The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  He and the Kommandant sat at the small table in his office, eating lunch. They'd been drinking since morning, after they toured the camp. After the last transport had been dispatched, the Kommandant opened the champagne. Now they were on their eighth bottle. My eyes were burning from all the smoke. Each time my throat began to tickle, I pressed my face against my shoulder and arm, to muffle the cough.

  "I'm still trying to picture her," said the Kommandant, "in a dress with no..."

  "She said, 'Where did you get this tie'?"

  "She didn't," said the Kommandant. "You're lying, Dieter."

  "I swear," he said, holding up his right hand. "On my oath as an officer."

  "'Where did you get this tie'?" said the Kommandant, and his friend laughed.

  He laughed so hard he spilled his champagne. The Kommandant grabbed the glass and set it right. He poured champagne into it until it ran out over the sides. They laughed at that, too.

  "She took hold of my collar..."

  "Weren't you wearing your uniform?" said the Kommandant.

  "Of course, I was wearing my uniform. I always wear my uniform when I want to impress the ladies. They like uniforms."

  "And she asked you where you got your tie? She must've been drunk. How can you take advantage of them when they're drunk, Dieter?"

  The Kommandant's friend scooped up some caviar with his fingers and crammed it into his mouth. The Kommandant pushed aside the rind of the cheese to reach the goose carcass. His fingers glistened as he raised one of the bones to his mouth and chewed at its shreds of meat. My eyes watered, and I coughed against my arm.

  "She wasn't drunk. She was satisfied, to the point of incoherence."

  "You're that good?"

  "Better."

  The Kommandant laughed and dropped the bone. His friend reached over and slapped him on the back. They both laughed harder.

  "I must've been good because I got it again."

  "Twice? With the same girl?"

  "And once with her girlfriend. But she wasn't any fun."

  "You, Dog, you."

  "The first time, we did it standing up."

  "Standing up?"

  "Against the door, with her legs wrapped around my waist."

  "I don't believe it."

  "You would've killed for her."

  "Tell me her name again. Next time I'm in Berlin, I'll look her up," said the Kommandant. "Even I've never done it standing up."

  "Don't tell Marta if you do it standing up."

  "She'll think it's one of my perversions."

  "She won't take it as well as Katarina."

  "You didn't tell Katarina?"

  "Are you crazy, or just drunk?"

  The two of them leaned over the table, laughing. Clouds lay heavy and black in the sky. Raindrops tapped erratically on the glass.

  "Katarina just assumes I do it with every woman on the face of the earth."

  "With every woman on the face of the earth?"

  "With every woman in Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia..."

  The Kommandant shuddered violently.

  "Even the ugly ones, Dieter? And the fat ones?"

  "Even the Jews," he said, pointing his knife at him. "Even the Jews, Max."

  "You'd have to be a desperate man," said the Kommandant, "to do a Jew."

  "Not desperate. Just drunk."

  "Very drunk."

  "Very, very drunk."

  The two of them laughed again as the rain began to pound insistently on the windows. The room grew darker. The Kommandant stumbled over to his desk and turned on the small lamp.

  "Where did you get all this wonderful food?"

  "I'm the Kommandant."

  "You're a lucky bastard."

  "You're the lucky bastard. You did it standing up."

  "We're both lucky bastards. Let's have a toast."

  The Kommandant's friend raised his glass, and stood. He lost his balance. When he put his hand down on the table to steady himself, his hand landed in the pâté. The Kommandant fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. His friend blinked a few times at the pâté on his hand before he put his fingers in his mouth. The Kommandant offered his handkerchief, and his friend stared at it. After the Kommandant knocked his glass off the table, he leaned close to the table top, squinting and touching things: no glass. He picked up the champagne bottle. When he stood, his chair toppled backward. Both men swayed on their feet. The Kommandant drank from the bottle.

  "Wait. We have to make a toast first."

  "Yes, a toast. To..."

  "To our friendship."

  "To us."

  "And another toast. To... to..."

  "To the wealth of the Jews," said the Kommandant.

