The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

"Freiheit. Freiheit."

  I snapped the two small circles atop the gun up and back, urging the butt toward her hand.

  "Du. Freiheit."

  I pointed to the silver Wound Badge pinned over my left breast, to show her I wasn't afraid. She stared at the silver oval: two swords crossed behind a steel helmet. I motioned toward the gun and aimed it just beside the Wound Badge. I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders. I looked at her and nodded. Smoke from the cigarettes in the ashtray drifted upward. When she didn't lift the weapon, I gripped her wrist and the gun, pulling her to her feet along with me. I pressed the warm metal into her hands and folded her limp fingers around it, fixing her hand there with both of my palms.

  "Du. Freiheit," I said.

  I pulled gun and hands until the muzzle butted my chest, the pressure keeping the girl's elbow rigid.

  "Feuer."

  The girl blinked several times before she looked at the gun. She looked up at me, back at the gun. Her brow furrowed.

  "Ja," I said, lifting my chin as I released her hands. "Freiheit."

  Her arm lowered.

  "Nein, nein," I said. "Feuer. "

  The weapon thudded to the floor between us. She didn't understand me, and German was the only language I knew then. I tried to make her see, to make her understand, and that wasn't the first time, but it was hopeless.

  "No, no," I said. "You don't understand. I told you I can't remember her name."

  "How can I help you find her, if you don't know her name?" said the Red Cross worker, frowning.

  "She wrote this book," I said, setting it on the table.

  The woman picked up The Dead Bodies. She opened the book. I glanced around the auditorium. Weeping, ragged people filled the main hall. They pressed insistently against each other as they waited in the long lines. A few of the refugees sat on worn pieces of luggage, but most had no possessions. A woman wailed and collapsed against one of the others, disturbing the lines as she crumpled to the floor. Workers from two of the tables rushed over to the fallen woman. The refugees looked at her. Rain pounded on the windows.

  "There's no name," said the Red Cross worker.

  "But she wrote it," I said.

  "There's no name.

  "I know that," I said.

  She pushed The Dead Bodies back at me.

  "You were sweethearts," she said, staring at me, "but you don't know her name?"

  "I was injured. I told you that. My... my memory was damaged."

  "Do you remember your own name?" said the worker, her crisp, white uniform rustling as she picked up a pen.

  "Of course, I do, but what..."

  "We could write to the publisher."

  "What good would that do?"

  "We could ask for the author's address. Of course, if there's no name on it, I don't see that we're going to get very far."

  "How far do you think we could get?"

  "Far away," said Marta. "As far away as possible. We've got to get far away from here, Max. You could write to my aunt's husband. Maybe he could help us."

  "Help us what?" I said.

  "Help us get out of this dreadful place," said Marta.

  I slipped out of my evening dress jacket. I sat on the bed and took off my shoes. Marta removed the pearls from her ears, and brushed her hair. I unbuttoned my vest and removed my cuff links.

  "Aren't you going to do something, Max?"

  "How many times do I have to tell you, Marta?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "This job was a promotion."

  "I don't understand why I should be penalized when you get a promotion."

  I sighed loudly as I stood, closing my eyes a moment before I went to the closet.

  "I don't want to have this discussion again, Marta."

  "We're so isolated here, Max. There's no one to see."

  "Not again."

  "You told me I can't invite any of my friends here."

  "You can go visit them."

  "My place is with you. You're my husband."

  "Then there's no problem."

  "But why do I have to suffer? Can't I have a good life, too?"

  "Would you rather I be at the front?"

  "Don't raise your voice. The children are asleep."

  "Would you rather I risk my life in battle?"

  "You always change the topic, Max."

  She stopped brushing her hair and frowned at me in the mirror.

  "I don't understand why you can't get a job in Berlin."

  "We've been over this and over this, Marta. I can't get promoted in Berlin."

  "You could get promoted. Just not quickly enough to suit you. So the children and I have to suffer for your ambition."

  "You call this suffering?"

