August 15, 1943

I'm a married woman.

My Papa married us, of course, with the whole synagogue looking on. You'd think they would have wondered what had possessed their sedate rabbi to give his daughter away to an English soldier none of them had ever met, but things have gone—they've gone far enough in recent days that very few of them had questions in their eyes. Perhaps they didn't see the real love that is growing between me and my husband, but they understood that Budapest is becoming a place where Jews are no longer welcome, where any means of escape is welcome. My father, though—he knew I was happy.

I wore my mother's dress and my mother's memory. Edwin looked like something from an American film, with his dress uniform and the sharp cut of his broad shoulders. I felt like a tiny grain of sand marrying an ocean, but I think, when he looked into my eyes, he felt the same way.

Edwin had one day of leave, and he took me to his hotel. For the first time, I wasn't the girl behind the counter in Mr. Lazar's shop; I was a guest. When we reached the fourth floor, my husband put down my overnight bag and swung me up off my feet. We had no real home to call our own, but he carried me over the threshold of the first room we shared.

I know that diaries are places where one can say anything, anything at all, but some things are too precious to even write down. I won't recount how kind he was, how he held me on his knee and promised to make me happy and take me to England and buy me a whole library of books. And I won't explain how he told me he would wait—however long it took—to ask for the things that married people share. I will only say that I did not make him wait. We are two people who cannot afford to let any moment pass without drinking every last drop of joy it offers.

Today I write to pass the time while he asks his superior for a letter of passage, a letter that will take me and my father across the ocean, where no one will hunt us because of our ancestors. It is routine, he says, normal for a superior officer to grant such a request when a subordinate is legally married.

A few minutes after I wrote the above, Edwin returned to our room. I was perched on the bed with a Dickens novel, but the moment he entered, I could tell something was wrong. He looked as if he'd aged five years.

"Darling?" I shut my book quickly as my Jarvis joined me on the bed, spooning me and holding me against him so tightly it almost hurt, a good hurt that said he would protect me with his life.

"They forced me to ask the general who—insulted you at the party the other night. No one else could claim the authority for such a letter. He—laughed in my face."

"Oh," I answered, feeling suddenly and intensely deflated like a pin-stuck balloon.

Edwin took his big hands and turned me around, until we were face-to-face, very close, where I could pillow my head on his arm, and we could feel each other's breath on our faces.

"Anna," he said gently, "I promised to protect you. I know that's why—you agreed to marry me, because you needed my help. You know that I love you, and I will find a way to protect you, but it may be hard. I understand—if you no longer wish to be married, since I've failed in what I promised you. I will not hold you to your promise, since I could not keep mine."

I took my hand and put it on his cheek, feeling his cheekbone under my fingers. "Edwin Jarvis," I said, "I want to be married to you for the rest of my life, no matter what happens."

"Do you—are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Don't be an idiot." I snuggled into him, and he held me on his chest until I could hear his heartbeat slow and his breathing calm.

We didn't speak for several moments, but he finally cleared his throat and broke the silence. "I know what has to be done."

"What do you mean?" I asked from against his shoulder, where I was warm and comfortable.

"I'll have to write the letter and forge the general's signature. I've seen him write it enough times. The key is speed. I'll have to file the letter quickly so that no one is the wiser until you're gone, and then there won't be any more questions to ask."

"No," I said, getting up and staring down him with my elbows on his chest. "It's too dangerous for you. Just—let me stay with you."

"It won't work, Anna," he answered. "You know it won't. Time is ticking away as it is. I can't protect you here."

"Then—I don't care," I said. "I won't let you put yourself in that kind of danger. Just think of what will happen if someone finds out."

"Better to risk that than for you to die," he replied, extricating himself from under my arms and sitting up on the edge of the bed.

"No," I reiterated, standing up and going to the window to stare out at the street. "You won't sacrifice yourself for me." I spoke louder than I had been, feeling frustration mounting.

"I will if I want to, Anna Jarvis," he said firmly.

I was angered by his tone, but he'd called me "Anna Jarvis," and I could not help the warmth that completely filled me at the sound of the words. Even under our desperate circumstances and in the middle of an argument, I knew that I wanted to belong to him forever and for him to belong to me forever and a day.

I felt his hands on my shoulders, and I turned and let him hold me again, the best medicine against the ache of fear and uncertainty. "I won't let you."

He stroked my hair as he answered, "Anna, all of my life I've wanted to do something great, to be a real hero. That's why I joined the service, but all I've done is type letters and make tea. Let me be what I've always wanted to be, for once. Let me be your hero."

My anger slipped quietly away as I stood on tiptoe to put my arms around his neck. "You're already my hero." I didn't say anything else, feeling the futility of trying to stop him. I had married a self-sacrificing man, and I could not fault him for being better than I'd ever dreamed a husband could be.

Now I'm in bed, writing by lamplight with Edwin already asleep by my side. He's written the letter, and tomorrow he will go to deliver it to the correct department. Meanwhile, I will quietly slip away, back to my father's, where Edwin will come to us when it's sorted.

I know that the separation should be very short, but I cannot help feeling deep apprehension at the danger my husband will be in every step of the way. That's why, before we went to bed, I sat on his knee again, the way I had on our wedding night, and I let him hold me for a long time, like I was a little girl needing comfort after a nightmare—Except, the nightmare, I fear, is coming in the morning.