The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  We walk into the parlor. Sitting down, I hold the child back from me a few inches and brush his blond curls from his face. His eyes dart back and forth frantically and his grip on my arms tightens, as though afraid I am leaving again. The poor child has seen so many people he trusted walk through the front door and never come back. “Shh,” I coo, drawing him close again and rocking him back and forth. “I have to go away during the day sometimes, kochana, but I will always come back at night. Always.” His grip unrelenting, he buries his head in my shoulder, still not uttering a sound.

  “How was it?” Krysia asks a few hours later, when we have finished supper and carried our mugs of coffee to the study. I had eaten with Lukasz still wrapped around my neck and had only been able to put him to bed once he had fallen soundly asleep in my arms.

  “Not so very bad,” I answer carefully. How could I tell her the truth, that it was both horrible and yet strangely exciting at the same time? I hated being among the Nazis, but it was somehow thrilling to work in such a grand office in Wawel Castle. And then there was Kommandant Richwalder. The air felt electrified when he was present. But he is a Nazi, and to feel anything other than hatred and disgust…a wave of shame washes over me. After an awkward pause, I fetch my bag and show Krysia the pass Colonel Diedrichson had obtained for me from the security office.

  “Yes.” Krysia holds the pass up to the light and appraises it with a knowing eye. “This is the highest Nazi clearance a Pole can get. Our friends in Gdańsk must have really done their job at verifying your background. With this pass, you can go anywhere.”

  “There are still things I cannot see,” I reply. “Confidential documents are off-limits. And most of what I saw was routine correspondence.”

  “Give it time, darling. You must be patient. When the Kommandant grows to know you more, you will gain his trust. Then he will take you into his confidence, share things with you.” She hands the pass back to me. “I will let Alek know right away.”

  “Alek?” Tucking the pass back in my bag, I look at Krysia quizzically. Was he still in the ghetto, I wonder? How does Krysia make contact with him? Does she have contact with Jacob, too? I hesitate, not wanting to ask too much or appear demanding. I am certain that if she had news about Jacob she would tell me.

  “Yes, I sent word to him about your most fortunate position at Wawel. He thinks you may be able to be of use to us there.” She pauses, sipping her coffee and looking out the front window to where the sun is setting behind the trees of Las Wolski. “Not right away, of course. The Nazis will be watching you closely for the first several weeks. They and their Polish spies.” At this last sentence, her lips curl with distaste.

  “I know, I think I have already met one of them.” As I tell her about Malgorzata, the woman’s hawkish features appear in my mind.

  Krysia pats my hand. “Don’t worry. You just do a good job for now. Gain the Kommandant’s trust and confidence,” she stresses once more. “Meanwhile, I will make contact with Alek and find out exactly what he has in mind.”

  CHAPTER 8

  As the grandfather clock in the Kommandant’s office chimes five times, I pick up my lunch pail and walk from the anteroom into the reception area. “I’m leaving,” I tell Malgorzata, who is engaged in making another one of her administrative charts.

  “Good night.” She does not look up. I leave the office, shaking my head and marveling that she can put so much energy and concentration into projects that matter to no one but herself.

  The sun is still high over the spires of Wawel Cathedral as I walk down the castle ramp. Instead of heading directly for the bus stop for the trip back to Krysia’s as I normally would, I turn down Grodzka Street toward the city center. I have been paid today, and it is the first time since leaving my job at the library that I have had any money of my own to spend. I want to buy some treats for Lukasz, and perhaps something for Krysia as well.

  It is Monday, the beginning of my third week working for the Kommandant. I can hardly believe time has flown so quickly. The first few days of work were terrifying. My every nerve stood on end. I jumped each time the door to the anteroom opened, and my hands shook so hard I could hardly type. At the end of the day, I would return to Chelmska gray and shaken. “You must learn to calm yourself,” Krysia had admonished gently. “You are going to make yourself ill.” Not to mention give myself away, I thought. Malgorzata had remarked more than once during my first week of work that I looked pale.

