The Kommandant's Mistress
Page 29
Line-breaks are based, as all my Holocaust poems were, on syllabic-breaks: imitating the arbitrary rigidity of the Nazis and the concentration camps. Some of my Holocaust poems had 10 syllables per line, one had 15, this one has 12. If I miscounted any of the syllables in the lines, please don't tell me as there's nothing I can do about it now. The poem's already been published in too many places for me to change it, and it'll just remind me why I was a literature major and not a math major.
(Note: On e-readers, tablets, or Smartphones, you may need to use Landscape Orientation for some of the poems to see the original line/stanza breaks.)
Spoiler Alert:
If you read this before reading the novel,
please be aware that it reveals plot elements
contained in the novel, even if slightly changed.
The Kommandant
(the original poem)
For who can make straight
that which He hath made crooked?
He saw her again, after years, in the village
store. He leapt back, his hand seeking the weight of his
gun. There she stood: frailer than in the yard, faded
dress hanging loosely from thinned shoulders, more colour
in the scarf on her head than in her cheeks. He barked
his adjutant outside, strode to her, forced her chin
up with his baton, found eyes bluer than his own.
She did not look away. His arm dropped, brushing the
gun on his hip. He unbuckled his holster, laid
it on his desk. The cork on their third bottle of
champagne exploded; he gulped the pale liquid, hauled
his chair to her side of the desk, scooting until
their knees collided, his monologue more earnest
than usual. She sipped, concentrating on the
silver oval pinned over his left breast: two swords
crossed behind an army steel helmet. Leather hissed
as he slipped pistol from holster; he leaned forward,
displaying the cool dark of the weapon. Freiheit.
He snapped the two small circles: up and back, urging
the butt toward her hand. Her glass shuddered. She stayed still.
He gripped her wrist, tugging her to her feet along
with him, slammed the warm metal into her hand, crushed
her limp fingers around its form, fixing her hand
there with both of his rough palms: Du — Freiheit, yanking
gun and hands until the barrel butted his chest,
her elbow rigid. Feuer. Her eyes became less
opaque. Ja. He swallowed, squared his shoulders, lifted
his chin, released her hands. Her arm lowered. Nein, nein,
Feuer. The piece thudded to her feet. He stared at
her; her eyes dulled, leaving him there. The gun lay on
the floor between them. He had forgotten that he
no longer wore it; his empty hand slid down his
hip and leg as he watched her pay for her items,
her long braid pale down the center of her back. Sun
glowed on her hair as she opened the shop-door and
stepped out, calling a goodbye to the owner. She
writes books, a squinting wife standing near him in the
aisle confided as the German gazed after her.
From the bookstore window, her face lashed out at him.
He leaned, gasping, against the glass. Fuller cheeks, hair,
bright eyes — but her. He dragged himself into the shop,
forced the slim volume into his hands. Survivor:
One who Survives. Poems by Esther Rebekah
Levi. Esther. The publisher supplied him an
address. She had moved by the time he reached the place,
though it was easy enough to discover her
new destination. So it went. This time, she was
here. The engine started almost too eagerly.
After countless European villages, he
found her in this mountain town. He wished now he were
wearing his uniform. He shook his head: he must
go to her without ornaments. The road twisted
through singing summer green, warmed by morning. He would
park far from the house, approach on foot. He practiced
the words in English. Verdammt nochmal! He slammed the
car stopped, jerking the wheel toward the flanking trees: her house.
The car door banged; he leaned on the hood. She would not
want to see him again; perhaps she had her own
gun by now. He should forget he had found her. His
fingers sought the door handle, but the look in her
eyes, the taste of her, the smell of her: he made a
great show of examining the numbers on her
forearm: S-61856. She glanced down, dark
lashes long on her cheeks. He kneaded her shoulders,
ribs through the threadbare material. Her hipbones
jutted awkwardly beneath the skin. He rubbed her
cheek with the back of his long fingers, murmured, pushed
the scarf from her head, ran his hand across the light
stubble; he circled her several times, nodding: Ja.
Marta guessed almost from the beginning. At first
she said nothing, assuming it would pass as all
the others. Then: sniping, chiding, remonstrative
silences. In spring she confronted him: Stop with
this girl. He looked up from his morning paper. There's
only so much I can ignore; I must think of
my position. He buttered his toast, scanned the print.
Marta pushed the paper down onto the table.
