The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  One day while wringing out my soaked stockings in the water closet down the hall from our office and cursing the weather for the hundredth time, I stop, shamefaced. I spent my days in a comfortable office, my nights in a warm bed. Where is Jacob? I wonder. I imagine him sleeping in the woods through these storms, without roof or floor.

  Finally, after nearly two weeks, the rains subside and the sun begins to shine through. “The weather has broken,” Krysia says on Tuesday morning, not looking up from the pitcher into which she is squeezing oranges. “It will be lovely weather at the café this afternoon.”

  I swallow the mouthful of cereal I had been chewing. “Yes.” I have not spoken of my secret mission with her since the day I saw Alek.

  She sets down an orange and walks out of the kitchen without speaking, her apron still tied around her waist. A few minutes later she returns. “Can you run an errand for me after work?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I reply quickly, without asking what it is. Krysia asks so little from me in exchange for all that she has done, it is the least I can do.

  “Good. Here.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. I take it from her and my hand drops under the weight. It is filled with coins, I can tell from the hard, round shapes that protrude through the cloth. The weight suggests that they are real silver, the only currency that is worth anything these days. “Give this to Alek,” she says. “Tell him to buy something useful.” I nod, amazed. I knew that Krysia was connected to the resistance through Jacob. I did not know she was helping to finance it. I should not have been surprised.

  The day at work seems interminably slow as I wait for my meeting with Alek. At last, the clock strikes five and I make my way to the market square, the papers and satchel of coins in my bag. I try to walk naturally, but I might as well be carrying a bomb—if I am caught, I am as good as dead.

  When I cross the square and approach the designated café, only Alek and Marek await. Marta is not with them, and I wonder if she is avoiding me since our awkward conversation about Jacob. Perhaps, I think with a twinge of jealousy, she is on an assignment with him somewhere. “We needed these days ago,” Marek snaps, taking the bag directly from my hands before I can even sit down. I catch Alek glancing over my shoulder, concerned that Marek’s rough gesture might have drawn attention to us.

  I am taken aback by his rudeness. “The rains were hardly my fault,” I manage as I sit.

  “Of course not. You did wonderfully.” Alek’s deep voice is soothing. “It’s just that there was an akcja, and we were hoping to get some people out before it happened with these papers.”

  “An akcja,” I repeat in a hushed whisper. While still in the ghetto, I had heard rumors of akcjas in other cities. The Nazis would storm into the ghetto, ordering the residents out of their apartments to assemble in the street. Hundreds of Jews, seemingly chosen at random, would be cleared out in a single day and deported to labor camps. Those who resisted such deportations were shot on sight. “I didn’t see or hear anything about it in the Kommandant’s office.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Alek replies. “Most of the work involving the Jews is undertaken at the Directorate of Operations, over on Pomorskie Street. And the few papers the Kommandant likely received would have been classified.”

  “Oh.”

  “Next time you go into Krich’s office…” Marek begins, but Alek, noticing my furrowed brow, interrupts him.

  “What’s troubling you?” he asks.

  I pause, swallowing. “Alek, please, my parents are still in the ghetto.” It occurs to me that after the akcja they may not be there anymore. “Isn’t there something that can be done?”

  Alek takes a deep breath, holds it. “You must understand…” he begins.

  “We all had parents,” Marek interjects coldly. I remember then hearing that his father had been shot in Nowy Sacz early in the war.

  Alek places his hand on mine. “Emma,” he begins gently. Emma. My real name sounds so foreign now. “The situation in the ghetto has changed much since you were there. The walls are sealed and heavily guarded. The only way to get people out is with a transit pass or with a work card or messenger’s pass. That’s why your getting these blank passes was so very important.”

  “Can’t my parents have two of the passes?” I demand, surprised at my own boldness.

  “The thing is this.” Alek hesitates. “After you were taken from the ghetto, Jacob asked me to look in on your parents from time to time. And I have…Emma, your mother is sick.”

  “Sick?” I panic, my voice rising. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Shh,” Alek soothes. “She has one of the many things that spread through the ghetto like wildfire. I don’t know if it is typhus.” I think of Marta’s mother then. “Or dysentery, or even a bad flu. But she has a high fever that she can’t seem to shake, and she is bedridden. So you see why we cannot issue her a work card. Even if she could walk, she does not look strong enough to be a worker. The Nazis would see through the scheme right away, and her fate would be far worse, then.”

  I do not answer. I consider asking for help for my father, but I know he would never leave without her. “Then I should go back to them,” I say aloud.

  “Back?” Marek splutters so loudly the couple behind us stares. When they have turned back to their coffees, he continues, his voice soft but full of anger. “Do you have any idea how bad things are there? How hard we worked to get you out in the first place?”

  “It is impossible,” Alek agrees. I slump in my chair, defeated.

  “And if she gets better?” I persist.

