The Kommandant's Girl (18 page)

It is hard to believe that was only one year ago. It seems like another lifetime. I wonder what our anniversary would be like if he was still here: another trip to Zakopane, perhaps, or even just a picnic by the river. I sigh. He has been gone longer than we had been together. I still love him as much as I had on the day we were married, but sometimes I have trouble seeing his face clearly in my mind. And now I’ve betrayed our marriage and slept with another man, I think, tears rolling down my cheeks. It was for Jacob that you did it, I try to tell myself, for him and the cause he believes in. The thought is of no comfort. I roll over and cry myself to sleep.

The next morning, I awake and depart for work early, leaving a note for Krysia so she will not worry. I cannot face her yet. As I walk to the bus stop, my thoughts turn to the Kommandant. Walking home the previous night, my humiliation still fresh on my skin, I had not been able to imagine going to work and seeing him ever again. But in the calm light of morning, I know that I have no choice. I hope to be first in the office so as not to be forced to walk past Malgorzata—I am certain that to her, my shame would be apparent. Fortunately, my plan works, and the office is empty. I look at the Kommandant’s schedule and am pleased to discover that he is out of the office all day for meetings. Though I am too exhausted to actually get much work done, I am able to sit at my desk in the anteroom uninterrupted until it is time to go home.

When I arrive at Krysia’s that night, the garden is quiet and empty. I am surprised; usually on summer evenings, Krysia and Lukasz are playing there, waiting for me to come home. I wonder for a moment if their absence was some sort of rebuke for my returning home late the night before and leaving early that day.

I open the front door. “Hello?” There is no answer. Something has happened, I think, racing up the stairs. In the parlor, I find Krysia holding Lukasz, wrapped in a blanket, pacing the floor. “He’s sick,” she informs me, her eyes wide.

“Here, let me.” I try to take him from her but she moves away.

“We don’t need you getting sick and missing work,” she replies coldly.

“Krysia, please,” I insist, at last wresting the child from her. Lukasz’s face is pale and his half-closed eyes are glassy. His forehead, plastered with damp blond curls, is burning. But the most alarming part are his sobs. Lukasz, usually so quiet and complacent, wails openly now, and I can tell from his swollen, red-rimmed eyes that he has been crying all day.

“He has been sick to his stomach several times, and he can’t hold anything down,” Krysia says, hovering over my shoulder. It is her lack of composure that frightens me most. Her hair, usually immaculate, is loose and wild, and her dress is soiled. I have never seen fear in her eyes before.

“Perhaps a cool bath?” I suggest, but Krysia shakes her head impatiently.

“He’s had two already.”

“Well, then, another.” I begin to strip the blanket and clothes from the child, unsure of what else to do. Krysia walks wordlessly upstairs, and a moment later I can hear the water running.

As I carry Lukasz past the kitchen toward the stairs, a flash of something bright red catches my eye. I pause. A bouquet of red roses, still wrapped in paper, sits on the table. I know who they are from without asking.

“I tried all of my home remedies,” Krysia says a few minutes later, as I cradle the child in the tub and trickle water on his head. He has stopped crying and is still now, but he does not feel any cooler.

“Children get ill. It is normal,” I reply without conviction. In truth, Lukasz has not been sick at all in the time he’s been with us. I cannot help but feel that his sudden illness immediately following my interlude with the Kommandant is not a coincidence. Surely I am being punished for my sins.

The problem, of course, is not just that Lukasz is sick—it is that we cannot take him to the doctor. Jewish boys are circumcised, Polish boys are not, and a doctor inspecting the undressed child would immediately know his true identity. There are no Jewish doctors to call and no Polish doctors who can be relied upon not to turn us in for hiding the child. It seems to me a great shame that, with all of Krysia’s underground contacts and all of the people she knows, there is not a trustworthy physician among them. Even Pankiewicz, the ghetto pharmacist, can no longer help us—Krysia had mentioned a few weeks ago that he’d been deported from the ghetto to one of the camps as punishment for caring for Jews.

