The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  "You can't smell that gas, Ilse," I said.

  "Yes, I can."

  "No, you can't."

  "It's giving me a headache."

  "If you could smell that gas, you wouldn't be alive right now."

  I broke apart a piece of dark bread. Ilse shoved away her plate. At the other end of the dinner table, Hans knocked his spoon off the tray of his highchair. He kicked his feet and leaned over the side of his chair, reaching for the spoon. I put more potatoes on my plate.

  "I can smell the Jew-gas," said Ilse. "It's making me sick."

  "You can't smell it. If you smelled it, you'd be dead."

  "Max, please."

  Hans squealed and kicked the tray of his highchair. I cut another piece of meat as Marta sat down. Ilse pushed away her silverware. Hans kicked the edge of the dinner table. Marta reached for the baby's spoon, lying on the floor beside his highchair.

  "Eat, Ilse," I said. "You can't smell that gas."

  "It's giving me a headache anyway."

  Marta never liked it when I discussed work at the dinner table. Even if the children were already in bed. Even when I spoke with Dieter. I don't think women understand men's work. They're so intent on family, they don't see that the family couldn't exist without everything that we men do, without our work. But men understand each other, without having to talk about it. Dieter and I almost always understood each other. Whenever Dieter had the time to join me for a few hours, I had the cook serve us lunch in my office, so Dieter and I could really talk. I raised my glass of wine and stared at it before draining the goblet. The aroma of garlic and spices filled my office as Dieter and I sat ourselves down at the table.

  "Caviar," said Dieter, scooping some of the glistening black beads onto toasted bread. "How did you pull that off?"

  "I'm the Kommandant," I said.

  I lifted my glass toward Dieter's.

  "To the greater glory of Germany," I said.

  "To our Führer," said Dieter, clicking his glass' rim against mine.

  We drained our glasses. As I lifted the bottle of Burgundy and refilled the glasses, Dieter spread another crisp of bread with caviar. He closed his eyes as he put it into his mouth, and he made appreciative noises as he chewed.

  "Delicious," said Dieter.

  "To the everlasting Third Reich," I said, raising my glass.

  "To the wealth of the Jews," said Dieter.

  Our glasses clinked. The light from the windows glinted as the goblets were emptied and refilled. The music of violas, violins, and cellos swelled around the walls of my office as Dieter lifted the cover of one of the chafing dishes and inhaled.

  "To us, my old friend," I said.

  "To us," said Dieter, replacing the lid.

  He drank his glass of wine and lifted more food covers.

  "I envy you, Max, being here instead of at the front, or in Berlin."

  "I deserve it," I said.

  "So do I, but I don't have it."

  "You like being at the front. You like the excitement."

  "Sometimes," said Dieter. "But here: no bullets whizzing by your face in your sleep, no one hanging over your shoulder, memorizing every movement, writing down every word to put in a file on you."

  "Sometimes the stench is unbearable," I said, twisting the corkscrew, releasing the cork from the wine bottle. "Marta complains all the time."

  "And you have such a beautiful Jewess," said Dieter, his mouth full of pâté.

  We both looked over at the girl. She sat, motionless, on the floor in the corner, her legs drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She wore no scarf, and her short hair looked white. She gazed steadily in front of her, at the windows darkened by storm clouds.

  "Such an extraordinary face," said Dieter, "even now."

  "Yes."

  "And Marta doesn't..."

  "Marta isn't permitted in my office."

  "Wives complain about everything," said Dieter, filling his plate with roasted meat.

  "Yes."

  "Rudi had to send his Jewess off," said Dieter, pouring gravy over his meat and sighing.

  "He did?"

  "And the son."

  "When?" I said, leaning forward.

  "Last month."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I thought I did," said Dieter.

  "He sent her to the gas?"

  "Maybe he shot her," said Dieter, his mouth full. "I'm not sure. I'll ask around."

  "So, the rumors were true," I said, and Dieter nodded. "Owl-eyes had him."

