"Marta, I'm sorry about that. I didn't mean..."

"I know." I turn back inside the carriage. It is mostly empty except for some wooden crates piled against the wall that separates us from the driver. Curious, I crawl toward the crates. Closer to the front of the carriage, I notice that some floorboards have been peeled back, revealing the road beneath us as we drive. "Paul, check this out."

He crosses the carriage to me on his hands and knees. "Careful," he says, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me back from the edge of the hole. "I don't need you falling through."

I look up at him. Our eyes lock. Neither of us speak for several seconds. "Marta, about what happened-"

I cut him off. "We shouldn't talk about it."

"I understand. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I never should have kissed you."

"You didn't. I kissed you, remember?" Paul does not answer. "Anyway, like I said earlier, I'm glad it happened."

"Me, too," he admits, leaning back against the crates. "But it's kinda difficult, you know? Remembering how good it was between us..."

"And knowing it can't happen again?" I finish for him. He nods. "I know."

I lean back beside him and he puts his arm around me. "This is okay, though, isn't it?" He gestures with his head toward his arm. "I mean, it's like that night in Salzburg. Innocent."

Innocent. I look from his face to his arm around my shoulder, then back again. There's nothing innocent about our feelings. But soon we'll be home and Paul's arm around me will be a distant memory again. "It's fine," I say at last, reaching up and squeezing his hand.

We bounce along in silence, not speaking. "How long do you reckon until we reach the harbor?" he asks.

"A few hours. I wish we hadn't left the deck of cards back in the wine cellar. I'd like a chance to redeem myself at gin."

"True," Paul agrees. "Why don't you take a nap?"

"I am a bit tired," I admit. "But it's probably not a good idea."

"You go ahead. I'll stay awake. Honestly, I'm not at all tired."

I lean my head against Paul's chest and close my eyes. His arm tightens around me, drawing me close. Like Salzburg, I think. I can almost smell the turpentine, hear the rain on the roof of the gardener's shed.

Suddenly, the truck screeches to a halt, jarring me awake. I sit up groggily. "What is it?"

Paul turns around and pulls back the tarp slightly, peering out. "We've reached the harbor," he whispers. "But the trucks are stopped ahead. It looks like there is some sort of checkpoint at the gate."

Panic rises within me. "What are we doing to do?"

"Maybe they won't look back here." But as he continues to look outside, his face falls. "No, they're inspecting each vehicle very closely. We need to get out of here. The floor," he says suddenly. "We need to get out through the hole in the floor."

"But Jan said to stay on the truck, that it would drive us right to the ship."

Paul shakes his head. "That isn't going to work anymore." He crawls over to the hole in the floor. "You go first. When you hit the ground, I want you to move away from the truck quickly so you don't get hit if it starts to move. Stay low to the ground, out of sight."

"What about you?"

"I'll be right behind you," Paul replies quickly. An uneasy expression crosses his face. "Now hurry."

I crawl to the hole, then pause, looking up at him. "Paul-"

He cuts me off. "If anything happens...I mean, the ship is the SS Bremen. Find your way there and get on it."

I freeze. It had not occurred to me that we might be separated again. I open my mouth to protest. But he touches my cheek, silencing me again. "No matter what happens, you keep going. Get home to your daughter."

"I won't go without you."

"You won't have to," he promises, looking deep into my eyes. "I stood you up once in London and look what happened. I'm not about to do it again." Outside the truck, the footsteps and voices grow louder. He reaches down and kisses me hard and quick. "Now go."

I slip through the hole, cringing at the soft sound of my feet hitting the ground. Then, remembering Paul's instructions, I crouch low and crawl from beneath the truck, away from the voices, finding cover beneath some bushes beside the road. I made it, though my heart is pounding. Suddenly, I hear an engine sound. I spin around, looking through the brush at the underside of the truck, searching for Paul in the dim light. But he isn't there. The truck begins to roll forward, moving closer to the checkpoint. Paul's still inside!

