The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  "You want money."

  "They told me you was smart. I like a man comes right to the point. Honey, can we get a refill on this coffee here?"

  "How much do you want?" I said.

  "How much you got?"

  "What makes you think I have any money at all?"

  "I know who you are," he said to me.

  The waitress filled his cup. She glared at him when he took my half-empty plate from her hand and set it in front of himself. He scooped the remainder of the eggs into his mouth. The waitress shook her head and frowned as she left. He looked at me.

  "I know what you did," he said.

  "There's nothing to know," I said. "Besides, you weren't even there."

  "My partner was. He told me plenty."

  "Your partner? And who might that be?"

  "Listen, I ain't in no mood for games. I want the price on your head."

  "Whatever it is, I don't have it," I said, opening my wallet and displaying the cash. "This is all I have."

  "Sixty dollars?"

  He soaked my toast in his coffee, then put the dripping crust into his mouth.

  "Get the money from your wife. Her family's got it."

  "Not since the war."

  "You all say that. You got money all right. Now all you got to do is give me my part of it."

  "Even if my wife did have money, which she does not, we're obviously separated. We don't live together. We're not even in the same..."

  "I seen the letters. I know where she is, but I got you right here. And you're wanted dead or alive. Makes no difference to me how I get paid. Long as I get my money."

  He snatched up a half piece of bacon from my plate, and crammed it into his mouth.

  "Get my meaning?"

  "Yes," I said. "I do."

  Chapter Nine

  "I should dock some of your salary, Josef," I said after my adjutant entered my office.

  "Kommandant?"

  "For general incompetence."

  "What? What did I do?"

  "It's what you didn't do. You neglected to remove the Safe-Conducts from the deportation and arrest orders."

  "No, I did exactly as you instructed. I removed all the Safe-Conducts and..."

  "What do you call this? And this?"

  He accepted the documents from my hands and eyed them closely, frowning.

  "These aren't the same as the other Safe-Conducts I removed."

  "You didn't remove them. They're still there."

  "These aren't like any of the Safe-Conducts I separated."

  He pointed to the bottom of the papers, turning them so I could see the signature.

  "I can't even read this signature," he said. "It doesn't..."

  "What difference does it make if you can read the signature or not? I told you to remove them all, before I saw the deportation and arrest orders."

  "I know that, sir."

  "Now I have to deal with these Safe-Conducts. I told you I didn't want to see any of them."

  "I did remove them all, sir. These are not the Safe-Conducts that came originally."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "These are forgeries, sir."

  "Forgeries?"

  I took the documents back. After I looked at them closely, I laid them on my desk.

  "How would we get forged Safe-Conducts? Who would forge Safe-Conducts?"

  "Someone who wanted to save the Jews, sir."

  "Who in this camp?"

  He looked at the girl. She lay on the cot, wrapped in a blanket. Her eyes were closed.

  "You're not serious," I said.

  "She'd have access to the documents."

  "She doesn't even speak German."

  "She's in your office."

  "The documents are locked in my desk."

  "She's here. Alone."

  "Where would she get the forms?"

  "From someone in the camp."

  "Does she ever leave this office?"

  "Not that I'm aware of, sir."

  "Does anyone else come in, when I'm not here?"

  "No, sir."

  "But she gets blank Safe-Conducts from an inmate in the camp, fills in the names, forges the signatures, unlocks my desk, probably with a forged key, and attaches these forged documents: is that what you expect me to believe?"

  "Yes, Kommandant."

  "Don't insult my intelligence, Josef."

  "Sir?"

  "And don't blame your lapses of duty on anyone else. Forgeries. The girl."

  "She's a Jew."

  "Are you being insolent?"

  He stared over my head and said nothing, but the muscles of his jaw twitched beneath the skin.

  "I'll let it pass this time. We all forget things," I said as I sat back down at my desk and picked up my pen. "In the future, I don't want to see any of these Safe-Conducts."

  "Yes, Kommandant."

  "And your attitude has been very poor of late, Josef. If your attitude doesn't change, your position will. Is that clear?"

  "Very clear, Kommandant."

  It wasn't the first time I'd had to reprimand my adjutant. Or another subordinate. It wasn't an isolated incident. Every day, it seemed, I had to instruct the men on the most basic procedures. On things they should have learned as privates. Like shooting. How to shoot a prisoner. You'd think they were still in primary school. You'd think they were still in short pants.

  "We're ready, Herr Sturmbannführer."

  "Ready?" I said, looking over at the group of prisoners standing in the woods. "They're still dressed."

  "You want them to undress, sir?"

  "Do you want blood all over the clothes?" I said. "Of course they have to undress. Hurry, now, I want to be done by lunch."

  "Yes, sir."

  He scurried over to the prisoners and began shouting instructions. I pulled out a cigarette. A nasty habit, I know. I was always trying to quit. I did manage to quit smoking once I got to the camp. I was always so busy that I didn't have the time for it. But I still smoked then. Sometimes nothing else would do. I blew smoke toward the trees. One of the women started wailing. That made the children cry. The men undressed in silence. If you could call them 'men'. At least they were better than Gypsies. Gypsies screamed, cried, threw themselves on the ground.

