Kazett
I crossed the room and turned on the phonograph. When the music poured into the room, I sat in the chair beside the fireplace, my arms hugging myself, my eyes closed.
Così alla misera, ch'è un dì caduta,
Di più risorgere speranza è muta.
Se pur benefico le indulga Iddio
L'uomo implacabile per lei sarà.
(Thus, to the wretched, who falls,
frail and erring,
when she would rise once again,
hope is silent.
Though Heaven's indulgent,
conferring its pardon,
Man will be unforgiving to her.)
I left the music on while I returned to the typewriter, but even the music couldn't shove those other words away. I don't know how long I sat there, trapped between the words on the record and the words on the page in the typewriter. The breeze from the open windows was warm on my skin. When the phone rang, it was David.
"I was worried when I didn't hear from you," I said.
"I did call, twice. There was no answer."
"You sound tired."
"Yes, I've been working hard."
"Is the teaching going well?"
"Yes."
"And the book?"
"Yes. Everything's fine. How's your writing?"
"You know I can't write well when you're not here."
"You haven't been writing at all with me there," he said.
Morro — Morro la mia memoria
Non fia ch'ei maledica
Se le mie pene orribili
Vi sia chi almen gli dica.
(I die! I die,
let my memory not
be dirtied by him,
but let my woes and dark trials
all be related to him.)
"Have you had enough time alone yet?"
"Have you had enough time to write yet?" said David.
"Why can't they just leave us alone?" I said.
The Kapos shoved us out into the camp's yard, shouting and hitting. At tables outside, several women were giving fellow inmates tattoos, on our inner left forearms. As the inmates who were already marked stumbled away, they held out their arms, displaying the grotesque letters and numbers, permanently scrawled in jagged lines.
"Come over here," said a young inmate named Anna, and she pulled on my arm. "She does the best. Over here."
"How can one tattoo be better than another?" I said.
But I let her guide me to a different line. She worked on the rocks with me. She had a gentleness about her that made me forget the things around us.
"Moishe's covers his whole forearm," said one of the women.
"And Aharon's, it's even on the back of his forearm."
"How hideous of them, to do this to us," I said.
Anna tugged at me.
"Here, look at mine," said Anna.
She held out her arm. There, on her inner left forearm, very dainty, in carefully formed letters and numbers, her tattoo. She pulled me toward the furthest table.
"This girl does the smallest, and in the straightest line. I looked them all over yesterday before I picked her to do mine."
"You already have one," I said. "Why do you have to get another?"
Anna shrugged.
"They told us the numbers were wrong," said Anna. "I want her to do the second one, too. She does it best. If you compliment her work, she'll be very careful."
I frowned at her.
"How can you act so happy? They're mutilating us," I said. "Have you gone mad?"
"Even the Germans wouldn't be stupid enough to go through all this trouble and then kill us," said Anna.
And with a smile, she held out her arm to the needle.
I stretched out my hand and touched the papers on the Kommandant's desk. The Kommandant was in the camp. So was his adjutant. There was a great commotion from the arrival of the latest transport. Guards and dogs and inmates scurried everywhere. The noise from the camp battered the windows of the office. I was alone.
I sat in the Kommandant's chair, at his desk. The folder lay before me. I opened it.
The assault sweep detachments dispatched today also had only minor success. Twenty-nine (29) new bunkers were discovered, but some of them no longer had occupants. Many bunkers can only be discovered when their locations are betrayed by other Jews.
Outside, the dogs were barking ferociously, but the house was quiet. The Kommandant's wife wasn't home. She'd taken the children with her. I turned the page.
If Jews are ordered to leave bunkers voluntarily, they almost never obey. In a skirmish that developed around noon, the bandits again resisted, using Molotov cocktails, pistols, and homemade hand grenades.
There was shouting, cursing, the rattle of machine guns. The dogs were frantic. I looked out the window, but saw only a mass of black uniforms occasionally interrupted by huddled, naked bodies. I turned back to the documents on the Kommandant's desk.
As soon as some of the inhabitants were about to be searched, one of the females, as so often happens, put her hand under her skirt and pulled out an oval hand grenade from her underpants, pulled the safety pin, threw the grenade into the group of men conducting the search, and herself jumped for cover.
As I was reading, the door opened.
"You have to obey me. I'm the Kommandant."
He pulled his chair around to the side of the desk where I sat and slipped his pistol out of its holster. He held the gun out to me.
"I order you to do it."
When I didn't move, he put the gun in my lap.
"You have to do it," he said. "I can't."
He opened the third bottle of champagne. My glass was full. He urged it into my hand, up to my mouth. I took a sip, then returned the glass to the desk. The Kommandant drank from the bottle. The gun was warm and heavy in my lap.
"Take it," he said.
He nudged the gun farther up my thigh.
"Free me."
He put the champagne bottle down and picked up the gun. He snapped the two circles on its top up and back: it was readied for firing. He pointed the gun at his chest, took my hand and placed it on the gun. I kept my hand limp. He stood, pulling me up with him, his palms crushing my fingers around the warm metal. He yanked the gun toward him until my arm was rigid, my elbow locked. The muzzle butted his chest. He straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and raised his chin.
