The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  The Kommandant looks up. “You like German composers?” His voice sounds as surprised as the night of Krysia’s dinner party when I quoted Goethe to him in German.

  “Yes.” I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

  He stands up, just a few inches from me now. “Anna, wait.” He places his hand on my forearm, and I shiver. “I…” The Kommandant pauses, adjusting his collar with his free hand. “Would you like to join me for the symphony Friday night? The orchestra is playing Wagner, and I have tickets.”

  I hesitate, stunned. The Kommandant just asked me out on a date. “Th-that is very kind of you,” I manage to say, trying to buy time to figure out how to respond.

  “Then say you’ll join me,” he presses. I falter. I cannot go out with him. I am a married woman. But Anna is not. Desperately, I search for an excuse, a reason why I cannot attend. “If Friday is not convenient, we can go another night,” he adds, seeming to read my thoughts.

  He is my boss, I realize. Refusing is out of the question. I swallow hard. “Thank you, Herr Kommandant. That would be lovely.”

  “Then it’s settled. Friday night. I’ll pick you up at your aunt’s at seven o’clock.” I bow my head and flee to the outer office, feeling his eyes on my back as I go.

  I manage to stay calm during the long trip home, but once through the front gate, I lose all composure. I climb the stairs to the parlor, breathing heavily, my face red. Krysia is seated on the balcony overlooking the garden. “This situation with the Kommandant is getting out of control!” I explode.

  She sets her book down. “What is it?”

  Realizing that Lukasz is already asleep, I lower my voice. “He has asked me out on a date.”

  Krysia points to the chair beside her. “Tell me what happened.” She does not sound surprised.

  Sinking down, I begin with the Kommandant’s return from Berlin just a few hours earlier. “And then he said he had tickets for the Philharmonic.”

  “Which is highly unlikely, since he has been out of the country for the past week,” Krysia observes.

  “Exactly! And if the tickets had come in through the office while he was in Berlin, I would have seen them.” She nods, understanding the significance: the Kommandant did not just “happen” to have tickets, he was getting them specifically for our date.

  “Georg Richwalder is the governor’s first deputy,” Krysia reminds me. “A powerful man, not to mention an attractive one. Anna Lipowski should be flattered.”

  I falter at this. Krysia is right; I know from hearing the other secretaries chatter that, if I really was a single young Polish woman, I would welcome the Kommandant’s attention. “But I’m married!” I exclaim, tears filling my eyes.

  “I know.” Krysia pats my hand. “You are in a difficult position.”

  “And I am a Jew.” It was the first time in months I have uttered the word, and it sounds strange on my tongue.

  “Perhaps this is a way to help the Jews.” I look up at Krysia, puzzled. “You must try to think of the bigger picture. Getting closer to the Kommandant may be useful to the resistance. You may be able to help in even greater ways than you already have.”

  I breathe deeply. I had not thought of it that way. “But Jacob…”

  “Jacob would understand,” she replies firmly. She is right, of course. Jacob loves me, but he is dedicated to the resistance. If my going on a date with a Nazi official would help the movement, he would forgive me. I cannot not help but wonder, though, if the tables were turned, would I be so understanding?

  “I know. It’s just that…” I stop, embarrassed at the selfishness of my thoughts.

  “You miss Jacob,” Krysia finishes for me. I can tell from the emotion in her voice that she understands. Krysia misses Marcin the way I miss Jacob. The difference is that I will see Jacob again—I know I will, I cannot allow myself to think otherwise. We have the promise of a future together. Krysia and Marcin do not.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you miss Marcin, too.”

  “It’s okay, really.” A faraway look comes to her eyes. “It’s the little things I miss. The way he would bring me water and aspirin after we had a late night out, and tea the next morning, without my ever asking. The way he said my name—Kreesha—as if it had a long e. Most of all I miss having someone there in the middle of the night to wake up and share my dreams with. He never minded at all. Sometimes I open my eyes in the darkness and think he’s still there.”

  I am unsure what to say. Her eyes are wide and I wonder if she is going to cry. “You loved him very much,” I offer at last.

