The Kommandant rummaged through the file drawer, muttering to himself. The baby arched his back to see me. His mouth opened in a sort of smile. When I touched his hand, he blinked at me. His wet fingers scratched my foot. I brushed his hand again. He was so soft and small. So beautiful. When I touched his cheek, he cooed at me.
"So soft, the life she's leading," said Sharón. "Such a soft life for such a selfish woman."
"For a whore," said one of the others.
"Take a few Safe-Conducts," said Rebekah, and she pressed some papers into my hands.
"The Germans don't honor them anymore," I said. "Besides, the Kommandant has his adjutant remove all the Safe-Conducts."
"You could try," said Rebekah. "If we could just get a few Safe-Conducts attached to the arrest orders."
"Where did you get these?" I said as I looked down at the papers in my hands.
"We made them," said Rebekah.
"Are you mad?" I said, dropping the papers.
The others scrambled to pick them up, before they got soiled.
"I couldn't even attach real ones, let alone forgeries."
"I told you she wouldn't help us," said Sharón. "She likes the Kommandant."
I pushed her away from me.
"You're disgusting," I said.
"I'd like him, too, if he led me such a soft life," she said.
"You want to see a soft life?" I said.
I hiked up my dress to display the bruises on my thighs. I pulled the dress off my shoulder to reveal the welts on my back.
"Such a soft life I'm leading," I said. "You want to take my place?"
"Could you get us something with his writing on it?" said Rebekah.
"She probably won't even do that," said Sharón.
I pushed my dress back over the bruises, over the welts.
"If you could just get us his signature, or if you could destroy some of the orders..."
"He'll notice if something's missing," I said. "And he locks his desk. Every night. He's very careful about those things."
"I told you," said Sharón.
"We ask for so little," said Rebekah, "and you won't even do that much."
It was too much. Everyone wanted too much from me: my parents, the inmates, him. When the Kommandant couldn't sleep, or when he had too much work to do, he came down to his office in the middle of the night. Sometimes he woke me. He always wanted something from me, just like the rest of them, only he never asked.
Sometimes he didn't seem to remember I was there. If I stayed very still, and very, very quiet, he could forget me for hours, for days. Once he forgot me for a month. He hardly came into his office then, and when he did, he was so preoccupied that he never even looked at me: he rubbed his thigh all the time, and his forehead. He'd lost weight, and he seemed to be limping. He frowned constantly and swallowed little white pills. But he remembered me again. He always remembered me eventually.
Often, he worked all night. The light kept me awake. I lay on the cot he'd brought down and watched him. When his pen stopped, he pulled off his ring. Not his wedding ring. He never took that off. The silver band with the death's head. He turned it over and over in his left hand. He touched the nib of his pen to the indentations in the ring. He held it up, so the skull on its crossed bones was looking at him. He imitated its grin. He slipped the ring back on, and wrote again. When he saw me watching, he stopped writing. He put down his pen. He pushed the papers into his center desk drawer and locked it. I closed my eyes and lay very still, but he came over to me anyway. I said nothing, but he touched me anyway. Nothing I'd said would've mattered.
There were no words. There was nothing.
Not a word.
I put another sheet of paper into the typewriter, and pulled my chair closer to the desk. I put my fingers on the keys. I closed my eyes. I tried to see a new place, with new faces and new lives. I tried to see children, laughing and splashing in pools formed by rain. A boy and a girl, both blond. No, two boys, blond and thin. No, three boys, one much smaller than the other two. Three boys, three brothers, their hair and clothes drenched with rain, their bare feet kicking at the puddles, their heads thrown back, their mouths open to catch the rain. I tried to hear their laughter, to feel the rain on their soft skin.
I tried to see a woman, sitting on a porch, sipping tea. She could hear the children laughing. She could see them. She would shake her head when the two bigger ones chased the smallest one into the house, their bare feet leaving puddles on the clean wood floor. I tried to feel the warmth of the cat that lay dozing in her lap, to feel its soft fur, to hear its contented purr. I opened my eyes.
The page in the typewriter was blank.
I left the office and went to the head of the stairs.
"David? David? Let's go for a walk," I said. "It's no good trying to work on a day like this."
I went into the parlor, into the kitchen, out onto the back porch. David wasn't there. I found a note on the table by the front door.
Rachel,
Went to the library to do
more research on the book.
Home soon.
Love,
I went back up to my office. The house was too quiet. I couldn't write in this kind of quiet. I could hear my blood pulsing through my ears. I could hear my heart pounding. But I couldn't hear the children's laughter. I couldn't even see the woman's face, let alone hear her words. I couldn't see the cat. I couldn't even see David. I wanted the typewriter to break the silence, but nothing happened. No words appeared on the blank page.
There was only me.
I hated it.
I hit one key, just to end the silence, to soil the white. I typed another letter. Another. Three more. The letters in my name.
I rolled the sheet up to read what I had typed.
Kazett
I shoved the typewriter off the desk.
Chapter Six
"Kazett. Kazett. That's all I ever hear about," said David. "I don't want to talk about the concentration camp. I want to talk about a child."
"This is about a child. You know I can't have a baby," I said. "Because of the camp."