  "If he didn't, the Blond Beast did," said Dieter. "Delicious goose."

  "Done just right," I said. "Just the way I like it."

  "How will you take care of the girl?" he said.

  "What do you mean, how will I take care of the girl?"

  "You heard me," said Marta. "How will you take care of the girl?"

  When I looked up, Marta slapped a book down on the coffee table in front of me.

  "What are you talking about?" I said.

  "You should've taken care of her before," said Marta, "when I told you to. Now look what she's done."

  On the coffee table lay a slim book, dark red, with black lettering: The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets. When I stretched out my hand to pick up the book, Marta snatched it away, opening it as she stood there, frowning at me, tapping her foot.

  "Do you want to hear? Do you want to hear what that Jewish whore wrote about you?"

  "She didn't write anything about me," I said, standing, the newspaper sliding from my lap to the floor. "That's impossible."

  "You want to hear 'impossible'?" said Marta, flipping the pages. "Listen to this: 'First Day of German Class'."

  "Give me the book," I said, and Marta stepped back.

  "'The German sweeps in: he wears a blue-grey uniform and a halo of sunlight'."

  "Let me see it."

  "'He trembles, and I know that he, too, has been longing to play this part'."

  "Give it to me," I said.

  "And this," said Marta, slapping my hands with the book when I reached for it. "This: 'In the Bedroom of the Kommandant'."

  "What?"

  "You took her to our bedroom," said Marta, shaking the book at me. "A whore. A Jewess. In our bedroom. In my bed."

  "Marta, let me see the book."

  "You didn't tell her that you loved her, did you, Max?"

  "Give me the book."

  "Even you couldn't love a Jew, could you, Max?"

  "Let me see the book."

  "You lied to me," said Marta, slamming me on the arm with the closed book.

  "It's all a lie," I said. "All of it."

  "And the things you said to her."

  "I didn't say anything to her."

  "'She's just a Jew,' you told me, over and over," said Marta. "Isn't that what you said?"

  "She is just a Jew."

  "She's a Jew who understands German," said Marta.

  "She didn't understand German."

  "It's all here," said Marta, her forefinger stabbing the book's cover.

  "She didn't understand. Not even the simplest things."

  "You stupid, stupid man. She understood everything."

  "No."

  "She put it all down."

  "No."

  "Names. Dates. Places."

  "She didn't understand," I said, shaking my head and reaching for the book again.

  "Everything you ever said around her."

  "She couldn't..."

  "You're the one who doesn't understand, Max."

  "It's a lie."

  "It's an indictment. She wouldn't even need to be called as a witness. She's already testified. Here. In these pages."

  "It's a mistake."

  Marta threw the book across the room.

  "It's every mistake you ever made, Max."

  I stared at the thin book.

  "You should've taken care of her when you said you would. You shouldn't have lied to me, Max."

  I crossed the
room and stood, looking down at the book.

  "If she testifies, they'll hang you. What will I do then? And the children, what about them?"

  I knelt.

  "Didn't you think of us? Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?"

  Marta paced, her hands clenched. I picked up The Dead Bodies.

  "There must be some mistake," I said.

  "A Jewess," said Marta, "In my bed."

  "There's been a mistake," I said. "You're not a Jew."

  The young girl who had just alighted from the train stared up at me. The spotlights glowed on her hair, and her skin was translucent. An elderly man and woman clung to the girl's arms as she stood there amidst the jumbled luggage. The guards with their rifles and their barking dogs swarmed around, crushing the resettled families together on the night platform.

  "Are you a Jew?" I said.

  The girl looked silently at me. When the Sonderkommando dragged themselves nearer, with their black-and-white striped uniforms and their shaved heads, the elderly couple shrank against the girl.

  "Josef," I said, and my adjutant came over to stand beside me.

  "Kommandant?"

  "Find out what language she speaks," I said.

  He spoke to the girl. She answered.

  "Hungarian," he said.