  “If she gets better, we will do all we can. That is the only promise I can make to you. Things in the ghetto are horrible right now, and they are growing worse by the day. We have to help as many people as we can as quickly as possible. That is why our work is so very important, and you must keep doing what you are doing for us. It is the only way to help all of our families. Do you understand?” Pulling my hand from his, I do not answer. “Same time next week, then?”

  I nod and stand up. He has not mentioned Jacob and I want to ask if he is safe, if there has been any word from him. But I can tell from their faces they will say nothing further; I have been dismissed. “Yes,” I say finally.

  “Good.” Alek rises and remains standing until I have walked away.

  When I reach the far corner of the square, I stop, unable to hold my tears. Mama, I think, picturing her and my father sleeping the night I escaped from the ghetto. I never should have left them. Now my mother is very sick and my parents could be deported at any moment. There is nothing I can do and the resistance is unwilling to help them. What is the good of these spy games we are playing if we cannot even help our own families? For the first time, I am plagued with doubt toward those I had trusted most: Alek, Krysia, even my beloved Jacob.

  I think for a second of the Kommandant, picturing his eyes and the kindly way he looks at me. Perhaps he can help…. No, don’t be ridiculous, I remind myself. He is, first and foremost, a Nazi. If he thinks you have Jewish relatives, even the tiniest drop of Jewish blood, his affection will turn to revulsion and you will be dead, along with your family, the resistance and everyone who has helped you. Everyone you love. I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes, ashamed to have thought of him in such a way, even fleetingly. No, the Kommandant is no friend.

  An hour later, I burst through the front gate of Krysia’s house. She is in the garden weeding with Lukasz. Taking one look at my red eyes, she sets down the trowel, picks up Lukasz and leads me into the house. “What is it?” she asks when the door is closed behind her. As we walk upstairs, I tell her about my conversation with Alek and my mother’s illness. “Oh, you poor dear,” she says, drawing me in her embrace, rocking back and forth while Lukasz, sandwiched between us, looks on quizzically.

  “Alek says there is nothing they can do,” I add.

  “I’m sure he would help if he could,” she replies calm
ly. Krysia, like Marta, is completely trusting of the resistance leadership and their decisions. She leads me to the sofa. “You have to see it from his perspective. Things are very difficult for the resistance right now and they have thousands of Jews to consider. He can’t risk everything to save any individual person.”

  I think of Pani Nederman, Marta’s mother. Marta has been fighting for the resistance much longer than I. They did nothing to help her mother when she was sick, and she died. “I never should have left them,” I cry.

  “Is that what you think?” Krysia lifts my chin. “Emma, listen to me. This is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done to keep your mother from getting sick. If you were there you might have caught the illness as well.” I do not reply. Krysia continues, “Let me see what I can do.” I look back at Krysia, surprised. Do? If Alek and his contacts, with access to inside the ghetto, could not help my parents, how could Krysia possibly help?

  A few days later, when I am giving Lukasz his evening bath, Krysia comes and stands in the bathroom doorway. “Pankiewicz is an old friend of mine,” she begins. I pause, washcloth suspended midair. I had almost forgotten about the kindly, brave pharmacist, a non-Jew who had chosen to remain behind at his pharmacy in Podgorze to care for the Jews as the ghetto walls went up around him. “He checked on your mother this morning. She is very sick, and his medicine supplies are quite low. But he promised to look in on her and give her the best care he can.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I leap up and throw my arms around Krysia’s neck. “Thank you, thank you!” Pankiewicz might not be able to do much, but at least someone has said they would try to help.

  “Dank!” Lukasz mimics, trying to repeat my words and splashing around in delight at the commotion. Krysia and I break from our embrace and turn to the child, stunned. It is the first time since he came to live with us that Lukasz has spoken.

  Twenty minutes later, as I dry Lukasz, he is still babbling, a nonsensical torrent that has been bottled up inside him for months. I put him into his pajamas, thinking of my mother once more. My hope begins to fade and a nagging sensation returns to my stomach. Krysia’s inquiries and Pankiewicz’s attention are well-intentioned, but they are nothing in the face of the starvation, disease and despair that my parents face, not to mention that another akcja could come at any time to sweep them away. I brush these doubts from my mind. When one is trying to stay afloat in deep water, one grabs at any stick that is offered—and tries not to notice that the stick is in fact nothing more than a wisp of a reed, practically useless in the strong current.

  CHAPTER 10

  A few days after Krysia tells me about Pankiewicz, I am standing in the corner of the anteroom, putting the papers into the file cabinet. The new filing system I created has worked well, but I have to be sure to file the papers at least once a week so that I do not get behind. I pause to wipe my brow. It is mid-July and quite warm, despite the fact that it is not yet ten o’clock and both windows are open.

  Suddenly, the Kommandant comes through the front door of the anteroom. Malgorzata is at his heels. “In my office, please,” he says as he passes, without looking at me. I hesitate, surprised. We had our daily meeting nearly two hours ago and he has never called me in a second time so quickly, much less invited Malgorzata to join us. Something is wrong. A chill passes through me. The passes, I remember suddenly, my stomach dropping. Someone has noticed that the security passes I took are missing. Perhaps Malgorzata has told him that I was acting strangely the day they went missing, or that I was seen lingering outside Colonel Krich’s office by one of the other secretaries. Feeling faint, I grab the edge of the file cabinet for support.

