The Kommandant's Girl (11 page)

“I’m sorry.” I bite my lip, twirling the sugar spoon between my thumb and forefinger. “I just feel that I lack some sort of experience.”

“No one trains for this,” she replies flatly, not looking at me.

“You’re right, of course. Again, I’m sorry.”

We are silent for several minutes. Yet despite the awkwardness, we linger over our coffees. Our reunion, this fleeting moment of camaraderie, feels like standing by a fire before heading off into the cold. Neither of us wants to abandon it. “So…” Marta says at last.

“So…” I repeat. There is so much I want to ask her, I don’t know where to begin.

“You are looking well,” she offers.

“Thank you. I am very fortunate to be at Krysia’s. She is so kind to me.” Suddenly, I feel self-conscious about my cheeks, which have grown fuller and more colorful since I arrived at Krysia’s house. I notice that Marta herself looks pale and tired, and I wonder what they live off of in the forest.

“It is not so bad out there,” she says defensively. Like Alek, she seems to be able to read my mind. I must keep better control of my expressions. Such transparency will not serve me well at Wawel. “At least we are free,” she adds.

Marta stands to leave then and I follow. “How is your mother?” I ask as we walk away, wondering if, through the resistance, she might still have some news from inside the ghetto. Marta looks down, shaking her head. “Oh, no! What happened?”

“Typhus. Two weeks ago.” She clenches her jaw. Her young face seems so much harder than just a few months earlier.

“Oh, Marta.” Tears well in my eyes, and I fight the urge to turn and hug her for fear of attracting too much attention. “How…?” Pani Nederman had been so strong.

“Things are very bad inside now.” She pauses as a look of panic for my own parents crosses my face. Then she shrugs; there is no point in sparing me the truth. “They have little food, dirty water, far too many people, many more than when we were there. Disease is rampant. Parents of small children keep dying, and the orphanage gets more and more crowded. They try to quarantine the sick children, but it’s no use. That’s where she caught it.”

“I’m so sorry.” In my mind, I see Pani Nederman’s kind face. Without her, Marta and I never would have met. I would not have come to know Alek or the others and might have never escaped from the ghetto. My thoughts turn to my own parents then. The war has already weakened them so; surely they cannot be faring much better.

We continue walking past St. Anna’s Cathedral. My namesake, I think with irony. I remember crossing this street each morning on my way to work at the library. The old man washing down the cathedral steps always said hello. I can still smell the musty odor of damp pavement drying in the morning.

“Marta, may I ask you something?” She nods. “The resistance, what is it all about?”

“You mean, why are we doing this?” She looks puzzled and I hope I have not angered her again.

“Yes.”

“Because we have to do something. We can’t just sit here and let our people be destroyed.”

That part I understood. I had heard it from Jacob before. “But what’s the goal?”

She pauses, as though considering the matter for the first time. “Various resistance members have different goals.” I remember the conversation I overheard when eavesdropping on the back room at Josefinska 13, the one in which Alek and Marek and the other man were disagreeing about what the resistance should do. “Some just want to work quietly to help our people. Others want to strike back and attack the Nazis.”

“Oh.” Such a strike would be suicide, I think, though I do not dare to question the resistance leadership in front of Marta again. I wonder which group Jacob is in, what he wants from all of this. How can I not know my husband’s reasons for doing the very thing that keeps us apart? “But, Marta, striking back…it’s symbolic, isn’t it? I mean, they don’t really believe they can make a difference, do they?”

She stops walking, turns to face me. “We have to believe that. Otherwise there is no hope.”

We continue walking in silence. At the corner, where Anna Street meets the Planty, Marta stops again and I sense this is where we will part ways. I lean forward to kiss her cheek. She pulls back, hesitating. “Anna, there is one thing….”

I stop, my face still inches from hers. “Yes?”

“It’s about your uncle from Lwów…that is, I have met Jacob.”

My breath catches and I look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even after all Marta and I have been through together, my instinct is still to deny my marriage.

“I know the truth,” she persists. “He is your husband. He tried to keep it from me, but I guessed. I could tell from his description of you.”

“Oh.” I look down, scuffing my shoes against the pavement. I am unsure what to say. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. We have had to keep it a secret, you see, for everyone’s safety.”

“I understand. He’s a wonderful man, Anna,” she replies quietly, “and he loves you very much.” There is a twist in her voice that I cannot quite comprehend.

“Tell him the same from me,” I say, my voice even. “If you see him again.”

“I shall,” she answers, and her certainty of a rendezvous with my husband tugs at my heart. I grab her hand, as though the possibility that it had touched Jacob’s offers some magical connection. Her lips are cool as she kisses my cheek. “Godspeed, Anna.” Then she is gone.