  "Are you a Jew?" I said.

  The girl looked at me while the adjutant translated. The girl nodded.

  "You don't look like a Jew."

  After the girl glanced down at the six-pointed gold patch stitched securely over her left breast, her fingers brushed its edges.

  "She says she's a Jew."

  "Are both of your parents Jews?" I said.

  "These are her parents."

  The two old people clinging to her arms nodded.

  "Do you have any ancestors who were not Jews?"

  The girl shook her head. I stared at her a moment before walking away.

  "I wish I could help you, but there's nothing I can do."

  "There's nothing you can do now," said the young man in the hotel dining room as he hit his fists against my table, jostling my wineglass. His face and eyes were wild.

  "Have we met?" I said, putting down my newspaper.

  "I know who you are," said the young man. "I know what you've done."

  "Waiter," I said.

  "You killed my father," said the young man.

  "Can I help you, sir?" said the waiter, looking at the young man.

  "Get away from me. My business is with him."

  "Herr Hoffmann is one of our guests. I must ask that you..."

  "This isn't your business."

  "This young man is disturbing me," I said. "And I doubt that he's a guest here."

  "Come away," said the waiter as he took hold of the young man's arm.

  "You killed my mother," said the young man. "Did you think I would forget you? Did you think any of us would forget you?"

  "I'll notify the desk," said the waiter, waving one of his colleagues from another station.

  A second waiter joined the first, and several diners turned to view the commotion. The boy bumped the table, spilling the water and the wine.

  "You won't get away so easily this time," said the young man. "I'm not alone."

  "Come along," said the first waiter.

  "Don't disturb our guests," said the second.

  "I know you, von Walther," said the young man.

  "You've mistaken me for someone else," I said, and I stood as the young man twisted his body in the waiters' grip.

  "We'll call the police," said the waiters as they tugged him toward the doorway. "Come away. Don't cause trouble."

  "He killed my sister," said the young man.

  The desk clerk picked up the telephone. I straightened my jacket and glanced around the room. The other diners looked down at their food. I reseated myself at the table as the two waiters struggled with the young man, dragging him toward the lobby. Several diners leaned toward each other over their tables and whispered. My bread had fallen onto my plate and was lying there, reddened, beside the steak. A third waiter righted my wineglass and filled it.

  "We're sorry for the disturbance, Herr Hoffmann," said a fourth waiter as he dabbed at the spilled wine with towels.

  "Do you want to hear what we're going to do to you?" said the young man from the lobby.

  "Most embarrassing, sir," said one of the waiters as he removed the soaked newspaper. "We do apologize."

  "It's not your fault," I said, reaching for my wineglass.

  The glass trembled when I touched it. I left the glass on the table.

  "Do you want to hear your future, von Walther?" said the young man as he strained against the grip of the waiters and the hotel's guard.

  "We do apologize, sir," said the waiter as I picked up my knife and fork.

  "Do you want to hear?"

  "Yes, tell me," I said. "Tell me what happened."

  "'In my life I have been a prophet, and tonight'," said Dieter, "'I want to be a prophet once more'."

  "Did he really say that?" I said. "During dinner?"

  "Between the soup and vegetable course," said Dieter, nodding. "He said..."

  "How did you get invited?" I said, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. "I've never been to dinner with him."

  "I told you," said Dieter as he lit his cigar. "My sister-in-law's cousin's husband. Do you want to hear what he said or not?"

  "Of course," I said. "Tell me."

  "Between the soup and the vegetable course he said, 'We will annihilate the Jews in Europe'."

  "Yes. What else?"

  "'We will save Germany'," said Dieter as Marta brought in the tray with coffee and cake.

  "Chocolate cake," said Marta. "And real coffee."

  "Marta," said Dieter, swooning toward her. "I'm in love. Will you marry me?"

  Marta laughed as she sliced the cake with its thick caramel icing.

  "Was he really wearing a tie that didn't match his jacket?" said Marta.