"Free me," he said. "Fire."
He released my hand. I lowered the weapon.
"No, no. Fire."
The gun hit the floor. The Kommandant shook his head as he looked down at it.
I stood, absolutely still.
The gun lay there, between us.
I lay there, absolutely still, only sometimes turning my face away so his breath wouldn't hit me. He didn't use his hands to touch me anywhere. He gripped the edge of the cot. The steel frame pinched my shoulders and back with each hard movement. With each of his thrusts, his sweat dampened my dress. His uniform scratched. His hair, when he pushed against me, got into my mouth. I turned my face away, but I said nothing. I did nothing. When I closed my eyes, he was nothing. All of it was nothing.
The other stood nearby, watching, and I could hear his breathing: short and fast. His hands moved on himself. I could hear both of them: both moved in a fierce and furious rhythm, but only one moved on me. The smell of them made my throat tighten: alcohol, smoke, sweat, man. That made it come back to me. I closed my eyes again, and held my breath, to lose myself.
He finished. He drooled a moment against my neck. As he shoved himself away, the other approached.
"One more time?" he said.
"As often as you can: this is the only time."
"I'll just do it this one time, Mama," I said. "Don't worry."
"You can't. You can't go there," said my mother.
I put on my coat.
"He's the worst of the Germans," she said.
"Mama, didn't you hear the order?"
"Samuel, don't let her go to that man. You know what they say about him."
I yanked the paper from my father's hand and read it aloud.
This is to inform you that you are to join this transport. You are to report on Sunday 18 June from 7:00 a.m. but no later than 6:00 p.m. to the transport staging area.
"Samuel, we can't just stand here and let her go to that man. You know what they say he does."
You are to proceed immediately after receipt of this order to prepare your baggage: two (2) pieces of hand baggage — total weight thirty (30) kilograms. This weight isn't to be exceeded as there will be no help to assist during baggage collection for this transport.
"Samuel, what are you going to do?" said my mother.
"What can we do?" said my father. "This is the end."
"You don't know that," I said.
"They told us to bring luggage," said my father. "You know the ones who take luggage are the ones who never come back."
I shoved the order into my pocket. I rummaged through my mother's purse until I found an old tube of lipstick: red. That was good, but it was almost gone. I scooped some of the color out of the tube and smoothed it over my lips. I pinched my cheeks, to bring the blood to the surface. As I put my hand on the doorknob, my mother grasped my arm.
"Samuel, don't just stand there."
"What can I do, Hannah? You know how strong-willed she is."
"But he might send her with us," said my mother, tugging at me.
"What can we do?" said my father.
I slammed the door.
"What can we do?" I said. "What can any of us do? We're only prisoners."
Rebekah stood there, looking at me, as the other inmates relieved me of the bread-crusts and potato-bits I carried. They shoved the scraps of food into their mouths and choked them down. Sharón spat at me when I offered her a rind of hardened cheese: another inmate snatched it from my hand.
"Is that all you brought?" said Rebekah.
"Probably," said Sharón.
"No," I said. "I told you I'd do it, and I did."
I pulled the small package from inside my dress. Rebekah opened the box, and she nodded.
"That's not enough for all of us," said Sharón.
"That's all I could get," I said. "He keeps his gun with him all the time."
"It'll do," said Rebekah.
"It's not enough," said Sharón. "She did it on purpose, to foil us."
"It'll never work anyway," I said.
"It'll work," said one of the men.
"We have grenades," said Sharón. "And guns."
"All we need is to get the Kommandant alone," said Rebekah.
"The Kommandant? But you said..."
"Or with his adjutant," said Sharón.
"Yes," said Rebekah, counting out the bullets among them. "We could handle the two of them."
When I put my hand on Rebekah's arm, she looked up at me.
"You said it was for the guards, at the Bakery."
"Maybe we changed our minds," said Rebekah.
"Maybe we lied," said Sharón, and she laughed.
"You can't do it," I said. "They'll raze the entire camp if you hurt him."
"It's better than waiting for him to kill us," said Rebekah.
They scratched and dug at the wet earth until they had created a hollow deep enough for the weapons and ammunition. They wrapped them in scraps of cloth and placed them in the shallow hole. Then they pushed the damp dirt over them.
"You don't stand a chance," I said.
"We'll do the best we can," said Rebekah. "After all, you wouldn't get us the pistols."
"The cabinet's locked. I told you that."
"You tell us a lot of things," said Sharón. "It doesn't make them true."
"When is he going to town again?" said Rebekah.
"It's a mistake to ask her," said Sharón.
"She's the only one with access to him," said Rebekah.
"She'll warn him," said Sharón.
"I doubt it," said Rebekah.
"It'll never work," I said.
"Two Czechs blew up Heydrich," said Sharón. "If they can do that, we can do the Kommandant."
"Two Czechs blew up Heydrich, and the Germans already executed over 150 Jews in Berlin for it," I said, "and all the Jews in Lidice..."
