The sirens split the air, over and over. The guard waved to one of his comrades, and pointed in the direction of their commanding officer. The second guard marched over to the Kommandant, and pointed out the young man with the letter. The young man waved the paper. The Kommandant nodded to his guard, and moved through the crowd toward the boy. I moved toward the boy. I shoved my way through the mass of elbows and shoulders. I stumbled over the luggage. I pushed aside a woman with a screaming baby. I stood beside the boy with the letter.
"It means the German government protects me," said the boy.
He held the letter out so I could see it, but I was watching the Kommandant as he came toward us. The guard ignored the boy. The dogs barked, and people jostled us as we stood there. The boy gripped his letter.
The Kommandant arrived. I was sweating, but not from fear: the coat was very heavy. I unfastened it at the top, letting its collar fall open. I slid my right foot forward, just a few inches closer to the Kommandant. I'd lost my hat somewhere, and the cold air kept blowing my hair in my eyes, but I didn't brush it away. The coat was so hot and heavy, it made my heart pound. I unfastened it the rest of the way. The boy shoved his letter up at the Kommandant, but the Kommandant was looking at me.
"This is the second time I've seen you tonight," said the Kommandant.
His adjutant didn't translate.
"It must be fate," said the Kommandant.
His adjutant said nothing. He only frowned.
"This is a Protective Custody letter," said the boy.
"I know how to read," said the Kommandant.
"It certifies that I'm essential to the economy," said the boy.
"I certify who's essential in this camp," said the Kommandant.
His baton pushed open the fur coat I was wearing. He nodded to himself.
"The country needs me," said the boy. "I'm an engineer."
"You're a Jew," said the Kommandant.
He shot the boy.
I stepped aside this time, so no blood sprayed the white coat. The protective letter lay on the ground beside the boy. Dogs barked, and they strained at their leashes, but no dog attacked the boy or his letter. Behind me, in one of the boxcars that had just been opened, new inmates stumbled down from the train, shielding their heads and faces with their hands, crying out for their family members. The Kommandant held open my coat with one gloved hand. His baton lifted the hem of my dress. I looked him in the face.
"She can't be a Jew," said the Kommandant to his adjutant. "Look at that face, Josef. At that coloring."
His adjutant stopped writing, an annoyed expression on his face.
"She must be a Jew," said his adjutant. "She's here."
The Kommandant stepped closer, and his baton moved up, between my legs, until it couldn't go any further. Then he slid it, front to back, and his breathing deepened.
"She's a Jew," said his adjutant. "Who else but a Jew would have a coat like that?"
The baton pressed more insistently upward, harder, faster. I pressed my legs together, trapping the baton between my thighs, stopping its movement.
"Have you ever seen so many Jews?" said the adjutant. "They're repulsive."
"Not this one," said the Kommandant.
His grip on the fur coat tightened as he stepped closer. I breathed through my open mouth, and I looked up at him as he eased his baton from between my legs.
"Plenty of Jews like her around," said the adjutant.
"Not that I've ever seen," said the Kommandant, and he dragged me away with him.
"Have you ever seen so many letters?" I said as David came into my office. "All to one person?"
"Never. I've never seen so many letters," said David, laughing. "Have you opened any of them yet?"
"Not yet," I said, sitting on the floor among the piles of letters. "I'm overwhelmed."
"Apparently, you have a great many devoted readers," said David, picking up some of the envelopes, "from all over the world."
"And they all write," I said. "Maybe I went into the wrong profession."
"You couldn't have done anything else," said David.
"Probably not," I said, and we both looked at all the letters.
"I hate to abandon you to all this, Rachel, but I have to go into town, before the library closes."
"Didn't you say you were going to help me answer all this mail?" I said, and he laughed again.
"Good luck, my darling."
He leaned down to kiss me on the forehead.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"If you can't find me, I'll be buried in this mound of paper."
"I'll send a search-party."
His laughter drifted after him as he left the room. After the front door slammed, I sighed at the mound of mail. I picked out an envelope. It had a foreign postmark. I opened it.
Dear Miss Levi,
The way you describe No Man's Land is very powerful and moving... You must have suffered a very great deal to write so beautifully.
I opened another.
You filthy, dirty, lying Jewish whore.
Too bad we didn't get you into the gas.
And this.
I sought you,
but found you not.
I dropped the letter, and stood. The room was chilly, and I rubbed my hands on my arms. I went to the windows and closed them. It was just dusk. The yard around the house was quite empty. I drew the drapes. When I sat at my desk, I looked out at all the letters. The paper in my typewriter was blank. I picked up my coffee cup: it was empty. I returned to the pile of mail, and retrieved the third letter.
I sought you,
but found you not.
I call,
but you do not answer.
I crumpled the letter. It was nothing but words.
Words. Everywhere, on every scrap of paper on his desk: words, rules, orders. My heart was pounding as I sat at the Kommandant's desk. It was the middle of the night, and I had only the small desk lamp for light. There was no sound in the house. Even the dogs in the camp were quiet. I wanted to see some of his words. I opened the top folder.
