The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  I closed my eyes when I saw The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets. I was passing a bookstore, and in the window: The Dead Bodies. I touched the pane: it was cold. One of the salesclerks came to the window with a customer. The clerk picked up The Dead Bodies and handed it to the man. He said something to the clerk. She shook her head. He nodded. She shook her head again. He pulled up his sleeve and held out his arm. The clerk's fingers covered her mouth as she looked down at the blue-black numbers tattooed on his inner left forearm. The man clutched The Dead Bodies tightly to his chest. I turned, and walked away.

  "The dead bodies," said my father when I got home, "they're lying in the streets."

  "What do you want me to do about it?" I said as I yanked out the few small potatoes hidden in the seams of my coat.

  "They're not even burying them," said my father.

  "Complain to the Germans," I said. "They're in charge here."

  "What's gotten into you?" said my mother. "This is the way you talk to Papa now?"

  "Where's the bread I brought home yesterday?" I said. "You didn't eat it all already, did you?"

  "No, of course not," said my mother. "It's in the cupboard under the sink, wrapped in newspaper."

  "Why are they letting the bodies lie around on the streets?" said my father.

  "What are you doing with the bread?" said my mother.

  "I need some of it," I said, cutting off a large hunk of it. "To trade for sugar."

  "I covered some of their faces with the pages of my newspaper," said my father. "Out of respect."

  "We don't need sugar," said my mother.

  "We need Papa's medicine," I said. "And we need sugar to get that."

  "Some of the dead were piled up on Karmelicka Street," said my father. "Right under the store windows."

  "You're taking that much bread?" said my mother.

  "Sugar's expensive."

  "Dead bodies right under the store windows," said my father. "Under windows full of pastries and cold meats and marmalades."

  "What will we eat," said my mother, "if you take all that bread?"

  "I'm not taking all of it."

  "At the funeral home," said my father, grabbing my arm. "All those naked corpses, piled on top of each other like... like cords of wood. It's disgraceful. With tags on their toes. And with nothing to cover their private parts or their faces..."

  "They're dead, Papa. They're dead."

  I threw the pieces of bread onto the floor, and the two of them looked at me.

  "You worry more about the dead than the living," I said.

  "Who told them they were going to die?" said the Kommandant. "One of the Sonderkommando?"

  "Not this time, sir," said his adjutant. "It was one of the guards who made the remarks. And he didn't come right out and say the Jews were going to die."

  "One of the guards?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What kind of remarks did he make?"

  "Something to the effect that the Jews would have jobs providing food for worms."

  "Do you know which guard said it?"

  "No, Kommandant. I heard it, but my back was turned."

  "Memo," said the Kommandant.

  His adjutant readied his pen over his notebook.

  "To all camp personnel."

  The Kommandant buckled on his holster, and checked to see that his pistol was fully loaded.

  "Jews are not to be confronted with disturbing remarks about the place and nature of their future utilization," said the Kommandant as his adjutant scribbled away. "Neither should they be presented with resistance-provoking indications or speculations about their intended quarters."

  The Kommandant glanced around the office, frowning. The adjutant finished writing and looked up.

  "Josef, have you seen my dagger?" said the Kommandant.

  "No, sir."

  "First my letter opener, now my dagger."

  The Kommandant frowned as he put on his overcoat.

  "I must have left the dagger upstairs: Hans was playing with it. How many guards did we lose?"

  "Five dead. Two injured," said his adjutant.

  "And the Jews?"

  "All in the gas, sir. Except the one who started it."

  "Where's he?"

  "In the interrogation cell."

  "All right, Josef," said the Kommandant. "Let's take care of him."

  "It's all right, David. I'll take care of it," I said. "You go back to sleep."

  "What's wrong?"

  David sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I was just locking the doors," I said. "I'm sorry I woke you."

  I went to the window and looked out. Moonlight glowed on the trees and the yard. I frowned. There was a car parked by the far trees. I leaned closer to the window, my throat tight, my body cold. No. There was no car. It was just a shadow. There was nothing there. The curtains brushed against me when the breeze moved them.

  "Didn't you lock the door before we went to bed?"

  "I was just checking it again," I said, closing the window and sliding its latch. "I thought I heard something."

  "I wish you wouldn't wake me every time you hear something in the night."

  He lay back down, noisily rearranging the pillows and blankets. He sighed loudly and turned over several times. When I got back under the covers, he turned away, pushing the blanket between us.

  "I wish you wouldn't wake me every time you hear a noise," he said. "Just once, I'd like to sleep the whole night through."

  We were asleep, and the Kapos woke us. It was the middle of the night. We were cold: it was our first night without real clothes, or shoes, or hair. The Kapos hit us furiously as they pushed us out of the bunks and into another building. As we came in, we were each handed a picture postcard: lush trees surrounded a placid lake; snow-covered mountains rose into a cloudless blue sky; there were flowers, grass, trees: no people. I turned the postcard over.

  From Waldsee:

  We are doing very well here.

  We have work and are well treated.

  We await your arrival.

  Love,

  The Kapo bashed me on the shoulder with her baton.

  "Sign it," she said.

  I did.

