The Kommandant's Girl (13 page)

I return the tray and cups to the kitchen, then return to my desk. The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Except for a single trip to the water closet, I remain glued to my seat in case the Kommandant should call. At five o’clock, Malgorzata sticks her head in. “I can stay if you want,” she offers.

I shake my head. I know she would like to linger in the hope that I might share some details about the delegation. In truth, I am not looking forward to staying in the empty office by myself, but the thought of her prying company is more than I can bear. “No, thank you. There’s really nothing to be done.” As she departs, I can hear the other secretaries in the hallway, leaving for the day. I spend an hour or so finishing the filing I had begun earlier in the week and updating the Kommandant’s address list. The office is completely silent, except for the faint ticking of the clock above my desk. When my work is complete, I look up. It is only six-forty-five. The delegation is probably just beginning their first course at Wierzynek, the elegant Polish restaurant I had recommended to Diedrichson. I could be here for several more hours. I reach into my bag and pull out my own supper, a cold stew left over from the night before and a thick wedge of bread. Looking around the silent, empty room, I sigh, imagining Krysia and Lukasz sitting down to supper without me. I wonder if the child will fuss because I am not there.

Another hour passes. Still the Kommandant has not called. I wonder if he has forgotten about me. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, I leave my desk and race to the washroom. As I reenter the reception area, I can hear the phone in the anteroom ringing. It may be the Kommandant, I think, running for it.
“Tak?”
I say breathlessly, forgetting to answer in German.

It is not the Kommandant, but Colonel Diedrichson. “Is he there?” he asks impatiently.

“Who?”

“The Kommandant, of course.” He sounds annoyed. “He said he needed to stop back at the office and asked me to escort the delegation back to the hotel.”

“I don’t think…” I start to say, then look toward the Kommandant’s office. Yellow light shines from under the closed door. “Oh, yes, he is here. He must have come in when I stepped away for a minute. Do you want to speak with him?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure he got back all right,” he replies, his voice strange. “His car will be waiting downstairs when he’s ready.”

“I will tell him when I see him.” I hang up the phone and look at the door to the Kommandant’s office. Should I knock to see if he needs anything? I start across the anteroom, then hesitate. I will wait a few minutes, I think, turning around. On the way back to my desk, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and smooth my disheveled hair. I return to my seat behind the desk, staring uneasily at the door. It is not like the Kommandant to be in the office at night. Why has he come back? Ten minutes pass, then twenty. No sound comes from the Kommandant’s office. I wonder if he has fallen asleep.

At last, I walk to the office door and knock lightly. There is no answer. I open the door a few inches. The Kommandant stands over the map with his back to me, looking down, head tilted toward his right shoulder.

“Herr Kommandant?” He does not seem to hear me. “Do you need anything?” I ask after several seconds of silence. He spins unsteadily from the conference table to the enormous glass window behind his desk. He has been drinking, I realize. My suspicion is confirmed as I cross the room and am assaulted by the thick odor of brandy and sweat. I am surprised; until now, the Kommandant has always appeared thoroughly composed. I have never seen him so much as touch the glass bottle of brown liquid that sits on the edge of his desk.

“Herr Kommandant,” I repeat tentatively. He does not answer. I gesture toward the unfamiliar folder clutched in his right hand. “Is that for me?” He shakes his head unevenly, dropping the folder into the open top drawer of his desk. I make a mental note to try to look there the next time he is out. “Do you have some work you would like me to do in the morning when you are with the delegation?” As I walk closer, I notice a gray shadow of stubble on his jaw. He is unkempt and there is a distressed look in his eyes that I have never seen before.

He stares out the window once more at the dusky sky over the river. “I saw Auschwitz today,” he says suddenly. Auschwitz. The word sends a chill through me. We had heard rumors about the camp since before the ghetto, almost since the beginning of the war. Many of the stories had come from the rural Jews who were forced to migrate to Kraków. A labor camp, some had said originally, for political prisoners. During my last months in the ghetto, though, the stories had become more gruesome. Rumor had it that the camp was filled with Jews, not so much working as dying in tremendous numbers. I had heard nothing more about it since coming to Krysia’s. No one working at Wawel ever spoke of it until the delegation visit was announced. Auschwitz. I understand now why the Kommandant has been drinking.