I hesitate, uncertain what to do. Keep moving, Paul said. Get inside the ship. I duck into the bushes and make my way toward the metal fence that surrounds the harbor. But it is nearly three meters high; I cannot possibly climb over it. I look sideways toward the gate. Where is the truck? Is Paul still on it? The bushes obstruct my view. Keep moving. I crawl along the fence farther into the brush. I spy a small tear in the fence, low to the ground. I drop to my knees, pulling against the bottom of the fence to lift it farther from the ground. Lying on my stomach, I try to force myself through the opening. It is working, I realize, as the jagged edges tear at my clothes and skin.

I stand up. I am inside, I think with relief. Suddenly, I hear shouting and loud noises coming from the direction of the gate. Paul! Crouching low to the fence, I make my way back toward the commotion. The truck is stopped at the gate, a guard standing by the rear. I can see a flashlight shining beneath the tarp, illuminating the inside of the carriage. My heart drops as two guards climb from the back of the truck, dragging Paul behind them.

Paul has been caught. I start toward the truck. I have to do something. Then Paul's eyes flick toward me. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, then looks away. Keep going, I can hear him say. No matter what happens.

I hesitate for several seconds, my heart pounding. I cannot leave Paul. But if I stay here, I will surely be caught, too. Rachel's face flashes through my mind. I have to get home to her. I cannot turn back now. I'm sorry, I think, looking back at Paul one last time. Then I begin to run desperately into the harbor, my ankle throbbing.

Away from the bushes, the harbor is open, exposed. I slow to a walk, not wanting to attract attention. Ahead, the pier juts out into the sea like a long finger, ma.s.sive vessels lining either side. Stevedores carry large crates from trucks, loading them into the hulls of the ships.

As I near the dockside, I duck behind a tall stack of crates, then begin to scan the side of the boats. SS Bremen, I read, on the side of one vessel that sits at the far end of the pier to the right. I start toward it, crouching behind stacks of cargo, moving as quickly as I can. I hear a gunshot in the distance, followed by another. I stop and turn. Paul! I scream inside, my heart breaking. But there is nothing I can do for him now. I have to keep going. Desperately, I turn and race down the pier, past the stevedores, who have been distracted by the gunshots.

When I reach the base of the Bremen, I stop, staring up the ma.s.sive ramp that leads upward toward the main deck of the ship, lined with trucks. I start up the ramp, keeping low beside the pa.s.senger sides of the trucks as I move. At the top, I duck behind a large pallet of boxes, then crawl away from the ramp toward the stern of the ship. I made it. I look back out at the pier. In my mind, I see Paul being dragged from the truck by the police. I fight the urge to run off the ship after him. If I can get back to Britain, I can send word to the Americans about what happened to him. Get him help. Then I remember the gunshots. It is too late for help, I realize numbly. I have lost him all over again. Goodbye, my darling Paul. Thank you for saving me once more. My eyes fill with tears.

A minute later, the trucks begin rolling off the ramp. Then a loud horn sounds and the ramp begins to retract from the deck. We are leaving. I must have made it just in time. I look behind me for a hatch, a way to get below deck out of sight. Suddenly I see something moving on the pier, a figure coming closer. I duck down below the railing. Has someone spotted me? Then I look up again at the figure running toward the ship. Recognizing the awkward gait, my heart leaps. Paul! He is alive and he is trying to make it.

Hurry, I pray, fighting the urge to call out to him. But the ramp has been lowered and the ship is beginning to pull away from the dock. He cannot possibly get on board. He keeps running toward the ship, looking straight ahead toward a small dingy attached low to the outside of the ship. Paul, coatless now, runs to the end of the dock and without hesitating jumps into the water. It must be nearly freezing! Surely he will not be able to survive long. My heart pounds as he swims toward the lifeboat with sure, swift strokes. Hurry. His hand catches the edge of the lifeboat, but slips off. Then he grabs it, firmer this time, and climbs in. He made it! But choppy waves, stirred up by the wake of the ship, crash over the sides of the tiny craft, battering him. He won't be able to last long down there. He reaches up, grabbing the thick rope that holds the lifeboat to the side of the ship. I watch in amazement as he begins to climb, slowly, painstakingly, up the rope. I race to the side of the boat where the rope is secured. As he nears the top, I hold out my hand. Taking it, he hoists himself over the edge.

