The Kommandant's Girl

by Pam Jenoff

  “She sent Pankiewicz, the pharmacist. The dear man was a godsend. He tried everything, used his scarcest medicines on your mother, but the illness was like nothing he had seen before, a total mystery. Eventually, the fever broke and she got a little better but she was still very weak. She was never the same afterward and the winter…well, a few weeks ago the fever returned and that was it.”

  I swallow, my sobs easing. “Was she peaceful? At the end, I mean?”

  My father hesitates. “She was at peace,” he replies carefully, and I can tell from his expression that she suffered a great deal. “She was strong and brave. I was with her the whole time…”

  “I should have been there, too,” I say, my voice cracking.

  He shakes his head. “She understood. All she wanted was to know that you were safe.” But I am inconsolable. I picture my mother the night I left, sleeping beside my father. I did not have the chance to say goodbye, not even the casual goodbye I might have said when headed out the door to the bakery or the library, planning to meet again in a few hours. No, I had disappeared in the middle of the night and now so had she.

  “I’m sorry I left you,” I say.

  “No, no, it wasn’t like that,” he protests quickly. “We were worried, of course, that morning when we awoke and found you gone. But we received word quickly that Jacob and his friends had somehow gotten you out. That you were okay. We were glad. In the end, your mother was sorry she didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. But she understood why you had to go the way you did. I did, too.”

  I begin to sob openly again, oblivious to where I am and the danger that surrounds us. My father watches me helplessly from the other side of the wall, heavy with his own grief. “Yisgadal, v yiskadash shmay rabah…” he begins in Hebrew to chant the mourner’s kaddish. In a choked voice, I join in. It is the Jewish prayer for the dead that does not mention death, but only praises God in the highest. How many times had my father said it alone these nights? I wonder.

  I inhale, fighting to regain my composure. “We have to get you out,” I say frantically. “I will come back in an hour with papers….” He shakes his head. We both know that it is impossible. No one is getting in or out of the ghetto these days. My father certainly could not pass as a messenger, or a gentile, and he could never survive the journey through the forest.

  No, I cannot get him out. But I want to give him something, something that will linger where I cannot. “Tata, I am going to have a baby.” A confused look crosses over his face. “Jacob was able to come visit us once last autumn,” I add quickly. I do not tell him, of course, that the child might not be my husband’s. In that moment, it does not matter.

  He smiles weakly. “Mazel tov, darling.” But his eyes look pained. I know in his mind he is seeing the grandchild he would never hold, never witness bar mitzvahed. Yet his family would go on. My words are both a wound and a gift.

  “If it is a girl, I will name the child for Mama,” I add.

  “Emmala,” he says. I shudder. It has been so long since I have heard him call me by his pet name for me. It feels like a warm blanket around my shoulders. I see in his eyes then a helpless look. It is the look of a father acknowledging all that he is unable to give to his child. His guilt at not having been able to protect me. Suddenly, his expression changes. “Wait,” he says. “Wait right here.” Before I can reply, he disappears. I press back against the wall into the shadows, seeing my mother’s face in the darkness. Had Krysia known? I wonder. Did she lie and tell me my parents were all right, knowing I would not leave otherwise? Several moments pass. Finally, I hear my father’s shuffling steps as he reappears. “Here.” He thrusts his hand through the wall once more, pressing three items into my palm. The first two are my wedding and engagement rings, which I had long ago tucked under my mattress in the ghetto. The last is a piece of paper. I unfold it and gasp aloud. It is my marriage certificate to Jacob.

  I hesitate, my hand still aloft. A Jewish marriage certificate and rings. Once these things would have meant everything to me. Now I see only the danger in taking them. If I am caught, they will surely betray my identity. I look at my father then, at the light that giving me these few things has brought to his eyes. I have no choice but to take them.

  “Thank you.” I wrap the rings in the paper and tuck them both in my pocket.

  My father nods, content to be able to give me that much. “And when you see Jacob, you tell that boy your father said he is never to leave your side again.”

