The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  "Max, what happened to your watch?"

  "I dropped it."

  "Let me see," she said, reaching for my wrist. "It looks like the crystal is cracked."

  "It's nothing."

  "Take it off. I'll give it to the jeweler when I go to Berlin next week."

  "I'll take care of it."

  "It's no bother. I'm going there anyway."

  "That's all right."

  "I'd be happy to..."

  "I'm really not in the mood for this."

  She pressed her lips tightly together and stared at me while I drank the coffee. It was bitter. Cold. I put the cup down. Marta poured some coffee into her own cup.

  "Maybe I'll just buy you a new watch for your birthday," she said.

  "I don't need one."

  "The crystal's broken."

  "It's fine."

  "I've never understood your attachment to that watch," said Marta. "What's so special about it?"

  I turned my head to look at the children. Hans lay on his belly at the end of the walk, playing with wooden soldiers. He made little exploding sounds with his mouth and knocked them down as they shot each other. After they were all dead, he lined them up and started another war. Ilse jumped rope nearby. As the rope slapped the walk, Ilse chanted.

  Never mind to whom he prays

  The rotten mess is in the race.

  "Ilse," I said. "I thought I told you to stop singing that song."

  "It's not a song," said Ilse. "It's for jumping."

  "Sing some other song."

  "What's wrong with that one?" said Marta.

  "It's not a song, Daddy. It's for jumping."

  "Well, jump to something else. I told you I don't like it."

  Marta looked at me, the pitcher of cream in her hand. Ilse stood at the edge of the walk, the rope dangling at her side.

  "What's wrong with it?" said Marta.

  "I don't like it. Isn't that enough?"

  "Is it enough? Did you bring enough?" said the bounty hunter when he saw me.

  He squeezed his bulk into the space between the table and the bench. His jacket bulged when he laid it on the seat beside him. The gun wasn't at his belt: it must've been in the pocket of the jacket. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together.

  "Do you have enough?"

  "How much is enough?"

  "Enough to save your life, Commander."

  "Don't call me that."

  "Where's the money?"

  "In my car."

  "Why didn't you bring it in with you?"

  "Surely you don't expect me to carry that much money on my person."

  "Oh. Yeah. I guess not. Well, go get it."

  "It's in the trunk of my car. You'll have to come with me."

  "Anything you say. You're the boss."

  It was dark already. And chilly. He had left the jacket with the weapon behind, in the diner. He rubbed his hands up and down over his arms.

  "Where's your car?"

  "Around back."

  "You ain't playing no games with me, are you?"

  I stopped walking and turned around. He stepped back, ducking his head. I wouldn't have hit him: he wasn't worth hitting.

  "Why don't you pull your car out here?" he said. "In front."

  "I'm not going to give you money in the open, where someone might try to rob us. Come around back. Unless you don't want it."

  "Now that's funny. You're a funny man, Commander."

  "I told you not to call me that."

  "Sure, Boss, anything you say. Wait. This isn't the same car you had yesterday."

  "Yes, it is."

  When I opened the trunk, he peered anxiously inside. It was too dark to see anything.

  "Where is it? Never mind. I'll find it."

  When he reached in, I pushed the lid down slightly, trapping his arm.

  "What guarantee do I have that you won't still try to turn me in," I said, "or to kill me, to get the reward money as well?"

  "Hey, what kind of man do you think I am?" he said. "We made a deal, Commander. You got my word."

  "A gentlemen's agreement."

  "Yeah. That's a nice way of putting it."

  I let the trunk's lid open again.

  "Where is it?"

  "There. In the suitcase. Let me light a match so you can count it."

  "Count it? I trust you. You ain't stupid."

  He leaned over the trunk, his hands groping in the darkness.

  "No," I said. "I'm no fool."

  The electrical cord around his throat cut off his voice as it closed his windpipe. He was a big man, and he clutched at the wire. He tried to kick, but I have strong hands, strong arms, a strong will. I pressed myself against his back and leaned forward while I kept a tight hold on the wire. He clawed at the cord. To no avail. My strength was greater than his.