  She turns to me, smiles. “I still do. It doesn’t go away. He’s my best friend.” She does not speak for several minutes and I can tell she is lost in her thoughts. “It’s been a long day,” Krysia says at last. “You need a bath.”

  I nod. “Thank you,” I say. I climb the stairs wearily. As the hot water fills the tub, I wipe some of the steam away from the mirror. The girl I see looks tired and careworn—her eyes are ringed with gray and her lips pull downward. The face in the mirror suggests a worldliness I have never seen before. “Who are you?” I ask aloud. Surely not Emma Bau née Gershmann, daughter of the Orthodox baker and his wife. Emma was someone else. I remember her faintly, like a childhood friend nearly forgotten.

  Why does the Kommandant like me, anyway, I wonder, as I climb into the bath? I grew up believing that I was perfectly ordinary-looking, not hideous but nothing particularly special. Jacob and my father called me beautiful, but I had always dismissed it as something nice that men who love you just say. I was less noticeable than the dozens of secretaries who came to work at Wawel each day dressed up in tight skirts and too much makeup, and certainly nowhere near as striking as the Kommandant’s wife had been. Perhaps it is because I speak German and he is homesick, I think, though the explanation seems unlikely. There is an intensity to the way he looks at me, a certain fascination in the way he listens to me speak that tells me it is something more.

  As I soak in the water, I think of Krysia. Though we speak often, she seldom talks about herself. Until tonight. It’s as though for just a few minutes her flawless exterior cracked open a bit, and I could see the love and hurt inside. I reflect on what she said about Marcin. Best friends. I wonder if I can say that about Jacob and me. I love him deeply and, despite my fears, I know he feels the same. But when he left, we’d known each other only a year. It was still so unfamiliar and new, there was so much we hadn’t yet learned about each other. It must take a lifetime to become like Krysia and Marcin, I decide with a sense of relief as I dry myself and climb into bed.

  For the remainder of the week, I see little of the Kommandant. He is occupied with meetings following his return from Berlin, while I am inundated with the multitude of tasks he leaves for me to do. On Friday afternoon, I leave work a few hours earlier than usual and hurry back to Krysia’s house to prepare for our date. With Lukasz looking on, Krysia sets and styles my hair and works it into a smooth knot, then helps me to apply face powder and lipstick. I slip into the pale pink, short-sleeved frock of Krysia’s that she has had taken in to fit me for the occasion. “Lovely,” she remarks as I stand before the full-length mirror in the dressing room just off her bedroom.

  “Thank you so much.” I shift angles slightly, taken in by my own transformation. The last time I dressed up had been for the dinner party, just weeks after leaving the ghetto. Then I had still been pale and gaunt. Now the months of eating well at Krysia’s house have restored the fullness to my breasts and hips, and brought color back to my cheeks. If only I were dressing for a truly happy occasion, I think, and the sense of dread at my date, which I had momentarily forgotten, returns.

  As the hallway clock chimes seven times, the doorbell rings. Krysia scoops up Lukasz and heads for the stairs. “You wait here.” I pause for several more minutes before the mirror, studying myself. I have only worn short sleeves a handful of times in my life, and I am unaccustomed to seeing my pale arms and bony elbows
exposed. I study my hands. An hour earlier, Krysia showed me how to buff and polish my nails. Now they are round and smooth, the refined hands of someone I do not recognize.

  Below I hear Krysia’s footsteps descending the stairs and the click of the front door. I cannot make out the pleasantries she exchanges with the Kommandant, only the tones of voices, his deep and courteous, hers smooth and welcoming. I lift the ornate glass bottle of rosewater perfume Krysia has loaned me and press softly once. A cool spray of liquid caresses my neck and the delicate, flowery scent wafts upward. I return the bottle to the dresser. Steeling myself with one last look in the mirror, I head down the stairs.

  “Good evening, Herr Kommandant,” I say, when he appears on the landing beneath me. He turns and I can see a light come into his eyes as he takes in my restyled appearance. You look lovely, I expect him to say in his smoothest voice. But he remains silent, a helpless expression on his face, and I realize that he has been struck speechless.