"Paul!" I cry. He is soaking wet and the front of his shirt is covered in blood.

"I told you I wouldn't stand you up again," he manages to say, then collapses to the deck.

CHAPTER 24.

"Paul!" I kneel beside him, touching his blood-soaked shirt. His eyes are half open, his breathing weak. Oh, G.o.d. I have to get him out of the cold and out of sight. About twenty meters down the length of the boat there is a doorway. I do not know what is inside, but it has to be better than staying exposed on the open deck, waiting for someone to find us. "Paul, can you hear me?" He grunts. "I need your help. We can't stay here and I can't carry you. Can you move?"

He does not answer. I take his right arm and wrap it around my neck, then put my left arm around his waist. Taking a deep breath, I try to raise him to a standing position. But he remains limp, too heavy to lift. I shake him hard. "Paul, listen, I know you're hurt. But I need you to help me, just for a few minutes. On the count of three. One, two..." Using all of my strength, I struggle to stand up again with him. This time, I feel a slight movement in his legs, his whole body trembling with the effort as he helps me to raise him. How badly is he hurt? I wonder. Panic rises within me as I drag him to the doorway.

Leaning Paul against the side of the ship for support, I open the door and roll him around the edge of the door frame. We are inside a stairwell, with one set of stairs leading up, one down. Above us I hear voices speaking in German. "Paul, downstairs, quickly," I whisper. I do not know if there are more sailors below, but I have to chance it. He blinks, seeming to revive slightly. I help him down one flight of stairs, then another. We reach the bottom of the ship, and I blink to adjust my eyes. The cavernous hull seems to run endlessly into the darkness, filled with crates and boxes piled high to the ceiling. I inhale the damp air, which smells of wet wood and burlap. Hopefully no one will come down here until we reach England and they are ready to unload.

Beside me Paul wobbles. He cannot last much longer on his feet. I help him farther into the hull, finding a narrow path through the piles of crates. Soon we reach a small clearing where three stacks of boxes seem to form an alcove against the wall of the ship. "Let's rest here," I suggest. Paul does not respond but lets me help him to the ground. I gather some empty burlap sacks that lie nearby, propping them against the wall to form a makeshift pillow behind him. "Now, let me see your wound."

"I'm okay," he says, breathing heavily.

Lifting his shirt, I gasp. His lower torso is bathed in thick, fresh blood. I have to stop the bleeding. I look around desperately for something to use as a bandage. Then I remember the gauze Paul used to tape my foot. "Do you have more gauze?" I ask him. He does not answer. I move up to study his face. His eyes are half open and his face is pale. It must be the blood loss. "Paul," I say. He does not respond.

I reach over and open his pocket. Inside, I push aside his pocketknife and some soggy crumpled papers. At the bottom, I see a small photograph. Curious, I pull it out. It is a picture of me and Paul, the one taken in Paris the night he proposed. I stare at the picture, stunned. How could he possibly still have this, after everything he had been through?

I put the photo down beside him, then check his other pocket for gauze but find none. Desperately, I unwind the piece that Paul had used to wrap my ankle, now black with dirt. I cannot put this near his wound without risking infection. I reach around to his back pocket and pull out the flask, but it is empty. I look up at the crates that fill the hull. There has to be something here that can help. Standing up, I scramble through the boxes, trying to read the labels in the near darkness. A familiar word catches my eye: Zyborowa. Polish vodka! Quickly, I try to open the crate but it is sealed shut. I race back to where Paul lies, pulling the pocketknife from his jacket and carrying it back to the crate. I work at the seal with the knife, then use it as a lever to open the box. Inside there are dozens of bottles of vodka, cushioned in straw. I take one, opening the top as I carry it back to Paul.

