tip pressed upon him by the distraught, dark-haired gentleman, and the description of the girl to whom he was to deliver the note made him change his mind. Ah, that must be the one. He waited for the beautiful woman to be seated, then with all the elegance he could muster from his short, stocky frame, he handed the letter to her.
A minute later he regretted it, regretted it with every ounce of hisromantic Gallic blood. What bastard would make a woman cry like that? What dirty bastard would do that to such a beautiful woman? Why, the bastard should be taken out and shot.
Late that night, Leo Hoffman left the train station in Marseille, hired a cab to take him to a dock at the bustling port, and boarded a ship bound for Shanghai.
THREE
Martha leaned her head back against the firm, worn leather of her seat, and tried not to think.
The words that he’d written found a rhythm in the cadence of the train’s steady movement as it rolled along the tracks. “Please trust me,” the steel wheels murmured. Martha lifted her head slightly and shook it, trying to dislodge the unbidden words from her brain. Still, they haunted her. Please trust me. Please trust me. Please trust me.
The Great War had given Martha’s entire generation an early introduction to sorrow, and she was no exception. Martha lost her mother during the winter of 1919. Although it was influenza and not a soldier’s bullet that had killed Ruth Levy, Martha would never shake her conviction that the war had contributed to her Mother’s death. By the winter of 1919 the residents of Munich had insufficient coal to warm their houses, insufficient food to warm their bellies, and insufficient faith to warm their spirits. Martha believed that her mother had died from the cold that the war brought to them all.
She had mourned her mother long and deeply. But nothing had ever prepared her for the pain she felt rip through her as she read Leo’s letter. She had anchored her soul in his, only to have the promise of a lifetime of fulfillment jeopardized by a few hastily written words.
She’d promised herself not to read the note again until she arrived in Munich. Now she broke that promise, digging the crumpled and tear-stained piece of paper out from the bottom of her purse. Looking at the page served no real purpose, however, for every word was burned into her brain:
My Darling Martha,
I don’t expect you to understand this. All I can ask is that you trust me. Please trust me. I cannot meet you. I’ve already left Paris. I betrayed some powerful people who were doing something illegal, and am now in great danger. You would be threatened, too, if you were with me, and I cannot allow that.
I think I know of a place where we can live the life that we tasted last night. It may take me a while to get there, and it may be some time before I can send for you. But I swear that I will. Please trust me. Please wait for me. I cannot live without you.
I know that this note will bring you tremendous pain, and for that I am profoundly sorry. I dare not ask your forgiveness. I can only tell you that I adore you. Please hold on to that.
Forever yours,
Leo
What could have happened? Whom could he have betrayed? Was he really, this moment, fleeing for his life? Who was this man she had fallen in love with?
Martha tried to think about all this in a practical, realistic way, the way her sister Bernice would, the way her father would want her to do. This was an untenable situation. When he contacted her, why, she could decide what to do after hearing his explanation. If he did not, well, then she would go on with her life. They were together for only two days, after all. Only one night, really.
The self-imposed lecture did not help. She could not think the way her father and Bernice did, with their ability to apply logic to every situation. She could not square, with logic, her abandonment by Leo with the love she had seen in his eyes, and the love she had felt in his arms. The
A minute later he regretted it, regretted it with every ounce of hisromantic Gallic blood. What bastard would make a woman cry like that? What dirty bastard would do that to such a beautiful woman? Why, the bastard should be taken out and shot.
Late that night, Leo Hoffman left the train station in Marseille, hired a cab to take him to a dock at the bustling port, and boarded a ship bound for Shanghai.
THREE
Martha leaned her head back against the firm, worn leather of her seat, and tried not to think.
The words that he’d written found a rhythm in the cadence of the train’s steady movement as it rolled along the tracks. “Please trust me,” the steel wheels murmured. Martha lifted her head slightly and shook it, trying to dislodge the unbidden words from her brain. Still, they haunted her. Please trust me. Please trust me. Please trust me.
The Great War had given Martha’s entire generation an early introduction to sorrow, and she was no exception. Martha lost her mother during the winter of 1919. Although it was influenza and not a soldier’s bullet that had killed Ruth Levy, Martha would never shake her conviction that the war had contributed to her Mother’s death. By the winter of 1919 the residents of Munich had insufficient coal to warm their houses, insufficient food to warm their bellies, and insufficient faith to warm their spirits. Martha believed that her mother had died from the cold that the war brought to them all.
She had mourned her mother long and deeply. But nothing had ever prepared her for the pain she felt rip through her as she read Leo’s letter. She had anchored her soul in his, only to have the promise of a lifetime of fulfillment jeopardized by a few hastily written words.
She’d promised herself not to read the note again until she arrived in Munich. Now she broke that promise, digging the crumpled and tear-stained piece of paper out from the bottom of her purse. Looking at the page served no real purpose, however, for every word was burned into her brain:
My Darling Martha,
I don’t expect you to understand this. All I can ask is that you trust me. Please trust me. I cannot meet you. I’ve already left Paris. I betrayed some powerful people who were doing something illegal, and am now in great danger. You would be threatened, too, if you were with me, and I cannot allow that.
I think I know of a place where we can live the life that we tasted last night. It may take me a while to get there, and it may be some time before I can send for you. But I swear that I will. Please trust me. Please wait for me. I cannot live without you.
I know that this note will bring you tremendous pain, and for that I am profoundly sorry. I dare not ask your forgiveness. I can only tell you that I adore you. Please hold on to that.
Forever yours,
Leo
What could have happened? Whom could he have betrayed? Was he really, this moment, fleeing for his life? Who was this man she had fallen in love with?
Martha tried to think about all this in a practical, realistic way, the way her sister Bernice would, the way her father would want her to do. This was an untenable situation. When he contacted her, why, she could decide what to do after hearing his explanation. If he did not, well, then she would go on with her life. They were together for only two days, after all. Only one night, really.
The self-imposed lecture did not help. She could not think the way her father and Bernice did, with their ability to apply logic to every situation. She could not square, with logic, her abandonment by Leo with the love she had seen in his eyes, and the love she had felt in his arms. The
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