The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  "Why is it you always see him in the middle of the night?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing."

  He sighed loudly as I wrestled with the second suitcase. He sat, staring at the opened bureau drawers, at the emptied closet, at the bulging suitcases.

  "Are you coming with me or not?"

  "Do I have a choice?" he said.

  "Which will you choose? Are you going to go, or stay?" said Mrs. Greenbaum as she cut the meager potatoes.

  "Please, not today," said my mother as she put pickles on the table. "Not on Shabbas."

  "Why not on Shabbas?" said my father.

  "It's too important not to discuss it," said Mr. Silverstein.

  "It gets everyone so upset," said my mother. "I want to have a peaceful Shabbas. For once."

  "It's living in this Ghetto that gets everyone so upset," I said, putting the plates on the table, "not talking about how to get out of this place."

  "Talking about suicide would get anyone upset," said my mother. "Let's not talk about it during dinner."

  "Suicide isn't the only way out, Hannah," said Mr. Silverstein, putting his cane on the floor beside his chair. "The Germans are letting some of us buy our way out."

  "Who has enough money for that?" said my father.

  "You do," said cousin Leo, who was only a boy of twelve.

  Everyone looked at him.

  "Well, he does," said Leo, "if he sells the furniture."

  "Not enough for all three."

  "Enough for one," said Leo.

  "Enough for one, he says, when there's three of them."

  "But one could get out," said Leo. "And I know which guard to ask. He's let two of us out already."

  "And which of the three of us would go?" said my father.

  "Who would choose?" said my mother.

  "Your daughter should go," said Mrs. Chaim. "She's young."

  "Too young," said my mother.

  "She has her whole life to live. Better she should do it somewhere else."

  "I'm not going anywhere without my parents," I said.

  "But you could get out," said Leo. "I know you could. I could help you."

  "I'm not leaving them."

  "Everyone knows that," said Mrs. Greenbaum. "You're a good girl."

  "Too good," said Mr. Silverstein.

  My father cut the cold meat into almost transparent slices, so there would be enough for everyone. Mrs. Greenbaum passed the cooked potatoes. They were very small, and a little soft. There was some cabbage lying with them in the bowl. I cut the dark bread and put it in the center of the table. My mother lit the tiny candle.

  "A feast," said Mr. Silverstein.

  "Yes, a feast."

  "There are other ways out," said Leo. "You could go Underground."

  "Please, not on Shabbas," said my mother.

  "Go Underground?" I said. "That's the same as committing suicide. It just takes longer."

  "It's almost like murder, going Underground," said Mrs. Greenbaum.

  Everyone nodded.

  "When they catch someone in the Underground, they round up his whole family," said my father.

  "And shoot them all," said my mother.

  "Killing the whole family, because of one," said Mr. Silverstein, shaking his head.

  "They're killing whole families anyway," said Leo. "And for nothing."

  "We're not dead yet," said my mother. "Thanks be to God."

  "God has nothing to do with it," I said.

  "Such a thing to say to your Mama," said my father.

  "And on Shabbas," said Mrs. Greenbaum.

  "So, what will you do?" said Mr. Silverstein.

  Everyone stopped eating to look at me.

  "Will you take your life or let yourself be evacuated?"

  "I'll kill myself," I said, "before I suffer at the hands of the Germans."

  Chapter Four

  Suffering. They didn't know what suffering was. What were a few bits of food, a threadbare blanket, a cold stone floor? They didn't even try to understand what it was like for me. They were always ordering me to help them, threatening me, telling me to risk myself to save a few Jews I didn't even know. I tried to help in little ways, but it didn't do any good. They couldn't have done anything either, if they'd been in my position. They didn't know what it was like for me, and they didn't even try to understand.

  I wedged the Kommandant's letter opener into the space between the desk and the center drawer. Of course it was locked. He always locked it. When I tried to force the lock, my hand slipped, then slammed into the desk. I listened for any sounds or movements from upstairs, then tried again. It slipped again. The third time, the letter opener bent. The drawer was still locked. I pulled the letter opener out, but it wouldn't straighten, and I couldn't let him find it.