  "Keep your voice down. You'll wake the children."

  "A housekeeper?"

  "A Polish inmate," said Marta.

  "A gardener?"

  "Not a very good gardener."

  "A tutor for Ilse?"

  "A tutor who doesn't speak French."

  I went over to the jewelry box sitting in front of Marta, and scooped out some of the jewels.

  "Pearl necklaces? Diamond earrings?"

  "I'm not talking about material things, Max."

  "If this is what you call suffering, then I'd better get promoted, and sooner than I thought."

  "You never listen."

  "I'd better become the next Führer."

  "I hate it when you do this."

  "Maybe you do want me in the fighting."

  "It's pointless talking to you."

  "Another wound like the last one and you'd be a war widow. A hero's widow. Maybe that's what you want."

  "You don't even try to understand my point of view," said Marta as I laid my cufflinks on the bureau. "The smell makes me sick."

  "Everything makes you sick."

  "The stench is bad enough, but the smoke from the chimneys gets grime on everything: on my hair, on my clothes, on the children."

  "Stay indoors. Then the chimneys won't bother you."

  "There's a problem with the chimneys," said my adjutant.

  I looked up from the paperwork on my desk. Outside, the dogs barked incessantly, and inmates' wails punctuated the guards' shouts.

  "There's a problem with the ovens, Kommandant."

  "Again?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What is it this time?"

  "The firebricks of the inner lining are crumbling," he said. "The chimney might collapse."

  "Are the ovens being overloaded again?"

  "I passed your instructions on to the Kapos," said the adjutant.

  "Then what's the problem?"

  "The company representative says we need a new, square chimney, with a double lining of firebricks, if we're going to use it around the clock."

  "They like to give advice."

  "Yes, Kommandant."

  "I'll never get all the transports dispatched on schedule if we keep having technical difficulty with their products. By the way, Josef, have you seen my letter opener?"

  "No, sir. Do you want to see their response to your last letter?" said the adjutant as he opened the file folder he was holding and shuffled through its pages.

  "How many times have I written them already?"

  "Three," said the adjutant, passing me a letter.

  "'We guarantee the effectiveness of the cremation ovens as well as their durability'," I said, reading aloud. "'We guarantee the best material and our faultless workmanship.' Best material. Faultless workmanship."

  "Probably a Jew made it," said the adjutant.

  "'Don't buy anything from a filthy Jew'," said Ilse as she read to Hans from one of his storybooks. "'Remember, my child, what Mother has told you'."

  Sitting next to Ilse on the living room couch, Hans clapped.

  "Did you like that, Hans?" said Ilse, hugging him.

  "You read very well, Ilse," I said, smiling at her over my glass of Cognac. "Doesn't she read well, Marta?"


  "Yes," she said, knitting. "Read Daddy the first part, Ilse, the part you read to me while I was fixing dinner."

  Ilse flipped through the pages, a pensive look on her face. The Christmas wreaths filled the room with the scent of pine. The shiny paper of the wrapped packages piled under the tree reflected the fire's light. The red sweater Marta was making covered her knees, and she rested her hands atop it. Hans, wearing his pajamas, waited patiently beside Ilse, his small hands folded on his legs. Ilse stopped turning the pages and smiled.

  The German is a proud man,

  A worker and a fighter.

  The German is a proud man,

  Beautiful and brave.

  The German is a proud man

  Who hates the dirty Jew.

  And here is a Jew, as all can see.

  The vilest man that'll ever be.

  "That's very good, Ilse," I said.

  "She didn't understand what 'vile' was," said Marta, "until I explained it to her."

  "Do you want to see the picture, Hans?"

  Ilse leaned toward him and held the open book in front of him.

  "Here's the beautiful German."

  Hans clapped his hands.

  "And here's the filthy Jew."

  "What's that filthy Jewess doing here?" said Marta, and I looked up from my desk. "What's she doing in your office?"

  "I've asked you to knock before you come in, Marta. This is my office. I'm working."