  Finally, I had forced myself to calm down, breathing deeply and visualizing happier times with Jacob and my family. Now my nerves are better, and I do not shake as I walk up the ramp into Wawel each morning. But there are some things I know I will never get used to. I still avert my eyes from the endless parade of swastika flags that line the castle corridors. I avoid walking the hallways unnecessarily, only leaving my office once or twice each day to go to the water closet or to lunch. I dread running into the other staff members, who invariably greet me with an enthusiastic “Heil Hitler!” When someone says this, I am forced to raise my hand in return and mumble something that passes for the same syllables. In fact, under my breath I am actually mumbling, “Kill Hitler!” or some other obscenity that would never have crossed my lips a year earlier.

  Each day at lunchtime, I take my pail and sit on a bench by the river, passing the hour by reading a newspaper borrowed from the office, or just looking at the water as it flows under the railway bridge. It has been so very long since I have been able to just sit by the Wisla. I had once taken it utterly for granted, playing by the water’s edge as a child, walking along the banks with Jacob as we courted. Now I am here again on its grass-covered banks, only this time I am acutely aware that I do not belong. I should be in the ghetto, I often think, looking across to the far bank of the river, imprisoned there with my family and neighbors. Instead, I am able to spend each day at lunch sitting out by the water, enjoying a thick turkey sandwich and an apple packed by Krysia that morning. Often, I stare across the water in the direction of Podgorze, fantasizing about sneaking away and taking some food to my parents in the ghetto.

  Though I prefer to eat lunch alone, I am often joined by a group of secretaries from the other offices at Wawel. These are young Polish women, indifferent to the fact that they were working for the Nazis, happy to hold a position of relative security and prestige, and to have a steady source of income in these dire times. “Don’t blame them,” I can hear my father say, as he had about those Jews who policed and ran the ghetto. “These are desperate times, and people are only doing what they need to do to survive.” Still, I cannot help but resent these young women, who gossip as schoolgirls might, about clothes and movies and men, all the while profiting from the Nazi occupation. They are fascinated by the senior Nazi officers, particularly my boss, Kommandant Richwalder, and they constantly attempt to pepper me with questions about him. They want to know if he has ever been married, if he has a girlfriend, how he got his facial scars. “I really don’t know,” I always respond, trying to sound apologetic instead of annoyed. “He is a very private man.”

  I know they do not believe, or even like me. They think that I am an out-of-towner, not one of them. Like Malgorzata, they envy my status and resent the way I suddenly appeared to begin working as the confidential assistant to one of the highest Nazi officials in Poland while they, who had toiled in lesser offices for months, had been passed over. Some of them think that the Kommandant and I are romantically involved, and that I was given the position for that reason. “The Kommandant’s girl,” I had overheard one of them call me in the corridor during my first week of work, when she did not know I was around the corner. I often wonder if Malgorzata is the source of such gossip. But there is no point in making enemies, so I continue to speak with them at lunch each day, pretending I have heard nothing.

  Sometimes as I sit with these girls at lunch, listening to their inane conversations, I want to jump up and shout, “Don’t you know? There is a horrible ghetto down the road,
and there are people, neighbors you knew your whole life, who are suffering and dying there!” Of course, I bite the inside of my cheek and say nothing that might lead them to question who I really am. In their company, I can think of little else but my true identity, though, and the fact that I might be discovered at any moment. My rational mind knows that it is unlikely: my papers are in order, and no one here knows me from my other life. Unless I accidentally blurt out a Yiddish word or run into someone I once knew, my cover is likely to remain intact.

  At the end of Grodzka Street, close to the market square, I pause before a small toy shop. Something for Lukasz, I think, looking at the toy trains and dolls in the front window. As I step inside, I realize that I am unsure what he would like. He is such a passive child and accepts everything so gratefully. When Krysia or I hand him a kitchen pot, he relishes it as though it is a great gift, and plays with it for hours. I scan the shelves. The selection is limited, and I will not buy him toy guns or soldiers. Not wanting to linger too long and get home late, I settle on some building blocks and a wooden horse.

