by Pam Jenoff
“Krysia!” I exclaim, surprised. I cannot help but giggle. Her observation is both funny and true at the same time. With the possible exception of the Kommandant, men of stature, whether they are Nazis or professors, seem to look right through young women such as me. Suddenly, we are both laughing full and hard. It is not just her comment, but the ludicrousness of the entire situation and months of pent-up anxiety. Lukasz stares at us in amazement. He has never seen either, much less both of us, in hysterics. Soon he joins in, cackling wildly and banging his spoon against the table. Peas fly everywhere. The sight of him makes us laugh even harder. Later that night in bed, I find that my throat is scratchy from laughing. It is no longer accustomed to making such a sound.
The next day I arrive at work half an hour early. The Kommandant, Colonel Diedrichson and Malgorzata are already there, scurrying around with last-minute preparations as though the delegation was scheduled to arrive momentarily, instead of in the early afternoon. We do not take lunch that day. Even the Kommandant, usually so composed, paces from his office, through the anteroom, to the reception area and back again. For once, he barely seems to notice me. At exactly twelve-forty-five, the telephone in the reception area rings and Malgorzata throws herself across the desk to get it. “Herr Kommandant, they’re here!” she exclaims.
“Early…” I hear him mutter under his breath, as though this was a bad sign. “To your desks, please, ladies.” He straightens his jacket. “Colonel, come with me.” As the men leave the office, I look at Malgorzata. She is sitting perfectly straight in her chair, smoothing her hair, her face flushed with excitement. I have never despised her more.
I return to the anteroom and close the door. I sit behind my own desk and assume what I perceive to be a professional position, tablet and pen in hand. A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps and deep voices in the hallway, followed by the sound of the front office door opening. The voices are louder now. Breathe, I think. Act naturally. The door to the anteroom swings open, and the Kommandant enters. He is followed by seven men. Though I keep my head low, I can tell that the three men immediately behind them in heavily decorated brown uniforms are the official delegation. The other three younger men who follow are clearly the attachés. None of the men are as tall or imposing as the Kommandant. Krysia was right, I think, as they pass me without looking in my direction. Perhaps if I do not have to interact with them, I can manage this after all.
The last of the party is Colonel Diedrichson. As he reaches the door of the Kommandant’s inner office, he turns to me. “Anna, bring eight coffees. Quickly.”
Inwardly, I cringe. I had not anticipated having to serve refreshments. For a moment, I consider asking Malgorzata to do it, but I know the Kommandant would prefer to have me. “Yes, Colonel,” I reply, rising and heading for the small kitchen just down the hallway. A few minutes later, I return through the reception area, balancing a serving tray laden with a pitcher of hot coffee and saucers. Malgorzata opens the door to the anteroom without my having to ask her, and I can tell from the way she follows me that she is hoping to come into the office, too. “Thank you, Malgorzata,” I whisper firmly when she has opened the door to the Kommandant’s inner office for me. She turns away, defeated.
I had hoped that I could place the tray on the low coffee table and leave, but it is clear from the way the delegation is spread out across the room that I will have to serve. I walk first to the far end of the office where the Kommandant and two senior officers are clustered around the conference table, poring over a large map. Keeping my eyes low, I set down the tray and begin to pour the coffees. As I begin to pour the last cup, my hands tremble involuntarily. Hot coffee splashes over the edge of the cup, burning my hand and I jump, setting the cup back on the tray with a loud, clattering sound. One of the officers looks up at me, glaring.
“Anna,” the Kommandant says softly. I expect him to sound angry, but he does not. Our eyes meet. He is staring at me intensely, his expression one of concern and, I think, something else I cannot describe. My breath catches. “Thank you.” I nod, my eyes still locked with his.
“Kommandant Richwalder…” a male voice says. My head snaps to the right. For a moment I have almost forgotten where we are, that there are others in the room. The men at the table have stopped working and are staring at us. The officer who glared at me has turned slightly toward the Kommandant, bewildered. I can tell he is unaccustomed to hearing someone of the Kommandant’s stature address his subordinates with kindness, and that he is even more taken aback by the way the Kommandant looks at me.
