The Diplomat's Wife Read Free Page A

from the others?”
    “Yes.”
    Dava hesitates. “The others are from the camps.”
    “I don’t understand. You said I was in Dachau. Wasn’t that a camp?”
    “Yes, of course. But where you were kept, in the prison, you were not in the general population with the other women.” I study Dava’s face. Does she know why I was in that special prison cell? “The conditions in the general populations of the camps like Dachau were very bad,” she adds.
    “Worse than where I was?” I try to imagine what could be more horrible than the beatings, starvation and isolation I endured.
    “Not necessarily worse, but different. There were lots of diseases, dysentery, typhus.” Typhus. My mother died of typhus in the Kraków ghetto. I see her sore-ravaged body, hear her crying out in the delirium brought on by high fever. “We didn’t want to risk you catching something while you were weak from the surgery and infection, so we kept you as separate as we could. That’s about to change, though. We’re expecting another transport and we’ll likely have to use all of the beds then, so you’ll be getting a neighbor. But enough about that. Let’s have some more soup.”
    As Dava spoons the broth for me, I look over her shoulder. Most of the other women lie still in their beds. I am suddenly aware of noises I hadn’t heard before, low moans, the whirring and beeping of medical equipment. There is another smell, too: the faint, metallic odor of blood.
    I turn back to Dava, studying her face with interest. “Where are you from?”
    “Russia originally, but my family moved to Vienna when I was a child. My parents died in Buchenwald.”
    “You’re Jewish?” I cannot keep the surprise from my voice. With her ample figure, Dava does not look like she spent time in the camps.
    She nods. “I was in the south of France studying languages when the war broke out. My family wouldn’t hear of me coming back. So I signed up as a nurse with the Allies, made my way back to Austria as soon as I was able. But my parents, our house, it was all gone.”
    Mine, too, I think, my eyes burning.
    “All gone,” Dava repeats a minute later. But her tone is bright and I realize as she sets the bowl back down on the tray that she is talking about the soup now. Gone. Suddenly I am back in my cell without any food, wondering when the next meal will come, whether I will eat again that day. Panic shoots through me. Dava, accustomed to dealing with survivors, seems to read my thoughts. “Don’t worry.” She pats my shoulder. “The Red Cross supplies our kitchen. There’s plenty of soup, and many other kinds of food as well. If you’re still hungry and manage to hold down what you’ve just eaten, I can bring you bread in an hour. But you have to stop eating for now. It’s for your own good.”
    I lean back, relieved. “Thank you.”
    “My pleasure.” Dava stands up. “Now I need to go check on some of the other patients. I want you to get some rest. You need to regain your strength.”
    My eyelids suddenly seem to grow heavier. “I am a little sleepy,” I admit.
    “It’s the food. You rest. Sleep is good for your healing.” Dava picks up the tray and starts to leave.
    “Dava,” I call after her, struggling to sit up again.
    She turns back. “Yes?”
    “I have another question.” I pause, picturing the soldier hovering over me in prison. “You said that the Americans brought me in. Do you know any of their names?”
    Dava’s brow furrows. “I’m afraid not. Why do you ask?”
    “There was one soldier I remember helping me before I passed out. I think he was called Paul.” My heart flutters as I say his name aloud.
    “What was his surname?”
    I hesitate, trying to remember. There had been dark writing on the green lapel of his uniform. I close my eyes, straining without success to read it from memory. “I don’t know.”
    “There are thousands of American soldiers in Europe right now, liberating the camps,” she replies