  As I step out of the shop with my purchases and start across the street, the skin on the back of my neck prickles: I am being watched. I peer furtively over my shoulder, but I can detect no one unusual or suspicious in the rush-hour crowds. I continue on my way, purchasing some licorice at the candy store and then heading toward the nearest bus stop. At the corner, there is a fruit kiosk. I finger the remaining coins in my pocket. I should save some of the money, but I would like to get something for Krysia to show my appreciation for all that she has done for us. Perhaps just an orange, I think. As I stand examining the produce at the fruit stand, a small woman sidles up to me. I can feel her breath warm on my neck. “The dark ones are the juiciest,” she says loudly enough for the merchant to hear.

  I hesitate for a moment. The voice is familiar, but I am unable to place it. She means for me to play along, I realize. “Yes, but the light ones are sweeter.”

  “Walk with me,” the stranger whispers after I pay the seller. Only when we are several feet away do I look over. Marta! I might not recognize her but for the thick glasses and bright eyes. Her dark curly hair has been straightened and made lighter, and her blue skirt and kerchief are those of a Polish peasant girl. There is something more mature about her, too; gone is the chubby, girlish figure, and in its place stands a curvy and mature woman. She has changed much in the months since our last meeting.

  “Marta, what are you…?”

  “Shh…” Instead of answering, she grabs my hand playfully, as though we were just two girls meeting up while out for an afternoon stroll. “Walk with me,” she says softly.

  I follow her, my mind racing. I have not seen Marta since I escaped from the ghetto, and there are so many things I want to ask her. How did she get out? How did she find me? I bite my tongue, knowing that it is not safe to talk on the street. “How did you…?” I whisper at last when I can stand it no longer, the blood pounding in my cheeks.

  “Keep your head up,” she singsongs through her smile, and I realize that I have tilted my head toward her in a conspiratorial gesture that threatens to give us away. “I got out on my messenger’s pass just before the ghetto was sealed,” she replies in a voice just slightly lower than normal. “Many of us are living outside Kraków now in the forests and villages.”

  I desperately want to ask her about Jacob. Perhaps she has seen him or had word through the resistance. But we have never spoken of my husband. “Where are we going?” I ask instead.

  “Alek wants to see you.” Alek. My breath catches. Perhaps he has some news of Jacob. I follow Marta, expecting that she will lead me in the direction of the ghetto, toward an abandoned building or alleyway or out of town, but she continues striding confidently toward the market square. It is a balmy summer evening, and the outdoor cafés ringing the square are crowded with Nazis and Poles enjoying a coffee or beer after work.

  “Here?” I ask incredulously, as she leads me to a sidewalk café overflowing with people.

  “Where better?” she replies, and I realize that she is right. Much like my working in Nazi headquarters, no one would suspect that a bunch of Jews would have the audacity to meet at an outdoor café on the market square in broad daylight.

  I hesitate, but no one looks up as I follow Marta through a maze of tables. Toward the back of the café sit two men. As we near, I recognize Alek and Marek. Alek has cut his hair so short that patches of white scalp shine through. Marek, his beard shaved, looks like a schoolboy. They rise as we approach and kiss each of us on our cheeks three times, as though this is a social gathering.

  “Hello, Anna,” Alek addresses me as we sit down. I notice that he used my pseudonym. I try to contain my excitement at seeing him. My mind buzzes with a thousand questions: How had he arranged my escape? Has he heard from Jacob?

  A waitress approaches our table and Marek orders four coffees. “How’s work?” Alek asks when she has gone.

  “O-okay,” I stammer, caught off guard by the nonchalance of his question.

  “I saw your uncle from Lwów last Tuesday,” Alek says. Puzzled, I start to reply that I have no uncle from Lwów. Then I stop, realizing that he is referring to Jacob.

  “He is well?” I ask, my stomach jumping.

  “Quite well.” I relax slightly. He continues, “Very busy with his work. And he is missing his niece terribly.” I smile, knowing he means me.