  "And I'm your wife. This is my home."

  She pointed at the girl, who was sitting in the corner.

  "What is that whore doing in here?"

  "Marta, I have a great deal of work to do."

  "Answer me, Max."

  "Not now, Marta. I'm working."

  "What's she doing here?"

  "I'm busy, Marta."

  "Busy doing what? Sleeping with Jews?"

  "How dare you," I said.

  "What are you going to do?" said Marta. "Hit me?"

  "Have you gone mad? When have I ever hit you?"

  "Schmutzige Hure," said Marta to the girl. "Schmutzige Hure."

  I took Marta's arm, turning her toward the doorway.

  "So you sleep with Jews now?"

  "How dare you insult me in that way," I said, holding Marta's arm. "I'm a German."

  "Max, let go."

  "I'm not only a German, but an officer."

  "Max, you're hurting me."

  "I'd never hurt a woman," I said.

  "German officers don't assault women," said Dieter. "Not even Jewish women."

  "So your brother-in-law was reprimanded?" I said.

  "Not reprimanded. Expelled from the Party," said Dieter.

  He stared at the girl while I put on my duty-overcoat. The wind pelted rain against the office windows. The camp was a mass of clay and mud. Guards and inmates alike slipped and slid in the mire. Dieter stared out the windows at them. Then he looked over at me.

  "It's quite cold out," he said.

  "Yes, I have my gloves. They didn't charge you with any excesses, did they?"

  "I didn't rape anybody," said Dieter. "I'm not a Russian."

  "I didn't say that."

  "I only executed a few Jews."

  "I know that, but they keep changing the definition of 'excessive'..."

  "I'd never rape a woman," said Dieter. "Not even a Jew."

  "I never said..."

  "I'm not a Kommandant."

  I looked at him. We stared at each other in silence until he glanced away. My adjutant entered to hand me several documents. I accepted them without taking my eyes from Dieter. My adjutant left, closing the door. Dieter shrugged.

  "I told my sister she never should've married him," he said.

  "Were you completely exonerated?"

  "Of course," said Dieter. "I didn't act on any baser instincts."

  "No. You were carried away by your love for Germany."

  "Yes. By my love for Germany. Don't forget the documents, Max. The papers."

  "Oh, yes, the papers," I said.

  "I need those papers, Josef," I said. "They're private."

  "What papers?" said my adjutant.

  "My private papers."

  My adjutant only looked at me.

  "There were papers on my desk, Josef."

  He glanced down at the cluttered desktop, covered with documents, files, and folders.

  "What kind of papers, Kommandant?"

  "Personal papers."

  "Personal papers?"

  "Handwritten papers. On my personal stationery."

  As I shuffled through the mound of documents on my desk, my adjutant glanced at the girl. She sat in her usual corner, arms wrapped around her legs, head against the wall, staring at nothing. Upstairs in the house, Hans was crying. Marta was in the garden, calling Ilse to lunch. I lifted some of the folders and papers on my desk, sifting through them. Hans continued crying. I dropped the papers I was holding back onto the desk. My adjutant blinked at me.

  "Josef, where are those papers?"

  "I'd be happy to help you find them, sir, if you'll tell me what I'm looking for."

  "I am looking for my personal papers. They were right here on the desk."

  "Perhaps you should lock up your personal papers, sir," he said, glancing again at the girl, "to keep them safe when you're not here."

  "I put some papers for you in the safe," said the hotel clerk as I passed the desk on my way to the elevator.

  "Papers?" I said. "What papers?"

  The hotel clerk glanced around at the lobby; then he leaned toward me.

  "Some letters came for you," said the clerk in a hushed voice. "The postmark made me think you'd like them..."

  "Like them what?"

  "Kept safe," he said. "Private. Just a moment. Let me get them for you."

  One of the bellboys helped an elderly gentleman to the front doors. A young woman in a fur coat straightened the collar on the coat of her small son. Her husband stood near, scanning the train schedule. I looked at my watch. The clerk was taking a long time. I looked through some of the papers on the front desk.