I kneel beside him once more. Dousing the gauze in vodka, I use it to wipe the blood from Paul's wound. I touch his skin lightly, studying the site. The bullet pierced his midsection, slightly to the left. It is almost the exact spot where my own gunshot wound was. He groans as I lift him slightly to study his lower back. "Sorry," I say. There is a neat hole where the bullet exited. But as I set him down again, the blood pours fresh from the front of his torso. I have to dress the wound, try to stop the bleeding. I pick up the bottle of vodka and rinse the now-red gauze once more. Then I lean over and put my head next to his ear. "This is going to hurt," I whisper, "but it's for your own good." I put my hand over his mouth so that he does not attract attention if he screams. Taking a deep breath, I pour the vodka directly onto his wound to clean it. He cries out weakly. I wrap the gauze around his midsection as tightly as I can, tucking in the end.

I study the dressing. Blood is already beginning to seep through the gauze, but it will have to do. I pull his shirt down over the wound, then touch his forehead, which is burning hot and covered with a fine layer of perspiration. My panic grows. There has to be something else I can do. Suddenly, I remember the canteen he had been carrying. Praying that it is still there, I reach around to the far side of his waist, careful not to touch the wound. Relief washes over me as my hand closes around the canteen. There is only a tiny bit of water left, I note as I shake it. Paul would tell me to save the water, that we will need it later in the journey. But if I don't bring his fever down, there might not be a later.

"Paul," I say. There is no response. I shake him and repeat his name, louder this time. He grunts, as though being awoken from a deep sleep. Carefully, I fill the cap of the canteen with water. Cupping his head and lifting it, I bring the water to his lips. The same way he did with me in the prison, I think. But there is no time for nostalgia. I pour a few drops of the water into his mouth. "Swallow," I implore. He does not respond, and a second later, the water trickles out of the corner of his mouth. Desperately, I tilt his head back slightly, pouring the rest of the capful of water through his barely parted lips. "Drink." This time, his Adam's apple moves slightly and the water does not reappear. Picking up the canteen again, I pour a few of the remaining drops of water on my hand, then rub Paul's forehead to cool it.

I replace the cap on the canteen, studying his face again. There is nothing more to be done. He shivers. I crawl across the ground, grabbing some more of the burlap sacks and dragging them back over to Paul. I lie down beside him and pull the sacks over us for warmth. Then I place my head on his chest and close my eyes, willing the ship to sail more quickly toward Britain. A few hours ago, I dreaded reaching our destination, knowing that upon arrival we would be forced to say goodbye. But now, reaching land and getting medical attention, if it is not too late, is Paul's only hope. I'm not going to lose you again, I think, wrapping my arm around him protectively.

My eyes grow heavy with the gentle rocking of the ship. I should stay awake, I think. But it does not matter anymore. If someone discovers us, it will not matter if we are asleep. We have done everything we can. Everything we set out to do. Now it is only a question of whether or not we make it back alive to deliver the cipher. Clinging tightly to Paul, I drift off to sleep.

Sometime later, feeling Paul move, I awaken. I sit up quickly, studying his face. His eyes are open slightly. "Can you hear me?" I ask. He nods. "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts," he replies matter-of-factly. "It hurts a lot."

"I know." I touch his forehead, which feels hotter than before. Then I reach for the canteen.

He raises his hand slightly. "Save it."

"Paul, you're burning up. I'll find more water later."

He does not answer but lets me bring the canteen cap to his lips, grimacing as he swallows. I remember then how in prison, I tried to forget pain by pretending I was somewhere else, was back in my family home in the village, or at Shabbat dinner with my friends in the ghetto. "Let's pretend we're not here," I suggest. "Remember the night in Salzburg, how we stayed up in the gardener's shed talking, listening to the rain?"

