The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  His face broke into a wide smile. “Good. We can have a quiet dinner, just the two of us. Here,” the Kommandant said, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a key and some money. “I have some work that needs to be finished this evening, but I won’t be very late. Why don’t you leave now and pick up some food on your way to my apartment? You can make yourself comfortable, have a nap if you’re tired. I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

  I nodded and took my leave from his office. Seeing the heavy snow falling outside the windows of Wawel, I had asked Stanislaw to drive me to the store and then the apartment.

  The snow has stopped now. Looking down the street, bathed in white, I think of Jacob. He always loved snow. During our one winter together, the months before we were married, he would coax me out to the woods to play every time a fresh snow fell. At first I had looked at him as if he was crazy. Having been raised an only child in the city with not many friends, I had done little more with snow than catch a few flakes on my tongue. Having snowball fights and building snowmen were foreign concepts to me, and I could not believe he actually wanted me to lie down beside him in a patch of snow and wave my arms and legs back and forth to make the shape of an angel. But he had persuaded me, and as I lay in the snow beside him laughing, the freezing wetness seeping through my clothes, I had looked up at the white sky and breathed in the crisp air and felt truly alive for the first time.

  Still standing in the street, I bend down and lift another handful of white flakes to my face, inhaling the wetness and remembering. I can see his face so clearly. But snow does not bring only happy thoughts of Jacob now. Is he warm enough wherever he is? I do not even know if he is indoors. We will play in the snow together again one day, I vow silently, touching the snow to my cheek. I brush the snow from my gloves and watch it scatter in the wind.

  I wipe my boots on the mat before making my way into the apartment building, a small basket of groceries in my hand. Upstairs, I enter the apartment and look around. I have not been here in almost a month. The apartment is more unkempt than ever, with newspapers and drinking glasses scattered everywhere. How can the Kommandant live like this? He is otherwise so neat and precise. Probably because he has been here so little, I decide, between working late in the office and traveling frequently to Warsaw. I set down my basket on the low table in front of the sofa and begin to clear the mess so I can put out supper there.

  As I carry the glasses to the kitchen, I can feel the picture of Margot staring at me from the mantelpiece. I stop and turn to meet her dark eyes. The picture, I know, was taken before her father was killed. But there was still a sadness in her eyes, a foreshadowing of her own tragic end. How much of the horrible truth had she already learned about who the Kommandant really was, or had become? I think then of the earlier photograph of Margot, the one the Kommandant keeps on his desk. She looked so happy and in love in that picture. I study her face for some clue, wishing she could tell me about the man the Kommandant used to be. But her expression remains impassive, her voice muted by time. Poor Margot. The two of us are not so very different. Both Jewish, at least in part. Both of us trapped by love for men kept from us by a sense of duty to a cause. And both of our loves had gotten shipwrecked by this wretched war. I only hope that my story will end differently.

  I turn toward the Kommandant’s study. I could go in there now and look around. Perhaps there is something I missed the last time or maybe some new development. I shake my head. Not now. It is too risky. There is no telling how soon he will be home. No, I will have to look later, after he is asleep. A chill runs through me. I have not been intimate with the Kommandant for some time now, not since before I learned of his terrible past. Not since before Jacob’s visit. The idea of being with the Kommandant again after making love to Jacob seems like I am breaking my marriage vows all over again. There is a part of me, though, that welcomes the chance to be held by him. I wish I could ignore that part, or did not know that it exists. I shiver and, forcing these thoughts from my head, carry the dirty glasses into the kitchen.

  The Kommandant arrives a short while later as I am setting out our supper, a light meal of bread, delicatessen meats and cheese. “Hello.” He bends and kisses me hello in an absent-minded manner. His face is stormy, and though I do not dare ask, I wonder what happened at the office after I left to change his mood so markedly.

