by Pam Jenoff
The fact that I am to see the Kommandant again means I will have to say something to Krysia. I intend to speak with her as soon as I get home that night, but I find her and Lukasz playing in the garden, and the sight is such a happy one I cannot bring it up. Later, after we have eaten and put Lukasz to bed, I follow Krysia into the parlor. She sits down and picks up the blue sweater she has been knitting for Lukasz. “It looks almost finished,” I offer.
Krysia holds up the sweater, studies it. “I think I will add a hood,” she says.
Still standing, I shift uneasily. “So, the Kommandant has asked me out again for tomorrow night.”
Krysia looks at me evenly. “I see.”
I look down, studying the top of my shoes. “I wanted to let you know, I mean, to explain…”
Krysia interrupts, “You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“Thank you,” I reply awkwardly. “But it’s important to me that you know. Alek has asked me to…that is, he thinks it is important for the movement.”
“And what do you think?” she asks.
I hesitate. “I think I do not have a choice,” I say, sinking to the sofa beside her.
“There’s always a choice, Emma,” Krysia replies. “We have to take responsibility for our actions. It is the only way we can avoid becoming victims and keep our dignity.”
Dignity. How ironic. I forfeited mine two nights ago in the Kommandant’s apartment. But Krysia is right about taking responsibility. I bite my lip. “Then I am choosing to see him again. For my parents and for the resistance.”
Krysia places her hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s not an easy decision.”
“Do you think it’s the right one?”
“That’s a question only you can answer.” I sigh, then reach over and kiss her on the cheek. “Good night, dear,” she says. Upstairs, I check on Lukasz before going to the bathroom. As I wash my face, I think about what Krysia said. I am choosing to do this, to be with the Kommandant in order to help the resistance. Still, I do not feel brave, but filthy. It is not merely the act by which I have betrayed my marriage that fills me with disgust; it is the undeniable fact that some part of me actually enjoyed it. And even that would not have been so bad, I realize as I soak, if it had merely been a physical reaction. I could have attributed that to loneliness and the fact that I hadn’t seen my husband in almost a year. No, the problem was this chemistry thing that Krysia had spoken of—part of me liked the Kommandant, liked talking to him and being close to him. That was what made the situation so unbearable.
The next day, the Kommandant’s messenger arrives with a handwritten note inviting me to dine at Wierzynek at seven o’clock that evening. Reading the note, I hesitate. I would like to decline, to hold off on being with him for even one more day. But there is no excuse: Lukasz is better and I must try to get the information as soon as possible. I send back a message that I will attend.
At a quarter to seven, Stanislaw comes to pick me up in the car. He explains to me that the Kommandant has been delayed by business and will meet me at the restaurant. Alone in the backseat of the enormous car, I stare out the window. As we near town, I wonder how the evening will go. Since our first night together, I have only seen the Kommandant the one time in his office. I worry that now the conversation will be stilted and awkward.
A moment later the car stops in front of a grand building just off the market square. The Kommandant is waiting in the doorway of the restaurant. “I was sorry not to have been able to meet you,” he apologizes as he escorts me inside. The maître d’ takes my coat and leads us upstairs to a secluded table on a balcony overlooking the main dining room. “I have taken the liberty of ordering for us,” he says as we sit.
I nod, grateful to not have to worry about choosing the proper items on top of everything else. “Lukasz is better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.” A waiter appears to pour two glasses of red wine, then leaves again. The Kommandant raises his glass. “To health.”
“To health,” I repeat, raising my glass and taking a small sip. “The wine is delicious.”
The Kommandant drains his glass. “Italian. Have you ever been?”
“To Italy?” I shake my head.
“Wonderful country.” Two waiters appear with silver-covered plates, which they set before us and uncover in unison to reveal the first course, a smoked salmon terrine. When they have gone, the Kommandant launches into a story about a ski holiday he had taken in the Italian Alps with some friends in his younger years. He speaks very quickly, pausing only for quick bites of salmon and sips from his wineglass, which one of the waiters refilled before leaving.
A few minutes later, the waiters reappear, removing the plates and replacing them with two larger silver domes. The main course is some sort of roast bird, with a gamey taste that I do not enjoy. I pick at the dish, grateful that I ate at Krysia’s before leaving. If the Kommandant notices my distaste, he gives no indication, but devours his own plate with relish.
“Have you been back since?” I ask when the waiters who have refilled our glasses have gone again.
“Not to the Italian Alps,” he replies. “I’ve been to other parts of Italy, of course, Rome, Florence, Venice.” I marvel at the way these destinations, which seem so exotic to me, roll so easily off his tongue. He continues, “And to the French and Swiss Alps. But I haven’t gone to Turin again since my university days.”
I tilt my head. “I’m trying to picture you as a student.”
“It was a long time ago,” he admits, laughing.
“What did you study?”
“History,” he replies, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I wanted to be a professor. Of course that was before…” He looks away and takes a sip of wine.
“Before what? What happened?”
“Before I no longer had a choice.” He pauses. “I was the middle of three children. My older brother, Peter, was supposed to take over the family shipping business. When the war started, he and I joined the navy together.” I realize that he is speaking of the Great War. “He was killed at the Battle of Jutland.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over the table and touching his forearm.
