The Kommandant's Mistress

by Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

  "She won't change her mind," said one.

  The tall one smiled. I knew about him: this was his favorite game. He took his cigarette and lowered it until it was between my legs, close to my thigh. I could feel its heat. I struggled against the hands that held me.

  "Yes," they said. "Do it."

  I stared at the scar on his face, and imagined that I'd put it there. When he touched the tip of the cigarette to the inside of my thigh, I bit my lip so I wouldn't cry out. That didn't help the third time.

  "This is too slow," said someone from behind me.

  The tall one put the cigarette back in his mouth and nodded. He grabbed my panties, slicing them from me with his service dagger. The two holding my knees reached out their hands to touch me, but he pushed them away. One holding my shoulder put his hand down between my legs and grabbed my hair, pulling roughly upward. The two holding my knees spread my legs further apart. One of them rubbed himself against my calf in his excitement. The other drooled on my thigh. Another one from behind put his arm around me, shoving his hand down into my brassiere. They were all breathing heavily, panting, pressing their heavy bodies against me. The tall one knelt and took the cigarette from his mouth. He put it between my legs. He was smiling. The one holding me by the hair pulled harder. One of them moaned at the sight of me. The glowing tip of the cigarette moved closer. Closer. I felt its heat.

  I didn't need the touch of the cigarette to tell them everything they wanted to know.

  And more.

  "What do you want to know?" said the Kommandant, putting down his pen and turning his chair.

  Ilse stood beside him, wearing her nightgown, holding her doll by the arm. She leaned on the arm of the Kommandant's chair. Hans stood nearby, taking small bites from a cookie. He looked around the office as he chewed. He looked over at the Kommandant. Ilse sagged against the chair. Hans came over to me.

  "What kind of party is it?" said Ilse.

  "A dinner party," said the Kommandant.

  "A birthday dinner party?" said Ilse.

  "No."

  "Why can't children come?"

  "Because it's only for grownups."

  The Kommandant looked in my direction.

  "Hans, come away from there."

  Hans bit the arm of the gingerbread woman he was holding. He stood right in front of me. As he chewed, he held out the remaining cookie. I didn't move.

  "I'm a big girl," said Ilse. "I'm bigger than Hans. Why can't I come to the dinner party?"

  "Hans, come away from there," said the Kommandant.

  Hans looked over at the Kommandant, then turned back to me. He took his gingerbread woman in both hands. He broke her head away from the rest of her body.

  "I'm not sleepy," said Ilse. "I'm not a baby like Hans."

  "It's a grownup party, Ilse, and you're not a grownup."

  Hans held out the gingerbread woman's head. I looked at him.

  "Hans," said the Kommandant.

  I snatched the offering.

  The Kommandant got up from his desk. Hans took another bite of the gingerbread woman's body. I put the broken piece down the front of my dress. Ilse whined as she followed the Kommandant across the room. The Kommandant picked up Hans.

  "But why can't I come to the party?"

  "Tell Mommy that Daddy's too busy to play."

  "But she said we're in the way of the party," said Ilse. "Let me stay up for the party. I'm not sleepy."

  The Kommandant took Ilse's hand and walked toward the door. Her doll scraped along on the floor behind them. Hans looked over the Kommandant's shoulder at me. Ilse started to cry as the Kommandant opened the office door. He set Hans beside Ilse.

  "It's not fair," she said.

  The Kommandant put Hans' hand in hers.

  "You're a mean Daddy," said Ilse.

  "Daddy has too much work to play," said the Kommandant as he guided them out.

  Ilse began to cry. The Kommandant closed the door. He returned to his desk. Crying loudly, Ilse stomped up the stairs. Hans began to cry as well. The Kommandant picked up his pen. I touched my hand to my breast: there, beneath the thin dress, the gingerbread woman's head was still warm.

  "What do you have under your clothes?" said the SS-Mann to us as I came down the street, with an elderly woman and a young boy close beside me.