  Not speaking further, he sets down a briefcase that I imagine to be full of work and goes to the water closet to wash up. Maybe he will be too busy to be with me that night, I think as I pour two drinks, a glass of brandy for him and a much smaller one for me. If that is the case, I will not be able to get into his study at all. My heart sinks.

  I bring the drinks to the table and sit down. A few minutes later, the Kommandant comes back into the room, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up. “Come sit,” I urge, patting the space beside me on the sofa. He nods, but he does not join me. Instead he walks to the mantelpiece. For a moment I wonder if he is thinking of Margot, but he does not seem to be looking at her picture. Rather, he is staring into the fireplace, his mind somewhere far away.

  “Christmas is coming,” he says at last. He sounds as if the realization has only just occurred to him, though I had mentioned the holidays in his office earlier in the day.

  “Just a few days away,” I reply. I might have forgotten the holiday myself, but for the sprigs of fir and red bows that Krysia has placed around the house in lieu of a tree. The city, usually festive with displays in the window shops and the aroma of holiday treats, was virtually unadorned this year.

  “Christmas was such a grand affair in our house,” he says. For a moment, I wonder if he is speaking of his life with Margot, but he continues, “Our father would take us on a midnight sleigh ride through the woods to search for the Weinachtsmann, whom we believed would bring the Christmas gifts.” He walks over to the sofa and sits down beside me. “We never found him, of course, but would come back to the house to find that he had sneaked in while we were gone to leave us wonderful presents. And the next morning, the breakfast table was always piled high with cakes.” He smiles, his expression almost childlike.

  “That sounds lovely,” I say. My mind races to come up with a story about my childhood Christmases, in case he asks.

  “We should do something special for Christmas,” he says abruptly. “Go away somewhere for a few days, just the two of us.”

  I stare at him in disbelief. It is as if he has forgotten the war, his role in the administration. “Herr Kommandant, with all that is going on, I wouldn’t think it possible…”

  His smile fades. “No, of course not,” he says quickly. I watch the heaviness return to his eyes, regretful that I have taken his moment of escape from him. “It’s this damn war,” he adds. He touches my cheek. “I’m sorry, Anna. You deserve so much better.”

  I do deserve better, I think, but not in the way he means. I deserve to be with my husband. “Not at all,” I reply, my stomach twisting.

  “I’ll make it up to you someday,” he insists. “Things will be different for us after the war. I promise.”

  I open my mouth, but before I can speak, he reaches for me, his lips pressing down thickly on mine. His embrace is tight, his kiss demanding. Caught off guard, I freeze momentarily. After so many weeks, his touch feels both strange and familiar at the same time. Then I find myself responding, my kisses matching the intensity of his. Despite all that has happened and all that I have learned about him, I feel at once the burn and the chill, the same thrill and disgust brought on as much by my own reaction as the touch that inspires it.

  The Kommandant’s hands drop to my torso. His weight begins to press on me, bending me backward against the arm of the sofa. There is an urgency about him that I have not seen before. It is as if he is running, trying to hide from something in my arms. I pull my lips back from his, cradling his face in my hands. “What is it?” I whisper. “What’s wrong?” But he shakes his head and begins kissing me once more.

 
Suddenly there is a sharp knock at the door. The Kommandant hesitates, a look of concern crossing his face. He is not expecting anyone else, I know, and no one would dare call on him unannounced. He turns back to me, continues kissing me as though he has heard nothing. A moment later, the knock comes again, too loud to be ignored.

  He breaks from our kiss and sits up. “Yes?” he calls out, irritated.

  “Urgent message, Herr Kommandant,” a thin male voice calls through the door. The Kommandant rises and straightens his collar as he walks to the door and opens it. A young soldier stands in the hallway, sweating and breathing heavily. “M-my apologies for the intrusion…” the soldier stammers.

  “What is it?” the Kommandant demands. The messenger hesitates, looking at me over the Kommandant’s shoulder. “Anna is my personal assistant. You may speak freely in front of her.”