  Some Gypsies even jumped into the grave and pretended to be already dead. As if we were that stupid. But not the Jews. After they folded the clothes neatly and stacked them beside the shoes, they stood, shivering, in front of the gaping earth. The corporal motioned to me.

  "Is this how you're going to do it?" I said.

  "Sir?"

  "With them looking at you?"

  "I'm sorry, sir. This is my first time."

  "You should have told me you were a virgin. I would have been more patient."

  He blushed as he looked down at the ground. A few of the guards stared openly at one of the young girls. She tried vainly to hide herself with her hands. Some of the old men, naked except for their beards, rocked back and forth as they murmured under their breath. I tossed down my cigarette.

  "To avoid unnecessary physical contact afterward, it would be appropriate for the candidates for shooting to kneel."

  "To kneel. Yes, sir."

  "Facing the pit. Not facing the men."

  "Yes, sir."

  After much confused movement and increased squalling from the babies, the Jews were kneeling.

  "Your men should form two groups. About eight to ten yards back. Yes, there. That's fine. One group should aim at the deportees' heads. One, at their chests. They should fire simultaneously."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Simultaneously."

  "Yes, sir."

  "The doctor will give orders for mercy shots. You do have a doctor present, don't you?"

  "Oh, yes, sir."

  "Clothes and shoes will be handed over to the local military officer. Under no circumstances are personal effects to be handed out to the population."

  "No, sir."

  "Otherwis
e they'll be hanging about like crows during the special actions."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Ready?"

  They nodded, gripping their rifles.

  "Aim."

  They were boys really. Some of their weapons trembled.

  "Fire."

  That's what made us hard. Forcing young boys to become men before their time. But we didn't talk about things like that. Even among ourselves.

  "Among ourselves it should be mentioned quite frankly, and yet we will never speak of it publicly."

  I had a fierce headache, and my leg was throbbing: that made it hard to concentrate on what Heinrich was saying.

  "We will never be rough or heartless where it isn't necessary. That is clear."

  "Do you have anything for pain?" I said.

  "Do you have another headache?"

  "We Germans, who are the only people in the world who have a decent attitude toward animals, will also adopt a decent attitude toward these human animals..."

  "Do you have any..."

  "No. Let me ask someone else."

  No one around me had anything for the pain. I massaged my thigh. One of the others offered me a cigarette. I thanked him, but shook my head.

  "Most of you know what it means to see a hundred corpses lying together. Five hundred. Or a thousand."

  I rubbed my forehead, but the throbbing in my temples only worsened.

  "To have stuck it out and at the same time to have remained decent fellows. Decent, loyal, honest. That is what has made us hard."

  Hard. The pounding in my head was hard. As hard as bone. No, harder. The gun was hard against my head. But not as hard as it was going to be. When I straightened up and glimpsed myself in the mirror, with my pistol pressed against my temple, my stomach revolted.

  A cold sweat accompanied the gagging. My free hand kept slipping on the bathroom sink. I gripped the cold porcelain tighter. I was glad I hadn't eaten. I shouldn't have looked in the mirror. That was the problem. Yes, that was it. I shouldn't look. I splashed cold water on my face, and pressed the metal to my temple again.

  The girl said nothing when she came up behind me. She merely reached up and pushed the gun away. Just like that. One movement. Pure. Clean. Honest. One movement, and the gun wasn't butting my head. It wasn't even in my hand. The gun clattered into the sink, and the girl folded me in her arms. She murmured something but I didn't catch the words. When she dried my face with her gown, I wept.

  "Don't start crying, Max," said Marta, "because it's not going to change my mind."

  She crossed the room and sat on the end of the bed. Her eyes were red. The closet and bureau drawers were open. Suitcases stood by the doorway.

  "Marta, I love you. You're my wife."

  "You don't know what it is to love someone, Max. It's taken me a long time to realize it."

  "Marta."

  "No, Max. Crying isn't going to work for you this time. I want a divorce."

  "But why?"

  "Oh, Max," she said, shaking her head. "Can you be so blind?"

  "What is it? What have I done? Tell me. I'll change it."

  "We've been through this so many times."

  "Tell me. I'll change. I swear it. I promise."

  "Your drinking…"

  "I'll stop. I'll never have another drink in my life."

  "Your lying..."

  "What have I lied about?"

  "Max..."

  "I didn't mean to. Whatever it was."

  "Your women."

  "Never again. I swear it."

  "What about her?"

  "It's over."

  "Since when?"

  "Since now. This minute."

  "No, Max. It's not going to work this time."

  "I love you, Marta."

  "You do this every time. You say you love me..."

  "I do."

  "... you say you can't live without me..."

  "It's true, Marta."

  "... you say you're sorry. You cry. You say you'll change..."

  "I will change."

  "But then you don't, Max."

  "I swear."

  "You always swear. Get up, Max. Get up."

  "Not till you say you don't mean it."

  "Please, don't degrade yourself, Max. Get up off your knees."

  "Not till you say you'll stay."

  "I can't, Max."