“Thank you, Anna,” the Kommandant repeats. “That will be all.” He clears his throat and rearranges the papers on the table in front of him before addressing the men. “Now, if you will turn to the chart on page three…”
Taking care not to spill again, I carry the tray to the Kommandant’s desk, where the third delegation member sits, talking on the telephone. He does not look up. The photograph of the Kommandant and the dark-haired woman has been removed from the corner of his desk, I notice as I pour. I quickly pass out the remaining cups to Diedrichson and the other attachés who are sitting around the coffee table by the door. These are younger men, and as I bend over the low table I can feel their eyes on me, taking me in. My face burning, I straighten quickly and escape back to the anteroom.
I return to my desk, shaking. My head pounds. It will be over soon, I tell myself. The delegation is only scheduled to be in the office for a brief time, and they will not be coming back. Twenty minutes later, the voices inside the Kommandant’s office grow louder and the door opens. The Kommandant, leading the group once more, does not look at or speak as he passes me, and for a moment I wonder if he is angry at me for spilling the coffee. But as he reaches the door, he turns back toward me. “I’ll call you,” he says. I nod. He told me yesterday that I am not to leave at the normal time tonight, but that I should stay in case the delegation needs anything. He has promised to let me know once they have retired for the night so I can go home.
When I hear the front door of the reception area close, I exhale. They are gone. A few minutes later, I pick up the serving tray and reenter the Kommandant’s office to clean up the coffee cups. I could have left it for the Wawel cleaning staff, or even Malgorzata, to do, but I want to see if the delegation left any papers behind. The Kommandant’s desk and coffee table are as clean as before they arrived, except for the empty cups. As I near the conference room table, I stop. There, spread out as it had been when I served, is the map the men had been poring over. Easy, I tell myself, as I approach the table. It’s just a map. Surely they wouldn’t have left it behind if it was important.
I look over my shoulder to make sure Malgorzata has not followed me. The door to the office is closed. Slowly, I edge my way toward the map, keeping the serving tray in one hand and an empty cup in the other, so that I can appear to be cleaning if anyone walks in. I look down. It is a map of Kraków, labeled in German. There are several buildings outlined in red: Wawel Castle, the administrative offices on Pomorskie Street, Kazimierz, the ghetto. There are red arrows pointing from Kazimierz to the ghetto. Probably just all of the places they are going to visit, I think, as I start to clean up once more. Then, as I reach to pick up the last coffee cup, I stop again. The arrows, I realize, aren’t pointing to the ghetto, they are going through the ghetto toward Plaszow, the labor camp. And drawn through the ghetto, in pencil, is a large X. I freeze, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. The ghetto has been crossed out. What can it mean? Another akcja? Are all of the ghetto inhabitants to be deported to Plaszow? Stop it, I think, as my stomach starts to twist. Don’t go imagining things you know nothing about. I make a note to tell Alek when I see him again on Tuesday.
I return the tray and cups to the kitchen, then return to my desk. The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Except for a single trip to the water closet, I remain glued to my seat in case the Kommandant should call. At five o’clock, Malgorzata sticks her head in. “I ca
n stay if you want,” she offers.
I shake my head. I know she would like to linger in the hope that I might share some details about the delegation. In truth, I am not looking forward to staying in the empty office by myself, but the thought of her prying company is more than I can bear. “No, thank you. There’s really nothing to be done.” As she departs, I can hear the other secretaries in the hallway, leaving for the day. I spend an hour or so finishing the filing I had begun earlier in the week and updating the Kommandant’s address list. The office is completely silent, except for the faint ticking of the clock above my desk. When my work is complete, I look up. It is only six-forty-five. The delegation is probably just beginning their first course at Wierzynek, the elegant Polish restaurant I had recommended to Diedrichson. I could be here for several more hours. I reach into my bag and pull out my own supper, a cold stew left over from the night before and a thick wedge of bread. Looking around the silent, empty room, I sigh, imagining Krysia and Lukasz sitting down to supper without me. I wonder if the child will fuss because I am not there.
