The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  Front to back. Top and sides. Front to back. With her little hand following each even, measured stroke.

  "Now, you look pretty," she said.

  I slowly raised my hand. I touched my hair.

  "It's pretty," said Ilse.

  She held out the brush.

  "Do you want to do mine?"

  "Ilse," said the Kommandant, calling from the stairs. "Are you down in my office?"

  She dropped the hairbrush, and ran.

  There was running everywhere: old people, Germans, dogs, children, prisoners. I told my parents to stay close to me, but I had to keep grabbing onto their coats to keep from losing them. It was worse than it had been on the train. So many people, so much pushing, shoving, crying, screaming. And the Germans with their guns and their dogs. And the chimneys, coughing out that foul, black smoke. I dug my fingers into my parents' arms.

  "You're hurting," said my father, trying to pry free my fingers.

  "Stay with me," I said.

  "Let go," said my mother. "That hurts."

  "I'm afraid you'll get lost."

  "No, we won't. We'll stay right with you."

  "I'm not taking any chances," I said. "I'm not letting go of either of you."

  But then we were at the head of the line. A medical officer barely glanced at us. He pointed us in separate directions.

  "Right," he said. "Left."

  My parents were on one side. I was on the other. I didn't know which was the better side: left or right. No one knew. Left or right. There were many elderly people on the other side, with my parents, but there were also children.

  Left or right. A young woman was standing next to my parents. She was holding a baby, and she seemed my age. My mother and father held hands, their eyes on me as the doctor continued to direct the new arrivals into two groups. Left. Right.

  Left. Right. As more and more people separated us, my mother began to weep. My father smiled bravely.

  Left. Right. I stepped toward my parents, but then the Kommandant strode down the center of the two groups. When he glanced over, and saw me, he stopped. Left. Right.

  He looked over at the other group, then back at me. He nodded, and passed on. Left. Right.

  I stayed where I was.

  "You want to change sides now?" said Sharón. "You're worse than a whore."

  "Why should we let you?" said one of her comrades. "We don't care what happens to you."

  "What's going on?" said Rebekah.

  She came to the fence behind the crematoria. Several other inmates were with her. They huddled by her, misshapen shadows in the half-light cast by the passing spotlights. The wind blew ashes in my eyes. I stepped closer to them.

  "What do you want?" said Rebekah.

  "She wants our help," said one of the inmates.

  "Let her rot," said Sharón.

  Rebekah smiled.

  "You want us to help you?" she said.

  "I'm pregnant."

  They looked at me. They were gaunt and pale. Their clothes were wet, from all the rain, and the material clung to their bones.

  "You must be getting enough to eat," said Rebekah.

  I grabbed Rebekah's arm, and the others moved closer around her. She roughly shook my hand off.

  "I'll kill myself before I have his baby."

  "You won't kill yourself," said Rebekah.

  "Please. You've got to help me. I can't do it on my own. I'll do anything you want."

  "Don't help her," said Sharón.

  "You know I can't have this baby. I'll do whatever you want."

  "Don't listen to her," said Sharón.

  "You'll do anything?" said Rebekah.

  "Tell me," I said. "I'll do it."

  Sharón pushed herself between the two of us.

  "How can you do this, Rebekah? After all the times she's refused us?"

  "He'll send her to the gas if she's pregnant," said one of the others.

  "So?" said Sharón.

  "What are we going to do?" said one of them.

  Rebekah crossed her arms over her chest.

  "It'll hurt," she said.

  "I know."

  "You'll have bad cramps, for days."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "There'll be blood," said Rebekah. "How will you hide it from him?"

  "I'll worry about that."

  She nodded slowly. The hollows around her eyes and under her cheekbones formed great shadows: when she grinned at me, she looked like the skull on the Kommandant's silver ring.

  "So," she said, "you need us now."

  "What's she going to do?" said Ilse.

  She sat in the Kommandant's lap in his office chair, and she gazed up at him.

  "What's she going to do, Daddy?"

  "I don't know," said the Kommandant. "I can't turn the page. You turn it for me."

  The little old woman,

  although she was kind,

  was really a wicked old witch...

  "Oh, no," said Ilse.

  She clutched the Kommandant's lapels and hid her face against his jacket. She peeked out at the open book from behind her fingers.

  She'd built the pretty

  little gingerbread house

  on purpose,

  to lure little children inside.

  Once they were inside

  her little house,

  she cooked them,

  and then she ate them.

  "Oh, no," said Ilse.

  The old witch's eyes

  were red,

  like fire or blood,

  so she couldn't see very far,

  but she had a keen scent,

  like the beasts,

  so she knew that

  Hansel and Gretel were near.

  "You wouldn't let a witch eat me, would you, Daddy?" said Ilse.

  "No, never."

  "Would you let a witch eat Hans?"

  "Oh, no," said the Kommandant.

  He looked down at the little boy who lay sleeping in the crook of his other arm. He kissed Hans on the top of his head.

  "I'd never let a witch eat either one of you."

  "Would you let a witch eat Mommy?"

  "No."

  "But witches only eat little boys and girls, right? When they get lost?"