Finally, when the child’s fingertips are wrinkled like raisins and the water is turning from cool to cold, I draw Lukasz from the bath and wrap him in fresh towels. As I dry him, he seems to drift off into a fitful sleep, his eyes dancing beneath their lids. What does a child his age dream about? I wonder. I cradle him to my breast. In another lifetime, he would have nothing but safe and warm experiences to fill his dreams. Instead, Lukasz has nightmarish visions of his mother being shot and his father taken away, of being hidden and taken through the woods at night to strangers. No matter how warm and safe a world Krysia and I might try to provide, nothing could take away the haunting experiences the child has suffered in his young life.

We redress Lukasz in fresh pajamas and put him to bed. “We should take turns staying with him,” Krysia says, and I nod in agreement, although in fact neither of us can bring ourselves to leave the child to sleep first. So we both sit, Krysia in the small chair by his crib and I on a pillow on the ground, watching him and touching his head every few minutes.

“The flowers, they’re from the Kommandant,” Krysia whispers when at last Lukasz’s eyes have stopped moving and his breath has evened.

“I know,” I reply flatly.

“Are you all right?” I shrug, unable to speak. “It will be okay, darling. I promise.”

Neither of us speak further. When I look over a few minutes later, Krysia is dozing lightly in her chair, head back against the wall, mouth slightly open. So the grande dame of Kraków snores, I cannot help but think. Once it might have surprised me, but these days I know that nothing is as it appears.

I sit on the pillow on the floor and watch them sleep, these two people I have come to call my family. I don’t think either Krysia or I realized until tonight what Lukasz has come to mean to us. Once caring for him had been a task, a way to help with the resistance and defy the Nazis. Now he is our child, the son I someday hope to have with Jacob and the grandchild Krysia knows she will never see.

For the first time, I stop to think about what will happen after the war: will the rabbi, by some miracle, survive the camps and come to reclaim his child? If he doesn’t, will Lukasz stay with Krysia or with me? To envision the answer means trying to picture what my life will be like after the war. In my dreams, I am always reunited with Jacob and my family. I cannot bear to imagine otherwise. But the backdrop is clouded and obscured. I have no idea where we will be. I doubt we will be able to stay in Kraków. The Jewish quarter has been shattered and will never be whole again. Indeed, judging from the comments I occasionally overhear on the street, and the way the Poles seem to carry on unperturbed with their daily lives, Kraków is more glad to be rid of its Jews than I would care to admit. It is unlikely that Jacob and I would return to a big apartment in the city center and to our jobs at the university. And would the rest of the world be so much better for us? I’ve heard of the magical kingdoms before: New York, London, even Jerusalem. I cannot imagine these fairy-tale places I have never seen. These thoughts overwhelm me then and I fall into a light sleep of my own.

I awaken, sore and stiff, on the floor at first light. Krysia still sleeps in the chair, and I stand to place a small blanket around her shoulders. I peer into the crib. Lukasz is awake, not crying but holding his feet and talking softly to himself. “Lukaszku,” I coo softly. I reach for him and he extends his arms toward me as though it were any other morning. He wraps his arms around my neck. I place my lips to his forehead and it is cool.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my eyes wet. God, it seems, has not chosen to punish me in this way. “Thank you.”

Lukasz looks up at me and smiles, perhaps the first real smile I have seen since he has come to us. “Na,” he says. “Na.”

“Anna?” I ask, emphasizing the second syllable.

“Na,” he repeats, reaching out to pat my nose. Now it is my turn to smile. He is trying to say my name. It hardly matters that the name isn’t really mine. Lukasz is healthy, and happier than I have ever seen him. The scare last night made me aware of how precious he is and how, in this world, even the very little we had could be taken in an instant. Tiptoeing so as not to wake Krysia, I carry the child downstairs for breakfast.

T
hat morning, I am reluctant to go to work. “I should stay home,” I say for what seems like the hundredth time. “My leaving will upset the child too much.”