  The messenger holds his arm out straight, a piece of paper caught in his shaking fingertips. “Warszawa Café,” he gasps as the Kommandant snatches the paper and scans it. “There has been an explosion.”

  My stomach sinks. Warszawa Café, once a posh Polish establishment located directly across the street from the opera house, had become a popular Nazi bar during the occupation. Even in the early days of the war, we had learned to steer away from the area where the German soldiers were densely gathered and often drunk. This is the work of the resistance, I know it. “What sort of explosion?” the Kommandant asks.

  “An incendiary device of some sort, sir.”

  “You mean a bomb?”

  The soldier nods. “There are casualties among the officers, I’m afraid.”

  The slip of paper falls from the Kommandant’s hand. His expression is one of surprise. The idea that someone has carried out an action against the Nazis seems more than he can comprehend. Both the messenger and I look at the Kommandant, waiting to see what he will do. Without a word, he retreats into the bedroom. I look at the messenger questioningly, hoping that he will be forthcoming with more details. He does not speak or meet my gaze, though, but rather shifts his weight from foot to foot. Outside, sirens wail in the distance.

  The Kommandant reemerges from the bedroom wearing his jacket once more. He adjusts his belt and I can see the silver glint of a pistol in his waistband. He passes by me on his way out the door. “I have to go. Stanislaw will see you home,” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall. The messenger slams the door shut behind him.

  I rush over to the window that faces north and scan the skyline. In the distance, on the far side of the city center, I can see a red glow. Flames shoot toward the sky. So this is what they had planned. Jacob, I think. Alek. I press my head against the glass, seeing their faces in my mind. Oh, my sweet, foolish boys, what have you done?

  I turn around. I am alone in the Kommandant’s apartment, certain that with all that has happened, he will not be home for many hours. I am free to go into his study, to search through all of his papers and find more information, to tell Alek everything he and the others want to know. All of these months, everything I have planned and done, has been about getting to a moment like this. Only now it is too late. I laugh aloud at the irony, my voice echoing through the empty rooms.

  Then I stop abruptly. The world has just exploded and those I love most are undoubtedly at the center of the inferno. I have to do something. I grab my coat and run out of the Kommandant’s apartment and into the night.

  A few meters from the apartment building, I pause. Where should I go? Though I know it is dangerous, and the last thing the resistance would want me to do, I begin running wildly toward the city center and the scene of the explosion. At first, people on the street look at me strangely. But as I near the far corner of the market square, my hysteria seems entirely appropriate. Sirens wail, Gestapo police bark out orders and Poles, who for the past several years of occupation have learned to steer away from trouble, run directly toward the fiery scene. I follow the crowd west along Stolarska Street.

  A bomb, I hear voices alongside me whisper as we draw nearer to the scene; Nazis killed. They sound almost gleeful. My heart lurches. The fact that a few Nazis were killed is irrelevant to me. I can think only of my beloved Jacob and brave, strong Alek. I am certain they are among those who set off the explosion. Are they okay? Alive?

  Just above the square, a police barricade has been erected. “No entrance, miss,” the guard says as I try to pass.

  “But I live…” Lying, I point to the other side of the barricade.

  The guard shakes his head. “No exceptions. Go around another way.”

  I make a left onto Tomasza Street, and then a right onto Florianska, which runs parallel to the street I’d been hoping to take. Though this street is just one block away from the explosion, the police had not thought to barricade it and it is largely deserted. I make my way up the street, staying close to the buildings, hidden in the shadows. As I near the scene of the explosion, thick smoke fills the air, burning my throat and making it difficult to see. Shards of broken glass crunch under my feet. I reach the end of the street where it dead-ends at the Florian Gate. It is here, by the medieval city wall, that Lukasz and I saw the soldiers that terrified him so on our first trip into town after coming to Krysia’s house.

