touches Dava’s arm. “Let her go, Dava. For me.”
Dava looks slowly from me to Rose, then back again. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil. “Take this pass in case anyone questions your being off grounds,” she says, scribbling something on the paper before handing it to me. “But I want you back by midnight and not a minute longer.”
“I will be. Thank you.” I lean down and kiss Rose on the cheek. “And thank you,” I whisper. “But if you aren’t feeling well …”
“I’m fine,” Rose replies softly. “And I’m really happy for you, Marta.”
I race out of the ward and back through the foyer. When I reach the patio, I stop. The spot where Paul sat minutes earlier is deserted. He’s gone, I think. My heart sinks. Perhaps he became tired of waiting for me and went after the other soldiers into town. Hurriedly, I scan the banks. Paul is standing farther to the right along the edge of the lake, head down, back to me, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the last rays of the setting sun. Studying the way his torso tapers to his narrow hips, I feel a tightness in my chest, strong and sudden. I have never felt this way before, not even with Jacob. Easy, I think. It is just a walk, something for him to do while he waits to leave again. I force myself to breathe slowly, struggling to regain my composure.
I start toward him, and as I near, he turns, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Look,” he says in a low voice, gesturing toward the water with his head. Closer, I can see that his attention has been caught by a mother duck and four fuzzy, yellow ducklings that have drifted close to the bank, heads tucked in sleep. I study his face, boyish with wonder as he watches them.
“Ready?” He looks up from the water, his eyes meeting mine. He blinks, and the serious expression I noticed earlier on the lawn appears on his face once more. Not pity, I decide. Something else.
I swallow over the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. “Y-yes.” I follow him toward the low white gate that marks the edge of the palace grounds. He holds the gate open for me and I step through onto the dirt path. A few meters farther along the water’s edge, an elderly man sits in the grass, holding a fishing rod, a small dinghy docked at his feet. He eyes us warily as we pass. What a strange pair we must make, I realize. The American soldier and the refugee. But Paul does not seem to notice. He whistles softly under his breath as we walk, looking up at the mountains through the trees.
“It’s just beautiful here,” he remarks. “Reminds me of our ranch in North Carolina. My family farms tobacco, just at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our mountains aren’t as dramatic as these.” He gestures toward the Untersberg. “But it’s still beautiful countryside.” He steps too close to me on the path and our sides brush. “Sorry.”
I feel a twinge of disappointment as he moves away. “I’m from the country, too,” I offer, eager to have this in common.
He looks down at me. “Really?”
“Yes, our village, it’s called Bochnia, is close to the Tatra—” I stop midsentence, interrupted by the sound of voices. Down the path, there is a group of teenagers coming toward us, laughing loudly. A knot forms in my chest.
Paul notices my reaction. “What is it?” I do not answer, but gesture with my head toward the youths. “Do you want to go back?”
“No,” I reply quickly. “It’s just that …” I hesitate, my skin prickling. I have seen so few people, other than the camp staff and residents, since coming here. Staying on the palace grounds, it is easy to forget that we are in Austria, a country that embraced the Nazis so readily. But now, seeing the teenagers, I am terrified.
“I understand. Wait here.” Before I can respond, Paul walks back in the direction from which we had come, leaving me alone in the middle of the path. Despite my anxiety about the teenagers, I cannot help but notice Paul’s long legs, his awkward coltlike gait. He approaches the fisherman, gesturing toward the boat. But Paul does not speak German, I realize, watching the fisherman shake his head. I see Paul reach into his pocket and hand the man something.
I walk toward him. “What are you doing?”
Paul gestures to the boat. “Your chariot, milady.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You wanted to get away from those kids, right?” I nod. “But you didn’t want to go back. So I rented the boat from this man. Indefinitely, if need be.” The fisherman turns back to his rod, disinterested. He would not have loaned his boat to a stranger; Paul must have paid him enough to buy it outright. “Ready?” He holds out his hand.
I hesitate. I have never been on the lake and it is nearly dark out. But the teenagers are almost upon us now, their voices growing louder with each second. I reach out and Paul’s fingers, large and warm, close around mine, sending a shiver through me. I let him lead me to the water’s edge. Paul helps me into the boat and I make my way gingerly to the wide wood bench at the far end. The boat wobbles slightly as Paul steps in with one foot, pushing off from the bank with the other. He sits on the middle bench opposite me and picks up the oars. Then he begins to paddle with small strokes, steering us toward the center of the lake. As we pull farther away from the bank, I relax and look around. It is nearly dark now and the gaslights surrounding the lake are illuminated, their reflections large fireflies in the water. I watch Paul as he looks over his shoulder, aiming for the center of the lake. Warmth rises in me once more.
As the boat continues gently away from the shore, the teenagers’ voices fade away and the air grows still. In the distance, a cricket chirps. I swat at a mosquito that buzzes by my ear, then turn back toward the palace. Yellow lights glow behind each of the windows. “Penny for your thoughts,” Paul says. I shake my head, puzzled. “It’s an expression. I was asking what you were thinking.”
“About my friend, Rose. She wasn’t feeling well tonight.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He stops rowing and rests the oars in his lap. “There, that’s better.”
He leans forward, resting his chin in his hands and gazing up at the mountains. I study his face out of the corner of my eye once more. He is really here, I marvel. At the same time, disbelief washes over me. Even before the war, in the best of times, I was never the girl whom boys sought out, took for boat rides. I want to ask him why he is here with me. “So how long have you been in Europe?” I say instead.
“About a year.”
“Do you like it?”
“Depends what you mean by ‘it.’ Europe? It’s beautiful from what I’ve seen. The army? I’ve made some of the best friends of my life, at least those of them that have survived. But this war … my unit, the Fighting 502nd, they call us, dropped in on D-Day. We’ve fought in every major battle since. I mean, I would be happy if I never see another goddamn—” He stops suddenly, noticing my expression. “Pardon my language. I’ve been around soldiers so long, I don’t know how to speak in proper company anymore.”
“I understand.” And I really do. There are some things that only cursing can describe.
Paul reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask. “Thirsty?”
I shake my head and cringe as he takes a large swig, remembering his drunkenness earlier. “Do you do that a lot? Drink, I mean.”
He looks away. “More than some, not as much as others. More than I used to. That’s for dam—I mean darn sure.”
I want to know why, but I’m afraid of appearing rude. “What did you do before joining the army?”
“College. I was six months short of graduating from Princeton when I was drafted. Not that I was any great brain—I went on a football scholarship.”
“Will you go back? After the war, I mean?”
He shrugs. “Who knows? I’m not sure of anything anymore. Damn war.” This time he does not bother to catch himself cursing. “My fiancée, Kim, wrote