Some things are harder than anyone could imagine. Even I thought it would be easy. But I sat there for hours. For hours. Not moving. Just sitting. Staring. I could feel the metal of the bed frame through the cheap, thin mattress. My thigh ached from it. All the lights were on, as usual. The room was cool and slightly damp, but I was sweating.
My shirt was wet, and clinging to my skin. With my free hand, I pulled the fabric away, but it immediately slapped back. Whenever I heard movement in the hallway, I closed my fingers over my palm. I don't know how long I sat there. An hour? It might have been an hour. It might have been a day. I didn't eat. Or sleep. It may have been only a minute. One minute. No, it was longer than that. It was long enough to fill the room with the smell of my fear. Long enough to shame me. I opened my hand, and closed my eyes. There was no other way.
I put the cyanide capsule into my mouth.
I spit it back out.
It lay there, in my lap, taunting me. The story of my life: I disappoint even myself.
Marta's letter lay on the table. I didn't open it. I knew what it contained: taunts, questions, pleas, accusations, disappointment. The same as before. The same as always. I pushed her letter aside and picked up the children's.
I tore open Hans' letter and read the uneven block letters he had copied out.
Daddy I love you Hans
At the bottom, under the letters, there was a drawing: a tall stick figure with curls held the overly long stick arms of two small figures, one with curls, one without. All three of the figures had huge eyes. None was smiling. A dog with three legs and a bright red tongue stood beside a crooked yellow house. Its chimney belched out great clouds of smoke, darkening a misshapen sun.
I opened Ilse's letter.
Querido Papa,
That means Dear Daddy in the way
we have to talk now.
I don't like it here.
There's no one to play with.
Mommy is mean to me.
So is Hans.
Why don't you come live with us?
Daddys are supposed to
live with their children.
Why aren't you here?
Don't you love us anymore?
Chapter Eight
"Questions. Accusations. Lies. I'm sick of it all."
"Yes, sir," said my adjutant. "This..."
"Reinhard couldn't get anything on me. Ernst isn't going to do it. There's nothing for them to get."
"No, sir. They..."
"They envy my success, Josef, but they're not going to beat me. I'm loyal. No one can say I'm not loyal."
"No, sir. This also..."
"They've got no proof. No evidence. And they'll never have any."
My adjutant tried to hand me another paper as I paced in my office. Each time I put my full weight on my leg, the pain in my thigh forced me to stop until the pain subsided. An artillery shell exploded in the distance. My head was pounding. The pain in my thigh made me nauseous. My adjutant held out the paper. I brushed his arm aside.
"The Party is my life. I'd never betray the Party. Just because some Jews tried to..."
"This telegram also came for you, sir."
"From whom?"
"I didn't open it, sir."
I took it from him, and tore open the envelope.
ALL NEGOTIATIONS SUSPENDED
CAMPS LIBERATED BY ADVANCING FRONT
AHORA HABLO ESPAÑOL
THE FIGHTING DAYS WERE BEST
DIETER
I crushed the paper.
"Kommandant ?"
"Sieg heil," I said.
I tossed the telegram aside. Pain seared my thigh. Another shell shook the air.
"Sieg heil."
"Heil. Heil," said Hans as he marched about my bedroom.
"Say, 'Sieg heil', Hans," I said.
"Heil."
"Now raise your arm, Hans. Like this."
Hans marched back and forth in my room, then around in a circle, his right arm raised, my officer's cap falling over his eyes.
"Heil. Heil."
"Come here, Hans."
I undid the leather belt holding my service dagger, fastened it on the last hole, and draped the leather band around Hans' body, over his shoulder. The dagger, in its sheath, hit the floor.
"Ja," said Hans, nodding, reaching for the dagger's handle.
"Listen to Daddy, Hans. Say the oath. Say, 'I swear obedience and allegiance... '"
"Ja."
"'... to the Saviour of this country, Adolf Hitler'."