  “Well, you’d best be going,” Krysia interjects, after an awkward moment of silence. “Here, take this.” She hands me a light, gray silk coat I’ve never seen before. “It may get chilly later.”

  “Thank you.” I kiss her lightly on the cheek and follow the Kommandant down the lower stairs. Outside, Stanislaw waits by the open car door. He nods courteously as we approach and extends a hand to help me into the back seat, as though it was not out of the ordinary for the Kommandant to be escorting one of his staff to the symphony on a Friday night.

  The Kommandant slides into the back seat from the other side of the car, leaving several inches of space between us. We sit stiffly, facing forward in silence as Stanislaw maneuvers the car onto the main road. “So your trip to Berlin went well?” I ask at last. I try to keep my tone light, though I hope he will mention something of significance.

  “Things went very well.” He pauses for a moment, then turns to me. “Anna, I wish to be candid with you. The reasons for my trip were not entirely professional.”

  “Oh?” I try to keep my voice even, devoid of curiosity or surprise.

  “Yes, it had to do with my wife, Margot. The woman in the pictures.” I lift my head to meet his gaze. “You see, she died two years ago this past month.” I detect a slight crack in his voice as he speaks the last sentence.

  I hesitate, wondering why he is telling me this, desperately wishing that he would say more. “I’m so sorry.”

  He looks down, brushing a piece of lint from his uniform. “I needed to finalize her affairs.”

  I nod. “That must have been very difficult.”

  “It was,” he replies, his voice full of candor. “I had put it off for some time for that very reason. Because I didn’t want to acknowledge…” He pauses, looking out the window at the rolling fields. Suddenly, the car hits a bump in the road, jostling us unexpectedly. I lurch forward toward the Kommandant and he raises his hands to steady me. Our faces are just inches apart, his breath warm on my cheek. Neither of us moves for several seconds. “Are you all right?” he asks softly.

  “Yes, thank you.” I grab the back of the front seat and straighten, red-faced. “You were saying…?”

  “Just that it was time to finalize matters regarding my wife’s estate. Time to move forward.” He clears his throat. “I went for the meetings, too, of course. From an official perspective, the trip was a complete success.”

  “I’m so glad to hear it,” I reply. I can tell from the tone of his voice that he will say no more about Margot.

  I turn to face forward and neither of us speaks further for several minutes. As we approach the city center, the Kommandant pulls out a pocket watch. “We’re a bit early,” he remarks. “I didn’t realize until I looked at the tickets just before picking you up that the concert doesn’t start until eight. We could go to the market square for a cocktail at one of the cafés, or have a stroll around the Planty.”

  I hesitate. I had assumed that the concert started at seven-thirty and we would be able to go directly to our seats without more conversation. “A-a walk would be nice,” I reply. The idea of sitting across from him in a café, having to meet his eyes, terrifies me. I know, too, that it will be easier to keep my composure if I do not have a drink.

  “Very well.” He leans forward and says something to Stanislaw, who pulls the car over along the side of the Planty. The Kommandant steps out and comes around to help me from the car. His hand feels large and warm against the small of my back as he guides me onto the pavement. “Which way?” he asks.

  I gesture to the left with my head. In truth, the path to the right is much more pleasant, winding past the stone buildings of the university. But I dare not choose it, in part for fear of running into someone I know, in part because it is so closely tied to my memories of Jacob that I cannot bear the idea of being there with another man.

  As we walk down the path, I inhale deeply. The evening air is warm and thick with the sweet smell of honeysuckle. I look up at the maple trees that line both sides of the path, forming a thick canopy of leaves above us. Soft beams of late-day sunlight make their way through the branches. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Kommandant. He, too, is staring up at the trees, humming to himself. I have never seen him look so relaxed.

  He looks down at me. “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I reply quickly, hoping he did not notice me looking at him. I face forward once more, feeling my cheeks blush.

  “I so miss being outdoors,” he continues, stretching his arms high above his head. “When Margot and I were first married, we would take long trips to Bavaria. We would hike for days, sleep under the stars. But that was before…” His voice trails off. I look back up at him. The relaxed expression is gone from his face, replaced by its familiar heaviness. An impulse rises in me to say something, anything, to make him happy again.