  "Not my little boy and girl."

  The Kommandant hugged them tightly, his face against their hair.

  "I'd never lose my children," he said.

  "I lost my parents, too," said David. "You're not the only one who suffered during the war."

  "I never said I was. Do we have to go through this again? Now?"

  "Yes."

  "Why does it have to be now?"

  "Because I'm tired of running away."

  David took his folded shirts from the suitcase and returned them to the bureau drawer. He closed it. He took his suit from my hand and placed it back in the closet.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Not this time, Rachel."

  "What do you mean, 'not this time'?"

  "I'm not going to spend my whole life running away. I want to settle down. I want a family."

  "Don't you care what I want?"

  "I think I should be the one asking you that question."

  "And if I go?" I said. "If I have to go?"

  He looked at me. His eyes were tired. His face was thin, drawn. He rested his hand against the doorframe.

  "I love you, Rachel, but I'm not going."

  "You're my husband."

  He sighed.

  "You promised."

  He said nothing.

  "You said you'd never leave me. You swore."

  He looked at me, but his eyes were a stranger's eyes. He shook his head. I shoved the suitcase off the bed. It hit the bedside table and knocked over the lamp. David closed his eyes.

  "You promised," I said. "You gave your word."

  Chapter Seven

  "You promised."

  "I said I'd try."

  "No, you said you'd help us."


  "I knew we couldn't trust her," said Sharón.

  "It's not as easy as you think," I said.

  "You lied to us," said Rebekah.

  "No, I didn't," I said. "But surely you don't expect me to risk myself unless there's some chance of success. Those documents you gave me..."

  Someone hit me, from behind, and my knees buckled. My knees and hands slammed against the wet clay, and my ears were ringing. The next blow, across my back, pitched me to the ground. My cheek smacked the clay. They kicked me in the ribs, the stomach, the head. Though I curled myself forward, hiding my head and drawing my knees up, I couldn't protect myself from them. I heard a crack, and felt a tremendous rush of pain in my side. My head roared, but I didn't lose consciousness.

  "That's enough," said Rebekah.

  The others moved away, forming a circle around me. Rebekah bent down and grabbed my hair, yanking my head up and back so I was forced to look at her. The pain ripped hotly in my side.

  "You owe us," she said. "Don't think we'll forget it."

  "We don't owe them anything," I said.

  My father just stood there, hanging his head, a loaf of dark bread held tightly to his chest. The stranger stood near the doorway, in the dark. His hands were full of paper money.

  "He's a Jew, just like us," said my father.

  "He's a U-boat: he's in hiding. The only Jews in hiding are the rich ones. That means he's not like us," I said.

  "Just let him have this bread," said my father.

  "No Jew can afford to stay in hiding unless he's one of the wealthy ones. Let him get his food somewhere else."

  "It isn't much," said my father.

  "I have money," said the U-boat. "I'll pay you for it."

  "We don't need money. Money's worthless," I said. "But we need to eat."

  "It's only bread," said my father, trying to offer the man the loaf.

  "Do you know what I had to do to get that much bread?" I said, standing between them. "And you want to give it away."

  "I'm not asking you to give it away. I have money," said the U-boat. "Plenty of money."

  "If we had to go into hiding," said my father, "we'd want people to help us."

  "I have a wife," said the U-boat. "And a three-year-old child."

  I yanked the loaf of bread from my father's hands, and tore the loaf into uneven portions. My father smiled. I gave the U-boat the smaller of the two portions.

  "Give him the larger piece," said my father. "He has a wife and child."

  "He's lucky to get any of it," I said.

  The U-boat snatched the bread. He tried to press the money into my hands, but I wouldn't take it.

  "Get out," I said. "And don't ever come back here."

  The U-boat scrambled out the back door and down the alley. I threw the bolt on the door.

  "How can you be so heartless?" said my father. "We have to take care of our own."

  "How can you be so foolish?" I said. "We have to take care of ourselves."

  "Shall I take care of the partisans, sir?" said the Kommandant's adjutant.

  "No, Josef," said the Kommandant, pulling out his pistol. "I'll take care of them myself."

  The partisans moved uneasily as they glanced at each other, at the Kommandant. The woman, dressed in men's clothes, stopped dabbing at her bleeding lip. She looked at her comrade, then slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it tightly. One of the older men started to weep, and the young boy patted his arm, to comfort him.

  "Take them out to the courtyard," said the Kommandant.

  The guards herded the partisans out of the office. The Kommandant followed.

  I rushed into the bathroom adjoining the office. I climbed unsteadily onto the bathtub's rim, and pushed open the tiny window near the ceiling. I forced my fingers through the grating and pulled myself up, on my toes, until I could see into the courtyard.

  Most of the partisans clung to one another. The woman and the man who were the leaders didn't slouch or tremble. They lifted their chins: they looked right at the Kommandant. The young boy cursed Germans, and spat at the ground. The soldiers gripped their weapons. The Kommandant raised his pistol. The woman threw her arms around her companion, her face against his. The Kommandant fired. Twice. They fell. The Kommandant fired again.