I stepped out of the bath and wrapped a towel around me. I wrapped a second towel around my hair. David said nothing. When I sat at the small vanity, he came up behind me and loosened the towel around my hair. I closed my eyes as he dried my hair, as he put down the towel and picked up the comb. I leaned back against him as he gently combed out the tangles. He was always careful. He never rushed. He never tugged too hard on the comb, or made me cry out. He never hurt me. My hair lay wet against my shoulders and back. When David leaned forward to put the comb down, his cheek was warm next to mine.
"I love you so much, Rachel."
He put his arms around me, and I let my body curve into his. He kissed me on the ear, throat, shoulder. I didn't want any more words. I wanted him to hold me, the way he used to hold me. I touched his face.
"We can adopt," he said.
I opened my eyes. He released me to pick up a small folder.
"Look, I got these from an agency that..."
"We can't adopt."
"Why not?"
"We wouldn't know whose child it was."
"I'm reasonably sure that it won't be his, if that's what you're worried about."
"That's not funny, David. I don't want someone else's child."
I dragged the comb through my hair again. It was cold and heavy against my neck and back.
"We could adopt an orphan, a Jewish child who lost its parents in the war."
I looked at David in the mirror.
"You're serious."
"I want a child."
"And if I don't want one?"
"I lost my entire family in the camps."
"So did I."
"I want a family."
"You have me."
"I want a child."
"Are you telling me that I don't have any choice in the matter?"
He threw down the papers.
"I'm telling you I'm not going to let the past destroy me."
He paced back and forth, his hands clenched. I wiped the steam off the mirror.
"I'm not going to live in the camps all my life."
I turned around from the steamy glass, to look him in the face.
"I ran away when the Nazis put me in a camp," he said. "I'm not going to let you keep me in one."
"You ran away from the camp," I said, "and they killed your parents."
He looked at me, with a cold look. Then he bent down and picked up the papers, slowly, one by one. He stood up, straightening the papers into their folder.
"You didn't run away from the camp," he said. "Where are your parents?"
"Where's your Mama?" I said. "What are you doing there, all by yourself?"
Hans kept crying. He was on the landing of the stairs that led from the Kommandant's office area to the house proper. He could stand now, and walk. He had come down half the stairs, but stood there, on the landing, crying in distress.
"Can't you get back upstairs?" I said, softly, so no one else would hear. "Is that what's wrong?"
The Kommandant and his adjutant were out in the camp. I stood in the doorway of the Kommandant's office, looking up at Hans.
"What's the matter, Hans?" I said.
I moved cautiously to the foot of the stairs.
"Where's Mama?"
Hans continued to cry. Then I saw the reason: his bottle had rolled down the stairs. It lay on one of the steps, halfway between us. Upstairs, the Kommandant's wife called out for Hans, and I heard her footsteps going around the house. Hans cried louder.
"Here, Sweetheart," I said.
I crept up the stairs and retrieved the bottle. I held it out to him.
"Here, Baby."
His mouth poured forth great wails, and tears flooded from his eyes. The Kommandant's wife called again. And again. Her footsteps became quicker, more urgent.
"Here, Hans," I said.
I went up another step. And another.
"Here's your bottle, Hans."
When the nipple touched his arm, he looked down at it. His crying grew quieter, but didn't stop. His mother's calls became frantic, but they sounded very far away.
"Take the bottle. Here, Hans. Take it. Take it, Sweetheart."
He cried. I knelt on the landing beside him, offering the bottle.
"Here, Darling. Here it is."
Hans stopped crying. He leaned forward, over the bottle, his mouth open. I lifted the bottle until the nipple was in his mouth. I put his hands around the bottle, but he wouldn't take hold of it. He sucked on the nipple, but it was empty because of the bottle's angle. His brow wrinkled, and he opened his mouth to cry. I tilted the bottle so milk would pour into the nipple. As he sucked, Hans leaned against me.
Then he was in my arms.
As he drank, he gazed up at me. His lashes were clumped together with moisture, and his cheeks were streaked with tears. He gripped the front of my gown with one hand, and clutched the bottle with the other. I brushed the tears from his face. There was a movement on the stairs, and I looked up.
The Kommandant's wife shrieked.
There was a shriek near the tiny, grated window of the boxcar. Then another shriek. Then pushing and shoving and hitting and bodies surging toward the grating.
"Rain."
"Rain."
There had been no water for days, and the Jews crushed together with us in the boxcar took up the cry.
"Rain."
"Take my cup," said my father. "It's bigger than yours."
"Take both cups," said my mother.
"Let's not be greedy," said my father.
"But get enough for all of us," said my mother.
They pushed themselves along behind me. I held the cup high as I struggled through the crowd. I was pinched and jabbed as I tried to reach the grate. Someone bit my ankle when I crawled up onto the luggage, so I kicked. Yes, it was raining. I shoved the cup out through the bars of the grate. I had to slap and kick at those who were trying to drag me down. The cup grew heavy with the rain. Slowly I pulled the cup back in. The water trembled as I raised the cup. My mother slapped my knee.
"For shame," she said. "Give some to Papa. He needs it most."