  Holding it in my hand, I roamed the office, seeking a hiding place. There was no place to put it in the small bathroom off his office. The file cabinets and the desk were too heavy for me to move. I shoved the window up and leaned out, still gripping the letter opener. I touched the ground just below the ledge. The clay was hard. Even if I threw the opener as far as I could, it would be too close to the office. It was sure to be found: It was gold, and inscribed with the Kommandant's initials. I couldn't just throw it out into the camp's yard. I thought about giving it to one of the members of the Underground, to use for bribes, but I only considered that for an instant. I closed the window. I looked over at the bookcases.

  I dragged his desk chair over to the bookcases, but even with that I wasn't tall enough to reach the top of them. There was a wide wooden cabinet, where he stored his liquor, on the same wall as the bookcases. It was too heavy to move. I pushed the chair over to the cabinet, climbed onto the chair, then onto the top of the cabinet. I put one hand on the wall, to steady myself, and leaned as close to the bookcases as I could. I tossed the letter opener onto the bookcases.

  It lay, bent and gold, on the top of the center bookcase, near the wall. It made a small dull cling when it landed, but that was all. There was no noise from the house. I got back down from the cabinet. When I pushed his chair back to his desk, my hand hit one of the folders, knocking it to the floor. The papers scattered everywhere. I grabbed them up as quickly as I could, shoving them back into the folder. Some of them were upside down. I righted them. I laid the folder back on this desk, careful not to disturb anything else. I looked up at the bookcases. I couldn't see any hint of the gold letter opener. I stood by the window and looked: nothing. By the door: nothing. I sank down into my corner and closed my eyes.

  "Gold. Silver. They want it all. You're not listening, Samuel," said Mr. Weinstein to my father as I came into the room.

  "It makes no sense," said my father. "They're the ones who destroyed the shops."

  "What are you talking about?" I said. "What's happened?"

  "The Jews in Germany have been fined," said Mr. Weinstein, "for destruction of the shops and businesses."

  "One billion marks," said Mrs. Weinstein.

  "Thank God we didn't emigrate to Germany," said my mother.

  "And Germans were ordered to eliminate Jews from the economy," said my father.

  "Worse yet," said Mr. Weinstein.

  "More?" I said, and Mr. Weinstein nodded.

  "What else can they do to us?" said my mother. "Samuel can't teach. They've destroyed Jacob's grocery."

  "They've taken away the property," said Mr. Weinstein.

  "Business property?" I said.

  "And personal property," said Mr. Weinstein.

  "What will Jews do?" said my father. "How will we live?"

  "They call it 'Aryanization'," said Mr. Weinstein.

  "I call it 'theft'," I said. "Now will you listen to me, Papa? Now will you consider emigration?"

  "But where would we go?" said my father.

  "Poland," I said as my father pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes.

  "Poland?"

  "Or Hungar
y. Neither is far," I said. "I already speak the languages."

  "But we've never lived anywhere except home," said my father. "We're not so young anymore."

  "Uncle Jacob and Aunt Naomi could come with us," I said. "They have nothing in Germany now."

  My father looked at me, at my mother, then he nodded slowly.

  "If we all go together," he said, "maybe it won't be so bad."

  "How much worse could it be," said my mother, "than losing everything?"

  "If we lose one more day building this road," said the Kapo as we trudged by, "I'll send all of you to the gas."

  The rocks under our feet tripped us. They cut our heels and ankles. The rocks we were carrying stretched our arms down until our shoulders were rounded. Our skin was bruised from their weight, and our throats and eyes were red from their powdery dust. Inmates fell constantly and, despite the threats and blows from the Kapos, few of them rose again. The Germans were summoned to dispatch those who could no longer work. The Kapos slashed at our backs and heads. The rocks gouged our feet. The rocks dragged on our arms and shoulders. The dust choked us. Still, there was no respite. No reprieve. The road had to be paved. As the Kommandant ordered, so it was. The Kapo bashed me in the ribs.

