Playing for the Commandant

by Suzy Zail

  “He’s turned into such a morose boy.” The commandant spoke as if his son wasn’t there. “He sits in his room all day or wanders around the house with his nose in a book.” He winced with irritation. “I think it’s the Jews. Even being in the same room as them sets him on edge. I keep telling him, you can’t catch anything by looking at them; you have to touch them for that!” He grinned broadly.

  He stood up and walked toward the piano, waving his baton in the air. I was playing a Brahms intermezzo, pounding at the keys to drown out the conversation, grabbing huge handfuls of notes and hurling them into the air. The commandant stopped behind me. I could feel his warm breath on my neck. I switched from Brahms to Schubert, but he still didn’t move away. He hovered over me, watching me play. At the end of the impromptu, he returned to his seat, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his eyes. I tried not to stare.

  Vera approached the commandant. She had a silver teapot in one hand and a steaming cup of black tea in the other. She held the cup out to him. “Tea, Captain Jager?”

  “Tea?” he thundered, his face turning red. “Did I ask for tea?”

  Vera’s shoulders sloped forward. I launched into a Mozart sonata, hoping to mute the commandant’s anger, but it was too late. He lifted his baton and struck Vera’s hand, sending the cup and saucer crashing to the floor, where they lay splintered and steaming.

  “Get out!” the commandant yelled, his anger hot and red. Vera gathered up the broken porcelain shards, mopped up the spilled tea with her apron, and escaped to the kitchen. The commandant turned to his guests.

  “So sorry for the interruption. Let me make it up to you with a little Chopin.” He turned to me and lifted his baton. My hands were shaking. “The Fifth Étude?”

  Karl left the room as I played the opening bars, my heart thumping away beneath my dress. The commandant had requested a happy song. I didn’t feel cheerful, but after a time, I felt anesthetized by the music. Buffeted from the commandant’s rage, I played the rest of the repertoire, but I played mechanically. I wondered whether Captain Jager could tell the difference.

  The day dragged. A fresh pot of tea was left to brew on a side table. Strudel was sliced and swept onto plates. The Black Forest cake was cut up and disappeared. The chocolates were devoured one by one. The light grew weak, and my hands grew tired. I needed the toilet.

  At half past five, the commandant’s guests stood to leave and a guard was summoned to escort me to the camp. As we passed the kitchen, I turned and saw Vera sitting at the worktable, her hand wrapped in rags. The commandant’s son was in the kitchen, too, pacing the floor. He was talking in a low voice, his mouth tight with anger. Vera looked up as I passed, and the boy swung around. He walked toward me and shut the door.

  Erika was waiting for me in the barrack. She looked gaunt and exhausted. She didn’t notice my new coat. “I don’t have to give it back,” I whispered. “We can sleep under it.” Erika didn’t answer. “I can hide food in the pockets.” She turned and smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes I’d never seen before and it scared me. We stood in line for dinner, and when I got my ration, I told Erika I’d eaten and slipped her my square of bread. She took it gratefully. Our bunk mates watched her enviously, hating her for her extra ration and hating me for giving it to her. No one in the camp gave food away, not unless they were getting better food — and plenty of it — elsewhere. Erika didn’t seem to notice the bitter stares or hear their pointed whispering, but I did. I saw their lips form the words slut and whore and heard them guess at the sexual favors I bestowed on the commandant.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but Erika didn’t look up. “They don’t talk to you, and it’s because of me . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Erika said. But I knew it did. She pretended not to care, but with Mother gone, me at the villa, and the twins still at the infirmary, Erika was lonely. I was content with a piano for company, but Erika needed people. She needed conversation and connection as much as she needed food and rest. I could give her my coffee, sneak her my crusts, and hold her at night, but it wasn’t enough.

  Vera was on the front porch shining the commandant’s boots when I arrived at the villa the next day. She placed one gleaming leather boot by the door and picked up the other. Mud spattered the sides of the boot. Vera grimaced and pulled what looked like a clump of hair from the heel.

  I swapped my grimy boots for clean shoes and followed Vera inside. I could hear the commandant’s son talking from behind the closed door of the dining room. Vera stopped outside the door and put a finger to her lips.

