by Pam Jenoff
At intermission we rise and join the crowds in the lobby. The Kommandant disappears momentarily and returns with two glasses of champagne. As we stand beneath the crystal chandelier, sipping the cool, bubbly liquid and admiring the endless parade of beautiful gowns and jewels, it seems inconceivable that we are in the middle of a war. I almost forget to be nervous.
“Are you enjoying the concert?” the Kommandant asks.
“Yes,” I answer honestly. Though I had grown up listening to classical music, I had never heard a live symphony before and I was struck by the intricacy of the pieces we had heard.
“It’s a good program,” the Kommandant offers, finishing his champagne. “I do think, though, that the second movement was a little slow.” I do not hear the Kommandant as he continues to speak. Across the foyer, I notice a young woman with striking, long dark curls looking over, brow furrowed as though trying to place me. She must have mistaken me for someone else. No one I knew, with the exception of Krysia or Jacob’s parents, would even attend the symphony. But the woman continues to stare, her puzzled expression deepening. She raises her hand to her cheek then, and with that gesture, a wave of recognition sweeps over me. She is Eliana Szef, a wealthy, gentile student I knew from the university. I can see her mind working as she stares at me: is it really Emma Gershmann, she is wondering, and if so, what is a Jewish girl doing at the opera? I know that her confusion will soon give way to recognition, that she is only seconds away from realizing my true identity.
“Herr Kommandant, I must freshen up,” I say as Eliana starts across the floor toward me.
“I will wait.” Just then the bell rings, recalling us to our seats.
“No, you go in.” The Kommandant’s eyebrows rise. In my nervousness, my voice had taken on a surprisingly authoritative tone. “I won’t have you missing the first movement on my account.” I pat his arm. “I’ll be along presently.”
I press him toward the theater door and duck away through the crowd, just feet ahead of Eliana. Skipping down the marble stairs as fast as my long skirt will allow, I enter the ladies’ room and peer hastily in the mirror. My face has matured in the years since Eliana and I had last met, and my hair is lighter now, bleached from being outdoors at Krysia’s in the summer sun. It is still possible that she might recognize me, though. I duck hurriedly into a stall as the outer door of the washroom starts to open. Through the crack in the door I can see a flash of dark curls. Eliana and I stand motionless on opposite sides of the door. Clearly, she saw me enter the washroom and followed me; she isn’t going to leave anytime soon.
I wait several more minutes, hoping she will leave. Finally, I realize I have no choice but to come out. The Kommandant will wonder if I am gone any longer. I take a deep breath and open the door. Eliana turns toward me with a warm smile. “Emma…” She is stopped short by my blank, unfamiliar expression. “Aren’t you…? I’m sorry,” she says. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.” I nod, afraid my voice might give me away. Stepping around her with my head held high, I walk out of the washroom.
I hurry up the stairs. Before entering our box, I pause to wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with my handkerchief. I sit down once more beside the Kommandant in our box, trying not to shake.
Eliana Szef. Of all the people to see! For months I have successfully eluded everyone from my past. Hiding in the bathroom stall, I had to fight the urge to confront her. Did she know how I had been fired from the library, then forced to move to the ghetto? Would she even care? Suddenly, I am seized by anger at her and everyone she represented, all of the Poles who worked and lived and went to the symphony while the Jews they had known for years hid or lived like animals in the ghetto. I hate those people worse than the Nazis. Eliana. I dig my nails hard into my palms. I should have ripped her luscious dark curls from her scalp.
I try to calm myself. Breathe, I think, gripping the armrests of the chair. Suddenly, I feel something warm on my right hand. I freeze. The Kommandant, noticing my fidgeting, has placed his much larger hand over mine. I freeze, my heart pounding. Several minutes pass and he does not take his hand away. Both of us continue to look down at the orchestra. What is happening here? I wonder. Clearly the Kommandant is attracted to me. Perhaps it is something more. But, I remind myself, whatever he feels, he does not feel it for you. He has feelings for Anna, and she does not exist.
An hour later the performance is over and we follow the crowds through the lobby. “Would you like to go somewhere for a light supper?” the Kommandant asks as he helps me pull on the coat Krysia gave me.
I hesitate. I should accept, I know, in hopes that the Kommandant may say something useful to the resistance after some wine. But the evening’s events have drained me and I do not think I can manage to keep up conversation through a meal. “You are very kind, Herr Kommandant, but I must decline. It is getting late and Lukasz will have me up at dawn.”
His face falls. “I understand.” We step outside where Stanislaw is waiting with the car. We both speak little on the way home. Sitting silently beside the Kommandant, I realize there is a part of me that has enjoyed the evening and is sorry to see it end.
As the car pulls up to the house, I see a single light still burning on the second floor. Krysia must be waiting up for me. “Thank you again,” I say as I turn to get out of the car, hoping to escape quickly.
“Anna, wait.” Reluctantly, I turn back to face him. “I almost forgot…” I watch, puzzled, as the Kommandant reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a small, cloth bag and removes from it a rectangular box, which he places on the car seat between us. “I brought this for you from Berlin.”