  "You there, Sleeping Beauty," she said. "Watch where you're going. And get a bigger rock next time. That one's too small."

  I stepped around the dead inmate. His eyes stared up at the clear sky; his mouth was open. I deposited my rock next to those that had just been placed. I hurried to the quarry to get the next stone. The Kapos hit us with whips if we didn't run quickly enough. Sometimes, the Germans used their pistols. They kicked the bodies of the laggards into the quarry. I squatted and pulled another stone to my chest. When I lifted it and stood, my back throbbed with its weight. I trudged up the hill.

  Then I saw the Kommandant's car.

  It was shining and black in the sunlight, and it was moving slowly alongside the stone road: an inspection. I glanced back as the car glided toward us, and I stepped just slightly to my left. The Kapo didn't notice. I kept walking, but with every other step, I moved a bit more left of the line, until I was completely out of the line. About ten feet ahead of me, the Kapo yelled at one of the frailer women, hitting her with a club. The Kommandant's car slowed, almost stopping, just near me.

  I turned to face his car.

  I dropped my stone.

  The Kapo heard the noise and turned around.

  "You stupid bitch," she said.

  She marched over to me.

  "You would drop it now."

  I threw myself down, on top of the rock. But I raised my face, and looked up at the Kommandant.

  The car stopped.

  "Get up, you whore," said the Kapo, and she kicked me. "You did that on purpose, to make me look bad. Don't think I'm going to forget this."

  The car door opened.

  "Get up. Get up," said the Kapo, kicking me and bashing me with her club.

  The Kommandant emerged.

  "Get up. Now. You filthy Jewish whore," said the Kapo, and she dug her nails into my arm.

  The dress I wore was too big in the neck: I pulled the material down, so it hung low in the front, revealing the curve of my breasts. Then I stood, leaving the rock at my feet. The Kommandant came over. The Kapo snapped to attention. The Kommandant looked at the curve of my breasts. The sun was shining behind me: the Kommandant looked at the outline of my legs through the thin, sheer uniform dress. He lifted my chin with his baton. He smiled.

  "Yes, it is you. Now I know it's fate," he said in his language.

  He looked down at my throat, at my bared skin. His baton brushed my collarbone, and he smiled more broadly.

  "Josef," said the Kommandant.

  His adjutant got out of the car.

  "Yes, Kommandant?"

  "Have this one cleaned up, and brought to my office."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And no more road-building for this one," said the Kommandant as he turned back toward the car.

  "No, sir," said his adjutant, and he waved over one of the guards. "Take this one to the Kommandant's office. Wait for me there."

  The guard saluted. The adjutant frowned at me before he returned to the car and got in. The door closed. The Kommandant looked at me a moment longer before he motioned the driver. The car glinted in the sun as it lurched away. When the guard took my arm, the Kapo bashed me. The other inmates stared at me. Some of them tugged their loose gowns. Some dropped their rocks, gazing after the Kommandant's car as it rolled up the hill. The Kapo hit me again, but I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything.

  "I don't feel anything," said my Aunt Miriam as she sat on the couch in our living room. "I'm numb."

  "There's been a mistake," said my mother. "It can't be. They've misunderstood."

  "No," said Aunt Miriam. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't weeping now. "They've arrested him."

  "Arrested whom?" said my father.

  "Boris," said my mother.

  "Boris? Miriam's husband Boris?" said my father.

  "He's not even Jewish," I said. "Why would they arrest him?"

  "For being married to Miriam," said my mother, and my aunt nodded.

  "What are you talking about?" said my father. "How could they arrest him for being married?"

  "For being married to a Jew," said my mother.

  "They said it was... they called it... Rassenschande, " said my aunt.

  They looked over at me.

  "'Race defilement'," I said. "For having sexual relations with a Jew."

  Miriam began to weep again.

  "Maybe if we talk to them," said my father. "Show them the marriage certificate."

  "They've already seen it," said my aunt. "They declared it invalid."

  "Have they already taken him?" I said.

  "Yes. And they said I'm guilty, too."

