The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  We have received your recent inquiry and thank you for your interest in The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets. It is our policy, however, not to distribute authors' addresses. All correspondence to our authors may be sent care of this address...

  I let myself fall back onto the bed. Outside, traffic roared by. The couple in the next room yelled at each other. One of them threw something heavy against the wall, and the light beside my bed flickered. I looked at the letter again.

  We are sorry that we are unable to help you with your request, but have enclosed an announcement of this author's other book, Survivor: One Who Survives.

  The man next door shouted. The door slammed. The woman began to cry. I crushed the letter in my hand.

  "If I don't have those letters right here, Josef, in my hands, they might as well not be done."

  "I put them on your desk, sir," said my adjutant. "In a folder."

  "I don't even see any folder, Josef, let alone the letters and the documents I asked you for."

  My adjutant clenched his teeth. He stood. He marched into my office, looking pointedly at the girl. She sat on the cot in the corner.

  "I put all the documents in a folder. And I put the folder right here. On top. So you'd be sure to see it."

  I walked over to the desk, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

  "Do you see it there now?"

  "It was there. I put it there myself."

  "I don't see it."

  "I know how important those documents were. I was very careful with them."

  "Not careful enough, Josef."

  "I'm not the only one in this office."

  "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

  "Exactly what I said, sir."

  "One of your responsibilities is to ensure that no one else does enter. Who else has been in here?"

  "No one else comes in," he said.

  "That leaves only the two of us."

  "There are other people in this office, sir."

  "My children? My wife? You. Me. No one else. But those papers are gone."

  He stared at me. His breathing was heavy.

  "What did they do, Josef? Get up and walk away?"

  "Obviously not."

  "I don't think I like your tone of voice, Josef."

  "I'll redo the documents, sir."

  "Those originals need to be found. They can't be floating around anywhere."

  "I'll keep looking for them, sir."

  "Find them, Josef. Replacements won't do."

  "I'm not the one who lost them. Sir."

  I looked at him, with a hard look.

  "We'll talk about your attitude later. Right now, you find those documents. Including the letters."

  It wasn't the first time important things of mine had disappeared in the camp. At first I thought I was being careless, or forgetful. Weapons, documents, files, even my service dagger disappeared, but I found that a few days later, in the bedroom, on the floor by the bureau. But I knew someone was trying to sabotage me, to ruin my credibility with the Party. It started right after I took over the camp, and it worsened toward the end. But I showed them. None of them could ever defeat me. None of them. Not Reinhard, not Ernst, not the Jews. But things continued to get lost.

  "She's lost," said Ilse.

  "You didn't find your baby?" said Marta.

  "No. Hans lost her."

  "No, he didn't."

  "Yes, he did."

  Hans shook his head.

  "You did, too. You lost my favorite baby."

  "Hans didn't lose her, Ilse."

  "He was playing with her."

  "You took her down to Daddy's office. Remember? Maybe you left her down there."

  "Daddy, is my baby in your office? Daddy?"

  "Max, Ilse's asking you a question. Max?"

  "I'm sorry, Marta."

  "That's all right. Ilse's asking you if..."

  "I'm sorry. For the way things have been. It's all my fault."

  Marta sat down abruptly at the table, the pan of porridge still in her hand. Her hair was pulled back, away from her face. She'd lost too much weight, and she looked tired. The steam from the porridge drifted up toward her.

  "It's all my fault," I said.

  "I didn't get any oatmeal yet," said Ilse.

  "All the problems we've been having, they're all my fault," I said.

  "Hans lost my baby. I know he did."

  "No," said Hans.

  "I just hope I can make it up to you, Marta."

  "I want some oatmeal, Mommy," said Ilse. "You gave Hans some. I'm hungry, too."

  "I love you, Marta."

  "Max, what's brought all this..."

  "You're the best wife a man could ever have. I've been so blind. Why are you crying?"

  "It's been so long."

  I went to Marta, and hugged her to me. She sobbed.

  "What's the matter, Mommy?" said Ilse.

  "I'm sorry, Marta. I'm so sorry. I do love you. And I need you."

  I stroked the back of her head as she wept, and she let go of the pan to put her arms around my waist. Her tears wet my uniform jacket, but I didn't mind. Her body shook.

  "See what you did, Hans?" said Ilse. "You bad boy. Daddy should send you to the gas."

  "Gas? Of course, I'll pay for the gas. And for your time," I said. "It's nothing bad. I just want you to find her for me."

  "I ain't getting messed up in no funny business."

  "This isn't funny business. I assure you," I said. "Besides, I take responsibility for all my own behavior."

  "What you want with this here girl, anyway? What's she to you?"

  "I merely want you to find her for me."

  "She done something bad?"

  "No."

  "You want to do something bad to her."

  "No. I swear. It's nothing like that. Nothing like that at all."

  I held out the two thin books of poetry.

  "Look. She wrote these. I want to find her. I want you to help me find her."

  "What for?"

  "It's personal."

  "It's bad."

  "She knows me," I said.

  "It's bad business."

  "It's personal. I just want to find her."

  "You ain't going to hurt her?"