  “I promise.”

  My father nods emphatically. “Tell Jacob I said enough with his political nonsense. He has my grandson to raise.” I am amazed to see a small smile at the corner of my father’s cracked lips. Even now, at his darkest hour, he can find some humor, some joy.

  “Grandson,” I reply, desperately trying to find the humor to match his own. “I knew you always wanted a boy.”

  He shakes his head, serious now. “I wanted you. You are my everything.”

  I fight back the tears that are starting to well up again. “And you are mine,” I reply softly. “But, Tata, the ghetto…”

  “Yes…” He is not smiling now. He, too, has heard the rumors of liquidation. Having witnessed two terrifying akcjas already, he surely knows what to expect, the horrors that lay ahead for him. Yet his eyes burn clear and unafraid. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he says simply. There is a kind of radiance to his thin, starved face. I realize then that I am staring into the eyes of absolute faith. I think of all of the days spent in the tiny Remuh Synagogue on Szeroka Street, davening and chanting his prayers. Of candles lit and wine blessed. Even in the ghetto, I know he has spent these long nights reciting over and over to himself the Twenty-Third Psalm. Still, I wonder how he remains so serene. Perhaps he has walked God’s path for so long that he has no need for the searching and fear that others do. Or perhaps he has lost so much there is nothing else to take. Most likely, he knows that my mother is waiting at the end of this path.

  “Go now,” he urges.

  “I can’t leave you again,” I protest. “I won’t.”

  He shakes his head. “You must.” I do not reply. I know that he is right. I cannot free him, and staying here will mean certain death for us both. Still I linger, wanting to hold on to the last page of my childhood, a book that is about to close forever. I press my head through the hole in the wall, the cracked edges scratching my cheeks and forehead. My father tries to ward me off, not wanting to pass whatever germs and disease lay in the ghetto on to me and my unborn child. But I reach my arm through and draw him close to me. I am just able to graze my lips against the papery skin of his cheek.

  “I love you, Tata.”

  “God be with you, my darling.” I hold his fingers in mine for another second until he pulls away and, with great effort, turns from the wall. I watch as he walks away, grateful that he has gone first, knowing that I could not. I stand motionless as his figure grows smaller and then disappears into the darkness of the ghetto. I reach through the hole in the wall once more, but on the other side is emptiness. Finally, I can stand it no longer. I turn away from the ghetto wall and begin to run.

  CHAPTER 24

  Once away from the ghetto, my thoughts turn to getting safely back to Krysia’s. I consider trying to find my way back through the forest, but I know from hearing talk around Wawel that the Nazis have long since identified the woods surrounding Podgorze as a potential escape route from the city. Since the café bombing, the forest is crawling with Nazi sharpshooters who will fire at anything that moves. No, I realize, I will have to chance going back through town.

  I reach the foot of the railway bridge. The clanging of my shoes is painfully loud as I climb the bridge steps. When I reach the top, I hesitate, scanning the length of the bridge. It appears to be deserted, but the full winter moon shines down like a spotlight. The other side seems as far as another country and there is little cover, other than the shadows of the widely spaced columns. I draw my shawl over my head. As I start
across, a fierce gust of icy wind cuts through me. I hunch over, nearly doubled in half, clutching the shawl under my chin as it threatens to blow away. My eyes concentrate on the ground as I try to walk softly and avoid the slippery patches and uneven metal seams.

  Suddenly I hear the sound of a vehicle in the distance ahead of me. My breath catches. Someone is coming. I am almost halfway across the bridge, too far to turn back. I leap behind one of the steel columns of the bridge. Seconds later, a Nazi truck with a lone driver approaches, heading in the direction of the ghetto. I cower in the shadows, pressing myself into the column, not breathing. The truck continues past me, slowly, painfully. Don’t stop, I pray, and it does not. A minute later, it disappears off the far side of the bridge.