"Ja. Ja."
"'I am willing to give up my life for him, so help me God'."
"Ja."
I went to the bureau and opened the top drawer. Hans held the handle of my service dagger tightly. Each time he looked down at the dagger, my cap fell over his eyes. I pulled out a long narrow box from the bureau drawer. I knelt in front of Hans and opened the box. I took out the dagger.
"When you get old enough, this Hitler Youth dagger will be yours," I said.
I held out the broad flat blade with its inscription: Blut und Ehre. Hans clapped and reached for it.
"See what this says: 'Blood and Honor.' And it'll be yours one day."
"Blood?" said Adolf, making a disdainful face as he sat there in the garden with us after one of his tours. "There's no blood on my hands."
"Does our beloved Führer know that?" said Dieter. "I thought he promoted you for your zealous …"
"I never killed a Jew," said Adolf.
We all looked at him. Marta glanced anxiously toward the children, but they were playing in the fallen leaves: they didn't hear. Ilse was picking up handfuls of brown leaves and tossing them onto Hans. He laughed, rolling back and forth in the pile. Ilse giggled and gathered more leaves.
"I never killed a non-Jew either," Adolf said.
He knocked his wineglass when he reached for it, spilling the wine on the tablecloth.
"I've never killed anybody," he said.
"Let me get it for you," said Marta, righting his glass.
Adolf held the wine bottle by its neck as Marta dabbed her napkin on the spill.
"I never ordered anybody to kill a Jew," he said.
When Dieter laughed, Adolf gave him a look.
"I never ordered anybody to kill a non-Jew either."
"No," said Dieter. "None of us did."
"Are you mocking me?"
"No, of course he's not. That's just the way Dieter is," said Marta.
She took the wine from Adolf and refilled his glass. She gave me a look, but I pretended I hadn't seen.
"Please, let's not talk about this in front of the children," she said.
Dieter leaned back in his chair to look at them.
"What are they going to hear," he said, "that they don't already know?"
"Did you ever kill a Jew, von Walther?"
"No."
"Ever kill anybody?"
"No."
Dieter laughed and poured himself more wine. Marta stacked the empty plates, and collected the silver. Ilse tried to pick up Hans, and the two of them fell, laughing, into the leaves. Hans kicked and laughed. Ilse buried him in the leaves until he squealed with joy.
"Ever order anybody else to kill?"
"No," I said. "Never."
I was no murderer. I didn't kill the girl. I protected her. She was a Jew. I never used my weapons on her. I unbuckled my holster and laid my weapons on the bureau. The girl stood motionless, grey against the bedroom's white, as I undid my uniform buttons. My fingers were cold. The clock on the bureau ticked loudly. The chimneys had not been burning for several days, so there was no scent of smoke in the breeze that moved the curtains. My boots thudded on the floor. My belt buckle clanked. The girl stood. Watching me. I started to say something, then shook my head. I was always forgetting. Though I pointed to the bed, she didn't move. The air chilled my bare skin. I got under the covers and tugged at her wrist. When she continued to stand, I pulled more firmly.
She sat on the edge of th
e bed. I slid the grey shift away and kissed her shoulder. She closed her eyes when the gown slipped off. She was so frail. So delicate. I was almost afraid to touch her. My hands seemed so large on her. I pulled her to me, to feel her skin next to mine. She was cold. I rubbed my hands all over her, to warm her. I got out of bed, pulled another blanket from the chest in the hallway, and spread the blanket over her, but still she shivered. I touched her face, turning it toward mine.
"Sieh mich an," I said, but I could see nothing behind her eyes.