  When he collapsed in the trunk, a foul odor assaulted me. He had soiled himself. I turned my face away as I lifted his legs and hips and twisted them into the trunk. I closed the lid. No, no one was around. No one saw. Money? There was never any money. I tossed the keys into one of the garbage pails behind the diner. Then I got into a second car, beside the first. The night was cold and clear as I drove away.

  The night was cold. The torches weren't enough to warm us, but we didn't notice. Not that night. That night we would be granted entrance into his bodyguard. That night, we would become his. Heart, mind, body, soul.

  "One thing is clear. Absolutely clear. We owe our salvation to our Führer."

  We nodded, anxious for his speech to be over, anxious to swear our loyalty, to become part of the brotherhood.

  "Without our Saviour, Adolf Hitler, we won't survive. Without him, there is nothing. If you believe that, you can become one of us."

  We did.

  "If you believe in him, you may recite the oath."

  No vow I ever took meant as much to me as that vow, at that moment. Except my wedding vows. I extended my right arm, in the salute. All around me, the best of Germany did the same. We didn't notice the cold then. We didn't see anything except him. We didn't see anything at all.

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

  "I swear," I said.

  "'As God is my witness'," said the soldier sitting with me in the small, dingy room.

  "As God is my witness," I said.

  "Is that it?" said the soldier.

  "Yes."

  "Everything?"

  "Yes."

  "You read it all?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there anything you want to change? Or clarify?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure? We want to make sure we have all the words right."

  "Yes."

  "We want you to change anything you don't agree with. We want to deal with you fairly."

  "Yes."

  "There's nothing you'd change?"

  "No."

  "All right then. Read this."

  I hereby certify that I have compared this transcript with the tape recording and corrected it with my own hand. I certify the accuracy and correctness of the reproduction with my signature.

  "Sign it," he said.

  I did.

  Chapter Ten

  Words. That's all he ever gave us. Words.

  "We are the sword of the revolution," Heinrich said, and we believed him. "Mehr sein als scheinen: Be greater than you seem."

  We believed that, too. We believed it all. But we were young then.

  "What happens to the Russians or what happens to the Czechs is a matter of utter indifference to me," he told us, time after time. "But one principle must be absolute for us: we must be honest, decent, loyal, and comradely to members of our own blood. To our own blood. And to no one else."

  Words. Words make more revolutions than swords. Words cut deeper than knives. Words cut more cleanly, and leave the victim alive. I watched The Dead Bodies curling in the flames, and I hated words. Words can't be trusted. Even m
ine: ask Marta.

  But women's words are the worst. Their words slice you open. Women spit words out at you, words that cut to the bone. Women take any words you've given them and give those words to others. Your most private words, your most anguished words. And women complain about men's betrayals. They're nothing like the betrayals of women. I don't trust words. I don't believe in them anymore. No matter what words you try to say, people don't hear. They don't listen. They don't want to.

  "Listen. Listen," I said. "No. enemy. No partisans."

  "What's he saying, Doctor?" said Marta.

  Her pregnant belly pressed against my arm as she leaned over me. She wiped the sweat from my face.

  "It's the pain," said the doctor. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

  I tried to push Marta away, so they could hear me better.

  "Coordinates. Wrong."

  "He's so distressed," said Marta. "Can't you do something?"

  "I could give him more morphine," said the doctor, "but the Oberstleutnant's coming to give him his medals. I thought he'd want to be awake."

  "Friendly fire. No partisans. No enemy."

  "Max, I don't understand."

  "Maybe he should have just a bit more morphine, to ease the pain," said the doctor.

  "Listen," I said, but I felt a prick in my arm, a rushing in my head.

  "Shhh," said Marta, stroking my face. "It'll be all right, Max."

  "Bad coordinates. My fault."

