The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  I start to protest but he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the enormous room. I’ve got to get out of here, I think uneasily, fighting the urge to flee while he is gone. Forcing myself to calm down, I look around once more. The room is devoid of any personal effects except for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

  Despite my unease, I cannot help but be curious. I walk toward the photograph. It is a portrait of a woman, the same woman who is in the photograph that had been on the Kommandant’s desk. She is beautiful, with flowing raven hair, high arched brows and flawless skin.

  “Here,” the Kommandant says as he reenters the room. I spin away from the photo toward him. He is carrying a damp cloth, a small jar and a bandage. “Sit down.” Reluctantly, I allow him to lead me to the sofa, where he cleans and dresses my hand. “All done,” he says a moment later. His hand lingers atop mine. Our eyes meet.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say, pulling my hand back.

  “Of course.” He straightens but does not look away. “I can’t have an assistant with a bad hand, now can I?”

  “I suppose not.” I force myself to look away, then stand and walk to the photograph on the mantelpiece once more. “What a beautiful picture,” I remark, lifting the frame gently.

  “Margot,” he replies from the couch, his voice now barely a whisper.

  “Your wife, Herr Kommandant?” I venture.

  “She was.” Suddenly, he is beside me. He grabs the picture from my hands and looks at it intently, as though his gaze might bring the image to life. What became of her? I wonder. I look up at him, hoping he will say more, but he continues staring at the picture silently, as though he has forgotten I am there. Sensing that this is my opportunity to leave, I walk quickly to the door and open it. “It’s late, so I’ll be going now.” Still staring at the picture, he does not respond. “Good night,” I say as I slip out of the apartment and down the stairs.

  At the entrance to the building, Stanislaw waits by the car. I climb in, and without question or remark, he shuts the door behind me and starts out the long, winding road to Krysia’s. He knows the way, I realize, from having driven the Kommandant to the dinner party. I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window, seeing the Kommandant’s face in my mind. There was a desperation about him tonight that I had not seen before, especially when we were in his apartment alone together. He did not want me to leave, I realize, perhaps because he was drunk. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be alone.

  Suddenly, I remember waking that last morning in the Baus’ apartment, finding Jacob, and then my parents gone. It was the one time in my life I had been completely alone and it terrified me. Some people manage to live perfectly well on their own, I know, like Krysia before Lukasz and I arrived. Still, it must be awful for the Kommandant to spend his nights in that empty, enormous apartment, haunted by the memory of his wife, Margot. I’d heard rumors around Wawel that the Kommandant had been married, but he had not spoken of her before. Tonight, though, it was as if he had seen a ghost. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Or perhaps there was something about what he had seen that day at Auschwitz that stirred his memories.

  Auschwitz. A chill passes through me suddenly. I must tell Alek about the Kommandant’s visit there, and about the map I saw on the table, at our next meeting. It could be important, I think, seeing the Kommandant’s hollow, haunted eyes before me. I shiver as we speed past the trees and houses, leaving the last smoky traces of sunset behind us.

  Krysia and Lukasz are asleep when I arrive home, so I tiptoe upstairs and undress quietly. Despite my confusion about the events of the evening, I am exhausted from all of the preparations for the official visit and my eyes grow heavy as I climb into bed. I immediately begin to dream that I am on a train that is speeding toward the mountains. Jacob, I am certain, is on the train, if only I could find him. I make my way through the crowded passenger cars, searching. Finally, I see the back of a man that looks familiar to me walking through the car several meters ahead. He has Jacob’s slight build and the same-color hair. I walk faster, then begin running in an attempt to catch up. Finally, I am just a few feet behind him. I reach out, grab the man’s shoulder. “Jacob!” I call as he spins around. I freeze. The face is not my husband’s; it is the Kommandant’s.