  "Herr Hoffmann? Herr Hoffmann?"

  I released the papers. The clerk had returned. He had a small bundle: three letters, their stamps and postmarks foreign. He held them out to me, a hesitant smile on his face.

  "Oh, yes," I said. "My letters."

  "Did I do the right thing?" he said, his hands clutched together, his eyes blinking. "Putting them in the safe, was that all right?"

  "Yes," I said, reaching into my pocket, then placing my hand, palm down, on the desk. "Thank you."

  "Oh, thank you, sir," he said, smiling and swiping his hand over the money. "Thank you. Any time. I'll be happy to look out for you. Always happy to look out after one of our own. Always..."

  The elevator doors slid shut. A young couple surreptitiously held hands, blushing and smiling. I closed my eyes, folding the letters. The couple whispered to each other. Giggled. The elevator opened. In my room, I tossed aside Marta's letters, and read the other.

  Dear Daddy,

  We miss you and

  wish you were here.

  Mommy cries and

  Hans is a bad boy all the time.

  He won't eat his vegetables and

  he won't learn Spanish.

  Why don't you come live with us

  in our new house?

  Can't Uncle Ricardo

  get a new name for you, too?

  Chapter Three

  "I'm a new man," I said, pushing open the door with my shoulders and back, my arms full of clinking bottles and white bags.

  "What?" said Marta, coming from the kitchen. "What happened? You're so late, I was worried. What's all that?"

  "For the celebration," I said.

  "Max. You got the promotion."

  "You may now address me as Herr Obersturmbannführer."

  "Oh, Max," she said, throwing her arms around my neck and hugging me, crushing the bags between us. "Congratulations, darling."<
br />
  "I got some champagne. And some special food, to celebrate."

  "Champagne? Where did you find it? How did you get it?"

  "I have friends in the right places."

  I displayed the bags' contents on the living room coffee table: caviar, pâté, bittersweet chocolate.

  "Your husband is an important man, you know."

  "Two bottles of champagne. Can we afford it?"

  "I got promoted. Not only in rank, but in position. And salary. I have a new post."

  "A new post?"

  "In the East."

  "The east?"

  "We can afford anything we want."

  "Oh, Max. I'm so proud of you. But where in the east? Coffee? Is that..."

  "Yes, real coffee. And another one of your favorites. Truffles."

  "Max," said Marta, smiling at me. "I'll get the glasses. And some plates."

  "Where's Ilse?" I said.

  I bent over the wicker bassinet in the corner near the fireplace. Hans was asleep.

  "She's in bed, Max. It is after eight o'clock."

  "I'm going to wake her."

  "Wake her? Why?"

  "So she can help us celebrate."

  "But she's too small. She won't understand what it's all about."

  "She doesn't have to understand it." I stroked Hans' cheek and tucked in the blanket. "She'll remember when she's older."

  "She won't remember, Max," said Marta as she came over beside me and untucked the blanket.

  "Yes, she will," I said, and I went upstairs.

  "Max, she's too little."

  "Mommy's right here," I said as I came down the stairs, carrying a sleepy Ilse.

  She rubbed her eyes and frowned.

  "Mommy says it's all right for you to get back up. We're having a party."

  "A birthday party?" said Ilse.

  "A promotion party," I said as Marta took Ilse from my arms.

  "Daddy got promoted," said Marta.

  "Is that like a birthday?" said Ilse.

  "I'll get the glasses," I said.

  "Bring Ilse some apple juice," said Marta.

  Ilse yawned as I came back into the room, glasses clinking.

  "I was dreaming," said Ilse, resting her head on Marta's breast and closing her eyes. "Daddy woke me."

  "I know, darling," said Marta.

  "Glasses for Mommy and Daddy, and apple juice for my baby girl. What will Hans have?"

  "He's a baby, Max. Besides, he's asleep," said Marta, laughing.

  I opened the first bottle of champagne and filled two glasses. I handed Marta one of them.