The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  I pulled the girl to her feet. She was pale, and her breathing was rapid. I forced my pistol into her hand, the butt toward me. I motioned for her to hit me with it. Her eyes widened.

  "Ja," I said.

  I motioned again, to show her that I wanted her to hit me in the face with the gun. It had to be realistic: that's why I couldn't ask Josef. Or Marta.

  "Mach es," I said. "Mach es."

  She hit me.

  She hit me hard. My ears roared, and there was blackness, but only for a moment. I blinked my eyes as I took back the gun. My cheek ached already. When I opened my mouth, the ache rushed to my jaw. Some blood dropped onto my sleeve. I wiped my mouth and nose with my handkerchief, then held the cloth against the bleeding.

  "Kommandant," said my adjutant.

  "Yes, Josef. I'm ready."

  But I was never really ready. How could I be? No matter how many times one goes over it, when it happens, everything changes. I don't know how long I sat there before I got out of the car. The trunk made a tremendous noise when I slammed it, but there was no movement from the house.

  The dust from the drive made clouds when I walked. I tried to relax my hands. I tried not to clench my teeth. The clothes pinched. The shoes hurt. My uniform had been so comfortable. My mouth was dry, as if I'd swallowed the dust I was stirring up. The steps creaked as I mounted them. Though the porch announced my arrival with each step, no one appeared. Of course, I thought about turning away. Anyone would. But I didn't turn away. I've never turned away from anything. If I am to perish, then I shall perish. I knocked on the door.

  "He's here, Kommandant," said my adjutant, and the sleek black car slid up beside us.

  My adjutant opened the door and Reinhard emerged from the shiny black womb, his long legs making him tower over almost everyone.

  "Welcome," I said, and he laughed.

  "They told me you had a sense of humor," he said.

  As we toured the camp, my adjutant and Reinhard's adjutant ran along behind us, taking down notes, scribbling out orders. I was glad that it hadn't rained for several days: the clay ground, though it was uneven to walk on, was hard and didn't soil his boots. When he took off his hat, to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief, his hair was almost white in the sun. Some of the inmates stumbled before him, but he didn't notice. I opened the ovens myself, so he wouldn't dirty his gloves. He nodded. We walked past the rows of inmates and barracks to the house.

  "How would you like to join the Gestapo?" he said.

  "The Gestapo? You want me?"

  "I want hard men. Men who will ruthlessly ferret out enemies of the state. Men who will brutally stamp out opposition. And Jews."

  "I'm flattered."

  "I thought you would be. By the way, von Walther, I brought my violin," he said. "Perhaps, after dinner, your lovely wife could play the piano while I play my violin."

  "She'll be very pleased."

  "Good. It'll be a delightful duet."

  We entered the walled garden.

  "Before we have dinner, von Walther, I'd like to see your office."

  "My office?"

  "Yes," he said, smiling as he peeled off his gloves. "I want to see if the information in my file on you is accurate."

  None of it was accurate. None of it was true. They didn't have me: not Reinhard, not Ernst, not Marta, not the girl. None of them had me. Every word in every file, every word in every letter, every word in The Dead Bodies: a lie. Every syllable in Survivor: lies, falsehoods, prevarications. I wasn't going to let any of them destroy what had taken me my whole life to build. The Dead Bodies had done the most damage: that was where I'd start. My hands and jaw were clenched when I knocked on the girl's door.

  "Just a minute."

  Sweat dampened my shirt, so I pressed my arms against my sides. She came into the hallway, drying her hands on a white dishtowel, humming for two kittens who bounded after her, racing her to the door. She smiled at them. Laughed. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smile.

  Then she saw me.

  The bright in her cheeks drained down her throat and hid behind her dress. The kittens rubbed their backs against her ankles. The towel trembled. She flinched when I raised my right hand in front of me. My fingers shook slightly as I opened the slim volume to its first selection. Her brow furrowed. Though I knew the words, I was afraid I might forget, so I put on my reading glasses. To make sure I got the words right.