  “I also love hiking,” I offer.

  He looks up at me, surprised. “You do?”

  “Yes.” In truth, I had seldom been outside the city growing up. “Our parents used to take us on holiday in the lake district,” I lie. “And we would go for marvelous walks.”

  “Perhaps…” the Kommandant begins. Suddenly, he looks ahead on the path to where a middle-aged couple sits on one of the park benches, a large dog on the ground before them. Without speaking, he starts walking quickly toward the couple. Confused, I follow him. Noticing the Kommandant approaching, the man puts his arm around the woman and whispers something to her. An expression of horror crosses her face. They must be terrified, I realize, at the sight of this large man in a Nazi uniform approaching them.

  “What a beautiful animal!” the Kommandant exclaims as he nears the couple. He gestures to the dog. “May I?” The man, looking puzzled, nods, and the Kommandant drops to his knees. The couple and I watch as the Kommandant pets the dog, which appears to be a shepherd with a black-and-brown mottled coat. “I had a dog just like this when I was a boy,” he says, not looking up as he rubs the animal between its pointy ears. I have never heard such excitement in his voice before. “His name was Max. He was a wonderful animal.”

  Just then a bell chimes in the distance. “Herr Kommandant,” I say gently. “It is a quarter to eight. We should be getting to the symphony.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says quickly. He gives the dog a final pat, then stands, brushing the dirt from his knees. We bid the stunned couple good-night and make our way to the Philharmonic. Dozens of people are clustered on the sidewalk outside the large stone concert hall, smoking cigarettes and talking. There are many men wearing Nazi uniforms with younger Polish women by their sides, I note, cringing inwardly. The occupying army and their local women. I hate being part of such a cliché, even if it is only an act in my case. Still holding my hand under his arm, the Kommandant leads me up the steps. Several uniformed men salute the Kommandant as we pass.

  Inside, I blink several times to adjust my eyes. Though I have passed the Philharmonic many times in my life, I have never set foot inside, a
nd I am utterly unprepared for its grandeur. The lobby is enormous, with marble floors and columns and a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. Its beauty is marred only by the two red flags bearing swastikas that hang from the rafters. No sooner have we entered than a bell sounds, which I know from Krysia is intended to summon us to our seats. We proceed directly to a set of stairs off the right of the lobby and an usher leads us to a private box just above the side of the stage. Before retreating, he apologizes for the lack of printed programs, which he says is a result of the wartime paper shortage. He tells us that the orchestra will be playing Wagner and Mozart. Another high-ranking officer and a large woman I do not recognize are already seated in the box. They nod as we join them.

  The orchestra begins tuning up. There are fewer musicians than I had thought would be the case, and the large stage looks strangely empty. As the conductor steps out and the music begins, I remember Krysia saying once that the orchestra had been devastated by the loss of its many Jewish members, who had either fled or been imprisoned. Her eyes had grown moist as she spoke of Viktor Lisznoff, a cellist she had known for decades, who is now in the work camp Plaszow just outside Kraków, forced to labor by day and play with the other imprisoned musicians for the pleasure of the camp officials by night.

  As the orchestra begins to play and the music drifts upward, I find myself slipping into the kind of thoughtful, meditative trance that only classical music can provide. I think of my father, who had never had the chance to attend the symphony. He would have loved to be here, to hear the music that he played over and over on his beloved, scratchy phonograph brought to life. He should have been here, not me. Once upon a time, Jacob had spoken of taking my father to a concert. Jacob. I will not think of him here, not while I am with another man.

  I find myself observing the Kommandant then, studying him out of the corner of my eye. You are supposed to hate him, I remind myself for what seems like the millionth time. He is a Nazi and the cause for all of our pain. But I don’t hate him, I realize, I can’t. If not hate, then what…? Gratitude, admiration, attraction? I cannot swallow any of the words that run through my head. I am indifferent, I tell myself finally, just doing a job I have been asked to do. The conclusion sticks uneasily in my throat.