  “Studying by correspondence is not the same as going to school in Berlin, Father. I want to go back.” That makes two of us, I thought, pressing my ear to the wood. I knew how it felt to want to rewind time, to want to go home, but it didn’t make me feel any sympathy for Karl.

  “There’s nothing you can learn in Berlin that you can’t learn here.” The commandant’s anger bled through the walls. “We’re making history. If you bothered to accompany me to the camps, you’d see that. Your schooling can wait; the führer cannot!” We leaped back at the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor. Vera grabbed me by the collar, and we flew down the hallway. I turned for the music room, dizzy with fear, and Vera ducked into the kitchen. I stood with my feet together and arms by my sides, waiting for the commandant’s arrival and dreading it. I waited for hours.

  I rubbed my hands together to warm them, stepped from one foot to the other to stop my legs from going numb, and ran through all of Clara Schumann’s concertos in my head to pass the time. I played every crotchet and semiquaver till there was no room left in my head for hunger or exhaustion or wondering or worrying. I looked around the room. It was cold, even with the afternoon sun filtering through the drapes. There was a rug on the floor, silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and a crystal wine decanter on the side table, but there were no family photos, no artwork or flowers. I thought of our living room in Debrecen and the photo of my parents’ wedding that hung in a gilt frame on the wall, the photos of Erika and me that crowded the mantelpiece, the bundled birthday cards, travel mementos, and graduation photos that filled the bookshelves. Even when the gas in the ghetto was turned off, I’d felt warm in that room.

  The commandant finally entered, trailed by his son and a man in uniform. I sat down and waited for his signal.

  “I always prefer to start with a little music. Shall we listen first and talk later?” The commandant invited his guest to sit down. I played Schubert while the commandant and his guest drank a glass of schnapps.

  I looked at the commandant, seated in the front row and spotlit by the sun, and then at Karl, at the back of the room, cast in shadow. That was the one difference between father and son — the commandant wore his hatred like a badge. Occasionally, he took it off when listening to music or patting Lottie, his German shepherd. Karl’s anger was more muted, but it never let up. His father was quizzing his guest about the efficiency of the showers, and even that banal conversation was enough to set a muscle working angrily in Karl’s jaw.

  Karl turned his chair away from the piano. I knew it was rude to stare, probably dangerous, too, but I couldn’t look away from him. I’d never seen anyone so still simmer with so much rage. I envied him his anger. I was angry, too — angrier than I’d ever been — but I had to bury my feelings. I couldn’t scream or stamp my feet. I wasn’t even allowed to cry — not here, not in the barracks, not even in the empty fields outside Birkenau. There was always someone with a gun at my back.

  The commandant called for a bottle of wine, and Karl stood to leave.

  “Not so fast,” Captain Jager called after his son. The commandant turned to his guest. “Did you know that my son sings? At least that’s what he tells me. He hardly ever sings for me, but he’s happy to let me pay for his lessons.” The commandant swooped on his son. “Karl, Herr Lang is in the mood for a song. Tell the girl what to play.”

  Karl
sighed and made his way to the piano, hands deep in his pockets, his mouth drawn.

  “Do you know Die Feen? It’s Wagner.” Karl pulled the sheet music from a drawer and set it down in front of me.

  I nodded, unsure whether I’d heard him correctly. Wagner was one of Hitler’s favorite composers, so a predictable choice. But Die Feen was a romantic opera, a fantasy about a beautiful fairy who renounces her immortality to spend her life with a mortal. It was a love story.

  Karl stood over me. He smelled clean. I lifted my fingers to the keys and began to play. I could feel my heart pulsing under my skin. Would I be blamed if his timing was off? Was I to mask his imperfections? What if he improvised? I wanted to crawl into the piano and close the lid. I played the chords and tried to lose myself in the music, tried to hide inside it, but Karl’s sloping shoulders cast a shadow over the piano and I couldn’t get out from under it.