  Chapter Five

  Most of them were signed, but not all of them. Some of the papers on the Kommandant's desk had his full signature: Maximilian von Walther. Some of them had only Von Walther scribbled at the bottom. His V and W were bold and large; he made them the same size. The other letters in his name were practically indistinguishable. Most of the papers on his desk, however, didn't have his name. They bore only a huge, jagged K at the bottom: K for Kommandant.

  I sat at his desk, looking at the papers he'd left on top. Whenever he left the office, the Kommandant put unfinished work from the camp in his desk drawers, and locked the desk. He put the handwritten papers in his center desk drawer. That was always locked. He kept the key on a chain in his pocket. Though I knew it was locked, I pulled gently on the center desk drawer as I was getting up from the chair.

  The lock hadn't caught.

  The drawer opened.

  My heart pounded as I stood there, looking down. The drawer was filled with pages of the Kommandant's personal stationery, covered with his handwriting. Holding my breath, I reached out, and my fingers brushed the top page. I lifted the edge of the first sheet: "Love Song for Klaus." I dropped it.

  I slammed the drawer closed, and rushed back to my corner.

  "Don't drop them, Hannah," said my father as he came back to the house. "You'll get them dirty."

  "I'll be careful," she said, and she unwrapped the package.

  I slammed the door.

  "I won't even look at them," I said. "Don't even try to make me."

  "Look, it's not yellow," said my mother.

  "I won't wear it," I said.

  "You have to," said my father. "It's the law."

  "Look, it's not even yellow," said my mother. "It's a whi
te armband, with a blue star."

  "I don't care what it is," I said. "I'm not wearing it. We came here to get away from the Germans."

  "The Germans followed us," said my father.

  "We should go with Uncle Jacob," I said.

  I slapped my mother's hand away when she tried to put the armband on me.

  "We should go to America," I said.

  "America?" said my mother. "Even you don't speak their language."

  "We're too old for that," said my father. "I couldn't take another trip like this one."

  "It's only an armband," said my mother, when I pushed her away. "Why cause trouble?"

  "You're in trouble," said cousin Leo as he dashed into the room. "They're coming for you."

  "Gestapo?" I said, standing.

  "I think so."

  "Oh, my God," said my mother, clutching her hands together.

  "I knew this would happen," said my father.

  "We asked you to go with Uncle Jacob," said my mother. "We begged you to go without us."

  I grabbed my plate and dumped its food onto my parents' plates. I wiped off my dish and my silver and stashed them in the cupboard. I shoved my arms into my coat.

  "Where are you going?" said my father.

  "What are you doing?" said my mother.

  "You haven't seen me," I said, kissing them each on the cheek. "You don't have any idea where I am. You don't even know if I'm alive."

  "Samuel," said my mother, and my father took her hand.

  "What are you going to do?" he said.

  "Don't worry," I said. "And remember: you haven't seen me."

  Leo wrapped a black scarf around his face. He handed me a scarf, and I covered my hair, mouth, and nose with it. Leo opened the door. My mother wept, and reached out for me. My father called my name. I closed the door. I never looked back.

  I didn't look back at the bed. I didn't look at the gun. I didn't need to look at the gun. I knew every inch of it. Every line. Every groove. But I wanted to feel it, to hold it in my hands. I sat on the bedroom floor in the dark, in front of the bureau. I reached into the bottom drawer, beneath the nightgowns, and lifted the gun out. David was in bed, asleep.

  The gun was cool, and heavy. I straightened my arm, aiming the weapon at the darkness. I knew how to use it. I closed my eyes, and pressed the gun's barrel lengthwise to my cheek. I rubbed its elegant metal against my face. The gun was warm now. It was always loaded.

  I laid it carefully back in the drawer and covered it with one of the nightgowns. I closed the drawer. I went back to the bed and crawled in beside David, careful not to let my body touch his. So I wouldn't wake him. I pulled the blankets up to my chin. I was awake most of the night. David cried out once in sleep.

  Everyone in the house was asleep. The Kommandant hadn't come down at night for weeks. Everything in the camp was quiet. The ovens were working. The chimneys were solid. The trains were punctual. The guards and the Sonderkommando did their jobs without opening their mouths. The Kommandant's children played in the garden every day, and each morning, his wife sang as she made breakfast. She didn't keep him awake all night with her crying and her fighting. The Kommandant had stopped smoking again, and he'd cut back on his drinking. He would sleep the night through.

  I turned on his desk lamp. I knelt on the floor, wedging a stolen spoon between the floorboards. Very carefully, I raised the edge of the board until I could get my fingers under it. I wiggled it free.

  I reached in and pulled out a small bundle, wrapped in a scrap of cloth. I unrolled the cloth and removed the loose pages it held. I uncapped the Kommandant's pen.

  I read the first page. I crossed out several lines. In small script, I wrote something above them. I reread the entire page. I changed a word. Another. I crossed out the title. "Bitter Herbs," I wrote in its place. I read the page again. I crossed out a word. Two. The next time I read the page, I changed nothing. I put "Bitter Herbs" on the bottom of the stack, and read the next.

  "We have no bitter herbs," said my mother. "How can we have a Seder without bitter herbs?"