Another hour passes. Still the Kommandant has not called. I wonder if he has forgotten about me. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I leave my desk and race to the washroom. As I reenter the reception area, I can hear the phone in the anteroom ringing. It may be the Kommandant, I think, running for it. “Tak?” I say breathlessly, forgetting to answer in German.
It is not the Kommandant, but Colonel Diedrichson. “Is he there?” he asks impatiently.
“Who?”
“The Kommandant, of course.” He sounds annoyed. “He said he needed to stop back at the office and asked me to escort the delegation back to the hotel.”
“I don’t think…” I start to say, then look toward the Kommandant’s office. Yellow light shines from under the closed door. “Oh, yes, he is here. He must have come in when I stepped away for a minute. Do you want to speak with him?”
“No, I just wanted to make sure he got back all right,” he replies, his voice strange. “His car will be waiting downstairs when he’s ready.”
“I will tell him when I see him.” I hang up the phone and look at the door to the Kommandant’s office. Should I knock to see if he needs anything? I start across the anteroom, then hesitate. I will wait a few minutes, I think, turning around. On the way back to my desk, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and smooth my disheveled hair. I return to my seat behind the desk, staring uneasily at the door. It is not like the Kommandant to be in the office at night. Why has he come back? Ten minutes pass, then twenty. No sound comes from the Kommandant’s office. I wonder if he has fallen asleep.
At last, I walk to the office door and knock lightly. There is no answer. I open the door a few inches. The Kommandant stands over the map with his back to me, looking down, head tilted toward his right shoulder.
“Herr Kommandant?” He does not seem to hear me. “Do you need anything?” I ask after several seconds of silence. He spins unsteadily from the conference table to the enormous glass window behind his desk. He has been drinking, I realize. My suspicion is confirmed as I cross the room and am assaulted by the thick odor of brandy and sweat. I am surprised; until now, the Kommandant has always appeared thoroughly composed. I have never seen him so much as touch the glass bottle of brown liquid that sits on the edge of his desk.
“Herr Kommandant,” I repeat tentatively. He does not answer. I gesture toward the unfamiliar folder clutched in his right hand. “Is that for me?” He shakes his head unevenly, dropping the folder into the open top drawer of his desk. I make a mental note to try to look there the next time he is out. “Do you have some work you would like me to do in the morning when you are with the delegation?” As I walk closer, I notice a gray shadow of stubble on his jaw. He is unkempt and there is a distressed look in his eyes that I have never seen before.
He stares out the window once more at the dusky sky over the river. “I saw Auschwitz today,” he says suddenly. Auschwitz. The word sends a chill through me. We had heard rumors about the camp since before the ghetto, almost since the beginning of the war. Many of the stories had come from the rural Jews who were forced to migrate to Kraków. A labor camp, some had said originally, for political prisoners. During my last months in the ghetto, though, the stories had become more gruesome. Rumor had it that the camp was filled with Jews, not so much working as dying in tremendous numbers. I had heard nothing more about it since coming to Krysia’s. No one working at Wawel ever spoke of it until the delegation visit was announced. Auschwitz. I understand now why the Kommandant has been drinking.
I am uncertain what to say. “Oh?” I try to make my tone inviting, hoping that he might say more, perhaps something useful I could relay to Alek. But he does not speak for several minutes.
“Yes,” he continues at last. “I never thought…” He does not have to finish the sentence. I understand. The Kommandant considers himself a gentleman, a man of music, art and culture. In his twisted way of thinking, service to the Reich is something noble and patriotic, and the Jewish question is an ugliness to be tolerated from afar. He has sequestered himself in Wawel, ruling his dominion from a great height, shielding himself from the killing. From where he sits, the ghetto is just a neighborhood where the Jews are forced to live. Plaszow is just a labor camp. I am sure that he justified his time at Sachsenhausen, too, seeing it as a prison, its inhabitants criminals who deserved their surroundings. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t wanted to see the starvation, disease and murder of innocent civilians. Until now. Today he has been forced to go to Auschwitz, and the reality of what he has seen is so terrible it has unraveled him, driven him to drink. This terrifies me more than anything else has since the beginning of the war.