  “Oh!” I cry aloud, sitting up in bed, breathing heavily. My mind races. For months, I have had dreams of chasing Jacob. That made sense; I miss my husband. But now this…? I cannot fathom it. Stop, I tell myself finally. It was only a dream. You are under a lot of stress at work, you are troubled because you had a bizarre conversation with the Kommandant. That is the only reason for the dream. I lay back down and pull the duvet up, not reassured. A disturbing thought creeps into my brain: perhaps the dream means something else. No. I shake my head in the darkness. It does not, cannot mean anything. I force myself to think pleasant thoughts of Jacob until I am able to fall asleep once more.

  The Kommandant is not in the office when I arrive the next morning. The itinerary indicated that he would be meeting the delegation at their hotel, and escorting them to the ghetto and Plaszow before they depart for Berlin at noon. Not wanting to be caught away from my desk again, I do not go out for lunch that day. At exactly twelve-fifteen, the door to the anteroom opens and the Kommandant strides in. “Anna, come in, please,” he says crisply as he passes.

  I follow the Kommandant into his office. He walks to his desk and picks up the stack of papers I left for him. I stand a few feet away and study his face, wondering if he will say anything about the previous night. But if he feels embarrassed about his drunkenness, he gives no sign of it. Perhaps he does not remember. Except for two faint, dark circles under his eyes, he looks completely normal. He looks up from the papers. “I will be leaving for Berlin tomorrow.”

  “Berlin tomorrow?” I repeat, unable to mask my surprise.

  “Yes. There are some matters that arose from the delegation’s visit that require me to follow up personally.”

  He hands me several pieces of paper. “My travel itinerary.” He crosses the room, gesturing for me to follow. I sit on the sofa and look up, expecting him to pace the floor as he usually does. To my surprise, he sits down on the chair beside me. The cool pine scent of his aftershave wafts under my nose, making my stomach twitch. “As you can see, Colonel Diedrichson has made my travel arrangements,” he continues. I can barely hear him over the buzzing in my ears. The Kommandant’s unexpected departure and the masculine smell of aftershave combine to make my head feel light.

  “I will be gone ten days,” he concludes a few minutes later, looking up from the papers and meeting my gaze. I blink, realizing I have not heard most of what he has said. “Anna, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

  “Is it safe to make such a trip these days?” I ask. The words from my mouth surprise me, as though they had been spoken by another.

  “Relatively,” he replies. “I have to go, regardless. I have been summoned to an important meeting, and it would not do for me to appear concerned for my personal safety.” I nod, still unable to look away. “All right then. I think that’s everything for now.”

  Taking my cue, I rise. My right leg has gone to sleep and I stumble slightly. The Kommandant reaches out and grabs my arm to steady me. “Careful,” he says softly, still holding on to my arm. Our eyes lock.

  “I—I’m sorry,” I say, straightening. “It’s just that…” I hesitate, uncertain how to finish. His hand feels warm though the sleeve of my dress.

  “You’ve been working hard lately,” he finishes for me. “You put in so many hours with the delegation visit.”

  “Yes, that must be it,” I reply, grateful for the excuse.

  “I will need your assistance with my travel preparations today. But you should take a day off while I am gone.”

  “Thank you, Herr Kommandant.” I move quickly toward the door. I can feel the Kommandant’s eyes on my back as I retreat to the anteroom. Seated at my desk once more, I sort through the pile
of papers he has given me with trembling hands. For the past few weeks, I have a nagging sense of what Krysia had noticed the night of the dinner party: Kommandant Richwalder is attracted to me. But it is not only the Kommandant’s behavior that concerns me. Why had I asked him if the trip would be safe? It is good for Anna to feign concern, I tell myself, though I knew the question had not been as calculated as I would like to imagine. My dream the night before had not been calculated, either. I sink back in my chair, shaken. Perhaps the Kommandant’s absence might be a good thing.

  The rest of the day passes quickly. Five o’clock comes and goes, and the Kommandant remains in his office with the door closed. Another forty-five minutes pass. A wave of exhaustion comes over me. The Kommandant was right; I have been working long hours. I feel as though I have not seen Lukasz and Krysia in a month. A few minutes later, the door to the Kommandant’s office opens and he emerges carrying two briefcases. I rise to my feet.