He clears his throat. “Thank you. He was a brave man and I looked up to him immensely. Anyway, with Peter gone, it fell to me to learn the family business, so I could run it when my father was someday gone. I never had the chance to finish my studies.”
I sit back in my seat, uncertain what to say. We eat in silence for several minutes. “How did you enjoy the pheasant?” he asks when the waiter returns to clear the table.
“Delicious,” I lie, hoping he did not notice my almost untouched plate.
He turns to the waiter. “Two coffees, one black with brandy, one with cream and sugar,” the Kommandant says. I am surprised that the Kommandant knows how I take my coffee, since I never drink it in front of him in the office. He must have remembered from Krysia’s dinner party. That was May, I realize, nearly five months ago. It seems like a million years. A moment later, a waiter returns with our coffees and a dessert cart bearing a dazzling array of pastries. My mouth watering, I choose a slice of German chocolate cake and the Kommandant takes a piece of apple strudel.
“How is it?” I ask after he has taken a bite.
“Not bad,” he replies, swallowing. “Not as good as my sister’s, though. She is married to an Austrian. They live outside Salzburg.”
“Are you and she close?”
He nods. “Quite, though I haven’t seen her since before the war.”
“Perhaps soon…” I begin, then stop, unsure of how to finish. I had started to say that perhaps soon the war would end and he would be able to see her again. But speaking of the end of the war seems strange somehow.
“I know what you were going to say,” the Kommandant replies, stirring his coffee. A crumb of strudel is stuck to his face, right by the cleft in his chin. I have to fight the urge to reach out and brush it off. “You were thinking of th
e war ending. It’s okay, Anna. It’s not disloyal to wish for an end to the fighting. We all do. I’m just not sure what that means anymore, even if we do win.” I am shocked. It is the first time I have heard anyone German speak of Nazi victory as anything other than a foregone conclusion. He continues, “The Führer’s plan is quite good in the abstract, but what does it mean, really? Are we to keep occupying Poland and the rest of Europe indefinitely?”
I hesitate, wondering if he expects me to answer. Suddenly I am reminded of the days before the war when Jacob and I would debate political issues. Those conversations were different; there were no right or wrong answers. Here, everything I say is a potential land mine. “I—I don’t know,” I manage to say.
“You don’t have to answer. I’m not a fool, Anna. I know what the Poles think of us. We are the occupying force.” Not occupiers, I think. Murderers. He continues, “They hate us, think we’re monsters. I understand it.”
“I’m a Pole,” I offer. “And I don’t…”
“Hate me?” He smiles sheepishly. “I know. That’s the part I don’t understand.” He pauses, taking another bite. “No, the problem with the war is that nothing is certain.”
“What about the Jews?” I blurt. The question seems to fly from my mouth involuntarily, as though placed there by another.
The Kommandant stares at me, his fork hovering midair. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
I hesitate, wishing the floor would open and swallow me up. I should never have asked the question, but it is too late now. “When you spoke of the Führer’s plans long-term…” I look down at my coffee cup. “I—I was just wondering about the Jews in the ghetto, what will be done with them?”
“Do you know many Jews, Anna?” the Kommandant asks sharply.
I shake my head quickly. “Only the ones I saw around the city before the war. None personally.”
He clears his throat. “The Jewish question will be resolved. You needn’t worry about that.” He looks up and signals to the waiter for the bill.
My heart pounds. Why did I ask him that? Does he now suspect something? As he signs the bill, I study his face. But if he thinks anything is amiss, he gives no indication. A moment later, the maître d’ reappears with my coat. We make our way downstairs and outside to the car. Inside, the Kommandant turns to me. “I suppose you need to be getting back to Lukasz,” he says.
I hesitate. He is asking me if I want to come over, I realize. I do not have to go—he has given me the perfect excuse. But backing out now would defeat the purpose of everything I have already done. I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I reply. “Krysia is with Lukasz. I don’t have to hurry home.” The Kommandant smiles slightly and leans forward to speak with Stanislaw in a low voice.
Neither of us speak again until we are inside his apartment. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks, taking my coat and laying it across a chair.
“No, thank you.” We stand awkwardly in the middle of the parlor, looking at each other. There is no unexpected moment to bring us together now. Taking a deep breath, I step forward.
“Anna,” he says, opening his arms. I take another step toward him and he reaches for me. Wordlessly, we walk to his bedroom. His embrace is tentative at first, but then our lips meet and it is as if we have been together a thousand times. The sex (I refuse to think of it as lovemaking) is less animalistic now, a slower, more tender passion. At one point, I break from the hypnotic trance to a moment of consciousness. Suddenly, it is as though I am hovering above us by the ceiling, looking down on our bodies. I am pinned beneath the Kommandant, my face contorted. Go back inside, I think as I look down, hating myself.
Then it is over. A few minutes later, he is asleep. Watching him breathe evenly, eyes closed, I cannot help but think of Jacob. We would lie awake for hours after making love, holding each other and talking. You should be glad that the Kommandant is asleep, I remind myself. It is time to make this all worthwhile.