SPECIAL INSTRUCTIONS
FOR THE IMPLEMENTATION
OF SHOOTINGS
The shooting detachments should be officer-led, and the shootings should be carried out with rifles, from a distance of eight to ten yards, simultaneously aiming at head and chest. To avoid unnecessary touching of corpses, the candidates for shooting should stand at the end of the grave. In mass shootings, it would be appropriate to…
I shoved the paper away from me and pushed myself away from his desk. The words lay there, mocking me. I hit them, but they lay there, undisturbed. I hit them again. And again. And again. Until the heel of my hand was bruised. But not one letter of those words changed. Not one.
"Not one more minute," said the Kommandant's wife as she swept into his office. "Stop writing, Max. The guests are here."
"I have to draft this letter, Marta."
"People are already here."
"Everyone?"
"Not everyone, but..."
"Then I can finish this," said the Kommandant.
She put a small lamp with a decorated shade on his desk.
"Look at this," she said.
He continued writing.
"It's a house-warming present."
"That's nice," he said, without looking up.
"It's from Frau Koch."
"Good."
"What's her first name again?"
"Ilse."
"Oh, of course, how silly of me to forget something like that," she said.
She stroked the lamp's brass base, its patterned shade.
"Do you like it? Don't you think it's lovely?"
"Yes, it's fine," he said, writing away.
"Where do you think we should put it?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to finish this letter."
"Do you want the lamp down here on your desk?"
"That's fine. Now let me finish this letter."
<
br /> "It's a shame that hardly anyone will get to see it down here," she said.
Her fingers brushed the black designs on its shade.
"Do you really think you need another lamp in here?"
"Put it wherever you like."
"The guest bedroom?"
"Yes. Wherever you like. Now let me finish this or I'll never get up to the party."
"All right, Darling," she said.
Clutching the lamp to her breast, she went around the desk and kissed the Kommandant on the top of his head.
"But do hurry. Everyone's here."
"Is everyone here?" said the Deputy SS Chief, looking at the group of us, gathered in the courtyard.
"Yes, sir."
"All the women and children, too?"
"Yes, sir. Everyone in the Ghetto is here."
"Good," said the Deputy SS Chief.
He nodded as he paced in front of us, his baton held in both hands behind his back. When he frowned, the assembled Jews shifted uneasily. Some of the guards cocked their weapons and aimed them at us while a machine gun was set up at the edge of the courtyard. My mother clutched my father's hand. The Deputy Chief continued to pace. Some of the old people mumbled prayers: worthless words.
"In the outside mail that we intercepted yesterday, we found three letters from Jews," said the Deputy Chief. "Three letters from Jews in this Ghetto."
He stopped pacing and stared at us. I tried to look at him without betraying any emotion, without blinking.
"This is a most unfortunate situation," he said, shaking his head. "It makes me look very bad. Like I'm not doing my job properly."
One of the smallest children dropped a button he'd been holding. When he bent down to pick it up, a German soldier stepped on the button. The child pushed at the boot, and tried to lift it, but the German stood fast. When the child began to cry, his mother hurriedly swept him up into her arms. After the Deputy Chief looked over, the soldier moved his foot. The Deputy Chief looked down at the button, then smiled at the woman and her child. The mother didn't return his gaze. She bounced the little boy in her arms, trying to quiet him. The Deputy Chief walked toward the mother and child.
"I wish to know who wrote those letters," he said. "If the Jews who wrote these illegal letters come forward, they won't suffer."
He bent over and retrieved the fallen button.
"None of the Ghetto residents will suffer," he said. "You have my word."
After he handed the button to the little boy, he pinched the little boy's chin. The child held tightly to his button, pouting as he stared at the Deputy Chief. The German tickled the boy's belly. The little boy buried his face against his mother's neck and hair, the button clenched firmly in his fist. The Deputy Chief looked back at the rest of us.
"If the perpetrators don't come forward, I will be forced to take punitive action."
"We don't want to cause you any problems, Herr Obersturmführer," said the Rabbi, stepping forward.
I closed my eyes. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow the old man. To swallow the Germans, too. To swallow all of us. Just so it would be over.
"I'm sure you found that the letters were merely personal ones," said the Rabbi, "to family members and loved ones, nothing political."
"Nevertheless," said the Deputy Chief, "it's against the rules."
"Of course, we understand that," said the Rabbi. "But, sometimes, the young, when they're in love, or lonely, they don't always remember all the rules. You're a young man yourself. You understand."
"If the writers don't come forward," said the Deputy Chief, "I will be forced to randomly deport ten Jews for each letter. You have three minutes."
He pushed up his sleeve to regard his wristwatch.
"The writers of the letters," said the Rabbi, "they won't suffer?"
"Two and a half minutes."
A young bearded man put his hand on the Rabbi's arm, pulling the Rabbi back. The young man stepped out from the group to face the German. When the Rabbi started to say something, the young man shook his head at him.
"Two minutes," said the Deputy Chief.
Another man, balding, clutching his cap, stepped forward and stood beside the first. The second man didn't look up at the German. There was movement in the rear of the group as another young man stepped forward. Then there were three.