  I exhale deeply. I am safe, at least for the moment. Still standing behind the column, I bury my hands in my pockets. My fingers graze my marriage certificate. I wrap my fingers around the thin paper, feeling the hardness of my wedding and engagement rings wrapped within. I should not have these things with me, I think. I should get rid of them in case I am stopped. I picture myself throwing the items over the edge of the bridge, watching as the rings drop quickly to the water below, the paper fluttering behind it. Jacob would understand, even agree. He had instructed me to get rid of the certificate the night before he left. But I cannot bring myself to part with them. They are my last connection to him, a promise that we will be together again.

  I look over the railing of the bridge. Even if I could do it, the point is a moot one. The river is frozen, unwilling to hide my secrets beneath its dark waters. The paper would blow away, the rings might be found. And I do not dare to move to throw them for fear of attracting attention. No, I have taken these things from my father and they are with me now.

  I remain motionless behind the column for several more minutes, terrified of stepping out into the open again and risking being seen. I have to keep going, I realize at last. Krysia will awaken soon and wonder where I have gone. I listen carefully, and hearing nothing, I peek my head out and look in both directions. The bridge is clear. Taking a deep breath, I step reluctantly out from my hiding place. My legs shake as I continue across the bridge in quick, tiny steps. Just a few more meters, I think. I can see the end of the bridge, its shadows beckoning like a promise. I’m almost there.

  Suddenly I hear a loud noise behind me. I jump. It is the sound of an engine, coming from the far end of the bridge. The truck, I think, panic seizing me. Its driver has seen me and turned around. I consider leaping behind a column once more, but it is too late. In the distance behind me, I hear the engine switch off. A door opens. “Halt!” a male voice shouts. “Halt!”

  My blood runs cold. I know that voice; it belongs to the Kommandant.

  “Hands up,” he orders, his heavy footsteps growing louder as he crosses the bridge toward me. I obey, my mind racing. What is the Kommandant doing here? He is supposed to be asleep. The powder must have worn off too soon; perhaps I did not use enough. But how did he know I was here? Did he follow me to the ghetto? I can hear him coming closer now. He stops, just feet behind me. “Turn around,” he orders sharply.

  He does not realize that it is me, I realize. He thinks I am just a Pole who has broken curfew. I hesitate. For a moment, I consider revealing myself to him. My mind races to come up with some excuse why I am out, wandering the streets at night, but I can think of none. “Turn around,” he repeats, a familiar impatience in his voice. Taking a deep breath, I turn to him, keeping my head low, my face covered. Don’t let him recognize me, I pray. From underneath the shawl, I can see the Kommandant, now just a few feet away. His gun is drawn.

  “Miss, what are you doing out alone at night?” The Kommandant’s tone is somewhat softer now that he realizes that he has apprehended a woman. “Don’t you know that you are breaking curfew?” I shake my head slightly, knowing that he expects an answer and that if I speak he will recognize my voice. He lowers the gun slightly, extending his free hand. “Your papers, please.”

  Oh, God, I think. There is no way out now. “Papers!” he demands, growing impatient once more. Hoping to stall for a few minutes, I reach into my pocket slowly, pretending to search for my papers. I feel once again the possessions my father returned to me, the cool metal of my wedding and engagement rings, the wrinkled marriage certificate. If I refuse to turn over my papers, I will be arrested and searched and these items will surely be discovered. Then my hand closes around my identity card, the one that names me as Anna Lipowski. I pause, wondering whether to reveal myself. Perhaps if I can come up with a plausible explanation for being on the bridge in the middle of the night, and if I tell it to the Kommandant with just the right smile and touch, he may believe and forgive me.

  I lift my head an inch, trying to gauge his expression. As I do, my shawl opens slightly at the neck. Something flashes in the darkness. It is the necklace the Kommandant had given me, its brilliant blue stone caught by the moonlight.

  The Kommandant gasps. “Anna,” he exclaims, recognizing the jewel.

  “Yes, Herr Kommandant,” I say softly, too nervous to use his first name. “It is me.”