I am uncertain what to say. “Oh?” I try to make my tone inviting, hoping that he might say more, perhaps something useful I could relay to Alek. But he does not speak for several minutes.

“Yes,” he continues at last. “I never thought…” He does not have to finish the sentence. I understand. The Kommandant considers himself a gentleman, a man of music, art and culture. In his twisted way of thinking, service to the Reich is something noble and patriotic, and the Jewish question is an ugliness to be tolerated from afar. He has sequestered himself in Wawel, ruling his dominion from a great height, shielding himself from the killing. From where he sits, the ghetto is just a neighborhood where the Jews are forced to live. Plaszow is just a labor camp. I am sure that he justified his time at Sachsenhausen, too, seeing it as a prison, its inhabitants criminals who deserved their surroundings. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t wanted to see the starvation, disease and murder of innocent civilians. Until now. Today he has been forced to go to Auschwitz, and the reality of what he has seen is so terrible it has unraveled him, driven him to drink. This terrifies me more than anything else has since the beginning of the war.

“Dreadful, I am sure.” I wish that I could look inside his mind and learn what he has seen that day. Though I might have preferred it, I cannot bury my head in the sand like an ostrich as I once had done in the ghetto. I need to learn as much as possible, for the sake of my family and the resistance. But the Kommandant seems unwilling to say more.

“Herr Kommandant,” I say again, when he has stared at the wall for several more minutes. He looks at me quizzically, as though he has forgotten, or is unsure why I am there. “You look tired,” I offer. He half nods, leaning against the back of his desk chair with one arm. “Let me help you to your car.” I go to the sofa where his military jacket lies in a heap and carry it to him. He holds his arms out and I help him into the sleeves as I would Lukasz. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric. “Come,” I say, guiding him by the arm out of the office. In the hallway, he straightens a bit and is able to make it down the stairs and outside.

At the end of the ramp, Stanislaw, the Kommandant’s driver, stands by the awaiting sedan, emblazoned with a swastika on the side.
“Dobry wieczor,”
he greets us in his deep baritone as we approach the open rear car door. The Kommandant bends clumsily to enter the car, his head swinging within inches of the roof. Without thinking, I place my hand gently on the back of his neck and guide him into the car. He falls as he sits, his weight pulling on my outstretched arm. Caught off balance, I tumble into the car and land awkwardly, partially on top of the Kommandant. I quickly straighten to a sitting position, my face flushed.

“Well, I’d better be going,” I begin, but before I can exit the car, Stanislaw shuts the door behind me. “Wait…” I protest. I look to the Kommandant for help but his eyes are closed, head back. “All right, I guess I will have to help get you home, too.” He snores once in response.

As we make the short drive from Wawel to the Kommandant’s apartment just off the Planty, I look around the interior of the car. I have been in precious few automobiles in my life, and certainly none as grand as this. Fingering the plush leather seat, I peer out the window. The streets are thronged with people running errands and heading home. They stop and stare as we pass in the large, dark sedan with a swastika on the side. I can see the fear in their eyes.

A few minutes later, the car pulls up before an elegant brownstone building. Stanislaw and I help the still-groggy Kommandant to his feet. The doorman unlocks the gate, then stands aside to let us pass. We guide the Kommandant up a flight of marble steps, and Stanislaw unlocks the apartment door. Once inside, the Kommandant is able to make it to the sofa on his own, where he sits, head slumped forward.