Marta knows Jacob, I think in disbelief, as I make my way quickly toward the bus stop on the far side of the Planty. I suppose I should not be surprised. Surely the resistance cannot be that big. And she knows of our marriage. Jacob must trust her very much to have shared our secret with her. Unless…I shake my head, not wanting to think it. There was something behind Marta’s voice that sounded so strange when she spoke about Jacob. I recall a conversation we had in the ghetto. Marta had said that there was a boy in the resistance for whom she had feelings. A boy who did not seem to notice her. I wonder now if the boy is Jacob. Marta is so outgoing, perhaps she had confessed her feelings to him, maybe even tried to kiss him, and he had told her of his marriage to hold her off and keep her from being hurt. My mind sears white-hot as I picture the scene. Stop it, I scold myself. Don’t let your imagination run away from you. But still the image lingers. And she will see him again, I think uneasily as I board the bus.

Though I do not plan to tell Krysia about my meeting that day, she looks at me in a way that tells me she already knows, staring at me intently as Lukasz delights over his new toys on the living room floor. At last I can be quiet no longer. “I saw Alek today.”

“Oh?” Her voice is devoid of surprise.

“Yes, he has an…errand for me to run.” I tell her then about the passes, and what I am to do.

“Emma…” she begins, forgetting to use my pseudonym. I can read the conflict in her eyes. Krysia, herself a staunch resistance fighter, knows that Alek does not take unnecessary risks. If he has asked me to do this, it must be absolutely essential to the movement. At the same time, she is worried. “Are you afraid?” she asks.

“Terribly,” I confess, letting loose the torrent of emotion I’d been unable to share with Marta earlier that day. “Not only for myself but for you, Lukasz, Jacob, my family…everyone.”

“You are afraid of failing,” she observes. I nod, feeling naked and ashamed.

“Yes. Afraid of getting caught, and what it would mean for all of us.” I wait for her to reassure me, as she usually does, to tell me that everything is fine and that I will do a good job. But she remains silent for several minutes, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. At last I am the one who speaks. “It will be okay, Krysia.”

“It will be what it will be, darling. These are uncertain times, and there is no need to give an old woman false comfort. But I do know one thing.” Suddenly, her face relaxes. She takes my hand in hers, and I can see a light growing in her eyes. “The courage of young people such as yourself is the one thing that still gives me hope.” And with Krysia’s words, the weight of my mission has suddenly grown a thousand times heavier.

T
he next morning, I awake even earlier than usual to find Krysia asleep on the sofa where I left her. Gently so as not to wake her, I take the knitting needles from her hands and place a blanket around her before tiptoeing into the kitchen. I putter around the kitchen, making tea and organizing things, trying to fight the urge to leave for work early. I must not be overeager on account of my secret mission, not do anything out of the ordinary to attract attention to myself.

I arrive at Wawel promptly at eight o’clock. Our routine today is the same every morning. I sit at my desk, organizing the various papers that have been delivered overnight until the Kommandant arrives at exactly eight-fifteen. A few minutes later he calls me into his office and together we review his schedule for the day, and discuss any important upcoming meetings. I share with him any correspondence that requires his personal attention, letters from high-ranking officials, or matters unfamiliar to me, and he dictates responses. He, in turn, alerts me to any special tasks he wants me to complete, meetings he needs me to schedule, and reports that he is expecting. Depending on how much we have to discuss, our meetings last anywhere from fifteen minutes to nearly an hour. I have come to learn that our meetings are a priority to the Kommandant. He has Malgorzata hold all calls and visitors for as long as our meetings take, and they are only rescheduled in the most urgent of circumstances.

Today, however, our meeting is to be brief. “I have to be over at Pomorskie at nine,” he says briskly from behind his desk. I nod and take my usual seat on the sofa by the door, pen poised. He clears his throat and stands. “Please type a memo to the governor that reads…” I take notes as the Kommandant dictates a few sentences about rescheduled meetings. As he speaks, he paces back and forth, running his hands through his close-cropped hair in a way that makes me wonder if it used to be longer.

Suddenly he stops speaking midsentence and turns, staring out the window. He seems distracted, even upset. For a second I wonder if I have done something. The passes, I think. He could not possibly know about my plan to steal them, but even so…Finally, I can stand it no longer. “Herr Kommandant, is something wrong?”

He turns back. His expression is one of confusion, as though he has forgotten I am there. He hesitates. “I apologize. I am just preoccupied with a telegram I received from Berlin this morning.”

He is not upset with me, I realize, a wave of relief washing over me. But the telegram from Berlin…perhaps it contains something that could be useful to the resistance. “Bad news?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

“I don’t know yet. They want me to…” He stops midsentence, as if realizing that he should not talk to me about the matter. “Anyway, it’s nothing you need worry about.” He returns to his chair behind the desk. “Let’s get back to that memo.”