  “‘Gentle fairy,’” he began, his voice a burnished baritone, like melted chocolate, dark gold and rich. I was glad I hadn’t been asked to sing the part of the fairy to his grieving prince. I was struggling to hit the right notes. My heart was banging away beneath my blouse, and my hands were shaking. I’d never heard a voice so full of yearning, a voice quite as beautiful, or puzzling. How could Karl have so much hate inside him, yet sing so convincingly of love? How could a boy without a heart sing of heartbreak?

  It wasn’t until the end of the aria that I allowed myself to look at him. Karl’s eyes were empty, his mouth drawn.

  The commandant sat with his hands in his lap and glanced at his son. “It’s good to know the lessons weren’t a complete waste of money.” He called for Vera. “My guest and I will be going out for lunch.” He smiled at Herr Lang. “I know you like home-cooked meals. We were going to have goulash, but I wasn’t satisfied with the cut of beef — too much fat.” The commandant looked at Vera. “You can take the meat. We won’t be eating it.” Vera’s eyes widened. “Give it to Lottie. Feed her outside, then bathe her.” Vera’s shoulders slumped. She took the leash and led Lottie from the room.

  Karl watched her leave, his hands curled into a fist, his jaw tight. The commandant left, and his guest hurried after him. Karl pulled the sheet music from the piano, put it back in the drawer, and stalked from the room.

  I sat down to practice, relieved to be alone. Piri had told me once that accompanying a vocalist on the piano was like taking a lover. You had to move as one, mirror each other’s moods, sense each other’s fears, take one another’s hand, and leap into the music.

  I had leaped in alone. It was only when I stopped hammering at the keys that the gnawing in my belly returned. The house was still. I snuck from the music room and crept to the kitchen, hoping to find some leftovers from lunch, but the table was empty and the workbenches cleared. Ivanka, the cook, was wiping down the sink. Mr. Zielinski, the kitchen hand, was sweeping the crumbs from the floor. I was too proud to beg for floor scraps, but had he offered them to me, I would’ve picked through the dust to find a potato peel.

  Vera didn’t see me come in. She was at the back door, holding a wicker basket, talking to a man in a striped prison uniform. She leaned in to him, whispered something in his ear, and tipped the contents of her basket into his drawstring bag.

  “Who’s that?”

  Vera swung around at the sound of my voice. “Just the laundry man.” She rushed to close the door. “He comes from Birkenau every afternoon around three to collect Captain Jager’s dirty linen.” The door swung open again and an elderly man wearing gum boots shuffled in, lugging a basket of vegetables.

  “You must be the new pianist.” The man extended his hand. “I’m Stanislaw, the gardener,” he whispered. “And you’re . . .”

  I looked up from his basket. “Hungry.”

  He tiptoed to the door and peered into the hallway, then pulled a carrot from his basket and handed it to me. I didn’t peel the carrot or wash it or put it in my pocket. I shoved it into my mouth.

  “I thought you were supposed to cut the leaves off before you ate it,” Vera whispered, grabbing a carrot from the basket and stuffing it into her mouth.

  I wiped my mouth and smiled at Vera, at her bulging cheeks and the fleck of orange spit at the sides of her mouth and the leaf tickling her lips. But she wasn’t smiling back at me: she’d turned to face the door, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Karl stood in the doorway, staring in at her. I looked down at my feet, bit my lip, and tasted blood.

  Vera had said the penalty for stealing food was a bullet to the head. I stared down at my feet. I could feel Karl watching me, but I didn’t look up; I didn’t move. No one did. From the corner of my eye, I could see his black leather boots. I watched them move across the room and saw them stop at the sink. I heard a cupboard door swing open, the clink of a glass, water running. No one spoke. I closed my eyes. It was all my fault. Karl would tell his father about Vera, and the commandant would . . . I heard footsteps retreating and looked up. Karl was gone, and Vera was wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She straightened her head scarf and stepped into the hallway. The rest of us stood there mute, too scared to leave the kitchen, too frightened to speak.

  Vera came back a few minutes later, trailed by a guard.

  “Vera!” I stepped forward, my arms flung out. “I’m so sorry —” She cut me short.

  “The guard’s here for you,” she said, and I stumbled backward. “It’s almost dark. He’ll walk you home.”