I rubbed my cheek against her face and throat as I stretched my body along hers. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her to me, my knee sliding between her legs. She closed her eyes. She always closed her eyes. I covered her face and throat with kisses. I held her breasts in my hands and I kissed them. Over and over, I kissed her breasts, the space between them, her ribs. This time when I moved my mouth to her belly, and lower, she didn't shove me away. She had never let me put my mouth on her before, and it excited me so much that my hands trembled. Marta didn't like my kissing, or touching, but it was different with the girl. Every time her mouth and tongue pressed wet on me I felt strong. And hard. And good. Better than with anyone else. When my tongue touched her, she shuddered, and pressed her thigh against my cheek: I had to think of something else so it wouldn't be over too quickly. I tried to be gentle, and patient, but when she arched her back and tangled her fingers in my hair, I couldn't think of anything except how I wanted to be inside her.
I pressed her onto her back, and her thighs were soft on either side of mine. Her breasts brushed against my chest, her belly against mine. My hands stroked the flower-like scar on the inside of her thigh. I brushed the back of her thighs and lifted her hips. When her fingers dragged themselves down my back, I wanted to tell her things, things I'd done, things that were best forgotten. I clutched her short hair and pressed against her as hard as I could. When she breathed against my ear, I whispered her things. When she tightened her legs around me, I wished she spoke my language, and I was glad she couldn't understand me. When I moved deep in her, I wanted her to open her eyes, I wanted her to tangle her fingers in my hair, I wanted her to sigh my name against my chest and throat, I wanted her to move and thrust with me, I wanted to lose myself.
I was almost happy.
I must've slept afterward. When I woke, she was sitting in the chair by the window, with the white blanket wrapped around her, and the sun on her hair. My pistol was lying on the bureau, and she was sitting in the sunlight, wrapped in white, with my weapon, fully loaded, and my service dagger, lying there, in the same room where I slept, and she was sitting, surrounded by white and sunlight, sitting by the window, with her eyes closed. I never understood her.
"I don't understand," said my adjutant. "I've never done anything except what you told me to do."
I handed him more files to pack in the boxes.
"I'm no criminal," he said. "I was bound by my oath. To the Party. To you. We all were bound. By our duty. By our honor."
The smoke belched out of the chimneys, and lay in heavy palls over the camp. The smoke rubbed itself upon the windows, clung to our hair and clothes, snarled itself around our ankles and heels. I urged more files into my adjutant's hands. The girl watched us.
"I only did what you ordered me to do," said my adjutant. "I took an oath."
"Words," I said, and I shoved more files at him. "Words."
"You gave your word," said Marta. "You promised."
"Give me a kiss."
"You swore, Max. You stink," said Marta, slapping my hands away. "You're drunk."
"I want to make love to you."
"No."
"You're my wife."
"I won't let you touch me. Not now that you've touched a Jew."
"Marta..."
"You even smell like sex. Don't. Stop it. If you're going to do it with Jews, you're not going to do it with me."
"I love you, Marta."
She hit my hands, and she dragged her nightgown back down over her legs.
"You said you'd get rid of her. Stop that. Stop."
"I love you, Marta."
"I can't stand it when you're drunk. You smell like liquor, and smoke, and worse. Let go. Stop kissing me. God knows where your mouth has been."
She turned her face away, her hands pushing at my chest.
"Let go. Stop it, Max. I mean it. If you won't stop with that Jew, you're not going to touch me."
"You're my wife."
"When you treat me like a wife, I'll act like a wife."
She shoved the blanket at me and got out of the bed.
"What are you doing?" I said. "Where are you going?"
"Downstairs," said Marta. "To sleep on the sofa."
"You'd better be careful," I said. "Some women like me."
She liked me. She trusted me. I tried to show her the real me. So there'd be nothing dishonest between us. Nothing bad. Or ugly. I talked to her all the time, even though she couldn't understand me. And I tried to let her know in other ways. That's what the gifts were for, to make her see.
She stood hesitantly in the dining room, glancing toward the other rooms. I lit the candles in the center of the table and opened the champagne. I poured two glasses, drank one, and poured another before taking one of the glasses of champagne to the girl. The china and crystal sparkled. The silver gleamed. The odor of roast goose filled the room. As she stood there looking at it all, I brought the package to her.