Krysia shakes her head. “You need to go to work.” Her eyes drift to the bouquet of roses, now sitting in a white ceramic vase, and I realize then she is worried that my missing work now might set off some sort of alarm with the Kommandant.

“Okay,” I concede at last. But I linger in the doorway carrying my coat and basket, not wanting to leave.

“He’s okay,” she reassures me, bending to ruffle Lukasz’s hair. Looking at his bright eyes and pink cheeks, I know that she is right. He appears as though he was never sick. Still, I am haunted by the memory of his illness the night before, the prospect of losing him. I fight the urge to pick him up and kiss him goodbye, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I am leaving.

At last I turn and head for the stairs. “I will be home on time,” I say as I go.

“Don’t worry,” Krysia calls after me. “We will be fine.”

Once out the door, I hurry to the bus stop. A bus appears momentarily and twenty minutes later, I am at the foot of Wawel. Still, my dawdling has made me late; Malgorzata is already in the office, wearing a smug expression as I arrive. I have barely set down my belongings behind my desk when Colonel Diedrichson steps out of the Kommandant’s office into the anteroom. “The Kommandant has been calling for you,” he says. Is he looking at me strangely? I wonder. Perhaps he knows something. But there is no time to worry about it. Grabbing my writing pad and smoothing my hair, I brace myself and step into the Kommandant’s office for our first meeting since our night together.

The Kommandant is pacing behind his desk, reading a report. I wipe my hands on my skirt, take a deep breath. “G-good morning, Herr Kommandant,” I say, trying unsuccessfully not to let my voice shake.

He freezes midstep, lifts his head. An expression flashes across his face that I do not recognize. Anger, or perhaps relief? “You’re late,” he replies, though his voice does not sound accusing.

I walk toward him. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “I…”

He raises his hand. “There’s no need to apologize. It’s just that it’s not like you. I was worried that…” He falters and looks away. I hesitate. Though he did not finish the sentence, I understand what he is trying to say. He is afraid that I did not want to come to work because of what happened between us. The Kommandant is nervous, too, I realize, astonished.

“It’s not that, Herr Kommandant,” I say quickly. I am standing beside the desk now, his face inches above me. I can smell his aftershave and it takes all of my strength to block the memories of two nights earlier. “It’s just that Lukasz was ill.” I regret my words immediately. I have said too much. The Kommandant sets down his report, takes my hand.

“Is he okay? Is it serious?” The expression on his face is one of genuine concern.

I swallow; it is hard to speak with his warm fingers squeezing mine. “Yes, thank you, he’s fine now. It was one of those fevers that children get.”

“You should have called me. I would have had my personal physician look at him.”

Which is exactly why I did not say anything
. “That is very kind,” I reply, praying that he will not insist that the doctor still look at the child. “But it isn’t necessary. Everything is fine now.” I pull my hand away and gesture toward the coffee table. “Shall we go over the day’s agenda?” He nods, following me over to the sofa and sitting in the armchair beside it. I review the schedule and all of the correspondence that came in during his absence the prior day. When we have finished, I look up. He is staring at me intently. “If that is all…?” I ask, lowering my eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” he says. I stand and start for the door. “No, Anna, wait a moment, please.” I turn back toward him. He does not speak for several seconds and I can tell from the way his Adam’s apple moves up and down that he is struggling to find the right words. I know then that he is trying to ask me out again. “There is one other thing…” He hesitates. “I was wondering if you are free tonight. I thought we might have dinner together.”

I am never free. If I were free I would not be here. “I would love to, Herr Kommandant, but with Lukasz just recovering, I really should be at home this evening.” This is not a lie, but I also decline knowing that it would not be proper to accept a last-minute invitation so readily.

He nods. His face is expressionless as though trying to mask disappointment or surprise. “I understand. Perhaps Saturday night instead.”