  "Of course you can. You love me, don't you? I know you do. You love me."

  "I can't stand living this way."

  "It'll be different. Give me one more chance. It's the last time I'll ever ask. If I'm not different this time, you can leave. But I'll be different. I'll show you. I've changed. Let me prove it to you."

  "Stop crying, Max."

  "Marta, Marta, I love you. I need you."

  "Max..."

  "They've never meant anything to me. You're the only one who's ever been important to me. I can't live without you. Without the children. You're the whole world to me."

  "I don't believe it anymore, Max."

  "Give me one more chance. Say you'll stay. Just one more chance. Please. I won't look at another woman. I love you. I need you. Life means nothing without you and the children."

  She looked at me. A cold look. A woman's look.

  "You'll stop drinking?"

  "Yes."

  "You'll stop lying?"

  "Absolutely."

  "You'll stop with her?"

  "I swear it."

  "Get up, Max. Please. Wipe your face."

  "You do still love me, don't you, Marta?"

  She closed her eyes. I grasped her hands and covered them with kisses.

  "You won't regret it, my darling. I'll never even look at another woman."

  She pulled her hands away.

  "I'm looking for the girl who wrote this book," I said.

  I laid the book on the counter. The grocer wiped his hands on his apron as he looked at The Dead Bodies.

  "I was told she lives in this area," I said. "I have the address, but I can't seem to find the road."

  As the grocer squinted at the book, a small boy came up to the counter and held out a crumpled note. The grocer took the wadded paper and flattened it out. Then he turned, note in hand, and gathered up several items. The boy stared silently up at me as the items on his list were piled on the counter: sugar, flour, cornmeal, lard. The boy drew several coins out of his pocket, and placed them beside the food. The grocer counted the coins, passed one back to the boy, and handed him a piece of hard candy before he carried the supplies outside and put them into the boy's wagon. He patted the boy on the head. The boy dragged the wagon away, turning once to wave. The man came back into his store. He picked up The Dead Bodies.

  "You're not from around here," he said.

  "No."

  "Didn't think so."

  "I'm trying to..."

  "No name on this book," he said.

  "I know. But she wrote it. Her name is..."

  "How do you know who wrote it, if there's no name?"

  "I know her. From... before the war. Her name's Rachel. Rachel Levi."

  "This is Miss Levi's?"

  "Yes."

  "This is one of hers?"

  "Yes."

  "Why doesn't it have her name on it? Like her other books do?"

  I said nothing. The sun streamed in the front windows, heating the store. My shirt grew damp as I waited for his answer. He pulled up the end of his apron and wiped his face with it.

  "The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets," he said.

  He shrugged as he put the book back down on the counter.

  "Sounds like something she'd write. Did you read No Man's Land?"

  "No."

  "Did you read The Kommandant?"

  Sweat trickled cold down my ribs, and my head pounded. My throat felt wrapped with piano wire, tightening with each breath I took.

  "No Man's Land gave me nightmares when I read it. It made my wife cry. Especially the ending."

  Another shopper came in and
greeted the grocer. He smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgment. The woman purchased some blue thread, a package of needles, and five pounds of flour. I stared at the book the whole time she was in the store. The grocer took a damp rag from beneath the counter and wiped off the dusting of flour that remained after the bag had been removed.

  "All the children around here like Miss Levi," he said. "They're all the time bothering her, going up to her house, playing in her yard."

  He stood there, the rag hanging from his hand, his arms crossed over his chest. He stared openly at me.

  "She doesn't seem to mind the children hanging about," he said.

  I picked up the book. He motioned me to follow as he walked over to the storefront windows.

  "The road to her house is easy to miss if you don't know the area," he said. "There's a narrow road between two big oaks, just where the wider road turns toward the mountain. You want the narrow road. That's the one that leads to her place. It's a few miles up, after you turn."

  I nodded.

  "Tell her Mr. Godfrey says 'hello'."

  "Yes."

  I had missed the road. None of them were paved. The car strained on the incline, going slower and slower, until I thought it would stop. At the crest of the hill, white and surrounded by trees, was her house. After all this time. Thousands of miles behind me. A lifetime behind me.

  I parked the car under the shade of the big trees at the end of the drive. I looked at The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets. Every day I read some of her words. Every day I vowed to find her. I thought about changing to my uniform. No, I had to go to her without the uniform, without ornaments.

  "You're not wearing your uniform," said Marta when I came into the walled garden after dinner. "Why not?"

  "I... I spilled something on it. At lunch."

  "What did you spill?"

  "Wine."

  "Wine? Wine will leave a stain," she said, standing up. "I'd better try to get it out."

  "The housekeeper's doing it."

  "You gave your uniform to the housekeeper?"

  "Yes. Don't look at me like that. She'll take care of it."

  "She's an inmate."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "But it's your uniform."

  "She'll do it, Marta."

  "All right. Let's not fight. How's your headache?"

  "The same."

  "Is your leg any better?"

  "No. Is there any more coffee?"

  Marta poured some coffee into my cup: black, no sugar. When I accepted the cup from her, my sleeve moved up, over my wrist.