  "What? What did you say?"

  "Killed my own."

  "I can't understand you, Max. What did you say?"

  "It's the morphine," said the doctor. "And the pain. It's a bad wound. He's lucky he survived."

  "But he seems upset about something," said Marta. "About something that happened."

  "Don't try to make him talk. It'll wear him out."

  "Max," said Marta. "Try to rest, darling. I know you're in pain, but try to rest. We can talk later."

  "My own men."

  "Here's the Oberstleutnant, with his medals," said the doctor.

  The nurses and the men in uniform gathered around the bed.

  "For extraordinary bravery in the line of duty," said the Oberstleutnant.

  He laid the Roll of Honor clasp, its gold laurel leaves encircling the broken-armed cross, on my chest. Next, he pinned on the silver Wound Badge.

  "For devotion and loyalty to the Fatherland."

  "No enemy," I said.

  "No enemy here, son," said the Oberstleutnant, and he patted my shoulder.

  "No partisans. Bad mistake."

  "Yes, war's a bad thing, my boy, but we're proud of you."

  "He's lucky he's alive," said the doctor.

  "He and his men make it safe for our fighting boys," said the Oberstleutnant.

  "You have a brave husband," said the Oberstleutnant's adjutant.

  "I'm so proud of him," said Marta, weeping and holding my hand.

  "All Germany's proud of him."

  "The Führer will be proud when he hears about this."

  I caught hold of the Oberstleutnant's sleeve, and tried to tell him.

  "You're safe here, son," said the Oberstleutnant.

  "Let me give him a bit more of this," said the doctor, "for the pain."

  After the prick in my arm, the faces and the rest of the room slipped away from me. I closed my eyes.

  "Don't close your eyes when you blow out your candles, Hans," said Marta, "or you won't get them all. Daddy, aren't you going to help Hans blow out his candles?"

  "Why can't I help Hans blow out his candles?" said Ilse.

  "Because it makes him scream, and you know it," said Marta. "Besides, it's his birthday."

  "He blows out the candles on my birthday."

  "That's because he's little."

  "That's not fair."

  "Daddy's going to help Hans."

  "No, he's not. He's just sitting there."

  "Ilse, don't argue. Max, help Hans. Max."

  "It's not fair," said Ilse. "Hans gets to blow out the candles on my cake."

  "Max, help Hans blow out his candles."

  "What have I done?" I said.

  "Max, what are you talking about now?"

  "It's not fair," said Ilse.

  "What have I done?" I said.

  Marta sighed.

  "What now, Max?"

  "It's not fair," said Ilse.

  Hans squealed as she pinched him.

  "Ilse, stop that," said Marta. "I've had just about all I'm going to take from you."

  Hans looked down at the red mark on his arm. He started to cry.

  "What have I done," I said, "to deserve all this?"

  "But what have I done?" said my adjutant. "I was doing my job. I was following orders."

  "Take these, Josef," I said, shoving the box of files at him. "Take them out to the car. Put them in the trunk. Hurry."

  The girl stayed out of my way. She sat on the cot in the corner, her legs drawn up. She wrapped her arms around her head each time another blast shook the walls. She was watching me, but it was too late for that to matter.

  I lit the corner of the paper. I held the paper until the flames had securely caught. I dropped it into the wastebasket and lit another. I dropped it in. The flames devoured the documents, licked the sides of the metal container, flashed up from the top. I dropped in more. And more. Until there was nothing but a pile of black ash. Until the smoke stung my eyes and made me cough. Until the smoke blackened my skin. I had to do it. There was nothing else I could've done.

  "There's nothing more to be done, now that the documents are signed."

  "Except to have dinner."

  "It's about time."

  "You should've fed us beforehand. The negotiations would've gone quicker."

  The others in the room laughed. I stood in the corner. Drinking. Servants in black coats and white vests opened the doors to the main dining room. The smell of hot food drifted in. The officers moved toward the laden tables.