  I said them very slowly, very carefully. She was silent the entire time. The fingers of one hand clenched the dishtowel. The fingers of the other hand hid her mouth. I read "In the Bedroom of the Kommandant."

  But I didn't need my glasses after all. I didn't even need to turn the page. All the words that had been twisting inside me came pouring out. Even in her language, instead of in mine, the words swept everything from me and laid it at the girl's feet. My pronunciation was poor, and my tongue stumbled over the strange words, but I wanted her to understand. I had to make her see. That's why I used her words. Mine had already failed.

  When I was emptied of words, I looked up at her, over the rim of my glasses. She was still. She'd unbraided her hair. She'd cut it: the ends brushed her shoulders. She was very pale, almost as pale as in the camp. When I offered The Dead Bodies to her, my hand faltered. I cursed myself, but she didn't even breathe.

  "Ja," I said.

  I removed my glasses and slid them behind my lapel into my shirt pocket. My arm lowered, and the pages with her words closed around my thumb.

  "Ja."

  I bowed my head, with a great effort not to click my heels. The summer heat pressed down on me, and my shirt was wet under the jacket. She said nothing. I turned away, but still she didn't speak, and the screen door was like a shadow between us. I understood. I nodded. I laid The Dead Bodies on the wide porch rail. The sun blinded me as I stepped down.

  The door creaked, and I turned around.

  She came out onto the porch, the screen door held open with her thin body. The two kittens watched warily from her feet. Her white towel fluttered in the early morning breeze. The sun glowed on The Dead Bodies, lying there between us.

  Part Two

  There is no left or right

  without remembering.

  Gertrude Stein

  Chapter One

  Then I saw him. There he stood, in the midst of the black uniforms, taller than anyone else, the spotlights glinting on his silver buttons and medals. He stood, holding his baton in both hands, surveying the mass of guards, dogs, inmates, Jews, and he nodded as he watched it all. I got out of the boxcar and helped my parents down. People were shoving and shouting. Babies were crying. Dogs barked and snarled. But he stood, tall and unmoved, in the center of it all. Men with shaved heads and wearing striped uniforms scrambled up into the boxcars and threw out the luggage, into a pile.

  "They'll mix up the suitcases," said my mother, clutching my arm. "Tell them to stop."

  "Hush," I said to her.

  Guards with gleaming weapons and growling dogs marched up to the boxcars, shouting and yelling.

  Los! Los! aussteigen! aussteigen!

  "What are they saying?" said my father.

  "They're telling everyone to get out of the train," I said.

  "Maybe you should talk to them," said my father.

  "No," I said.

  "But they've mixed up the luggage," said my mother, "and Papa has to have his medicine."

  "No," I said.

  The spotlights passed over the jumble of deportees and guards. The tall German turned. Over the heads of inmates and guards, across the mass of barking dogs and crying babies, he looked at me. Then he came toward us.

  "Now be quiet," I said to my parents. "Don't say anything."

  Raus! Raus!

  "You shouldn't have come with us," said my father. "We shouldn't have let you. You should have stayed at the first..."

  "Shhh."

  "Hyman," said my mother, calling and waving to a young man from our village. "Samuel, look:
it's Hyman."

  "Mama, don't call attention to us."

  "I'm not. I'm just calling Hyman."

  But the German had arrived. He looked down at us. At me. Several guards followed him over. Hyman stood, clutching his cap, beside my mother.

  "What's this, Josef?" said the tall one.

  "A family reunion, Kommandant," said the one who had come over with him.

  "What did he say?" said my father, leaning close to me, pulling at my sleeve.

  "He looks important," said my mother. "Tell him about the luggage."

  "We're from the same village," said Hyman, in their language.

  "A Jew who speaks German," said the Kommandant, and he tapped Hyman on the shoulder with his baton. "How amusing."

  "What are they saying? What did he say?" said my father.

  "Tell them they've made a mistake," said my mother. "Tell them to fix it."

  "Be quiet, Mama. Please."