  The sky opened, and the rain poured down.

  "To the Jews," said the Kommandant.

  He was sitting on the cot, his clothes disheveled, and he raised his glass to me.

  "To the Jews," he said, over and over.

  He hadn't touched me. He'd been drinking the whole night. His wristwatch was lying on his desk, and I looked at it. 4:17. And still he wouldn't go to bed. I thought about going to him myself, to get it over with, but he was acting strangely. All that alcohol, and he hadn't touched me. When he went to the cabinet for the third bottle, he was very steady. Very quiet. And he hadn't touched me. He sat on the cot, his uniform unbuttoned, drinking, first from the glass, then from the bottle, looking right at me and fondling his gun, but he hadn't touched me.

  He stroked his gun, over and over. Then he stood up. Finally, it would be done with. He'd go back upstairs afterward, and I'd be able to sleep. He didn't come over to his desk, though. He went into the bathroom, taking the gun and the bottle with him. I heard water running. He must've finally made himself sick. The water stopped, then went on again. I picked up his watch and leaned back in the desk chair, the blanket around my shoulders, I turned the watch over. There was an inscription.

  To my darling, Max,

  forever and…

  The Kommandant staggered out of the bathroom.

  I dropped the watch.

  The Kommandant held his gun to his head.

  He came over to me, the pistol at his temple. He sank to his knees in front of the chair, his body pressed against my legs. I leaned back in the chair as far as I could. With his free hand, he clutched the front of my dress. The gun pressed harder against his flesh. Harder against the bone. The Kommandant pulled at my dress, dragging me forward. The gun fell to the floor.

  The Kommandant buried his face in my lap, his hands clutching at me.

  He wept.

  I didn't move.

  The Kommandant didn't move when I slipped out from beneath his arm. I inched further away. He snored softly. After I lifted the blanket and slid out of the bed, I stood, very still, holding the edge of the blanket, watching him. His service dagger and pistol were on the bureau. The Kommandant slept.

  With my eyes on him, I crept across the bedroom to the bureau. My feet slid over the polished floor, onto the cotton rug, back onto the floor. The Kommandant turned over. I stopped, but his eyes didn't open. My arm bumped the bureau.

  Yes, there they were: pistol and dagger, in holster and sheath. The same every day. First the weapons. Then the uniform. Then scars on naked skin. Then groping. Then wet, open-mouthed kisses. Then thrusting and, finally, sleep. With the pistol and the service dagger lying side by side in the same room.

  My fingers trembled as I unbuckled the dagger's sheath, separating it from the rest. I had rehearsed this in my mind, every afternoon, every night, since he'd first brought me to his bedroom. Holding the dagger tightly, I went to the door. The Kommandant turned over, snoring into the pillow. I held my breath. I opened the door.

  It was too risky to go all the way down to his office: it would take too much time. He might wake. He hadn't been drinking since his wife went away, or not as much, and not during the day. I'd have to get the dagger down to the office later, when he slept for the night. There was a cedar ches
t in the hallway, under the window. He'd taken a blanket from that chest. I slid the dagger behind the back of it, between the chest and the wall. The Kommandant stirred.

  I rushed back into the room. I grabbed the extra blanket from the bed and wrapped it around me. I threw myself into the chair by the window and closed my eyes. The Kommandant didn't move. I stayed very still, with my eyes closed, in case he was awake, watching me. But nothing happened. Gradually, my heart slowed its pounding. The Kommandant didn't get out of bed to come to me again. He didn't call me to come to him. The sun glowed through the windows. The blanket was soft and warm around me. The Kommandant's breathing slowed and deepened. The camp drifted away.

  "I'm going away," said David, after supper. "For the summer."

  "What are you talking about?"

  We were sitting on the porch, in the swing, and David turned his head away from me, to look out across the yard.

  "I've been offered a teaching post," he said. "For the summer. In Paris."

  "This is already the first of June," I said as I poured more iced tea into my glass. "I'll have a rough time packing on such short notice."

  "You don't have to pack. I'm going alone."

