of the room. The men seated around it—middle-aged, dark-suited and pale to a one—are the heads of the European Directorate, or in the case of a few of the larger departments, their deputies. Some head up individual countries or groups. (“I’m Benelux,” I heard one man say at a party, which Simon later explained meant that he was in charge of Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg.) Others work in topical areas, economic recovery or political-military. A few, including Simon, specialize in intelligence. They listen to the deputy minister (or the “D.M.” as he is often called, though never to his face) with varying degrees of interest, some seeming to hang on to his every word, others shuffling through papers in front of them, reading surreptitiously. One man I do not recognize is sleeping, his eyes shut and mouth slightly agape. The perimeter of the room is ringed with other women, secretaries like me in dark pencil skirts and long-sleeved blouses. If they are bored, they give no indication, but sit erect, heads down, scribbling diligently as the D.M. speaks.

I shift my weight, straightening. My eyes travel down the row of men to Simon, who sits close to the head of the table. He wears a scowl, and for a moment I wonder if he noticed me fidgeting and is displeased. His gaze catches mine. A weary smile, echoing my own feelings of boredom and impatience, flickers across his face so quickly I wonder if I might have imagined it. Then he looks up at the D.M., his expression impassive once more.