  "So, these are your parents?" said the Kommandant to Hyman before he brushed Hyman aside to step closer to me. "And this must be your beautiful wife."

  "What? Oh, no," said Hyman, looking around at me. "No. My parents are dead. These are..."

  "You have a most beautiful wife," said the Kommandant, staring at me.

  "A very lovely wife," said one of the guards.

  "For a Jew," said the one named Josef, standing next to the Kommandant.

  "This isn't my wife," said Hyman.

  "I beg your pardon. I must have misunderstood," said the Kommandant. "Your fiancée."

  Hyman looked around uncomfortably, twisting his cap. One of the dogs growled, baring its teeth: sharp and white in the spotlight. The Kommandant kept staring at me. His guards smiled.

  "Maybe we shouldn't bother him," said my mother.

  "Be quiet, Hannah," said my father.

  "You've made a mistake, sir," said Hyman as several other Germans turned to watch us.

  "I don't make mistakes," said the Kommandant. "Did you wish to marry your fiancée before you die?"

  "I'm... I'm already married," said Hyman. "My wife is... at home... in..."

  "Shame on you," said the Kommandant.

  Several of the guards wagged their heads and clicked their tongues.

  "Does your girlfriend know you're already married?" said the Kommandant.

  "He should make a decent woman out of her," said the one named Josef, "even if she is a Jew."

  "Yes. He should marry her, Kommandant," said one of the guards.

  "It's the only decent thing to do," said another.

  The Kommandant motioned us forward, and guards grabbed our wrists, yanking Hyman and me together. I looked up at the Kommandant. The angles of his face were sharp, hard. As if he'd been formed out of the train's steel. His eyes, when he looked at me, were a German's eyes.

  "I don't understand what you're talking about," said Hyman. "I've told you..."

  "Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" said the Kommandant.

  "But I told you, I'm already..."

  The blow from the Kommandant's pistol interrupted Hyman's words, and split his lip. My mother began to cry, and my father mumbled to himself. Hyman staggered back a few steps, blinking, and holding his hand to his bleeding mouth. One of the guards pulled him roughly forward, next to me. I stared at the Kommandant. He smiled at me.

  "Jew-boy, I believe the proper response to that question is 'Yes'," said the Kommandant.

  "Yes," said Hyman. "Yes, sir."

  "Good. By the authority vested in me, as officer of the Third Reich and as Kommandant of this camp, I now pronounce you man and wife."

  The Kommandant put his pistol to Hyman's forehead.

  "You may now kiss the bride," said the one named Josef.

  The Kommandant pulled the trigger. My mother screamed. Hyman fell against me, then down, onto the platform. Tears burst from my eyes, but I stood as still as possible. Behind me, holding my weeping mother, my father began to pray.

  "My condolences," said the Kommandant as he roughly patted my face with his black-gloved hand. "Now you're a widow."

  His subordinates guffawed.

  "I love weddings," said Josef.

  "Back to work," said the Kommandant.

  "I just love your work," said an elderly woman in the bookstore, and she held out a book to me. "Would you sign it for me?"

  "I'm afraid you've made a mistake," I said. "That's not one of mine."

  "It's not?" she said. "But everyone told me it was."

  "I'm sorry. It's not my book."

  "You're not..."

  "Rachel Levi. This is my book, this one here."

  She glanced down at the table, at No Man's Land, but held the other book close to her breast. Another woman came to the table with a copy of my novel to be signed. After I signed it, she thanked me and showed it to her husband. He smiled, and the two of them walked slowly away, looking at my signature. The first woman stood there, looking at me.

  "You can get a copy of this book, and I can sign it for you," I said.

  She leaned closer, over No Man's Land.

  "I was there," she said.

  I looked at her in silence. Though she seemed old, I could see now that she wasn't really an old woman. Her eyes were very tired. The noise of the shoppers in the bookstore suddenly seemed far away, and there was only her voice.

  "Oh, not in the same camp as you, but in the camps."

  "I don't know what you mean," I said.

  "You don't have to be ashamed," she said. "It wasn't our fault."