  “Anna…?” I jump and spin around. Colonel Diedrichson has entered the anteroom and is looking from me to the door of the Kommandant’s office expectantly.

  “Yes, I’m coming,” I reply. Willing my hands not to shake, I take my notebook from the top of the file cabinet. Colonel Diedrichson follows me through the door of the Kommandant’s office.

  “Sit down,” the Kommandant says. Out of the corner of my eye, I study his face, looking for some sign of anger or accusation, but he is looking away from me, his expression imperceptible. Colonel Diedrichson places himself stiffly in the chair, leaving me the spot on the sofa beside Malgorzata, who has placed herself at the end closest to the Kommandant. As I sit, my mind races, trying to come up with a response if I am confronted about the passes, a reason why I was near Krich’s office that morning. The Kommandant clears his throat. “We are to have an official visit from Berlin,” he announces.

  So this is not about the passes after all. A wave of relief washes over me.

  “Sir?” Colonel Diedrichson sounds startled. It is the first time I have heard any emotion in his voice. “A delegation?” I, too, am surprised. Though I recall Ludwig mentioning a delegation visit at the dinner party, I have not heard or seen anything about it since my arrival.

  “Yes, it was decided only yesterday. Three very senior members of the SS leadership. They arrive Thursday.” The Kommandant takes a stack of papers from his desk and distributes a portion of it to each of us. “That is only three days away and there is much to be done. The governor will meet with the delegation, of course, but all of the arrangements are to be over-seen by this office. Colonel Diedrichson will take care of the itinerary and logistics. Anna, you are to assist him, and to make sure everything here in the office goes smoothly.” Though still not entirely sure what he needs from me, I nod. “Malgorzata, please see that the office is immaculate.”

  “Yes, Herr Kommandant!” Malgorzata replies, lifting her chin as though she has been asked to guard state secrets.

  “Good. That is all for now.” Colonel Diedrichson stands and starts for the door and Malgorzata and I follow close behind. “Anna, wait a moment, please.” The Kommandant gestures me over to the side of the desk, but does not speak until the others have gone.

  “Yes, Herr Kommandant?” Closer now, I can see that his face is pale, his eyes bloodshot.

  “I don’t have to tell you how important this visit is to me, to all of us in the General Government.” I nod, wondering why he is telling me this. “Everything must go perfectly. I am counting on you to help make this happen.”

  “Me?” I cannot help but sound surprised.

  “Yes. You are very capable and have an eye for detail. Make sure Colonel Diedrichson and the others forget nothing. If you think something is being missed or wrong, let me know immediately. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Herr Kommandant.”

  “Good.” He lowers his head, placing his hands on his temples.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just a headache,” he replies, not looking up. “I’ve always gotten them, though they’ve been more severe of late with all of the stress.”

  “Perhaps an aspirin?” I offer, but he shakes his head.

  “These headaches require something stronger. I have medicine that my doctor prescribed.”

  “Very well. Is there anything else that you need?”

  “Not right now,” he replies. He lifts his head slightly to look at me. “Thank you, Anna. I feel much better knowing that you are here.” I do not answer, but turn and walk hurriedly from the office.

  The next several days are a blur of activity. Word of the visit spreads quickly around the castle, and soon every office is abuzz with preparation. The cleaning staff of Wawel work around the clock to make the marble sparkle and the endless windows shine. The Nazi flags are taken down from the hallway, pressed and rehung. Malgorzata, seeming not to trust anyone else to clean our offices sufficiently, does most of the work herself. I watched as she spends a day and a half on her knees, scrubbing the floor.

  My own role is limited. The day after our meeting, I help Colonel Diedrichson type the final version of the itinerary which, he tells me, is classified for security reasons. The delegation, a party of three high-ranking Nazis and their military attachés, will be here for one night, and will vi
sit the labor camps Plaszow and Auschwitz and the ghetto. I shudder as I read the last part. In truth, I know that the ghetto is large, that there is only the slightest chance the delegation will see my parents, but still…I force the thought from my mind, keep working. On Friday, the Kommandant invites me to sit in on a review of the itinerary with himself and the colonel. When every last detail has been reviewed, the Kommandant declares that we are ready.

  That night, my stomach twists as I think of the visit. “I wish there was some way I could be ill tomorrow,” I confide to Krysia that night after dinner as I clear the table. “I haven’t been this nervous since my first day of work.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Krysia reassures, still seated at the table. She is trying to spoon peas into Lukasz’s mouth. “You work around the Nazis every day.”

  I shake my head. “These are different.” They are SS from Berlin, I think. Surely something will give me away.

  Handing me a plate, she continues, “Anyway, if they are like other self-important men, chances are they won’t even notice you.” Looking over at Krysia, I find that she is smirking.