  "No. I swear it."

  "If she knows you, how come you can't find her yourself?"

  "She doesn't know I'm looking for her," I said.

  "Maybe she don't want you to find her."

  I looked down at the two books. His secretary came into the office and poured fresh coffee into his cup. Mine was full. She wore bright red lipstick, and had red nails. She was chewing gum. She stared at me brazenly before she went back out. Her employer took one of the books from me.

  "Survivor: One Who Survives. What's that mean?"

  "She was in the war."

  "You in the war?"

  "Yes. I was wounded. Several times."

  "Which side?"

  "I was hit by German fire, by German weapons."

  He nodded as he flipped through the pages, not pausing long enough to read any of them. The secretary's typewriter clicked erratically in the outer office. The office was very small, and very cluttered: books and papers were stacked all around the room, on the tables, on the chairs, on the floor, on the windowsills. The windows were grimy. The office smelled of smoke. He put down the first book and picked up the other. He stared a long time at The Dead Bodies, but he didn't open it.

  "She might not know that I'm looking for her," I said. "She might think… We were separated. At the end. She may not realize…"

  He leaned forward and handed the books back to me.

  "You ain't going to hurt her? You swear?"

  "I'd never hurt her," I said. "I saved her."

  Chapter Six

  "A sworn oath isn't enough."

  We knew that. We'd known it from the beginning. We didn't mind his saying it, but we wanted his speech to be over so we could be sworn in, so we could parade in front
of our leader, so we could take our place in history. We'd save Germany. We'd shape history in our own image. It was each man's dream, and we wanted him to finish so history could start.

  "It is essential that every man be committed to the very roots of his being."

  We knew that, too. That was why he wanted family men: husbands, fathers, sons. Men who understood the value of commitment. Men who knew loyalty, honor, love. We were those men.

  "By putting on these uniforms, you are casting off your former selves. By swearing this oath, you are newly baptized. Into a new faith. A faith of blood. A faith that requires sacrifice, commitment, courage, strength, hardness."

  The flames from the torches glittered in his glasses, but we were the ones who burned. We strained to see beyond him, beyond the darkness, to glimpse the man behind him, to see our Saviour. Our Führer.

  "Reach down into yourselves. Pluck out your very hearts. Look at yourselves. Do you have heart enough? Give yourselves to Germany. Give yourselves to our Führer."

  It was more than the torches and our uniforms that kept us warm that night. More than the thousands of voices chanting in our ears. More than the drums matching the rhythm of my heart. We leapt to our feet, our right arms extended in salute.

  "We swear to you loyalty and bravery, even unto death, as God is our witness."

  Nothing could have swayed me from that path. It was my destiny. By the time I became a husband, a father, nothing was more important to me than my family, than Germany. At night, when I watched Marta with the baby, I understood all of it: my purpose in life, my role. I would have done anything to keep my family safe, to secure the world for my children.

  "Max, you're staring at me," said Marta.

  "You look so beautiful."

  Marta smiled and glanced down at the baby. Her hair fell to one side of her head, over her shoulder, like a veil, and the lamp's light glowed on the white of her cheek, her throat, her gown. The baby lay sleeping in her arms, his mouth open at her breast, his hands in tiny fists. I went over to the rocking chair and knelt before them. My fingers stroked the baby's head. Marta smiled.

  "He's such a good baby."

  "You're a good mother."

  "He looks like you, Max."

  "No, he's beautiful."

  "He'll grow up to be a fine man," said Marta, and she touched my cheek. "Like his father."

  "My son."

  "Your firstborn."

  "My son."

  "He'll make you proud, Max. He'll be the best that any man can be."

  "Oh, Marta, I never dreamed I'd be so happy."

  I was happy. I thought it would always be that way. My son would grow up to be strong and healthy and beautiful. He would be the best in the country. In the world. Like us. We were the best in Germany. That's what we were told, over and over. The best. The bravest. The most beautiful. Again and again. Until we believed it.

  "There has been a terrible decline in human heredity during the past century," Heinrich said, and his glasses caught the light. "But you officers are the treasury of the best human material. You are the hope of mankind. You hold the future in your hands."

  "And I hold the soul of the German people in my hands," said the Doctor.

  He stood at the podium next to Heinrich. We all turned our heads toward the Doctor.

  "I tell you," he said, "the soul of the German people is as soft as wax. Waiting for us to mold it. For you to mold it. To shape it. To harden it into its destiny."

  "Are you men enough to do it?" said Heinrich, and we leapt to our feet, cheering.

  "I have seen the future," said the Doctor, "and I am here to tell you what Germany wants. Do you want to hear?"

  "Yes. Yes."

  "Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer."

  We shouted. We stomped our feet. Clapped. Cheered.

  "Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer.''

  "My Führer?" said the heavyset man woken from his sleep in the prison. "You're from the Führer? I don't understand."

  "No one's asking you to understand," said the officer. "It's enough that I tell you I come from the Führer himself."

  One of our men pounded on the cell doors as they were unlocked. Five other partially dressed men left their prison cells and joined the first. They pulled up their suspenders, rubbed their eyes, looked anxiously at one another, at us.