  I looked at him, but he stared out at the yard. The glass in my hand was so cold that it burned. I put the glass down. My hand was wet, from the condensation. I wiped my palm on my skirt. When I touched his arm, he pulled away.

  "You're leaving me."

  "Not leaving. Just going away for a while."

  "Without me?"

  "I need to be by myself. To think about things."

  "What things?"

  "Us."

  "What about us?"

  He looked at me. He seemed so tired. So old. Aged beyond his endurance. The breeze ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes. My heart was pounding. I could hardly breathe. I wanted to touch him, to pull him close to me, but his hands were clenched and my own hands lay still in my lap.

  "Why did you marry me?"

  His voice was quiet. He didn't look at me. I didn't know what he wanted me to say. He smiled faintly, nodding. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. His hands clutched each other so tightly that his knuckles were white.

  "It's my own fault," he said. "I thought you would learn to love me."

  "I do love you."

  "Not the way I want you to love me."

  "You're my husband."

  "Oh, Rachel."

  "Tell me what it is you want."

  "You can't give me what I want."

  "Tell me."

  "I don't want to keep living this way: jumping at every noise, arguing all the time, running from my own shadow…"

  "You want a divorce."

  He looked out at the yard. He twisted his hands against each other. He said nothing.

  "You're never coming back."

  He frowned and shook his head. He leaned back in the swing, and put his hand on mine.

  "I'd never do that to you. No matter what I decide, I'll come back."

  My throat felt as if he were tightening a rope around it. I moved my hand from under his.

  "You'll come back to tell me that you want a divorce."

  "This is what I want, Rachel: for you to love me."

  "I do."

  "I don't want to compete anymore."

  His voice wasn't loud. The wind rustling in the trees around the porch muffled his words and made them sound strange. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what he wanted to hear. He stood, his fists jammed into his pockets, his back to me. My hands were cold. My sweater had fallen from my shoulders, and the wind on my bare arms made me shiver. My voice was trapped in my throat.

  "It's taken me a long time to realize the truth. I didn't want to believe it. I didn't believe it in the beginning. I thought my love was enough for both of us. But I can't hide from it anymore."

  He turned around and looked at me. I wanted to take him in my arms, to make the look on his face go away, but I couldn't move. David went to the edge of the porch and put his hands on the railing. The wind blew his hair away from his face and made him narrow his eyes. I clasped my hands together in my lap, to keep them from trembling.

  "You have to choose."

  "Don't do this."

  "You have to choose who you're going to spend the rest of your life with."

  "Take me with you."

  He closed his eyes. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so many words were dashing around my head, banging around in my chest, trying to get out, but when I opened my mouth, the wrong words came out.

  "When are you going?"

  "It wasn't an easy decision."

  "When?"

  "Tomorrow morning."

  I looked up at him, but his face was turned toward the yard.

  "I'll be back in September. I promise."

  All the things I wanted to tell him were caught in my chest, in my throat, choking me. When I spoke, I said the wrong thing. I always said the wrong thing. But this time, I wouldn't be able to take my words back. I'd never be able to make things right. The breeze chilled me. I closed my eyes.

  "Will you write?"

  "Of course."

  "Will you call?"

  "I haven't stopped loving you."

  When I said nothing, David turned back toward me. He looked old. I wanted to cast away all the words that kept us from each other, but I didn't move.

  "Do you know what hurts the most?"

  I shook my head.

  "You never cry," he said. "You never even cry."

  Chapter Eight

  I never cried. Except once. In the camp. The Kommandant was so drunk he kept falling into the wall as we went up the stairs. He hadn't been drinking for several weeks, so the alcohol must've affected him more than usual. Or else he'd been drinking more. I'd never seen him like that. He was frowning, and his grip was hurting my wrist as he dragged me up after him. I tried to pull his fingers off my arm. He stumbled, but he held tight.