  If I follow the wall, stay close to the buildings, I may be able to make it to the scene of the explosion. I start around the corner. Suddenly, an arm shoots out of a doorway and grabs my shoulder hard. “Hey!” I cry, as I am pulled into a dark alleyway by a stranger. Two arms grab me from behind, a hand clamps over my mouth. For a second I wonder if it is the Gestapo. They would not bother with secrecy, I quickly realize, struggling to break free. Desperately, I open my mouth and manage to bite the hand that has been covering it. Suddenly I am released.

  “Ouch!” a woman’s voice exclaims.

  “What on earth…?” Breathing heavily, I turn to face my assailant. Her face is covered by a heavy wool shawl.

  “Shhh!” The stranger pulls back the shawl and a familiar head of dark curls springs out.

  “Marta!” I exclaim. Her face is scratched and covered in soot and I can tell she has been to the scene of the explosion. “How did you…?”

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” she admonishes, as though speaking to a child. “It’s dangerous. The Gestapo is rounding up anyone who looks like they do not belong here. You could have been arrested or worse.”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to come. I was out of my mind with worry. Jacob? Alek?”

  “Both alive,” she replies, a catch in her voice. She looks away.

  I grab her by the shoulders. “What is it?” I demand, my voice rising.

  “Shh!” she repeats, looking uneasily out into the street.

  I drop my voice but do not release my grip on her. “Tell me what happened.”

  She hesitates and I can tell she is wondering how much to say. “Jacob was injured by the blast….”

  My heart stops. “Injured? How?”

  “During the explosion. I don’t know the details. He was seriously injured, but he is alive.” Her eyes are dark with concern. I have suspected since our first meeting after the ghetto that Marta has feelings for my husband. Now, seeing her face so heavy with torment and grief, I am certain of it.

  “I have to go to him,” I say. “Tell me where he is.”

  She shakes her head. “No, Emma, no. Jacob has been taken from the city. Alek has given orders that none of us are to go to him. It isn’t safe. Not now.”

  White-hot rage sears within me. “But I am his wife! I have every right to see him!”

  Marta’s expression changes and her lips press together hard. “His wife?” she spits sarcastically.

  I pull back. “What are you saying?”

  “I know what you have done all of these months. What has been going on between you and the Kommandant.”

  “But…” I falter, stunned. How could she possibly know? Had Alek told her? Had she told Jacob as a way to come between us and get closer to
him?

  “Jacob doesn’t know,” she replies, reading my thoughts. “I thought about telling him, believe me. But Alek forbade me. He said it would have hurt Jacob too much, been a distraction when the resistance most needed him to be strong. I wanted to tell him. He deserves to know what kind of woman you really are.”

  Her words cut through me, sharp and painful. “Marta, you can’t think that…I’ve done what I was asked. What had to be done.”

  “Maybe.” She looks me squarely in the eye. Her voice is icy. “But I wonder who it is that you really care for. If you even care for Jacob at all.”

  “How can you say that? I’ve done what I’ve done with the Kommandant for the resistance, because it was the only thing to do. I love Jacob! Only him!” My voice sounds too insistent, as though I am trying to convince her and myself. “You know that.”

  She looks away. “I don’t know anything anymore.” Me, neither, I think. Neither of us speaks for several seconds. Then Marta turns to me again, gripping me by the shoulders and shaking me hard. “Now, you listen to me—you cannot go to Jacob now. The situation is very serious. The Nazis are combing the city, looking for the perpetrators, and they have a pretty good idea who did it. There will be repercussions for what has happened tonight. Alek has risked much by sending me to find you and tell you that Jacob is alive. So you need to calm yourself and go home and say nothing, even to Krysia. And tomorrow you will go to work as though nothing has happened. Do you understand?” I nod. Marta softens a bit. “We care about Jacob, too.” Though she used the plural, I know it is herself for whom she is speaking. “I will send word to you as soon as it is safe. Trust me.” She hugs me quickly and disappears into the alley once more.