  "Unfortunately," said Dieter, spooning sugar into his coffee.

  "Was she there?" said Marta. "What's she like?"

  "The Führer says we'll save Germany," I said, and Marta looked at me.

  "How does it feel to be a Saviour?" said Dieter.

  "Save Germany?" said Marta.

  "Yes," I said. "Save..."

  "Save Germany? We have to save ourselves," said Marta, "and the children. We can't think of anything else right now."

  "Are you sure it's a warrant for my arrest?" I said, tying the belt on my robe.

  "As soon as I heard your name, I grabbed my coat and rushed out," said the boy. "If they're not on their way now, they'll be here first thing in the morning."

  "For my arrest?"

  "Go," said Marta to the boy.

  He clutched his cap, and rushed back into the night. Marta went to the stairs.

  "Max, the trunks are in the upstairs closet."

  "They're going to arrest me?"

  "Max, we have to move quickly."

  "Arrest me? On what charges?"

  "Max," said Marta.

  She hurried over to me, her fingers digging into my forearm.

  "Max."

  "What did I do? Name one thing."

  "Go wake the children," said Marta.

  Chapter Two

  "Is this the place?" I said.

  "Am Grossen Wannsee No. 56."

  "That's what I'm looking for."

  "Come in."

  "Am I late?" I said.

  "No, it's just noon. Go on in."

  "I was delayed. Is everyone here?"

  "Not yet," one of them said as the dark-uniformed men glanced around their group. "Reinhard isn't here."

  "And we certainly can't start without him," said a man with a long nose and a thin face. "You're von Walther, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm..."

  "Yes, I know," I said, and he smiled.

  We shook hands.

  "I'm flat
tered that you recommended me."

  "We've heard a lot about you, von Walther. You seem like a man we could use."

  "I hope so, Herr..."

  "Call me Adolf. I was named after our Führer, you know," said the thin-nosed man, and the other men laughed. He gripped my arm and steered me toward the main conference room. "My invitation said 'followed by luncheon,' but let's see if we can get ourselves a drink now. I'll introduce you to the others."

  "Reinhard's arrived," said one of the others, and the rest of the men strolled into the main room after us.

  "Now we're in for some fun," said Adolf.

  He leaned closer to me as Reinhard swept into the room, nodding at all of us. Adolf continued talking to me in a low voice as we seated ourselves at the oval table.

  "I hear the Führer has switched policies: from emigration to annihilation," said Adolf.

  "Yes," I said, lifting my briefcase, laying it on the table.

  I opened the leather satchel.

  "I was asked to do some research."

  "You interviewed Rudi, didn't you?" said Adolf.

  "Yes," I said.

  "And what about the Kazett sites?"

  "We'll pick Kazett sites that are secluded but which have access to local railroad lines."

  "Bullets or gas?" said Adolf as the conference leader opened a thick folder and motioned for a glass of iced water.

  "Gas," I said.

  "How long did Rudi say it takes?" said Adolf as he poised his pen to take the meeting's notes.

  "Three to fifteen minutes," I said, repositioning my pistol more comfortably, "depending on climatic conditions."

  "Gas," said Adolf, nodding. "Gas is good."

  "Bullets or gas?" I said as I unbuckled my holster and laid it on my desk. "Bullets. Yes, bullets. I'm no coward."

  I hauled my chair to the other side of the desk, scooting closer to the girl until our knees collided. After I slipped my pistol from its holster, I leaned forward, displaying the elegant dark of the weapon to the girl. She didn't move when I laid the gun in her lap.

  "Freiheit," I said.

  She didn't move. I opened the third bottle of champagne, to give her courage, and the pale liquid foamed over my hands and wrists. The girl's glass was full. I urged it toward her mouth. She sipped the liquor and returned the glass to the desktop. I drank from the bottle.

  "Du. Freiheit," I said, nudging the gun up the girl's thighs with one hand while I raised the champagne bottle to my mouth with the other.

  She stayed still.