Slowly, carefully, I slip out of bed and tiptoe across the apartment in the darkness. Feeling my way along the wall, I find the door to his study. I turn the knob and open the door slowly, so that it does not creak. Inside the unlit room, I can make out nothing and I do not dare turn on a light. This is pointless. The only way to do this is to wait and look in the light of very early morning, before the Kommandant wakes up. But I cannot bring myself to stay, not tonight. I need to be home when Lukasz awakes in the morning. Returning to the bedroom, I dress quietly and tiptoe from the apartment. Downstairs, Stanislaw is still waiting by the car. I cannot bear to meet his eyes as I climb into the back seat. If he thinks something untoward has taken place, though, he gives no sign of it, but rather closes the car door behind me and drives me home.
The situation with the Kommandant falls into a pattern after that day. He asks me out several times each week. I think he would see me every day if he could, but the demands of his work keep him from trying. I accept most of his invitations, usually to dinner, or occasionally to the cinema or a play. The evening always ends at the Kommandant’s apartment. A few times I stay until the earliest dawn, slipping into the study to look for papers, but I do not dare to shuffle more than a few papers at a time for fear of waking him. So far, I have found nothing of consequence. The situation remains the same for several weeks. Once or twice, Krysia asks in a roundabout way whether I need to see Alek and I always say no. I know that things are more dangerous for him and the other resistance members now, and that they cannot risk a meeting unless I have something significant to report.
One Friday morning in early November, I am seated at my desk in the anteroom opening the mail. Toward the bottom of the pile, there is a small, vanilla colored linen envelope containing a note card. I do not recognize the writing, but I can tell that it is female. Georg, the message begins, I am looking forward to the gala on Saturday. Fondly, Agnieszka. I freeze,dropping the note card to the desk. Who is Agnieszka? I wonder, and where is the Kommandant taking her? I open the Kommandant’s appointment book, but there is nothing listed for Friday night. Maybe it is a mistake. But he has not asked me for a date for that night, as usually would have been the case….
Just then the anteroom door flies open and Malgorzata barrels in, carrying a stack of folders. “These are for…” she begins, setting the folders on the edge of my desk. Then, noticing my expression, she stops. “Is something wrong, Anna?” she asks. “You look rather pale.”
“N-no, of course not,” I reply, hastily trying to shove the note card under the stack of mail. The last thing I need is Malgorzata thinking I am concerned about the Kommandant’s personal life.
But it is too late. She reaches down, picks up the note card. “Ah, the Baroness Kwiatkowska.”
“Agnieszka Kwiatkowska?” I repeat. The Kwiatkowskas are a well-known Kraków family with an aristocratic bloodline.
“Yes, I have heard that the baroness has designs on our Kommandant,” Malgorzata says, dropping the card back on my desk and winking. “Oh, don’t be too sad, Anna. Of course the Kommandant would date a wealthy, cultured woman like Agnieszka Kwiatkowska. You didn’t really think he would wind up with a lowly staff person, did you?”
“No, of course not,” I start to say, but Malgorzata has walked away, laughing cruelly over her shoulder as she leaves the room. I sit for several moments, staring at the card. Finally, I place it back in the envelope and return it, along with the rest of the mail, on the Kommandant’s desk. Still, the idea of it gnaws at me all morning: the Kommandant is going on a date with another woman. Well, why shouldn’t he? I muse angrily as I work on the filing that afternoon. He is a very eligible man, single, handsome and powerful. The fact that he is sleeping with a member of his staff should hardly matter. I feel foolish for ever thinking that it might be something more to him.
Once I am seated on the bus heading toward Chelmska, my mind turns to the Kommandant once more. So he has a date with another woman. It should not matter at all. You are only with him because you hav
e to be, I remind myself. It is a mission for the resistance. It is not as though it is Jacob who is betraying you. No, it is I who is betraying him, I think, pressing my head miserably against the cool glass window. I betray Jacob, the Kommandant betrays me. It is pathetic. As I get off the bus at Krysia’s, it begins to rain—thick, cold drops that soak through my coat and stockings. The miserable weather suits my mood perfectly.
Opening the front gate to Krysia’s, I pause. Something is not right. There are lights burning everywhere in the house, yet the second-floor curtains, usually flung wide open, are tightly shut. I hurry up the path, wondering if Lukasz is sick again. “Hello?” I call as I open the front door. I walk up the stairs to the second floor. “Hello?”
“Surprise!” a chorus of voices bursts out, startling me. Krysia, Lukasz and the Kommandant leap out of the kitchen. Elzbieta lingers behind slightly, holding a cake with lit candles. “Happy birthday!” they cry. I blink repeatedly, trying to process what is happening. Tomorrow is my birthday, I remember, my real birthday and Anna’s, too. The resistance gave her the same birthday as me to minimize confusion. I had almost forgotten, though I know Krysia has not. But the Kommandant is here, too. A birthday celebration made up of the Jewish child we are hiding, my husband’s aunt who is sheltering us, and the Nazi she is protecting us from, who happens to be my lover. The irony is really too much.
“Thank you,” I manage to say at last. Suddenly I am mindful of my disheveled hair and mud-soaked stockings.