  He sets down the briefcases. “Well, I’m off.”

  Seeing the bags, the reality suddenly hits me: the Kommandant is leaving. “Have a good trip,” I manage to say, swallowing over the lump that has formed in my throat.

  “Thank you. Don’t hesitate to send a telegram if there is anything urgent. Or if you need anything at all.” I nod. He steps forward until he is just a foot or so away and I wonder if he is going to reach out and touch me. We stare at each other in silence, neither speaking. What is this? I wonder. What is happening between us? It is everything that has occurred these past few days, I tell myself. The strain of the delegation’s visit. The fact that he is leaving. “Well…” he continues after several seconds of silence.

  “Be safe,” I say, meaning it. I am immediately ashamed to be wishing godspeed to a Nazi whom I should in fact want dead.

  The Kommandant nods, picking up the briefcases once more. He clears his throat hard. “Goodbye, Anna.” He lingers another moment and then he is gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  Five days after the Kommandant’s departure for Berlin, I stand in his office, organizing the many papers that have arrived during his absence into piles on his desk. The Kommandant is scheduled to return three days from now, although I wonder if he will be delayed by the weather. I have learned from the incoming telegrams that they are still having heavy rains to the west, making the train tracks impassable and slowing German military supply lines. Munitions, food and medicine had all been delayed, stalling the German army’s progress. Upon reading this, I found myself secretly cheering the rains I had cursed just a few weeks earlier.

  The Kommandant’s absence has enabled me to make an additional foray into Krich’s office. But when I delivered the most recent shipment of passes to the market square café the previous Tuesday, Alek told me not to take any more and instructed me to await further guidance. I will obey him, of course; I am relieved to no longer have to make the secret, nerve-racking trips. I feel a bit lost, though—the mission gave me a sense of purpose and even a bit of excitement. Now, with my task for the resistance complete and the Kommandant still gone, the days seem lackluster. I struggle to keep up my energetic demeanor, lest anyone at work notices the difference.

  As I straighten the piles of papers on the Kommandant’s desk, my eyes linger on the framed picture of the Kommandant and his wife, which reappeared on his desk following the departure of the delegation from Berlin. In the photograph, they are wearing light, summery clothes and look as if they were on a seaside holiday. The Kommandant wears a playful expression unlike any I have seen. His wife’s hair is pulled back beneath a handkerchief, and she is smiling up at him lovingly. Her eyes are dark and her skin surprisingly olive-toned for a German. I wonder once again what became of her. I pick up the picture to dust it, searching the woman’s eyes for a clue that would tell me more about her, and about the Kommandant.

  “Dzien dobry, Anna,” a deep, familiar voice says behind me. I jump and spin around. The picture drops from my hands, hitting the carpet and bouncing softly to a rest.

  “G-g-good day, Herr Kommandant,” I stammer, scrambling to pick up the photograph and replace it on the desk. Straightening, I turn to him. “I was just organizing the papers for your return.”

  If he notices that I am flustered, he gives no indication. “Yes, well I am back now.” He looks different somehow, I observe as I step aside to let him get to his desk. His hair seems grayer, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. It is as if he aged years during the few days he was gone. Perhaps it is just exhaustion from the travel, I think, noticing the fine coat of stubble that covers his jaw.

  “We were not expecting you until Friday,” I offer as he sits down.

  “I decided to return early. There is much work to take care of as a result of my meetings. Many trains have been canceled due to the floods, so headquarters arranged a flight for me.”

  “An airplane?” I look at him in amazement. Though I know from the movies and newspapers that people do travel by airplane, commercial air travel is nonexistent in Poland. The only planes I have ever seen are the Nazi bombers that occasionally pass overhead.

  “Yes,” he replies. “It is quite a remarkable experience.”

  “I am sure,” I reply. “Anyway, it is good to have you back.” The words come out involuntarily. My breath catches.

  The Kommandant’s eyes meet my own. “It’s good to be here,” he says slowly. “I missed…that is, Berlin is a very stressful place, with all of the politics and such. Kraków is much quieter.”