At a signal from the Deputy SS Chief, the guards behind the young men gripped the Jews' shoulders and raised pistols to the napes of their necks. Before anyone could move, before even the Rabbi could utter another of his worthless syllables, they pulled the triggers. Simultaneously. The men fell. No one else moved.
"There's no one there, Ilse," said the Kommandant's adjutant as the office door opened. "Your daddy's out in the camp."
"Can't we wait for him?" said Ilse. "We'll be good."
"I don't think you should wait for your daddy in his office."
"But we do it all the time," said Ilse.
"Yes, but that was before..."
"We'll be good," said Ilse.
The phone on the adjutant's desk rang. When he answered it, Ilse pulled Hans into the office. She closed the office door.
"Now we can play Kommandant," she said.
She ran over to the desk, scrambling into the desk chair and picking up her father's pen. She uncapped the pen and wrote on some of his papers.
"Yes. Yes," she said in a deep voice, and she nodded. "I'll take care of that tomorrow. What? Not again. Use the dogs. I'm busy. I can't worry about that right now."
Her brother stood at the door. He didn't suck his thumb any longer, but he still carried his blanket. He looked over at his sister. At me.
"Not now, Marta," said Ilse in the Kommandant's voice, waving the pen. "I'm busy. No, the children can't go play outside. There's a Jew-fever in the camp."
Hans wandered over to me. The satin border of his blanket was coming off. He blinked at me. His eyes were very big.
"Do you know what she is, Hans?" said Ilse.
She put the pen down and slid from her father's chair. She came over and stood beside him.
"She's a Jew," said Ilse. "Jews are bad."
Hans stared at me. I didn't move.
"She's bad. Mommy told me," said Ilse.
She looked over to the opposite side of the office, to the corner, where the Kommandant had installed a military cot. She grabbed her brother's hand.
"Let's go play on the bed."
They raced over to the cot. Ilse lifted Hans onto the cot, then crawled onto it herself. They tried to jump, but it had no springs. There was no pillow. Ilse pulled up the blanket and put it over her head. She made noises and held out her hands, her fingers curved like claws.
"I'm the big, bad Jew," she said, "who eats little boys."
Hans squealed and hit her with his own blanket. Ilse tossed off her disguise and tickled Hans. The two of them rolled around on the cot, giggling and kicking, until they were breathless. Ilse sat up, brushing her hair away from her eyes, and she looked at me.
"Do you want to play with us?" she said.
"I want you to stop this game you're playing," said the Kommandant's wife. "I want you to stop with this girl."
She was in the kitchen, which was above the Kommandant's office, and I heard her voice through the heating vents. I pulled the thin blanket tighter around me. It didn't cover all of me, and I shivered.
"Stop with this girl," she said.
The Kommandant said something, but he wasn't yelling: I could hear the sound of his voice, but I couldn't understand his words.
"I don't care if I wake the children. I don't care if I wake the dead," said his wife. "I've had it with you and this girl. I want it to stop."
I couldn't lock the office door: he kept the key with him. I went to the Kommandant's desk. I pulled his chair around, and pushed it to the door, to keep me safe from her. I shoved the small table and the other two chairs in front of the door. I tried to move one of the cabinets, but it was too heavy. I went back to
my corner, and pulled the blanket around me again. The Kommandant said something, and I heard his wife's footsteps rush across the floor.
"Don't you walk away from me. I have every right to tell you what to do. You gave me that right when you married me."
Water ran a moment in the sink. Then it stopped. I wrapped the blanket around my head, but it didn't drown out her voice.
"That's a nasty thing to say. You're being cruel. I didn't force you. If I could've forced you, we would've been married a lot sooner, and you know it."
A chair toppled to the floor as his wife's footsteps followed the Kommandant's. Her voice got louder, and it was mingled with harsh sobs.
"That's hateful. Hateful. And you know it's not true. I've never been with anyone but you. You're just trying to change the subject. That's what you always do when I find out you have a mistress."
A glass crashed to the floor.
"Don't insult me like that. Don't lie, then. I don't care if you are the Kommandant. I know you're sleeping with her. I know you are. I've smelled her on you. And she's worse than a whore. She's a Jew. It makes me sick to think you've been with a Jew. You send her to the gas, with the rest of them."
The Kommandant's boots thudded across the floor, out of the kitchen.
"Don't you tell me to be quiet. This is my house, too. I can be as loud as I want. And if you don't stop with this girl, I'll leave. I've put up with a lot of things from you, Max, but I won't put up with a Jew. I mean it this time. I'll leave you if you don't end it with her. I swear I'll leave you."
"You're not leaving," said David as he came into our bedroom. "Rachel, what are you doing?"
I shoved clothes into the suitcases. My books were already in a box, sitting at the foot of the bed. I picked up the loose papers from the bedside table.
"Not again."
I placed the loose papers on top of the clothes in the suitcase.
"Where was he this time?" said David, and I turned to look at him. "When did you see him: last night, in the middle of the night?"
"You don't have to come with me," I said.
I slammed one suitcase. The lock on the second suitcase wouldn't close properly. I rearranged some of the clothes and papers. I pushed down on the lid again. It resisted. David sat on the side of the bed.
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