“Herr Kommandant…” I begin, surprised. He pushes the box across the car seat toward me. Slowly, I reach for the box and open it, gasping. Inside there is a delicate silver necklace with a light blue stone. I lift it gently from the box. It is the grandest piece of jewelry I have ever touched.
“A small gesture of appreciation for all of your hard work while I was away.” He does not meet my eyes as he says this, and I cannot help but think that his explanation is a lie, that he surely has not brought such a present for Malgorzata or Colonel Diedrichson. “Here, let me.” He takes the necklace from my hands. I turn away from him slightly and lift my hair. As he fumbles with the clasp, I feel the warmth of his breath, then the light brush of his fingers across the nape of my neck.
“Thank you,” I say, turning back to him when the clasp is fastened. I touch the stone, which lies atop the cross I was already wearing. Together they feel like a heavy noose around my neck. “It’s beautiful, far too grand.”
“Nonsense, it is you who makes it beautiful…” He stops, seemingly embarrassed by the effusiveness of his own words. I nod, unable to thank him again over the lump in my throat. Quickly I turn and start to get out of the car. “Wait,” he says, leaping from the car. He comes around to my side and opens the door. “Here, allow me.” He extends his arm and, reluctantly, I take it and allow him to help me from the car. When I straighten, we are just inches apart, my nose practically brushing against the front of his wool coat.
I take a step back, embarrassed. “Thank you once again.”
“My pleasure,” he replies, his voice sincere. He reaches down toward me. I panic. What is he doing? Is he going to try to kiss me good-night? Before I can react, he lifts my arm and points to the cuff of my coat. The strap around the wrist cuff has come loose and is hanging from the sleeve. “Here.” He slides the strap back through the loop and fastens the button. He hesitates, still holding my arm. I can feel his breath on my forehead. Neither of us speaks.
“Good night,” I say a moment later, pulling back my arm. “See you Monday.” I walk quickly toward the door before he can offer to escort me.
Inside, I close the door and lean against it, my heart still pounding. The sound of Chopin drifts downward from the second floor. Trying to compose myself, I make my way upstairs. Krysia sits in the parlor listening to the phonograph and reading, a
large glass of red wine beside her. “How did it go?”
“Great.”
Hearing the sarcasm in my voice, she looks up. “Are you okay? Your face is so flushed….” I do not answer. Her eyes drop, freezing on the necklace. “What on earth?”
“Exactly!” I exclaim.
“He gave you a gift?”
I nod. “From his trip to Berlin.”
Her eyes widen. “This is getting serious.”
“And that’s not the worst of it.” Dropping down beside her on the sofa, I tell her of my encounter with Eliana Szef.
“That must have been nerve-racking,” she empathizes. “But I am really more concerned about this.” She lifts the stone that hangs around my neck. “It’s topaz, very expensive. What did he say when he gave it to you?”
“Just that it was in appreciation for my hard work.”
She nods. “Did he say anything else important?”
“He told me that his wife died two years ago, and that he had taken care of her affairs while in Berlin.” A strange look passes across Krysia’s face. “What is it?”
“Nothing, nothing at all,” she replies. I am unconvinced. I can tell by her expression that there is something she does not want to say, but I do not press her. “And what about you?” Krysia asks.
I tilt my head, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“How do you feel about all of this attention from the Kommandant?”
“I hate it, of course,” I answer, too quickly. “I mean, I am married to Jacob.” Krysia does not speak and I shift uneasily in my seat. “I suppose there is some part of me that is flattered….”
“Naturally. The Kommandant is a handsome man, and a powerful one, too.” She reaches over and takes my hand in hers. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that, well, you and the Kommandant have a certain chemistry. I could tell the night you met at the dinner party, the way you spoke to each other.”
“But…” I start to protest. My mind whirls back to that night, how it seemed at times as though the Kommandant and I were the only two people in the room.
Krysia raises her hand. “It’s all right, darling. I know that you love my nephew. I mention it only to tell you that it is okay. Sometimes people have chemistry they cannot help, or even feelings for more than one person. But better to recognize it and be careful.” I nod, overwhelmed by what she has said, unable to speak. “Anyway,” she continues, “I’ve had a message from Alek today.”
“Oh?” I quickly forget about my night at the symphony and our disturbing conversation. “What is it?”
“He needs to see you again. Meet him at the usual time and place.” I nod, my mind spinning. I am glad to hear from Alek. But it is unusual for him to summon me, especially now that I am not stealing passes for the resistance. What does he want? I wonder. I have a feeling that this time, it is something more difficult than papers. I finger the charm around my neck, exchanging uneasy glances with Krysia and wondering just how far this charade will go.
CHAPTER 12
The Tuesday after my date with the Kommandant, I leave work at the end of the day and head toward the market square. It is early August with the kind of stifling hot weather that comes to Kraków for just a few days each summer. The pavement seems to liquefy under the late afternoon sun. Flies swarm around bags of garbage left out for pickup. I wrinkle my nose at the stench and try not to breathe too deeply as I pass.