She stared at it, and I had to lift her hands to put the box in them. She held the package. I undid the ribbon, lifted the lid, and folded back the tissue paper. Her expression didn't change, even after she looked down at the open box, but she must've been pleased: the silk was the color of her eyes.
I pulled the gown from the box. When I held it up to her body, she looked at me instead of at the dress. I motioned for her to slip off the prison uniform, but her fingers fumbled with the worn material. I helped her put on the silk dress. I did up the small buttons in the back. My hands brushed the material. I pulled my comb out of my pocket and offered it to her, but she merely stood there. I combed her short hair, smoothing it back. I took the pearl earrings from my breast pocket. I leaned close to put the pearls in her ears.
I took her hand and led her from the room. A mirror hung over the table in the entry hall. I stood the girl in front of it. At first, she wouldn't look up. I nudged her closer to the glass, my hands on her back.
She glanced up at the mirror.
She burst into tears.
There were no tears in the words that screamed out at me from that book. No tears. No tenderness. I felt as if I'd been smashed in the chest. I didn't hear Marta's words as I stumbled closer to the fallen book, as I knelt beside it, as I touched it. A voice was there but I didn't know it. I'd lost the words. I thought it was over, done with, finished. Yet here she was: in that country, in my home, after all that had happened. When I touched The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets, her words were louder than Marta's. Crueler. More vicious.
"You even told her private things," said Marta. "Things between you and me. How do you think that makes me feel?"
I opened the book.
"I don't understand you at all, Max," she said. "And I don't understand all the things she wrote about you. Who's this boy Klaus in 'Love Song for Klaus'? Why would you cry about his death?"
I turned to one of the poems.
"You never think of anyone but yourself," said Marta. "That's the only thing in the universe that exists for you: Max, only Max. Not even God. Just Max."
I started to read:
Cutthroat: A Player Who Plays for Himself
One finds a way out.
The Kommandant keeps her in his special place.
Gives her Cognac, champagne, caviar.
She says nothing when he grunts over her.
He does not mind her stillness. He falls asleep.
Afterward, she walks anywhere she pleases.
They won't speak to her.
Some spit. Soldiers call to her,
but she only knows German in dreams.
She used to dream of grassy fields, towering sunflowers,
Jan's callused hands, rough lips. Now dreams dark bread,
potatoes, bits of greasy butter, his face,
his smell, his panting sweating weight.
Howling, I tore the pages from the book. I shredded The Dead Bodies and stuffed the fragments into the fireplace. Marta became silent as I broke the book's spine and tore it in half, as I shoved it into the flames. After all I had done for her: fed her, clothed her, kept her safe, warm. And this was what she did to me.
She betrayed me.
At the end, everyone betrayed me. Or deserted me. At the end, I was the only one left. I drank all the vodka in the house. All the champagne in the cellar. The shells were booming, rattling the walls. On my desk lay my pistol, readied for firing; my dagger, unsheathed; and the three cyanide capsules. The artillery pounded just outside the camp.
"Kommandant," said my adjutant, rushing in. "Kommandant, the car's waiting."
The girl knelt on the floor in front of me, between my legs, her hands on my thighs. I turned over the girl's left hand. Her palm was scarred. The raised white lines seemed almost like a triangle atop an inverted triangle. I leaned forward and squinted at the scar more closely.
"Kommandant," said my adjutant as the phone on his desk rang. "We've got to get you out of here. Now, Kommandant."
He rushed back out to silence the phone. Each time he replaced its receiver, it rang again. Each time it rang, shells exploded. My finger traced the girl's scar, so I could see it better.
"Hurry, Kommandant, before it's too late."
"It ain't too late for you. 'Least not the way I see it," said the repulsive man, sitting across the table from me in the diner. "Here's the deal. You make it worth my time, I'll let you escape."
The Kommandant's Mistress Page 9