Stanislaw retreats from the room and closes the door quickly behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the Kommandant’s apartment. Taking up an entire floor of the brownstone, it is every bit a man’s place: large and impersonal, with only a few pieces of heavy oak furniture and a single sofa covered in maroon velvet. The air smells thickly of stale cigar smoke and brandy, as though it has not been aired out for years. Heavy, dark curtains obscure what I imagine to be a spectacular view of the city skyline.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the Kommandant to speak, but he does not. “Herr Kommandant, it’s late,” I say at last. “If there’s nothing else…”

“Anna, wait,” the Kommandant mumbles, lifting his head slightly. “Don’t go.” He gestures for me to come closer.

Reluctantly, I walk toward the sofa. “Yes, what is it that you need?”

He hesitates. “Nothing. I mean that, I don’t want…” he falters. “That is, if you could just stay awhile.”

He doesn’t want to be alone, I realize, surprised. I sit down at the far end of the sofa. “I can stay a few minutes,” I say.

“Thank you.” He reaches over and, before I can react, grabs my left hand. “Are you okay?” he asks, turning my hand over so the palm faces down. “Your hand…I mean, you burned it with the coffee didn’t you?”

For a moment, I am too startled to respond. “It’s the other one,” I reply at last, pulling my left arm away.

“Let me see,” he insists, his voice clearer now. I raise my right hand slowly and he takes it, cradling it in his two much larger ones, studying it. In the rush of the day, I had nearly forgotten about the burn, but the area just above my thumb is red and blisters are beginning to form. “Wait here,” he instructs.

I start to protest but he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the enormous room. I’ve got to get out of here, I think uneasily, fighting the urge to flee while he is gone. Forcing myself to calm down, I look around once more. The room is devoid of any personal effects except for a framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Despite my unease, I cannot help but be curious. I walk toward the photograph. It is a portrait of a woman, the same woman who is in the photograph that had been on the Kommandant’s desk. She is beautiful, with flowing raven hair, high arched brows and flawless skin.

“Here,” the Kommandant says as he reenters the room. I spin away from the photo toward him. He is carrying a damp cloth, a small jar and a bandage. “Sit down.” Reluctantly, I allow him to lead me to the sofa, where he cleans and dresses my hand. “All done,” he says a moment later. His hand lingers atop mine. Our eyes meet.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, pulling my hand back.

“Of course.” He straightens but does not look away. “I can’t have an assistant with a bad hand, now can I?”

“I suppose not.” I force myself to look away, then stand and walk to the photograph on the mantelpiece once more. “What a beautiful picture,” I remark, lifting the frame gently.

“Margot,” he replies from the couch, his voice now barely a whisper.

“Your wife, Herr Kommandant?” I venture.

“She was.” Suddenly, he is beside me. He grabs the picture from my hands and looks at it intently, as though his gaze might bring the image to life. What became of her? I wonder. I look up at him, hoping he will say more, but he continues staring at the picture silently, as though he has forgotten I am there. Sensing that this is my opportunity to leave, I walk quickly to the door and open it. “It’s late, so I’ll be going now.” Still staring at the picture, he does not respond. “Good night,” I say as I slip out of the apartment and down the stairs.

At the entrance to the building, Stanislaw waits by the car. I climb in, and without question or remark, he shuts the door behind me and starts out the long, winding road to Krysia’s. He knows the way, I realize, from having driven the Kommandant to the dinner party. I lean my head against the cool glass of the car window, seeing the Kommandant’s face in my mind. There was a desperation about him tonight that I had not seen before, especially when we were in his apartment alone together. He did not want me to leave, I realize, perhaps because he was drunk. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be alone.

Suddenly, I remember waking that last morning in the Baus’ apartment, finding Jacob, and then my parents gone. It was the one time in my life I had been completely alone and it terrified me. Some people manage to live perfectly well on their own, I know, like Krysia before Lukasz and I arrived. Still, it must be awful for the Kommandant to spend his nights in that empty, enormous apartment, haunted by the memory of his wife, Margot. I’d heard rumors around Wawel that the Kommandant had been married, but he had not spoken of her before. Tonight, though, it was as if he had seen a ghost. Maybe it was just the alcohol. Or perhaps there was something about what he had seen that day at Auschwitz that stirred his memories.