I'll complain to someone if this doesn't stop: my
aunt's husband still has influence. The wrench on her
wrist freed the paper. He snapped it straight, turned the page,
sipped his coffee. Marta locked herself in their room
the rest of the day. A week later he had his
things moved into the guest bedroom across the hall.
In summer Marta took the children to visit
her sister in Hamburg for two weeks. He brought the
girl to his room: to be with her in a bed. His
back to her, he unhooked his weapons, fumbled with
buttons. The sheets slid cool, crisp on his thighs. He pulled
her to him, his skin against hers; though he had been
unable to teach her German, he whispered her
all sorts of things: he told her he loved her. After,
he slept. He shuddered to think what he would have done
to the Kommandant had he been the girl, with his
service dagger and pistol by the bowl of fruit
on the bureau. She did nothing. In the Bedroom
of the Kommandant: the first poem in her book. His
throat tightened. Verdammte Scheisse! She understood
German! He bellowed to see himself on the page:
she had Cognac, champagne, caviar; wore one of
Marta's gowns; slept with blankets in the corner of
his office. The girl was not beaten after he
took her in, except once, when he was inspecting
the camp and Marta bashed her with the wooden back
of a hairbrush: Schmutzige Hure! The first blows
smashed into the girl's cheekbone; others landed on
her arms, shoulders, neck. That night, after dinner, he
found her, huddled into the corner: swelling, bruises.
He roared into the kitchen, abandoned brush clenched
in fist. His wife started, clutched the dishtowel to her
breast. He hurled the wood through the window over the
sink, the falling glass soundless beneath his rage. Then
he stalked outside. Marta collapsed at the table,
white knuck
les twisting, untwisting, twisting the cloth.
The thundering of his gun lasted almost an
hour. He posted a guard at his office door,
permitted no one entrance unless he were in:
not his adjutant, not his children, not ever
his wife. He protected the girl, fed her, clothed her.
And he never forced himself on her: she did not
resist. True, he did things with her he did not with
Marta; his wife disliked his touching, kissing. But
his girlfriends before the war had told him he was
gentle, good; some had even fallen in love with
him. Toward the end, he did not touch the girl at all,
except sometimes to caress her face with calloused
fingers, or to kiss her scarred palm and hold it to
his lined face. Howling, he shredded her book, burned its
pages in the middle of the hotel room floor,
stamped the flames, ashes. Six months later, he purchased
another copy, but turned cold when he tried to
open it. Every day he vowed he would see her
one more time, for that time. He went to the trunk of
the car, dug the small parcel from the luggage. His
civilian clothes pinched in all sorts of places — his
uniform had been so comfortable. Thousands of
miles of searching behind, her house less than an eighth
of a mile ahead. He pushed greying hair back from
his forehead, hoped she wouldn't see him walking up
to the porch. It's her, isn't it? Marta asked. You'll
never see the children again. He said nothing.
I'll make them hate you. Yes. She hates you. He knew that.
He glanced back at the shadowed car; his right hand strained
on its object. The porch resounded hollowly
under his boots. He swallowed, knocked on the wood of
the screen door: and if I perish, I perish. He
knocked again. Just a minute, floated from inside.
Sweat dampened his shirt; he pressed his arms against his
body, bent his right arm so it was behind. She
came from the kitchen, drying her hands on a white
dishtowel, humming for two grey kittens who bounded
after her, racing her to the door. She smiled at
them, laughed. It was the first time he had seen her smile.
Then she saw him. Morning sun from windows in the
office haloed his head, shoulders. He was writing
furiously, did not stop scribbling until his
adjutant coughed. The Kommandant snapped his head up,
scowling, shoved back the dark hair fallen over his
forehead. He strode to her, dismissing the other.
He paced around her, nodding: Ja. Gripping her arm,
he led her to a small bathroom beyond his desk.
He pointed out towel, washcloth, unwrapped a sweet soap.
When she did not move, he prodded her toward the sink,
turned on water. She was still. He began to drag
the shift from her. She closed her eyes. Water gurgled
in the basin. He closed the door, leaving her there.
He jerked open a cabinet on the far wall, poured
a whiskey, quaffed it, splashed out another, smoked
an Italian cigarette, loosed his collar, glanced
at his watch. He opened the door. She jumped, holding
the towel to her. He stopped the water, flattened his
cigarette, kicked the door closed. She swallowed. He forced
her chin in his palm, roughed his lips on hers, yanked free
the towel. She made no sound. He knelt, wound his arms
about, forced her rigid form to him. The kittens
meowed solemnly, rubbed their thin backs against her
ankles. The bright in her cheeks drained down her long throat
and hid behind her blue-grey dress. May I come in?