  "I wasn't in any of the camps," I said. "You've made a mistake."

  "No one else could have written like this," she said.

  She laid the book on the table.

  "Please sign it for me. It would mean so much to me."

  I pushed away The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets.

  "I won't sign. I wasn't there."

  "It's been signed. The law's been passed."

  Our neighbor Tomás rushed into our apartment.

  "It's true. They've done it," he said.

  "Done what?" said my mother, wiping her hands on the front of her apron as she came from the kitchen.

  "'All persons of alien blood — hence, especially Jews'," said Tomás, "'are automatically excluded from citizenship'."

  "I knew it," I said.

  My father sank into his chair, a dazed look on his face.

  "What does it mean, 'excluded from citizenship'?" said my mother. "We were born here."

  "It means we're undesirables," said Tomás, "now that Hitler's made us part of his family."

  "We can leave," I said. "Let's go. All three of us."

  "Where?"

  "Hungary. Or Poland."

  "You could go," said my mother slowly. "That family would take you. The papers are already drawn up."

  "I'm not leaving you and Papa."

  "I don't understand why they've taken away our citizenship," said my father. "We've done nothing to the Germans."

  "The Germans are 'protecting us'," said Tomás.

  "This is our country," said my father, "not theirs."

  "We're Jews," I said. "We don't have a country."

  My father frowned and shook his head. I knelt before his chair and took his hands in mine.

  "I told you it was going to happen," I said. "Now the Germans will do to us what they've already done in Germany."

  "Decent Germans were always un-political," said my father.

  "Papa, you're living in a different world," I said. "We should go. Tonight."

  "There are two types of Nazis," said my father, "the decent and the gutter types."

  "Papa, there's only one type of Nazi."

  "In the end, the decent ones will win out," he said.

  "Papa..."

  "Maybe we should listen to her, Samuel," said my mother.

  My father touched my face.

  "Don't be ridiculous. This is our home. Besides," he said, "where would we go?"

  "Where wo
uld I go? What would I do without you?" said David after I opened my eyes.

  I lay in a hospital bed, stitched and taped and bandaged. My wrists hurt. David sat beside the bed, clutching my right hand.

  "Oh, Rachel," he said, "if I hadn't forgotten those papers and come home to get them..."

  I closed my eyes. David kissed my hand repeatedly, and pressed it to his wet face. The nurses rustled back and forth. A cool hand touched my forehead, rearranged the sheet, plumped the pillow. Somewhere down the hall, in another room, a man cried out. The nurse slid away. David's voice was muffled by sobs.

  "I love you, Rachel," he said. "I can't live without you. I don't know what I would've done if you'd... Oh, Rachel."

  He buried his face against my body. I opened my eyes to look at him. His hair was mussed, and his clothes rumpled. He must've been here for days, probably without sleeping. I reached across with my left hand. The bandages on my wrist were white. Clean and white. I stroked the top of David's head.

  "Shhh."

  "Why would you do such a thing, Rachel?" he said, looking up at me.

  The room was very clean, very white, and I wished I could stay there for a long time, maybe forever, with the starched white nurses and the stiff white sheets, with the sunlight streaming through the windows and warming my chilled bones, with David there, but not crying, not talking.

  "You're free now, Rachel. We're both free."

  "Shhh," I said, stroking his head as I closed my eyes. "Hush."

  "Hush. Don't say anything," I said as the Kommandant strode over to us.

  "But he might be able to help us," said my mother.

  "I'll talk to him," said Hyman, a boy from our village.

  "Yes, let Hyman talk to him," said my father.

  But then Hyman was dead, and the Kommandant stood there, staring down at me.

  "Are you a Jew ?" he said.

  The spotlights glared in my eyes when I looked up at him. My mother pinched my arm. My father caught hold of my coat, tugging at me. I didn't move. The guards who'd been with the Kommandant drifted away, shouting at the other Jews who were descending from the train. All around us, dogs barked until they were hoarse. Or until they were released to chase one of us down.