Checking to make sure I have not been followed, I cross the square to the café where we usually meet. Underneath one of the bright yellow umbrellas that shields the tables from the sun, sits Alek. I am surprised to find him alone. “Marek had some business to take care of,” he says as I sit down. I nod, though his explanation seems strange; I have seldom seen one man without the other. I wonder if things are more dangerous for them now, and whether they feel it is safer not to be in the same place at the same time.
“So how are you?” Alek asks. I notice that his face is darker and the skin around his nose is peeling, as though he has spent time outdoors since our last meeting.
I hesitate. Though I do not doubt the sincerity of his question, I am uncertain how to answer. How am I as Emma, missing and worrying about my husband and parents? How am I as Anna, keeping up appearances while working at Nazi headquarters for the Kommandant, and trying to ignore the growing attraction between us? The answer in either case, I suppose, is “tired and sad and worried.” But as a Jew, I am far better off than most, and I know I have no business complaining. “Fine,” I reply at last.
Alek smiles gently, unfooled by my response. “I hear your mother is doing better.” I nod. Krysia told me a few days earlier that my mother’s fever has broken and she is now able to stand. No thanks to you, I cannot help thinking. “Perhaps in a few weeks or months we will be able to help her and your father,” he adds.
“Perhaps,” I reply without emotion. Once the promise of his words would have filled me with joy, but I am too afraid to get my hopes up anymore. In a few weeks, the situation in the ghetto could have changed completely. Who knew what would or would not be possible then?
“How has work been?”
“Okay. Actually I’m glad that you called me.” I tell him then about the Kommandant’s trip to Berlin and a few meetings I have seen on the schedule that might be significant.
“Anything else?” he asks when I finish. I shake my head. “Thank you for the information. We already knew most of that, but it’s still helpful.”
“Certainly,” I reply, glad to have finally offered something that was marginally of use.
“Emma, I can’t stay long, so let me get to the point. I called you here for a reason. There is something else we need to ask you to do.” He has dared to use my real name in public, I realize. The request must be serious.
“Of course, anything.” I am unsure what more I have to offer.
He raises his hand. “Don’t say that until you’ve heard me out. Emma, for several months now, we have had reason to believe from other sources that there are major Nazi plans afoot related to the Jews in the Kraków ghetto. We have tried to get specific information about where, when, how. But all of our contacts, even our best sources, have come up empty. If we can find out what is going to happen, perhaps we can stop it or at least create delays. We need information urgently.” I nod, swallowing hard. If their best sources could not get information, what is it Alek thinks I can do? He continues, “If there truly is something going on, some plans about to be set in motion, Richwalder will know about it.”
“But he doesn’t…” I start to say that the Kommandant does not involve himself in Jewish affairs, then stop. The map I saw during the delegation visit clearly indicates otherwise.
“I know the good Kommandant doesn’t usually dirty his hands in Jewish matters,” Alek replies bitterly. I nod. I can see the hypocrisy in the Kommandant’s role, overseeing the enslavement of the Jews from a distance, not looking closely enough to acknowledge the everyday atrocities that are taking place. “But if something major is to occur, it cannot happen without passing across your boss’s desk and getting his stamp of approval. You are our only hope for finding out what that is.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Have you noticed anything unusual in Richwalder’s office?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” I have access to almost everything in the Kommandant’s office. He does not even have a private safe. “The only things that come in that I have not seen are the classified cable traffic, but there hasn’t been much of that lately.”
Alek strokes his goatee. “Then it is as I thought. He must keep papers at home.”
“He does have a home office,” I offer. Alek looks at me strangely, as if wondering how I know that. “Sometimes the Kommandant has me pack a briefcase of work for him to take home at night,” I explain quickly.
Alek pauses for several seconds. “Emma, there is something you can do.”
Something else, I want to say; I am already helping.
“Yes?”
“I can hardly bring myself to ask…”
“I’ll do anything I can to help.” But even as I say this, I am filled with dread.
“I know that. But this is different from anything you, or any of us, have done before.” He looks me squarely in the eyes. “You have to find a way to get into the Kommandant’s home study.”
“I can do that,” I reply quickly.
“Not so fast—you must listen to me carefully.” I have never heard Alek sound so serious before. “This is not a case of merely going into an office at Wawel to snatch some passes and leaving again.” Merely, I think, remembering my first terrifying foray into Krich’s office. I wonder to myself if Alek has any idea how difficult that was. He continues, “You are going to have to get into Richwalder’s study and look around. We’re not sure exactly what it is you will be looking for. Correspondence, memos, directives, possibly. Anything having to do with future plans for the Jews. This will not be easy,” he cautions again. “Richwalder is a notoriously private man, and these are not the type of documents he would leave lying about. We’re talking drawers, file cabinets, that sort of thing. You must be extremely careful.” I nod. We both know what will happen to me and many others if I get caught.
“I can do it,” I repeat. There is a confidence in my voice that I do not recognize. “He…trusts me.”
“Yes, we know,” Alek says. “That is why we have asked you.” It occurs to me then that I may not be the resistance movement’s only spy at Wawel. There may be someone else there, perhaps even observing me. Of course, I laugh inwardly. This is war. No one is to be trusted.