  "Actually, I have nothing against the Jews."

  "Nor do I. I've met many fine and honorable people among them."

  "Here they come: our eighty million good Germans. And each one has his 'decent Jew'."

  "It's clear the others are swine..."

  "... but this one is a 'first-class Jew'."

  They laughed.

  "I ask nothing of the Jews."

  "Nor do I. Except that they should disappear from the face of the earth."

  They laughed heartily. I poured more wine into me.

  "You've been drinking again," said Marta.

  "How astute of you, my dear."

  "You promised."

  "Leave me alone. Or I'll sleep downstairs."

  "I'm sorry," said Marta.

  I got into bed. I yanked the covers over my shoulders as I turned on my side, away from her, and closed my eyes.

  "Turn out the light."

  "I know how hard it must be for you. How worried you are…"

  "Good-night, Marta."

  "If you lose everything, after all your hard work, after all your sacrifice..."

  "You'd like me ruined."

  "That's horrible. How can you say something like that?"

  "You said it yourself: 'It would serve you right if somebody brought you down'."

  "I didn't mean it. I was just angry."

  "Turn out the light."

  "You know I didn't mean it, don't you?"

  "I want to sleep. Turn out the light."

  "You're so tense. Let me massage your neck and back for you. You're so tight. Like rock. Did your headache ever go away?"

  "No."

  "Is your leg still bothering you?"

  "What do you think?"

  Her hands and fingers kneaded my neck and shoulders.

  "How's that? Any better?"

  "No," I said, "but it feels good."

  I was too tired to fight. I was sick of fighting. I let Marta massage my shoulders till they felt more relaxed. She rubbed my
neck till the throbbing in my head seemed to lessen. Her nightgown was cool against my skin.

  "You have such a strong back, Max, and such strong arms."

  She kissed the back of my neck. Her arms slipped under the blanket and around my chest. When she pressed her hips closer to mine, I moved my leg, so my thigh wouldn't get touched.

  "You've always had a nice body. And you're still the handsomest man I've ever seen."

  She pressed her body against mine, her cheek against the back of my neck, against my shoulder. She pushed the covers down to my waist, to my legs. Her hands rubbed my hips, and her breath warmed my skin.

  "It's been a long time, Max."

  I turned over on my back and put my arm around her.

  "I love you, Max."

  She wrapped her arms around me. She put her leg over mine, and I winced, but she didn't notice. I concentrated on the feel of her body: her thigh was soft. Her fingers brushed my belly, tangled themselves in my hair, stroked my thighs. Her tongue was wet on my skin. I closed my eyes and buried my face in her hair. It smelled clean.

  "I love you so much. I'm sorry about all the fighting."

  "I know. Let's not talk."

  "I know you're under a lot of pressure. Especially now."

  "Let's not talk anymore."

  "I'll be a better wife."

  "Yes."

  "You'll see," she said, and her hand moved on me. "You won't need anyone else."

  "Marta, not tonight."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I'm too tired."

  "It'll make you feel better."

  "I've got too much on my mind."

  "It might make your headache go away."

  "No."

  "It doesn't matter if you can't," said Marta. "I'll do what we did when the children were due. You always liked that."

  "Not tonight."

  "It's been a long time."

  "There's no one else, if that's what you're asking."

  "That isn't what I meant."

  "I'm sorry. I'm tired. Let me sleep."

  "But I don't mind. I like it, too."

  "Not tonight."

  "Do you want me to hold you?"

  "No."

  I turned over on my side, my back to her. She lay very still. Very quiet.

  "Good-night, Marta."

  "I love you."

  I knew that. But everything had changed. Nothing was the same anymore. No matter how much we wanted to believe it. No matter how much we pretended. I stripped off my uniform and stuffed it into the satchel. I forced myself into the clothes my adjutant had brought me. They were dirty. They were a peasant's clothes, but there was nothing else. It was too late to do anything different. The jacket was a little tight, but it would do.