  After the waitress has returned with our coffees and left again, Marta and Marek begin talking then in a loud, joking, conversational voice about nothing in particular. Alek addresses me directly in a lower tone. “Down the hall from where you work is the office of Colonel Krich, the director of administration. He issues all of the security passes that give access throughout the city.” I nod. Krich had signed the security pass I’d received on my first day of work. “Each Tuesday morning, Krich and the other senior officials travel over to Pomorskie Street for a long meeting. Krich’s secretary often uses this time to get her hair done or run errands outside Wawel. If the way is clear, you can get into his office. The key to his office is taped under his secretary’s desk.” He grabs my hand under the table and presses something into it.

  “This is the combination to the safe. Memorize and destroy it. Inside the safe are blank passes, consecutively numbered. Take no more than a half dozen each week. Make certain they are always individual sheets from the middle or near the bottom of the stack, so they will not be missed.

  “Each Tuesday afternoon, you will come here after work. Marek or I or someone else who will recognize you will come to have tea with you. You will set your satchel down by the foot of the chair, and when you go to leave, you will be given a new one. If you have not been successful that week, or if you think you are being followed, you are not to come. If it is not safe, the person will not be here to meet you. Do you understand?” I gulp, nodding. Alek means for me to steal security passes for the resistance.

  Marek breaks from his conversation with Marta to interject in a harsh whisper. “It is essential that you get the passes this week! We need—”

  Alek raises his hand, cutting Marek off. “Only if it is safe. We cannot afford to take chances.” Marek bites his lip and looks away, chastised. Alek turns back to me and lowers his hand onto mine, his brow furrowed. “Anna, I’m not going to lie to you. This is dangerous work, as risky as any in the entire movement. But you wanted to help, and fortune has put you in a unique position to do so.”

  “I understand,” I reply quickly. In fact, I could barely begin to grasp the magnitude of what he was asking me to do.

  “It should only be two, three times at the most,” he adds. I nod again. “Well, then.” Alek swallows his coffee in one mouthful and stands. Marek follows. “It was a pleasure seeing you ladies.” Marek tips his hat and the two stride off jauntily across the market square.

  “Is he crazy?” I whisper to Marta once Alek and Marek are out of earshot. “Me, do this?”

  Marta
blinks rapidly several times behind her glasses, and I realize that I have made a mistake. Clearly she is unused to hearing anyone question Alek. “You heard him. You are the only one in a position to do the job.”

  “But me? I’m only a…” I hesitate, looking for the right word to describe my own sense of inadequacy.

  “What?” Marta shoots back, her eyes flashing. “A girl?” It is the first time I have ever heard anger in her voice. I start to speak then stop, humbled. How silly I must sound! Marta is a girl, too, younger than me, and her work as a messenger has put her in constant danger.

  “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip, twirling the sugar spoon between my thumb and forefinger. “I just feel that I lack some sort of experience.”

  “No one trains for this,” she replies flatly, not looking at me.

  “You’re right, of course. Again, I’m sorry.”

  We are silent for several minutes. Yet despite the awkwardness, we linger over our coffees. Our reunion, this fleeting moment of camaraderie, feels like standing by a fire before heading off into the cold. Neither of us wants to abandon it. “So…” Marta says at last.

  “So…” I repeat. There is so much I want to ask her, I don’t know where to begin.

  “You are looking well,” she offers.

  “Thank you. I am very fortunate to be at Krysia’s. She is so kind to me.” Suddenly, I feel self-conscious about my cheeks, which have grown fuller and more colorful since I arrived at Krysia’s house. I notice that Marta herself looks pale and tired, and I wonder what they live off of in the forest.

  “It is not so bad out there,” she says defensively. Like Alek, she seems to be able to read my mind. I must keep better control of my expressions. Such transparency will not serve me well at Wawel. “At least we are free,” she adds.

  Marta stands to leave then and I follow. “How is your mother?” I ask as we walk away, wondering if, through the resistance, she might still have some news from inside the ghetto. Marta looks down, shaking her head. “Oh, no! What happened?”