A few minutes later, when he has finished dictating, I look up. “Will that be all?”

“Yes.” He holds up a stack of papers. “If you could take these…” I walk toward him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a framed photograph I had not noticed before that sits on the corner of his desk. It is of the Kommandant and a younger, dark-haired woman. Who is she? I wonder. As I draw close to him, I cannot help but notice his eyes, more blue than gray now. My knees tremble. I reach out for the papers and our knuckles brush, as they had the night of the dinner party.

I grab the papers, then jump back. As I step away from the desk, I can feel my ears burning. “Th-thank you, Herr Kommandant,” I say, starting for the door.

“Anna, wait…”

I turn back to him. “Yes?”

I can see him fumbling, trying to regain his train of thought. “Are you settling in all right here?” he asks. I hesitate, caught off guard by his question. “I mean, you’ve gotten everything you need, from Malgorzata and the others, to be able to do your job?”

“Yes, Herr Kommandant. Everyone has been very helpful.”

“Good. And the trip to work?” I cock my head, puzzled. “I mean, it’s not too long or difficult, getting into the city from Krysia’s house? I wouldn’t want, that is, I could have my driver…” He stares at me helplessly, his voice trailing off. He is nervous around me, too, I realize suddenly.

“The ride is fine, Herr Kommandant,” I manage to say, my heart pounding. “The bus runs quite smoothly.”

“Good,” he repeats. Our eyes remain locked. The room is silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Suddenly, there is a scratching sound at the door. I jump and spin around. Colonel Diedrichson stands in the doorway, briefcase in hand. “Sir, the meeting…” he says.

“Of course,” the Kommandant replies, clearing his throat. He stands and walks past me, following Colonel Diedrichson out of the office without addressing me further.

Alone now, I return to the anteroom. My hands still tremble slightly, as they always do after an encounter with the Kommandant. But his reaction…it is the first time since I have come to work for him that I have seen him thrown off guard. I wonder…There’s no time for such thoughts, I scold myself. Compose yourself. I hear the sound of deep voices and heavy boots in the corridor, other officers leaving for the meeting. When the noise subsides and several minutes have passed, I stand up from my chair and cross the anteroom into the reception area, carrying my notebook and a small stack of papers.

“Malgorzata, I have some errands to run around the offices,” I say, trying to sound normal.

“I can help…” she starts to offer, but I raise my hand.

“Thank you, but no.” I use the authoritative tone I have learned works best with her. Seeing her face fall, I soften my voice. “It’s just that I am cooped up in that anteroom so much. The walk will do me good.” She shrugs, indifferent now, and turns back to her work.

Colonel Krich’s office is on the same floor as ours, at the far opposite corner of the castle. I walk down the corridor, nodding at the other workers I pass. When I approach Krich’s office, I freeze; his secretary is still sitting at her desk. Alek’s information must have been wrong. Or perhaps the woman has decided not to have her hair styled this week. Trying not to panic, I keep walking past the office and down the corridor, trying to decide what to do. I slowly circle the floor, walking past Colonel Krich’s office a second time, but the secretary is still seated at the desk, showing no signs of leaving. I do not dare linger in the corridor longer for fear someone will notice me. Instead, I decide to run my other errand first—I had thought it best to have a real stop in case my whereabouts were ever questioned. I walk down one floor to the supply office and request that the clerk have some paper sent up to the Kommandant’s office. If the clerk finds it strange that I have brought down my order personally, rather than phoning it in or having someone else do it, he gives no indication but simply accepts the completed requisition form. That’s the thing about the Nazis, I muse as I walk away; Hitler himself could have come in asking for pencil erasers, and no one would bat an eye as long as the paperwork was in order.

I climb the staircase again, but instead of heading right toward the Kommandant’s office, I turn left again toward Krich’s. As I approach, I check over my shoulder in both directions to make sure no one is there to see me.

The secretary is gone, I observe through the glass window to Krich’s outer office. Hopefully she’s left for her hair appointment and not for some quicker errand. I turn the outer door handle and walk into the office. I run my hand along the underside of the desk. Held there by tape, as Alek promised, is a small skeleton key. Fearing that someone might see me from the hallway through the glass, I quickly take the key, turn it in the lock and slip through the door into Krich’s office.

Inside, I scan the room quickly. Krich, far subordinate to the Kommandant, does not have an anteroom, and his office is about a third the size of the Kommandant’s, with no view from its tiny windows. A large metal safe sits in full view, occupying the far right corner of the room. As I cross over to it, I repeat under my breath the numbers I have memorized: 74-39-19. I kneel by the safe and turn the knob carefully, hands shaking, moving the dial right, then left, then right again. Holding my breath, I pull. Nothing. A cold sweat breaks out on my brow. The combination’s been changed, I think. I cannot do it. Try again, a calm voice, seemingly not my own, orders from deep inside me. I try the numbers again slowly, meticulously stopping on each. Please, I pray, pulling again. The door creaks and opens.