"You needn't say anymore," said Rebekah. "I think we understand each other."
"I'm trying to help you," I said.
"We don't listen to the Kommandant's whore," said Sharón.
And they all turned away from me.
"Don't turn away," said the inmate as he yanked on my arm. "Don't you understand? You're free. They're gone."
"Who's gone?"
"The Germans. The officers. The Kommandant."
Bombs screamed through the sky and hit the ground just beyond the camp with tremendous explosions. The building groaned and shook with each blast. Artillery fire sounded almost constantly, and the cries and shouts of inmates filled the air between the whining bombs and their fierce explosions.
"They've abandoned the camp," said the inmate, pulling at me again.
"Abandoned the camp? The Kommandant?"
"There are only a few guards left, and they're running away now."
"I heard Hans crying, just this morning."
"The Kommandant's gone. He left in the middle of the night."
"I heard the Kommandant's wife, calling for Ilse."
"They're gone, I tell you. Now there's only a few guards left."
"He's gone?"
"They're all gone. We're free."
More inmates rushed into the office, their arms loaded with weapons and food. They were dirty and haggard, and their eyes burned with a strange light. A few of them wore German jackets, or caps. One of them, limping and shouting in a language I didn't know, shot out the glass in the weapons cabinet. One broke open the liquor cabinet and the others rushed to it, grabbing the bottles and pouring the liquor into their gaping mouths. Another sat himself in the Kommandant's chair and shot out the windowpanes. Another gouged the wood of the Kommandant's desk with an ax. They were all screaming and yelling and pushing and tearing at everything around them. The first inmate caught me by the shoulders and shook me so hard that my head rocked on my neck.
"We're free. Don't you understand? We're free."
I didn't move.
Uncle Jacob and my father didn't move, even though I called to them.
"Uncle Jacob? Papa?"
The university students dragged the books from the carts and trucks. They tossed the books onto the bonfire burning in the middle of the square. The windows of the Opera House glowed with the reflected flames.
"No more cultural decadence," said the students.
More books sailed into the flames.
"No more false ideas of freedom."
The pile of burning books grew larger.
"Maybe you shouldn't emigrate right now, Samuel," said Uncle Jacob. "Wait till things calm down."
"Papa. Uncle Jacob," I said, pulling at their coats.
"My God, what are you doing here?" said Uncle Jacob after he turned around.
"Mama's worried," I said. "And so is Aunt Naomi. They want you to come home."
"How did you even find us?" said Uncle Jacob. "You're just a child."
"Come home," I said. "Papa."
"How did Naomi let you come out?" said Uncle Jacob. "She should know better. This was a bad time for you to come visit us."
A diminutive German, smartly dressed but with a crippled foot, limped over to one of the trucks. The students gripped his arms and legs and raised him until he stood above them, on the back of the vehicle.
"We must stop the Jewish penetration of the professions," he said.
His fists beat the night air. The students gazed up at him, applauding and cheering. The fire snapped and hissed.
"The Jewish hordes must be considered unconditionally exterminable."
The crowd roared. The flames spat. Book after book sailed
through the darkness and landed in the fire. Their pages curled and blackened. Smoke and heat filled the air.
"Papa."
I tugged at him. Uncle Jacob took my father's other arm and we dragged him through the crowd. When my father stumbled over a fallen book, I saw that his face was wet with tears. The German on the truck raised his arms to the night sky, and the students cheered as his voice cut the darkness around the flames.
"When we depart," he said, "let the earth tremble."
Chapter Ten
I was trembling, from the cold water. When my skin was completely wet, the Kapo shoved soap and a soiled rag at me.
"Make sure you get all the filth off, you dirty Jew," she said.
The smell of the harsh soap stung my nostrils. The rag was stained brown, but not by dirt. Wherever there was a scratch, the soap burned. I rubbed and scraped, until my skin was red. I slipped once, cracking my elbow and shoulder against the stone-wall: there would be a bruise. The Kapo sneered. She smoked cigarettes and stared at me as I scrubbed the camp off my skin.
"Don't forget your hair," she said. "I mean, your head."
I washed my scalp vigorously, tilting my head back to keep the lather from dripping. It didn't help. The soap slid down my face and burned my eyes. The Kapo reached in, yanked away the soap, and flipped on the cold water. Its icy spray felt like needles. The soap and the cold pricked my skin raw. After the Kapo turned off the water, I stood there shivering. She motioned me to turn around. Above the door, in red letters, was a sign: Unreine Seite. Unclean Side. The Kapo smashed me with her baton, then threw the soap at me.
"It's the Kommandant, you stupid Jew, not one of your boyfriends," she said. "You'd better do it again."
"They've done it again," said the adjutant, rushing into the Kommandant's office, without knocking.
It was dark. The Kommandant sat up on the cot. The empty bottle fell off the cot, onto the floor, but it didn't break. The camp's siren began to wail. The Kommandant groaned and covered his eyes when the adjutant turned on the lights.
The Kommandant's Mistress Page 22