  I didn’t tell Erika about the carrots, or about Karl. I stood in line for my crust of bread, inching my way to the front. I shouldn’t have taken the carrot. I should have been thinking of Erika; I was responsible for her now.

  The block leader held out a piece of bread and smiled. It was a big piece, no mold. I reached for it, but before I could grab the slice, she snatched it away.

  “Do you think I haven’t heard what you’re doing?” Her smile fell away. “I’m not stupid. I know you’re not going to eat this.” She held up the stump of bread. “You’re going to give it to your sister.” The women fell silent. “Well, not anymore you’re not.” She flung it on the ground. A dozen women dove at her feet, clawing at the floor for the scrap of bread.

  “You think you’re smart, don’t you?” The block leader fingered the buttons of my new coat, her hands hovering inches from the secret pocket I’d sewn into the lining late last night.

  “You think that just because you work for the commandant, you’re untouchable.” She marched up to Erika and shoved her whip under her chin. “Well, maybe you are . . .” She looked back at me. “But your sister’s not.” And then she leaned over my sister and spat in her face.

  I wanted to spit right back at her. I wanted to suck up all the hunger and hate and spit it right in her eye. I wanted to grab the bread bin and bring it down on her skull. Erika was staring at me, her face covered in spit, her eyes pleading. It was the same look I’d given her a thousand times. Please, whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t do it. I stepped away, hating the block leader for abusing my sister and hating myself for letting her.

  The block leader ran the back of her hand across her mouth. “If you give her your dinner again, I’ll make sure she doesn’t eat for a week.”

  “Vera, you’re here! I was so worried.” I sat down on the front porch and unlaced my boots. Vera looked at me blankly.

  “Where else would I be?” She put down the commandant’s boots and her rag and opened the front door. I followed her into the kitchen. Ivanka was at the sink, scouring the remains of a scrambled egg from a frying pan. Mr. Zielinski was at the workbench, rolling out pastry, and Stanislaw was in the garden, tending the vegetable patch. Everybody going about their business. No one missing. No black eyes.

  Karl hadn’t told his father about last night.

  There was a knock at the front door. I fled to the music room, and Vera ushered in the commandant’s guest — a small middle-aged man with a shock of silver hair.

  The commandant swept i
nto the room a few minutes later, trailed by his son.

  “Heil Hitler!” The little man leaped to his feet and raised his right arm.

  “Heil Hitler!” The commandant mirrored the salute. Karl sank into a chair. He always chose the same spot, far away from the piano. I knew it wasn’t the music that drove him away. He studied singing; he liked music. It was me. I didn’t take it personally. It wasn’t Hanna Mendel he despised; I was invisible, irrelevant. It was the Jew at the piano.

  I’m not ashamed of who I am, I wanted to say. I’m proud to be a Jew. I live behind the barbed wire with philosophers, scientists, artists, and teachers, with gypsies, poets, and composers. You live in a home filled with hate.

  “Sit up and stop frowning!” The commandant swung his baton at the legs of Karl’s chair. I launched into a Beethoven bagatelle with trembling fingers. The commandant withdrew his baton and turned his attention to his guest. Karl slouched in his seat and closed his eyes, but he wasn’t dozing. He was tapping his foot in time to the music. He was listening to me play.

  Vera offered the commandant’s guest a chocolate. He took two.

  “I know I shouldn’t — being a dentist — but I can’t resist. Besides,” he said, grinning at the commandant, “if my teeth fall out, I know where to get a false set.” He extracted a small glass jar from his briefcase and passed it to the commandant.

  I looked down at the keys, but not before I’d seen what was inside the jar: teeth. Teeth. Yellow tobacco-stained teeth, and creamy white baby teeth, the color of the piano keys. The dentist plunged his hands back into his bag and pulled out a gold bar.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I battered the keys. Beautiful? I closed my eyes and tried to slip inside the music, but I couldn’t get in. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was still there, an image flickering against the backs of my eyelids: a man with silver hair bent over a dead body, prying open lips and pulling at gold teeth. I opened my eyes and stared at the sheet music. Let me in, I begged, belting at the keys, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t force my way in. I stared at the notes dancing across the page and felt sick. If you feel nauseous, Father used to say, pick a spot in the distance and stare at it.