  In the dining room, he'd laid out a table: china, silver, candles, champagne, food. I was faint from hunger, and I longed for it all. He poured champagne, drinking most of it himself before he offered me a glass. I wanted the food. The Kommandant wasn't ready to eat: first he had something to show me. He was so drunk that I could barely understand what he was saying. He wasn't wearing his uniform jacket, but he still smelled of smoke. As carefully as he could, swaying, shaking his head periodically to clear it, he rolled his left sleeve up until it was above the elbow. He caught hold of me, to keep himself from falling, and he held his arm out to me.

  There, on his inner left forearm, in black ink: a Jewish, six-pointed star.

  "Now I'm a Jew," he said.

  I felt a coldness in me, like nothing I'd ever known before. I hated them all, but I hated him more than all the others. How dare he mock me. I'd show him what it was like to be branded for life. I'd show him what it was like to be a Jew. I put my hand on his service dagger.

  He looked down, but didn't stop me when I lifted the dagger out of its sheath. I took his hand, and led the Kommandant to a chair. I sat down, pulling on his hand, pushing on his shoulder till he knelt beside me. His left arm lay across my thighs. He put the bottle of champagne down on the floor and watched me intently. I touched the tip of the dagger to the top of the star, on the black outline he had drawn. As the Kommandant looked at it, I pressed down.

  There was resistance. It wasn't as easy to cut through skin as I'd thought it would be. I pressed harder. The dagger pierced the skin. The Kommandant drew his breath in sharply. With his mouth open, he looked up at me, but I looked down at the star.

  Very carefully, very slowly, with steady pressure, I cut the six-pointed star on his inner left forearm. He didn't cry out, though I cut deep, deep and slow. I gouged out the skin: I wanted it to be a thick, raised scar. The Kommandant clenched his teeth. That pleased me. Blood chased the knife's glittering path. I made the lines very straight, the angles sharp. I made it last a long time. The Kommandant turne
d pale. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, at his hairline. I felt happy. It was a big star: over an inch from tip to tip. Beside the star, almost the same size, I made three more cuts, so he'd never be free: K for Kommandant.

  I smiled. I leaned over and retrieved the champagne bottle. I drank some of it. I poured the rest over the cuttings. That made the Kommandant cry out. My cheeks were flushed. My heart was racing.

  "Now you're a Jew," I said, in his language.

  Then I slapped him. As hard as I could. I liked the way my palm felt. I liked the look on his face. I liked the red across his cheek, and the red on his arm. I wanted to slap him again. Even harder. I wanted to cut him, on his chest, on his back, on his thighs. I wanted to put the dagger between his legs. I wanted him to writhe and cry out. I wanted to be with him, right then, there, on the floor. I wanted him to touch me for once, with his hands, with his mouth, with his tongue, until I was wet, until I closed my eyes and arched toward him, until I shuddered and relaxed my thighs. And I wanted him inside me. Not fast and hard, the way he liked it, but deep and slow, with him on his back instead, and for a long, long time. When I pulled him to me and kissed him, when I put my tongue in his mouth, the Kommandant moaned, and clutched me desperately to him.

  Then the shame flooded me. I pushed him away. I pushed him so hard that his head banged on the table. The chair toppled behind me, and the dagger fell to the floor. The room was spinning. I couldn't breathe. I rushed out, down the stairs, back into the Kommandant's office. I slammed the door. I ran into the bathroom and crouched in the corner. My face was hot, and the tiles couldn't cool it. There was blood on my hands, on my dress. I grabbed the cloths and scrubbed at my stained hands, but I couldn't get all the blood off. That's when I cried. That was the only time. And even then, it didn't make any difference.

  "It won't make any difference," said one of them. "She won't do it."

  "Yes, she will."

  They held me in a chair. They'd already cut my hand. With one of their daggers, in my palm: a six-pointed star. The cut was still throbbing, but most of the blood had stopped. They thought the cutting would do me in. They were wrong. I didn't lose consciousness. I didn't talk. They didn't like that. Now they were going to play a new game. The tall one nodded. He motioned them, and they pulled my dress up, over my thighs, to my waist. Two others grabbed my ankles and knees, forcing my legs apart. He bent his tall, thin body and leaned close to me, blowing smoke in my face.