  My body was trembling, but not from the cold. I got down from the tub. My legs were still weak, and I stumbled. Outside, the gun fired. One of the partisans cried out. Another shot was fired. I huddled in the corner, against the cold tile. Another shot. I put my hands over my ears to muffle the sound of the gun, to drown out the cries of the dying. It didn't help me. And it didn't help the dead.

  "She's dead?" said David. "The woman in the camp is dead?"

  "Yes," I said. "She died there."

  David stood in front of my desk. He shrugged.

  "I forgot," he said. "You weren't in any of the camps. But, somehow, you know that the woman who was there is dead, is that right?"

  "You're not very attractive when you're like this."

  He leaned over my desk to look at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. I covered the blank sheet of paper with both hands.

  "Why can't you write about the woman who was in the camp? Because she's dead?"

  "Because I don't want to write about her."

  "You don't seem to want to write about anything. It's been almost a year and a half."

  "Are you my publisher now, or just a critic?"

  "I'm a concerned husband."

  "I pay half the bills."

  "Because you insist on it. Besides, this has nothing to do with money."

  He walked over to the bookcases. On a small table in front of the shelves lay The Dead Bodies That Line the Streets. He picked it up.

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Someone sent it to me, with a letter."

  He replaced the book, without opening it. He stood a few minutes in front of the fireplace, staring at the glowing logs. Ice pelted the windows.

  "You're hell to live with when you're not writing."

  "That's kind of you to say."

  "It's time for you to start writing again."

  "I'm trying.

  "Write about the camp."

  "I can't."

  "You dream the camp. You talk the camp. You eat, sleep, breathe the camp."

  I turned away and stared out the window. Outside, everything was as white and blank as the paper in my typewriter. Everything was brittle with ice. I shivered. From the cold.

  "Write the camp, Rachel," said David. "What are you so afraid of?"

  "I'm not afraid of him," said the inmate as the guard strode by. "He's nothing but a fat pig."

  "A fat pig with a gun," said another inmate from the quarry.

  "And a baton, which he loves to use."

  "And a temper."

  "I'm not afraid of him either," I said. "I just like to stay out of his way."

  The others nodded in agreement as I accepted my piece of the rock-hard bread from one of the inmate-cooks. Our tin bowls were slopped full of soup made with grass and rusty water. At least, we hoped it was rust in the water.

  "He's too stupid to be afraid of," said the first inmate.

  "Who's stupid?" said the fat guard, and he loomed up behind us.

  The other inmates scattered. I couldn't move: another guard stood right behind me. The fat guard pushed himself between me and the first inmate, knocking my bowl and spilling some of the discolored liquid onto my arm.

  "Who's stupid?"

  "Are you talking to me, Herr Rottenführer?" said the inmate.

  "What do you think, Jew-cur?"

  The fat guard hit the inmate across the jaw, and the inmate's head jerked back, his mouth opening with the force of the blow. The inmate put his hand up, over his mouth, but not quickly enough.

  "Hey, what's that in your mouth?" said the fat guard.

  The second guard stepped around me to be closer to the inmate. The fat guard grabbed for the inmate, but the inmate ducked his head. He tried
to reach for his dropped bowl.

  "I don't have anything in my mouth, Herr Rottenführer."

  "It looks like gold," said the fat guard.

  He jerked the inmate's head up and back. He forced his gloved fingers into the inmate's mouth. The second guard craned his neck to see into the mouth. He shoved me aside so he could get closer. The remainder of my soup splashed onto my dress.

  "It is. It's a gold tooth. You stinking Jew. Give it to me."

  "I need it," said the inmate, "for eating."

  "You don't hear good, Jew," said the fat guard. "I want that gold tooth."

  "What will you give me for it?"

  "Here's what I'll give you for it, Jew."

  With a tremendous blow, the fat guard flattened the inmate. He bashed the inmate with his truncheon, and with his boots. The other guard helped. The louder the inmate cried, the harder they hit. Several other guards stopped what they were doing in order to watch. The fat guard and his comrade beat the inmate until he didn't make any more noise. Until he lay motionless on the rocks. Until his mouth gaped, revealing the golden tooth.

  "Stupid Jew," said the fat guard.

  He turned to the second guard, who stood there, smiling an open-mouthed smile and breathing heavily.

  "Go get some pliers."

  The second guard ran off, toward the trucks, and the fat guard gave the inmate one last kick. When the fat guard turned around, his hands on his hips, he practically knocked me down. He glared at me.

  "I don't have any gold teeth," I said.

  "Who asked you, Jew-whore?" he said, and he hit me.

  "Did you hear what I asked you?" I said, from where I stood at the window.

  He turned the page of the newspaper.

  "David?"

  "There's nothing there. I don't have to look to tell you that."

  "It's different this time. That car's been parked by the trees all day. There's someone in it."

  He turned another page.

  "It's probably someone from the camp," he said.

  "That's not funny."

  He looked at me over the top of the paper.

  "It isn't my imagination this time."

  He looked back down at the paper. After a few moments, he turned the page.

  "You're not listening."

  "When you start seeing the things that are there, I'll listen."

  "Listen. You're not listening, Max," said the Kommandant's friend.