  "Of what?"

  "Extramarital intercourse," she said. "They told me to report for re-education."

  She cried louder, and my mother took her in her arms.

  "What are we going to do, Samuel?" said my mother.

  "What do you want me to do?" said my father. "One man can't do anything against all of them."

  "She's my sister. We have to do something."

  "Who ordered you to report for re-education?" I said.

  My aunt wiped her eyes and nose. She opened up her purse, took out a piece of paper, and unfolded it.

  "Gruppenführer Heydrich," she said. "But I'm supposed to report to someone named Müller."

  "Gestapo," I said.

  "What should she do?" said my mother.

  "What can she do?" said my father. "It's an order."

  "I order you to come here," said the Kommandant, slamming his office door and looking around the room for me. "Where are you, Girl?"

  He was drunk. I could smell the liquor on him as soon as he came near me. He grabbed my wrist.

  "Come here. That's an order. I need you."

  He yanked me to my feet. He held my wrist with one hand as he unbuttoned his uniform with the other. He pushed me toward his desk. There was a commotion outside in the camp. The dogs were barking, and the machine guns had been rattling all morning.

  The Kommandant tossed his jacket to the chair and eased off his suspenders. As he undid his pants, he leaned against me, his mouth open and wet and stinking of alcohol. He pressed me hard against the desk. When he pushed the paperwork off the desk, the folders spilled on the floor. He pushed against me until I was flat on the desk. When he got on top of me, I turned my head away, toward the windows.

  Outside, in the camp's yard, rows of men, women, and children stood, naked, waiting to go into the showers. The chimneys belched out the black smoke that had been their comrades, and the smoke hung in palls over the shivering Jews. They clung to each other for warmth, or used their hands to hide their nakedness from the soldiers who walked slowly back and forth, their rifles ready. The Kommandant's fingers dug into me as he thrust, and he rubbed
his face against my cheek. He hadn't shaved. His shoulder jammed my chin. His lips and tongue moved wetly on my face, seeking my mouth. If I turned away when he put his mouth on mine, he would bite and leave bruises. I didn't turn my face away. He held my face between his hands as he kissed me.

  But this time, he didn't put his tongue in my mouth. He dragged his lips and tongue back down my throat, across my collarbone, to my breasts. He bit me, but not hard enough for it to hurt. He wasn't in a bad mood today. He pulled at the thin material of my dress until my breasts were bared. He put his mouth on me. I didn't like it when he used his mouth or fingers: he would stop moving, and it would take longer. I didn't want him to hold my breasts and kiss them. I didn't want him to take a long time. He raised himself up from me, took my hand and placed it between us, laying his fingers on mine. He guided my fingers downward, but when he made my fingers touch myself, he became excited, and he moved, harder and faster, pulling me closer. Faster. Faster. His weight was on me again, and my fingers lay crushed beneath his belly. He groaned, and slowed his pounding. If I pushed up against him, he'd finish more quickly. If I moved my legs so that my thighs pressed against his hips, he'd finish almost before he'd started. If I said his name, he'd cry out and be done. But I could only say his name when he was very, very drunk.

  The naked Jews outside moved slowly toward the brick building with its tall chimneys. A guard pulled one of the young girls from the line. She looked back toward the others as the guard took her around the corner of the building. Three other guards followed them. Several guards laughed as a dog tore at the flesh of an elderly Jew. Man and dog collapsed to the ground, and the guards shouted and cheered. The Kommandant slowed again, and he stroked my belly. He stroked the inside of my thigh. He touched me where he entered me: that excited him. His breathing was quick and shallow. He wet his fingers with his tongue, and moved my hand so he could touch me himself, but I didn't want him to touch me. Not ever. I caught hold of his shirt and dragged him forward, pushing my hips up against him, grinding bone against bone. I tightened my legs around him. I bit his shoulder, hard, hard enough to leave a mark. I said his name. And again, his name. He shoved himself deeper, and cried out. The smoke rolled down from the chimneys to the emptied yard. I closed my eyes. The Kommandant lay heavy and wet against me.