She recognized his voice even in English. A
slight snort escaped her flaring nostrils, a hiss from
under the towel. He knew then that she had seen him
in the store, had expected he would follow. She
drew the heavy German pistol from beneath the
cloth. His left eyelid began to twitch. He nodded,
clicked his heels together. Her eyes were bluer than
anything he had ever seen. She stood straight. She
readied the gun: snap! He would not close his eyes. She
emptied the chambers into his chest through the screen.
He felt himself pounded, flung, in slowed motion, back;
he heard the cats snarl, felt acrid powder sting his
nostrils. His head cracked on the bottom step. He hoped
he hadn't cried out. The kittens mewed, wrapped themselves
around her ankles. Esth… he coughed. Esther, may I
come in? She almost didn't recognize his voice
in English. He was slighter without uniform,
greying, craggier — but him. Her hands shook; she flinched
as his right hand swung around to the front: the slim volume
opened to its first selection. Her brow furrowed.
He put on reading glasses and in wavering
voice read In the Bedroom of the Kommandant. Though
the poem spanned two pages, all its stanzas poured from
him without his turning the page. Her fingers hid
her mouth. His hand faltered as he offered the book
to her, looked over the rim of his spectacles
at her. She did not even breathe. He removed his
glasses, slid them behind his lapel into shirt
pocket; his arm lowered. Ja. He bowed his head, with
a great effort not to click his heels. He laid the
open book on the wide porch-rail, stepped down. Something
creaked behind him. He turned. She came out onto the
porch, holding wide the screen-door. The two grey kittens
peered warily from her feet. The thin towel, her
book's pages fluttered in the early morning breeze.
Did I really say I was proud of that poem at the time I wrote it? Now, about 30 years later, I'm wondering things like, "What's with all the colons & semi-colons?" and "I actually used exclamation points! More than once!" and "No wonder it got rejected so many times before it got accepted!" Seriously, though, you can see that the basic structure of the novel is there, in the poem, with its shifting scenes, different perspectives, and double endings.
Hope you enjoyed the original story and poem, if only for a laugh & as examples of what not to do when writing either stories or poems, and are as glad as I am that I finally learned how to really write, with my first novel, The Kommandant's Mistress.
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Chapter-by-Chapter
Scene Index
Scenes are indicated by Part: Chapter: Scene [1:1:1 = Part One: Chapter One: Scene 1]. Each Part has 10 chapters, each chapter has ten scenes (except as noted below): I was attempting to imitate the arbitrary rigidity of the Nazi Concentration Camps in the structure of the novel. (In Part One, chapters One and Six each have 11 scenes rather than the intended 10: either I miscounted or the artist in me was being subconsciously "arbitrary".)
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Spoiler Alert:
This Index is intended for readers after
they have completed the book
for reference/discussion purposes.
If you read this before reading the novel,
please be aware that it reveals plot elements
by describing s
cene events.
Please do not feel morally obligated
to read this section
of the Revised Edition
if you only want to read the novel itself.
Thanks, Alexandria
Back to Table of Contents
Part One
Chapter One
[1:1:1] Max sees girl in grocery
[1:1:2] Max has girl brought to office
[1:1:3] Himmler's Nuremburg rally: "Save your Country"
[1:1:4] Max's suicide attempt
[1:1:5] Ilse & Jew-gas
[1:1:6] Max & Dieter office luncheon
[1:1:7] Marta shows Max book Dead Bodies
[1:1:8] Max questions girl's Jewish ethnicity
[1:1:9] Boy accosts Max in hotel dining room
[1:1:10] Dieter tells of evening w/ Hitler
[1:1:11] Max's arrest warrant issued
Back to Table of Contents
Chapter Two
[1:2:1] Wannsee Conference: Eichmann & Heydrich
[1:2:2] Max tries to get girl to shoot him
[1:2:3] Max & Red Cross Worker & refugees
[1:2:4] Marta & Max argue about living in camp
[1:2:5] Chimneys crumbling
[1:2:6] Ilse reads storybook to Hans
[1:2:7] Marta finds girl in Max's office
[1:2:8] Dieter's brother's-in-law expelled from Party
[1:2:9] Max's private papers missing
[1:2:10] Letters from Max's family (in hotel safe)
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