  He lowers his revolver and pulls the shawl back from my face. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you? What are you doing here?”

  “I can explain.” He looks at me expectantly. “I—I…” I stammer.

  “Why did you leave?” he demands. “I was so worried when I woke up and found you gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend my last night at Krysia’s.” I study his face, but I cannot tell if he believes my explanation. “I missed Lukasz,” I add.

  “You could have told me, Anna. I would have understood. And Stanislaw would have driven you home. You shouldn’t be on the street alone at night. You could have been arrested, or worse. Anna, this is very dangerous!”

  “I know,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”

  He looks out over the side of the bridge in the darkness. “But that’s not all, is it?” he asks.

  My stomach drops. “I—I don’t understand…”

  “I mean, that’s not the only reason you are out here, is it?” He knows, I think, too paralyzed to respond. He knows everything. He looks back at me. “You were running away.”

  “No,” I reply quickly. “I mean…”

  “It’s okay,” he says. I look up at him, surprised. “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” he says without anger. “This all must be so scary for you. Having a baby, leaving Kraków. It is only natural that you should panic.”

  A wave of relief washes over me. He does not know the truth. “It is scary,” I say nodding hard. “I am terrified.”

  “So you were running away…” He looks out over the water into the darkness. “Where were you going to go?”

  “I don’t know.” I study his face as he processes what he has heard, wondering if he will believe me. “Are you angry?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies quickly, reaching out and taking my hand. “It’s okay. When I woke up and found you gone, I realized how scared you must be. That’s why I came to find you. I wanted to see you and reassure you that everything will work out.”

  “Oh…” I am uncertain how to respond.

  “Anna…” He reaches down and lifts my chin gently with his fingers. “I don’t want you to be afraid anymore. I’ll do whatever you need to make this okay for you. If you want, I will leave my position tonight, if need be, and we can run away together.”

  “Georg…” I am stunned by his words.

  “I mean it. All that matters to me is your happiness.”

  I do not answer. My mind whirls, overwhelmed by all that has happened. In an instant, I have gone from my secret nearly being discovered to the Kommandant pledging his undying devotion. I look up into his eyes, bewildered. This awful beast of a man, who has killed so many innocents, is offering me absolute, unconditional love. No, not unconditional, I remind myself. My identity is a condition that, if discovered, would ch
ange everything. In truth I know that it is Anna he loves, an imaginary woman who does not really exist. Or does she? It is my face and my voice, my words and touch that have engendered his feelings, perhaps the truest I have ever known from a man.

  Suddenly, I begin to cry with great heaving sobs. The Kommandant steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “Oh, Anna,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say through my tears, meaning it.

  “No,” he says softly, stroking my hair. “No more apologies for either of us. No more tears. Let’s move forward with our life together, okay?”

  I nod, taking a step back and wiping my eyes with my hand. “Okay,” I say. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my handkerchief. As I do, I feel the possessions my father gave me start to fly out. I try to stop the motion, but it is too late. The rings clatter noisily to the bridge, and the paper flutters softly behind them. I gasp involuntarily.

  “You’ve dropped something,” the Kommandant says, starting to bend down.

  “No!” Forgetting my composure, I leap to the ground, trying to get to the items before he can.

  But it is too late; the Kommandant straightens, the paper and rings in his right hand. “What are these?” he asks, holding the items up and studying them in the moonlight. I do not answer. “Wedding rings?” As the Kommandant scans the writing on the paper, I pray desperately that he will not be able to discern the meaning of the paper, written in Hebrew, but the illustrations around the border of the paper make the meaning clear. “A Jewish marriage certificate? I don’t understand.” For the moment he is more puzzled than angry, but I know that is only because he has not put all of the pieces together. I realize that he still does not understand the connection, or does not want to. Perhaps there is a chance.

  “I—I…” I try to come up with a story. I consider telling him that Krysia asked me to pawn the rings, that we need the money. But the idea is implausible and it still does not explain the paper. “A friend,” I manage to say at last.