Inside there are three stacks of identical blank passes. Take from the middle of each pile, Alek had said. I remove the first stack and quickly slide two sheets from separate locations in the middle of it. As I start to return the stack to its original position, I hear a noise in the corridor outside. I jump, and my arm bumps the edge of the safe. The stack of passes falls from my hand. I gasp. The passes have scattered everywhere. Hurriedly, I gather them back together, and with shaking hands try to put them back in numbered order. This is taking too long, I think; the secretary will be back any minute now. I grab the last few scattered passes and put them on the bottom of the stack, hoping no one will notice. I look at the other two piles of passes. I should take from the middle of those but there is no time. I grab the top pass of one of the stacks and the bottom one off the other. It will have to do.

I close the safe door gently and spin the knob back to its original position. Grabbing the papers and placing them among the others I am carrying, I stand and start for the office door. Halfway across the room, I stop. In my hurry, I almost forgot my building pass, which is sitting on the edge of the file cabinet. It is as good as leaving a calling card.

I race back across the room, almost tripping in my rush. I pick up my building pass and quickly survey the room for any other telltale signs of my presence. Seeing none, I slip out of the inner office, replace the key under the desk and return to the hallway. I have encountered no one.

Malgorzata only half looks up as I reenter the Kommandant’s office suite. “Did you get your errands done?”

“Yes, thank you.” I walk past her, trying not to betray my nervousness. Once inside the anteroom, I tuck the passes inside a newspaper in my bag. At times, the staff members at Wawel are subject to inspection when leaving work. I have never been stopped, presumably because of my position, but I do not want to take any chances. For the rest of the day, I find it impossible to concentrate on my work. The hands on the clock over my desk seem to stand still. Finally, it is five o’clock and I gratefully escape, trying to act normal as I walk down the ramp to the bus stop.

I had planned to deliver the passes the following Tuesday, but the next day, it begins to rain. The summer to that point had been dry, almost drought-like. The grass on the Blonia, the large flat field just outside of town, had become parched and dead to the point that the farmers could no longer graze their horses on it. The Wisla River had dropped so low that boats could not pass for fear of becoming grounded. The Nazi government imposed water restrictions, but the residents of Kraków, perhaps more terrified of hunger than imprisonment, watered their gardens in the dead of night so that the desperately needed fruits and vegetables would not die.

But the day after I steal the passes, it seems that the eyes of the heavens, looking down on the sorrow of war-ravaged Poland, can no longer hold their tears. The rains burst forth. That night, a heavy sheeting storm begins, pounding fiercely down on our flat roof and against the windows. It rains the next day and the day after that, until the streets run with thick mud and the ditches back up, spilling filthy sewage into the streets and making the roads almost impassable. My journey to and from work becomes truly grim. No parasol or coat can keep the moisture out, and I arrive both at work and at home soaked to the skin, my shoes caked with inches of mud. Such conditions make a rendezvous with Alek or anyone else from the movement to exchange satchels at an outdoor market café impossible. I do not dare carry the papers with me each day, so I place them underneath my mattress. Each night I lay awake, acutely aware of their presence, recalling the children’s story about the princess and the pea.

One day while wringing out my soaked stockings in the water closet down the hall from our office and cursing the weather for the hundredth time, I stop, shamefaced. I spent my days in a comfortable office, my nights in a warm bed. Where is Jacob? I wonder. I imagine him sleeping in the woods through these storms, without roof or floor.

Finally, after nearly two weeks, the rains subside and the sun begins to shine through. “The weather has broken,” Krysia says on Tuesday morning, not looking up from the pitcher into which she is squeezing oranges. “It will be lovely weather at the café this afternoon.”

I swallow the mouthful of cereal I had been chewing. “Yes.” I have not spoken of my secret mission with her since the day I saw Alek.

She sets down an orange and walks out of the kitchen without speaking, her apron still tied around her waist. A few minutes later she returns. “Can you run an errand for me after work?” she asks.

“Of course,” I reply quickly, without asking what it is. Krysia asks so little from me in exchange for all that she has done, it is the least I can do.

“Good. Here.” She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. I take it from her and my hand drops under the weight. It is filled with coins, I can tell from the hard, round shapes that protrude through the cloth. The weight suggests that they are real silver, the only currency that is worth anything these days. “Give this to Alek,” she says. “Tell him to buy something useful.” I nod, amazed. I knew that Krysia was connected to the resistance through Jacob. I did not know she was helping to finance it. I should not have been surprised.