He manages a faint smile. "That was wonderful. So quiet after all the months of fighting, I thought I had died and gone to heaven." Then his expression grows serious again. "The whole war, I managed not to get shot. And now..." He lifts his hand slightly in the direction of his wound.

"This is all because of me," I say. "You never would have been here otherwise. I'm so sorry."

"It was worth it," he replies quickly. "I love you, Marta."

"I love you, too. But when I saw the port guards pull you from the truck and heard the shots, I thought..."

"That you lost me again?" Paul finishes for me. I nod, suddenly overcome with all that has happened. My eyes well. "Nah, you won't get rid of me that easily. They were about to cuff me and then I would have been sunk," he adds. "But I was able to slip out of my coat and grab the gun of the one who was holding me. I shot him, wounded the other two." His voice cracks, as much from the memory of shooting the men as the effort of speaking. I see in his eyes the same remorse as I had in the Berlin police station, looking down at Hart's body. Killing did not come easily to Paul, even when it was to save his life.

Or mine.

"I love you," I repeat, lowering my lips to his, wanting to take away his pain.

"Me, too. I do wish you hadn't moved on quite so quickly, though." He tries to sound light, but there is a seriousness to his expression that belies his pain.

I know then that I have to tell him. I take a deep breath. "I didn't."

Paul looks up at me. "I don't understand. Didn't what?"

I hesitate. Telling Paul will change everything. But he needs to know the truth in case...I shudder. The thought is almost too unbearable to finish. But if something happens to him, I want him to know. "I didn't move on," I say at last.

Paul's expression is puzzled. "But you married your husband so quickly..."

"I didn't marry Simon because of my feelings for him, or because I had forgotten you. I married Simon because I was pregnant."

"But you wouldn't have slept with him if..." Paul's voice trails off and a light of recognition appears in his eyes. "You didn't, did you?"

"Sleep with him? No. Not until we were married."

"So the baby...?"

I nod. "Rachel is your daughter. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner," I add.

I watch his face as he processes the information. Is he angry? "Daughter," he mumbles softly, closing his eyes again. I lean over quickly to check his shallow, even breaths, wondering if the shock was too much. He is just delirious from the fever, I decide, touching his forehead. He will not even remember what I told him. But at least he knows. I lie back down beside him, holding him tight. Whatever happens now, he knows. I drift off to sleep once more.

Sometime later, I blink my eyes open, feeling the gentle rocking of the boat and smelling the damp wood. Paul has fallen away from me and lies motionless on his side. Dammit, I swear, crawling over to him. I never should have let myself sleep. "Paul," I whisper, touching his cheek, then his forehead. He seems cooler now, but his eyes remain closed. I roll him back toward me, lifting his head into my lap. "Paul, wake up, please."

His eyes flutter open. "Oh, h.e.l.lo," he says, half smiling.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

He raises his hand to his side. "Still hurts."

I pull back his shirt to examine the wound. Blood seeped through the gauze at some point, but he does not seem to be bleeding further now. I should redress the wound, I know, but there is nothing else to bandage it with. I let the shirt fall once more. "The bleeding seems to have stopped," I report. "At least as far as I can see."

He nods. "There's something still going on inside, though. I can feel it."

"You're less feverish." I try to keep the worry from my voice. "You should drink a bit more." I reach behind me and pick up the canteen.

"I can do it," he says, taking the bottle from me. "Not much left. Did I drink all of that?"

"Some. And I used some to bring your fever down."

"Did you drink any?"

"Yes," I lie, looking away.

"Marta..." He reaches up and touches my lips. I had not realized until then that they are dry and cracked with dehydration. "You need to drink, too."

"I'm fine," I insist. "I'll go find some more water for us soon." I look around the hull, which remains in perpetual semidarkness. "I wonder what time it is."

"Dunno. Speaking of drinking, why do I smell like a distillery?"

I laugh softly. "That's my fault. I needed something to clean out your wound. The only thing I could find was some vodka."

"That must explain why I feel so good," he says wryly, handing the canteen back to me. "Seriously, thank you."