  "Sepp, my friend," said one of them, with a bewildered smile. "What on earth's happening?"

  "You have been condemned to death by the Führer," said our squad leader, clicking his heels, and raising his arm in salute. "Heil Hitler."

  "My Führer. My Führer."

  The shots rang out in the stone corridor. The bodies collapsed. One twitched as he lay there on the stained floor. He moaned.

  "Von Walther, how could you have missed at such close range?"

  "I didn't miss."

  "You're supposed to be one of the best shots."

  "I am."

  "Finish him off. I don't want any mess. That's why you're here. Understand?"

  I did. One mistake, and it was over. I had no intention of making a mistake. Any mistake. The Party was my life. My destiny. Nothing was going to ruin it for me. Nothing was going to get me out of the Party. Not malfunctioning ovens or crumbling chimneys or sniper's bullets or stolen grenades tossed at my car. Nothing. No one.

  "So your brother-in-law was reinstated in the party? How did he manage that?"

  "I couldn't stand my sister's begging anymore," said Dieter, pouring himself more champagne. "I called in a favor."

  "But he's doing Ghetto-clearing."

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "It's a degrading job."

  "I didn't know you'd ever done it."

  "Once," I said. "Not a good job."

  "Why?"

  "The men were like savage animals descending on the Ghetto with hatchets and bayonets. That was enough for me."

  "My brother-in-law gets an official ration for doing it: half a pint of Brandy. Every day."

  "Not worth it."

  "No?"

  "Not for me anyway."

  "I'd do it for that," said Dieter. "I'd do it for less than that."

  "I can't do it now, Ilse. Daddy's busy. Too busy to play."

  "But Mommy told us to come down," said Ilse.

  She was wearing her nightgown and slippers. She held her doll with one hand and Hans' hand with the other.

  "Mommy says we're getting in the way of the party."

  "What does Mommy want me to do?"

  Ilse shrugged.

  "She said, 'Go play with Daddy'."

  "Daddy can't play right now. Daddy has too much work to do."

  "Mommy told us to."

  "All right. Here. You come play with Hans and your baby over here, by my desk."

  "Are you going to play?"

  "No. I have to work. But you can play right next to me while I'm working. That'll be almost the same thing."

  Ilse dragged her doll and Hans over to my side. Hans took his thumb out of his mouth to take a bite of his cookie.

  "Yes. Right there. That's good. Now you and Hans and your baby play right there while Daddy finishes his work. Yes. There."

  "What kind of party is it?" said Ilse, leaning on the arm of my chair.

  "A dinner party."

  "What kind of dinner party?" said Ilse. "A birthday dinner party?"

  "No. Just a dinner party."

  "Why aren't children allowed to come?"

  "Because it'll be past your bedtime. Hans, come away from there."

  "I'm not sleepy," said Ilse. "I'm big enough to stay up late. I'm bigger than Hans. Why can't I come to the dinner party?"

  "Hans, come away from there. It's a grownup dinner party, Ilse, and you're not a grownup."

  "You let me stay up when..."

  "Hans," I said.

  I got up from my desk. He was standing in front of the girl. I picked him up.

  "Ilse, you'll have to go back upstairs."

  "But Mommy said
..."

  "Tell Mommy that Daddy's too busy to play."

  "But..."

  "Go on. Daddy's working."

  I was always working. Often late into the night. Early into the morning. Actually that was a good time to work because no one interrupted me. I sat at my desk, with only a few lights on, and worked. Sometimes all night.

  When the words wouldn't come, I pulled off my ring, the silver band with the Death's-Head and the heil rune, and turned it over and over in my left hand while I worked. I stared at the signature inside the ring. I touched the tip of my pen to the hollows of the Death's-Head's eyes and nose. The gold nib touched the indentation of the crossed bones behind its grin. It touched the asterisk rune. The words came. I slipped the ring back on. I saw the girl, watching me.

  "Speaking of women," said Dieter, looking at the girl. "I haven't heard you talk about Dianne in a long time. What happened to her?"

  "She got married," I said.

  "Married? Are you serious?"

  "Yes."

  "When did she do that?"

  "February. Just before the air raid."

  "She got married? After all you did for her? After all the wage deductions to Lebensborn?"

  "She said she needed someone."

  "You didn't try to stop her?"

  I shrugged.

  "I didn't know until it was too late. Besides, she said if I did anything, she'd tell Marta."

  "And she would tell Marta," said Dieter. "I thought she said she loved you."

  "Things change."

  "That's not your fault."

  I looked at him.

  "I hate women," said Dieter.

  I've never hated women, but I've never understood them. Any of them. Now matter how hard I tried. Not even Marta. She was so gentle with the children. And she could be gentle with me, at times. But when I found the girl, after dinner, she was huddled in the corner. Her bottom lip was split, and crusted with blood. Her left cheekbone was bruised, her eyes swollen closed. Welts and bruises darkened her arms, her collarbone, her neck. When I touched her side, she cried out. When I moved closer to her, turning her face to me, my boot hit a piece of wood: Marta's wooden hairbrush.