“Dreadful, I am sure.” I wish that I could look inside his mind and learn what he has seen that day. Though I might have preferred it, I cannot bury my head in the sand like an ostrich as I once had done in the ghetto. I need to learn as much as possible, for the sake of my family and the resistance. But the Kommandant seems unwilling to say more.
“Herr Kommandant,” I say again, when he has stared at the wall for several more minutes. He looks at me quizzically, as though he has forgotten, or is unsure why I am there. “You look tired,” I offer. He half nods, leaning against the back of his desk chair with one arm. “Let me help you to your car.” I go to the sofa where his military jacket lies in a heap and carry it to him. He holds his arms out and I help him into the sleeves as I would Lukasz. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric. “Come,” I say, guiding him by the arm out of the office. In the hallway, he straightens a bit and is able to make it down the stairs and outside.
At the end of the ramp, Stanislaw, the Kommandant’s driver, stands by the awaiting sedan, emblazoned with a swastika on the side. “Dobry wieczor,” he greets us in his deep baritone as we approach the open rear car door. The Kommandant bends clumsily to enter the car, his head swinging within inches of the roof. Without thinking, I place my hand gently on the back of his neck and guide him into the car. He falls as he sits, his weight pulling on my outstretched arm. Caught off balance, I tumble into the car and land awkwardly, partially on top of the Kommandant. I quickly straighten to a sitting position, my face flushed.
“Well, I’d better be going,” I begin, but before I can exit the car, Stanislaw shuts the door behind me. “Wait…” I protest. I look to the Kommandant for help but his eyes are closed, head back. “All right, I guess I will have to help get you home, too.” He snores once in response.
As we make the short drive from Wawel to the Kommandant’s apartment just off the Planty, I look around the interior of the car. I have been in precious few automobiles in my life, and certainly none as grand as this. Fingering the plush leather seat, I peer out the window. The streets are thronged with people running errands and heading home. They stop and stare as we pass in the large, dark sedan with a swastika on the side. I can see the fear in their eyes.
A few minutes l
ater, the car pulls up before an elegant brownstone building. Stanislaw and I help the still-groggy Kommandant to his feet. The doorman unlocks the gate, then stands aside to let us pass. We guide the Kommandant up a flight of marble steps, and Stanislaw unlocks the apartment door. Once inside, the Kommandant is able to make it to the sofa on his own, where he sits, head slumped forward.
Stanislaw retreats from the room and closes the door quickly behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the Kommandant’s apartment. Taking up an entire floor of the brownstone, it is every bit a man’s place: large and impersonal, with only a few pieces of heavy oak furniture and a single sofa covered in maroon velvet. The air smells thickly of stale cigar smoke and brandy, as though it has not been aired out for years. Heavy, dark curtains obscure what I imagine to be a spectacular view of the city skyline.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the Kommandant to speak, but he does not. “Herr Kommandant, it’s late,” I say at last. “If there’s nothing else…”
“Anna, wait,” the Kommandant mumbles, lifting his head slightly. “Don’t go.” He gestures for me to come closer.
Reluctantly, I walk toward the sofa. “Yes, what is it that you need?”
He hesitates. “Nothing. I mean that, I don’t want…” he falters. “That is, if you could just stay awhile.”
He doesn’t want to be alone, I realize, surprised. I sit down at the far end of the sofa. “I can stay a few minutes,” I say.
“Thank you.” He reaches over and, before I can react, grabs my left hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, turning my hand over so the palm faces down. “Your hand…I mean, you burned it with the coffee didn’t you?”
For a moment, I am too startled to respond. “It’s the other one,” I reply at last, pulling my left arm away.
“Let me see,” he insists, his voice clearer now. I raise my right hand slowly and he takes it, cradling it in his two much larger ones, studying it. In the rush of the day, I had nearly forgotten about the burn, but the area just above my thumb is red and blisters are beginning to form. “Wait here,” he instructs.