  A Gestapo, leaning on his black car, glanced at us. He was very tall. He threw down his cigarette and strolled over. Several guards followed him.

  "What's under your clothes?" said the first guard.

  The three of us stopped walking. The guard was looking at the young boy, not at me or at the other woman. The Gestapo arrived. He lit another cigarette. He was always smoking. He had a scar on the side of his face. One of the guards poked the boy with his rifle.

  "I don't have anything under my clothes," said the older woman, and the guard scowled at her.

  "Who asked you?" he said, turning back to the boy.

  I said nothing.

  "Open your coat," said the tall Gestapo with the scar and the cigarette.

  The boy didn't move.

  "You heard him," said the SS-Mann, shoving the boy. "Take off your coat."

  The boy stared straight ahead. The guards yanked him closer, roughly pulling open his coat and shirt. His body was laden with food: small bags of flour, smaller bags of sugar, apples.

  "Oh, ho, a smuggler," said the Gestapo.

  The boy tried not to tremble as the guards relieved him of his burdens. The Gestapo drew heavily on his cigarette and eyed the boy closely. He leaned forward to lift the boy's pants leg.

  "What's this?" he said.

  A small bottle of milk was tied to the boy's leg. The guards frowned.

  "It's for his baby sister," said the older woman.

  I said nothing.

  The Gestapo pulled out his pistol. He shot the boy. The old woman looked up at him. He shot her. He didn't look at me. The guards carried the food back to their Kübelwagen. One of the bags of sugar fell, ripping open as it hit the ground, spilling its sweet crystals. The German cursed and kicked at it. The Gestapo lit another cigarette and put it between his lips. The bodies lay, open-mouthed, in the street. I walked away from them.

  "Don't you walk away from me," said the Kommandant.

  Without getting up from his chair, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me back.

  "You have to earn your keep."

  I turned my face away as he forced me to my knees, as he pulled me to him. His mouth was greasy from his lunch, and his uniform smelled of smoke. I looked at the table. There were bits of chicken still clinging to the bones, and the marmalade jar wasn't completely empty. There were breadcrumbs on the tablecloth next to his plate, and some butter glistened on his knife. After he fell asleep, I could feast on what he'd left on the table. The Kommandant wrapped his fingers in my hair and turned my face from the table, toward him. He spread his legs apart, dragged me close, and hooked his legs around me. He unfastened his pants.

  I made my neck rigid, staring past his shoulder at the wall behind him. He put more pressure on the back of my head. An opera record was playing on the phonograph in the corner.

  Ah, della traviata sorridi al desio,

  A lei deh perdona, tu accoglila, o Dio.

  (Ah, pity the fallen one,

  and send her consolation,

  pardon her transgressions,

  and send her salvation, O God!)

  The Kommandant thrust his hips upward as he forced my head down.

  Ah, tutto, tutto fini,

  oh, tutto, tutto fini.

  (Ah, it all ends,

  oh, it all ends.)

  The opera's music flooded the room, but my mouth couldn't form the words.

  "What did you say?" said Josef as he turned toward the guard standing beside him.

  "She is beautiful," said the guard, his fingers gripping his rifle. "Just like they said."

  The adjutant shrugged.

  "I've heard about her," said the guard, "but
this is the first time I've ever seen her. Josef, don't you think she's beautiful?"

  "Maybe," he said, "for a Jew. Now, here's what I want you to do, Karl. These documents came from the camp..."

  "Are you sure I'm allowed in here?" said the guard, glancing around. "Where's the Kommandant?"

  "He's gone for the day," said the adjutant. "Look, Karl, I know these documents are forgeries. What I don't know is who's making them. Can you find out?"

  "Sure," he said, slipping the documents into an inside pocket. "Anything for you."

  "Don't worry. I'll pay you."

  "You're my cousin. You wouldn't cheat me," he said, and he looked back at me. "I wish I were the Kommandant, just for an hour, just so I could do her."

  "She's a whore," said the adjutant. "And a Jew."

  "But a pretty one. I'd give anything to do her, Josef, wouldn't you?"