  “Of course.” We look at each other for several seconds, neither of us speaking. “Would you like to go over the schedule now?” I ask finally, desperate to break the awkward silence.

  He looks up at the grandfather clock, which reads three-thirty. “I would like some time to get situated first.” I can tell from the way he bites his lower lip that he is preoccupied with something. “Would you mind staying a bit late? We could go over the papers at five.”

  “Certainly.” I retreat quickly to the anteroom. Once seated at my desk, I find that my hands are shaking. The Kommandant’s return, early and unannounced, has caught me off guard. I can hear my own voice: it’s good to have you back. Why did I say that? Because it is what Anna would have said. But the line had not been rehearsed; the expression was genuine. I spend the next hour and a half trying to compose myself, but as I try to distract myself with work, I keep seeing the Kommandant’s bluer-than-ever eyes.

  When the bells in the tower of Wawel Cathedral have tolled five times and I hear Malgorzata depart the outer office, I gather another stack of mail and other papers that have accumulated during the Kommandant’s absence that I have not yet had the opportunity to place on his desk. As I cross the anteroom, I can hear the scraping heels and chatter of the other secretaries walking down the castle ramp through the open windows.

  The door to the Kommandant’s office is ajar. I knock lightly, then push the door open wider. The phonograph is playing softly and strains of a Mozart sonata fill the room. I had expected the Kommandant to be sorting through the papers I left for him, but he is sitting with his chair turned away from the desk, staring out the window toward Podgorze. I have often wondered what he sees while looking out those windows: does he hear the cries of the Jews in the ghetto, just across the river? Or is he elsewhere, lost in visions of his wife and other faraway things?

  After standing for several seconds without his acknowledgement, I clear my throat. The Kommandant turns. He stares at me blankly, as though he has forgotten who I am or why I am there. “You wanted to go over the schedule?” I offer.

  His puzzled expression disappears. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in.” I sit on the sofa and the Kommandant comes over and takes the chair beside me. I begin to summarize verbally all of the key correspondence that has arrived in his absence, invitations, newspaper clippings and reports. “The minutes from the meeting at Pomorskie last Tuesday note that…” I hesitate, and look up. The Kommandant is staring at me intently. “Is something wrong, Herr Komman
dant?”

  He shakes his head. “No, please continue.”

  I look down at the paper but have lost my place. Flustered, I can feel the heat creeping up my neck. I clear my throat. “You have been asked whether you will attend the directors’ banquet next Friday evening,” I say, jumping to the end of my notes. “But there is a conflict with a dinner invitation you have accepted from Mayor Baran and his wife.” I look up, expecting him to say which he will attend, but he is still staring at me, as though he has not heard what I am saying. “Herr Kommandant…?”

  He blinks rapidly. “What is it?”

  “The conflict between the directors’ banquet and Mayor Baran’s invitation…I need to know which you will attend.”

  “Oh.” He looks puzzled, as though the question is a difficult one. “What do you think I should do?”

  I hesitate, surprised to be asked my opinion. “Well,” I begin carefully. “I think the directors’ banquet is more important politically. Even though you accepted Mayor Baran’s invitation first. I would send my regrets, and perhaps flowers to Mrs. Baran.”

  “Excellent,” he says, as though I have said something terribly bright. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements.” He is still staring at me. Suddenly, the room seems to have grown impossibly warm. “Is there anything else?” I ask, eager to leave.

  He shakes his head. “No, that’s enough for tonight. Thank you, Anna.” The Kommandant turns in the direction of the window once more. I gather up the papers I had placed on the coffee table and stand to leave. Just then, the phonograph needle jumps with a click, and the music shifts. It is a long, mournful piece that I recognize as one of my father’s favorites. He used to play it whenever he was sad. Once or twice I heard him humming it under his breath in the ghetto. Now, as I listen, the cello chords seem to stroke my soul. A lump forms in my throat. “Wagner,” I say aloud, in spite of myself.