  "The Germans don't allow us to have a Seder anyway," my father said, "so God won't mind if we don't have bitter herbs."

  "But the children..."

  "The children have bitter lives," I said. "They don't need anything to remind them of it. Papa, did you cover all the windows?"

  "Yes, of course. Just like you told me."

  "Mama, where did you put the bone?"

  "What kind of bone was that?" said my mother. "Where did you find it?"

  "Don't worry about it. Where is it?"

  "On the plate. Next to the apple."

  "You found an apple?" my father said.

  "Without the bitter herbs," said my mother, "it won't be the same."

  "Mama, please."

  "Who are all these people who are coming?" said my father.

  "You mean besides all the people who live here with us?" I said.

  "They're friends of hers, Samuel," said my mother.

  "They're the people who come here at all hours of the night, aren't they?" said my father.

  "You don't know anything about that," I said, kissing him on the forehead.

  "What are those packages you're always giving each other?" he said, standing up and following me around the room.

  "Nothing, Papa, don't worry. Mama, is there any more candle left?"

  "No, no more candle," said my mother.

  "You're doing something dangerous," said my father.

  "It's dangerous living in this Ghetto," I said, "shut off from the rest of the world."

  "I can always tell when you're hiding something, ever since you were a little girl," he said. "You're doing something bad."

  "What I'm doing puts food on the table," I said.

  "It's something you're ashamed of. Something you don't want me or Mama to know," he said.

  "Samuel, leave her alone."

  "Hannah, she's going to be hurt. We should know what she's doing."

  "She's a good girl, Samuel. Let her be."

  "Tell me who these people are," said my father, and he gripped my arm.

  "Are you Gestapo now?" I said.

  He released my arm and stumbled back, his mouth opening soundlessly.

  "What a terrible thing to say to Papa," said my mother.

  "He's interrogating me."

  "He's not interrogating you. He's worried."

  "There's nothing to worry about."

  "We're both worried," said my mother. "You're our only child. We love you."

  "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

  "I need you to take care of Hans," said the Kommandant's wife as she came into his office. "I have to get dressed for the party."

  She stood there, her arms full: baby, blanket, rattle, stuffed animal, bottle. The Kommandant frowned.

  "You're not serious," he said.

  "I have to get dressed. And do my hair."

  "What am I supposed to do with the baby?" said the Kommandant. "I'm working."

  "You don't have to do anything," she said. "Just keep an eye on him."

  She leaned forward and placed a small blanket on the floor. After she straightened the blanket, she put the baby on it. The baby watched as she piled his things around him.

  "He's been fed and changed, so he should be fine. But I brought some juice, in case he gets fussy."

  "Where's Ilse?" said the Kommandant.

  "She's with Cook, icing the cake."

  "Can't Cook watch Hans, too?"

  "I told you: she's doing the cake."

  "I've got too much work to do."

  "My God, Max, how many times do I ask you to do something for me? It's a birthday party for your best friend, not mine."

  "All right. Leave Hans here."

  "I've done everything else: the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning. How am I supposed to watch the children and get ready, too?"

  "All right, Marta, all right. I said leave the baby here. Go get dres
sed."

  She stood a moment, her hands on her hips. The Kommandant scowled at the papers on his desk. The baby lifted himself onto his hands and knees, swaying gently as he cooed to himself.

  "I brought his toys down," she said. "And some juice. He'll be good."

  "Yes, yes."

  She stood there, looking at the Kommandant. He pushed aside some of the papers, signed one, wrote on another.

  "I was going to wear my red dress. Unless you'd like me to wear a different one."

  The Kommandant said nothing. He opened a folder and paged through its contents. The baby dropped back onto his belly, reaching for the rattle. He put it in his mouth.

  "Let's not have an argument just before the party."

  "The red dress is fine."

  She smiled.

  "The baby won't be any trouble, Darling."

  "All right."

  "Be good for Daddy, Hans. I'll come get him as soon as I'm dressed."

  "Make sure Ilse stays upstairs," said the Kommandant. "I can't watch both of them."

  "Ilse will stay with Cook," she said, and she closed the office door.

  The Kommandant looked over his desk at the baby. Hans was rocking back and forth on his hands and knees, gurgling at the small stuffed bear lying in front of him on the blanket. When he groped for the bear, he fell onto his belly. He pulled the bear to his mouth, and chewed on its ear. The Kommandant returned his attention to the papers on his desk.

  The baby released the bear and got back up on his knees. He rocked back and forth. After a few minutes, he began to crawl, away from the bear, off the blanket. I looked up at the Kommandant, but he was writing. The baby drooled on the wood floor. He let himself rest on his belly several times, his hand in his mouth. Each time he got up on his knees, he turned his head to gaze around the office. The Kommandant stood and opened one of his file cabinets. He pulled out several folders and flipped through them, his back turned. The baby crawled toward me.

  I moved my legs out of his path. He shifted his direction, turning toward my new position. I pulled my legs up to my chest, so the baby wouldn't run into them. He crawled up to me. The Kommandant replaced the folders and bent over another file drawer. The baby smacked my bare foot. His hand was wet.