  "If I did her," he said, "she'd know what a real German is like."

  "You'd take care of her all right," said his cousin, laughing. "She wouldn't survive you."

  "Wait till he gets tired of her," said the adjutant. "Then she'll get what she deserves."

  "You'll show her what's what, eh?"

  "I know how to take care of Jewish whores."

  "You'll take care of her, huh?"

  "She'll wish she'd never been born."

  "The Kommandant's gone for the day?" said the cousin. "The whole day?"

  They both looked at me, but the adjutant had a cold look. I pressed my body harder against the wall.

  "What do you think?"

  "You're not doing her unless I do," said the adjutant.

  He pulled up his jacket to undo his pants. His cousin dropped his rifle and ripped open his own uniform. The adjutant grabbed my arm.

  "But let me go first, or there'll be nothing left," said the cousin. "Let me go first."

  "First, tell me, how are you going to take care of the girl?" said the Kommandant's friend as he emptied the bottle of champagne.

  "How did Rudi do his?" said the Kommandant.

  "Sent her to the gas. No, wait. Maybe he shot her. I'll ask around. What are you going to do?"

  "I don't know," said the Kommandant, pouring himself Cognac. "I'm not finished with her yet."

  "Such an extraordinary face," said his friend. "Even now."

  "Yes," said the Kommandant.

  "I could get you some cyanide tablets," said his friend. "From my cousin. Three should be enough."

  "I'll just shoot her," said the Kommandant. "It'll be quicker."

  "It'll be quicker, Herr Major, to look at the list of foods we are allowed to have," said the man standing in line in front of me. "Since there's nothing under 'permitted foods,' it'll take less time."

  "Coffee's not on the list of forbidden foods," said the man behind me.

  His body brushed my shoulder as he leaned around to address the German.

  "We can have coffee," he said.

  "Jews aren't entitled to coffee," said the German. "You should know that."

  "It's not on the list."

  The German pointed at me. The men turned to look at me.

  "Only non-Jews, like her, can have coffee," said the German. "Now get on with you. Both of you. No coffee for Jews."

  "I want my coffee," said the man in the front of the line.

  "It's not on the list," said the man behind me. "It's not forbidden."

  "I'm putting it on the list," said the German. "And I'm fining you for disturbing the public order."

  He scribbled something down, then looked up at me, a smile on his face.

  "Can I help you, Fräulein?"

  "Coffee's not forbidden," said the first man, pushing me aside. "Give us our coffee."

  "We have our rights," said the second. "Even under your laws."

  Two guards came up behind the protesters. The crowd moved uneasily as the men were shuffled out of line, as they were shoved around the side of the building. The crowd grew quiet. After two shots were fired, the guards returned. Alone. The officer smiled at me as he took my ration coupons.

  "Now, Fräulein," he said, "what can I do for you?"

  "What can I do for you, Dieter?" said the Kommandant.

  "Never mind."

  "You're my best friend. Name it: it's yours."

  The Kommandant's friend stumbled, into the table. He was looking at me. His foot knocked the Kommandant's fallen glass, and it rolled across the floor. Neither man paid attention to it. The Kommandant, moving unsteadily, followed his friend.

  "Tell me, Dieter. What is it you want for your birthday?"

  "What I want, what I really want," he said, standing in front of me, "is one time with her."

  "The girl?"

  "After you're done with her."

  "You want the girl?"

  "Just once, and only after you're through with her."

  The Kommandant sat on the floor in front of me. His friend did the same, taking my hand in his. He gazed at me as he stroked the back of my hand. The Kommandant frowned.

  "I didn't know you wanted a Jew, Dieter."

  "Only this Jew. Just once, before you send her to the gas."

  "Maybe I'm not going to send her to the gas," said the Kommandant. "Maybe I'm going to shoot her."

  "Just once before you shoot her. She's so beautiful. I've never had a Jew like her."

  When the Kommandant gripped his friend's shoulder, his friend dropped my hand. I pulled it tight against my body. The Kommandant nodded. He looked at me, at his friend. The Kommandant leaned closer, closer, between the two of us.