Without taking a sip, I carefully began to lower the cup down to my parents. My father raised his hand. Someone bumped my arm, knocking the cup sideways.
All the water was lost.
"His Mama's lost," said my mother as I came into the kitchen.
"Whose mother's lost?" I said.
She indicated a small boy standing beside her. I didn't know his name. There were so many of them, and they all looked exactly the same: bulging dark eyes, hollowed cheeks, running noses, cracked and bleeding lips. They were dying. The small boy shook his head. He tugged at the hem of my mother's dress.
"No, she's not lost anymore. I found her," he said. "Come with me. I found her."
We hurried out of the crowded apartment, following the child into the hallway.
"Where is she? Where's your Mama?"
"Up here," he said, climbing the narrow stairs to the attic.
"She must be suffocating from the heat up there," said my mother.
"Why would anyone go up there?" said cousin Leo.
"Probably she went up there to have a bit of space," said Mr. Silverstein.
"Or some privacy," said Mrs. Greenbaum.
"I found her. I found her," said the boy as he crawled into the attic. "Here she is. Mama. Mama."
We stopped. Some of us closed our eyes. Some of the others wept. I did neither. Yes, he'd found her. She was hanging from the rafters, a stout piece of rope wrapped tightly around her neck. Her eyes stared. Her tongue protruded. Her shoes brushed the edge of the milking stool, overturned beneath. Her little boy pulled at her ankle, making her body sway gently.
"Mama, wake up," he said. "Mama."
"How horrible," said my mother.
One of the women went to the boy and took his hand. My father and one of the other old men went to the body.
"How terrible."
"Poor woman."
"How selfish," I said. "How absolutely selfish."
"You're being selfish," said the Kommandant into the telephone.
He was frowning.
"I told you not to call me anymore. You agreed. I didn't say you were happy about it. I said you agreed. I know it's my office, but it might as well be the house. No, Marta's not here. I'm alone. Yes, I just said so. What's so important? You need more money?"
The Kommandant pulled his chair closer to the desk, and he continued looking through his paperwork, even as he listened to the voice on the telephone.
"Yes, yes, what about him?"
He stopped shuffling through the papers.
"When? How?"
His frown deepened to a scowl. His voice grew louder.
"Why didn't you call me? Right away, not three days later. Of course I'd want to know something like that. I don't want to argue about that now. What did the doctor say? Is he going to be all right?"
The Kommandant grew very still, very pale. His pen fell from his hand to the desk. He stared straight ahead. His voice wasn't loud now.
"Why did you think I wouldn't come? I know it's been a long time, but if you'd told me, if only I'd known. The war? What does the war matter? No, not the camp either. When is the... Yesterday?"
He was very quiet. I almost couldn't hear him.
"You should've told me, no matter what happened between us. When I think of you there, all alone. You're not? You what? When did you do that? Why didn't you tell me? I know. I know what I said, but something that important... Don't cry. Please, don't cry."
He closed his eyes, and covered them with his hand.
"I know you did. Yes, it was a long time. You were very patient. Very good. I know you couldn't wait any longer. You need someone. You deserve someone. Please, don't cry. Please, don't."
He sat a long time, without saying a
nything, without uncovering his eyes.
"Yes, of course it was right to tell me. No, it's not your fault. Yes, I know. I'm sorry, too."
The Kommandant uncovered his eyes. He replaced the receiver. He sat there, staring. Then he looked down at his desk. He picked up his pen. He put it back down. He stood, turning toward the windows. He paced back and forth in front of the glass. His fingers combed agitatedly through his hair. His breath was loud and irregular. Suddenly he stopped pacing. He stared out the window, his back to me. Without a word, he put his fist through the pane.
When he drew back his hand and looked at it, there was blood. He looked back at the window. The winter air rushed in. He punched out another pane of glass. He punched another. Without looking at his hand, he hit again and again. Until there were cuts and blood all over the back of his hand, until there were glass fragments all over the floor at his feet, until he knelt in the glittering mess. Snow blew in through the broken windows and landed on his bent head. He looked at his cut and bleeding hand. He wept.
"Daddy?" said Ilse. "Daddy?"
But the Kommandant wasn't in his office. Ilse strolled into the room, brushing her hair. After each stroke of the brush, she smoothed her hair with her other hand. She closed the office door and walked over to me.
"Where's my daddy?"
I said nothing. Still brushing, she looked down at me.
"That's Mommy's dress," she said.
Her hair crackled under the brush. Her hair spread over her shoulders like pale fire: electric and alive.
"This is Mommy's brush, but she said I could use it."
She stepped closer. The toe of her shoe touched my leg. I didn't move. She sighed loudly.
"Your hair's awful messy. It's all tangly," she said. "Here, let me brush it for you."
She leaned forward, smelling of soap, her starched dress rustling, and I felt the brush touch my scalp.
"Are you going to let your hair grow longer?" she said.
The brush moved across my head, from front to back. Slow and rhythmic. Front to back. I closed my eyes.
"You're a girl, you know," said Ilse. "Girls are supposed to have long hair."
The Kommandant's Mistress Page 18