  "I would never take anything of yours."

  "I know that."

  "I love you like a brother."

  "I love you like I love myself," said the Kommandant.

  "I wasn't trying to insult you."

  "You've never insulted me."

  "You asked me what I wanted for my birthday."

  "And you told me. You want the girl."

  "But she's yours."

  "What's mine is yours."

  "Max, do you mean it?"

  "But only once. Only one time. Because it's your birthday. And because I love you."

  "Max," said the other, grasping the Kommandant's hand. "Max."

  "But only once," said the Kommandant.

  "Isn't once enough?" said the voice on the telephone. "How many times a day are you going to call?"

  The phone was pressed hard against my ear, and the line made crackling sounds. I hadn't turned on the lights, so it was dark, except for the faint glimmer of moonlight that came in through the windows. The house creaked and groaned in the darkness around me.

  "Does that mean that David's not there?" I said.

  "David's not here. He's working."

  "It's the middle of the night."

  "It's not the middle of the night here."

  "Oh, I forgot. Do you know when David will be back?"

  "When he's done working."

  "When will that be?"

  "I don't know. I told you that the first time you called."

  "Could you give him a message?"

  "I already did."

  "You told him I called?"

  "I told him this morning. And yesterday morning. And the day before that. But I'll tell him again."

  "I'm sorry for disturbing you."

  The line was broken when she hung up the phone. I replaced the receiver and stood in the hall. In the dark. Now it was quiet, and I didn't hear the noise that had woken me. I went to the front door: yes, it was locked. I moved the curtains.

  The car was there again.

  I raced upstairs, my heart pounding. I yanked open the bottom bureau drawer and grabbed the pistol. It was already loaded. It was always loaded. I readied it for firing as I rushed back down the stairs, to the window beside the front door. Breathing heavily, I pushed the curtains aside.

  The car was gone.

  After an hour I went upstairs, pulled a blanket from the cupboard, and returned to my post by the front doo
r. I sat there, my face next to the glass, my hands tense around the gun.

  The car didn't come back that night.

  The gun and I didn't sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn't sleep. I was only waiting for the Kommandant to begin to snore. As soon as he was dreaming, I slipped out of the bed and retrieved the dagger from behind the chest. I didn't need the light as I crept down the stairs to the Kommandant's office, his service dagger pressed close to my breast. The clock in the main hall ticked too slowly: someone must've forgotten to wind it. My bare feet slipped across the wooden floors. The house was empty. The Kommandant slept.

  I opened the door to his office. I went to the bathroom, to the sink. I freed some folded papers from their hiding place behind the mirror. I went over to the desk. I shoved the dagger into the space between the drawer and the lock. The thick blade unlatched it and the drawer opened. The knife easily managed the other drawers as well.

  The arrest and deportation orders were in the top left-hand drawer. I laid the knife on the desk. I unfolded the hidden papers and attached one of them to an order. I attached the second to another order, further down in the stack. I rubbed my hand over the papers, trying to flatten out the creases. I slipped all the pages back into the desk drawer, then I gently pushed it closed. Another dagger lay on the desk, taunting me. Blut und Ehre: Blood and honor. I picked up the dagger. Blut und Ehre. It sliced cleanly across the palm of my hand. I shoved the dagger under the latch, yanked the drawer back open, and tore the papers from the arrest orders.

  They were stained with my blood.

  Blut und Ehre

  Meine Ehre heisst treue

  Kazett

  No matter what I tried to write, the same words appeared every time I sat at the typewriter.

  Kazett

  Kazett

  Kazett

  I stared at the letters, stark against the white sheet, but they didn't change into some other letters, to some other words. Always the same: Kazett.

  I opened the packet of cigarettes I'd bought. I put a cigarette between my lips. Though I scraped match after match into flames, my hand shook so much that I couldn't light the cigarette. I took it out of my mouth, put it down on the desk, and looked at the typewriter again.