I pause. There is part of me that wants to say no, to write off two nights ago as something that only happened once, a mistake, while I still can. But that will not help the resistance and my parents. “That should be fine, Herr Kommandant,” I reply at last. “Assuming Lukasz continues to be healthy.”

“Very well. I will send a messenger to Krysia’s early Saturday afternoon to confirm.” I turn and walk out the door into the anteroom, shaken and torn. Part of me had hoped that the Kommandant would regard the other night as just a one-time occurrence and not pursue me further. In reality, though, I had known that was not the case—the flowers, and the way he continued to look at me, said otherwise. And though I did not like to admit it, I was relieved that he wanted to see me again. It’s not because you care what he thinks of you, I lie to myself as I sit down behind the desk. You simply have to get back into his apartment to look for papers.

The fact that I am to see the Kommandant again means I will have to say something to Krysia. I intend to speak with her as soon as I get home that night, but I find her and Lukasz playing in the garden, and the sight is such a happy one I cannot bring it up. Later, after we have eaten and put Lukasz to bed, I follow Krysia into the parlor. She sits down and picks up the blue sweater she has been knitting for Lukasz. “It looks almost finished,” I offer.

Krysia holds up the sweater, studies it. “I think I will add a hood,” she says.

Still standing, I shift uneasily. “So, the Kommandant has asked me out again for tomorrow night.”

Krysia looks at me evenly. “I see.”

I look down, studying the top of my shoes. “I wanted to let you know, I mean, to explain…”

Krysia interrupts, “You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“Thank you,” I reply awkwardly. “But it’s important to me that you know. Alek has asked me to…that is, he thinks it is important for the movement.”

“And what do you think?” she asks.

I hesitate. “I think I do not have a choice,” I say, sinking to the sofa beside her.

“There’s always a choice, Emma,” Krysia replies. “We have to take responsibility for our actions. It is the only way we can avoid becoming victims and keep our dignity.”

Dignity. How ironic. I forfeited mine two nights ago in the Kommandant’s apartment. But Krysia is right about taking responsibility. I bite my lip. “Then I am choosing to see him again. For my parents and for the resistance.”

Krysia places her hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s not an easy decision.”

“Do you think it’s the right one?”

“That’s a question only you can answer.” I sigh, then reach over and kiss her on the cheek. “Good night, dear,” she says. Upstairs, I check on Lukasz before going to the bathroom. As I wash my face, I think about what Krysia said. I am choosing to do this, to be with the Kommandant in order to help the resistance. Still, I do not feel brave, but filthy. It is not merely the act by which I have betrayed my marriage that fills me with disgust; it is the undeniable fact that some part of me actually enjoyed it. And even that would not have been so bad, I realize as I soak, if it had merely been a physical reaction. I could have attributed that to loneliness and the fact that I hadn’t seen my husband in almost a year. No, the problem was this chemistry thing that Krysia had spoken of—part of me liked the Kommandant, liked talking to him and being close to him. That was what made the situation so unbearable.

The next day, the Kommandant’s messenger arrives with a handwritten note inviting me to dine at Wierzynek at seven o’clock that evening. Reading the note, I hesitate. I would like to decline, to hold off on being with him for even one more day. But there is no excuse: Lukasz is better and I must try to get the information as soon as possible. I send back a message that I will attend.

At a quarter to seven, Stanislaw comes to pick me up in the car. He explains to me that the Kommandant has been delayed by business and will meet me at the restaurant. Alone in the backseat of the enormous car, I stare out the window. As we near town, I wonder how the evening will go. Since our first night together, I have only seen the Kommandant the one time in his office. I worry that now the conversation will be stilted and awkward.

A moment later the car stops in front of a grand building just off the market square. The Kommandant is waiting in the doorway of the restaurant. “I was sorry not to have been able to meet you,” he apologizes as he escorts me inside. The maître d’ takes my coat and leads us upstairs to a secluded table on a balcony overlooking the main dining room. “I have taken the liberty of ordering for us,” he says as we sit.

I nod, grateful to not have to worry about choosing the proper items on top of everything else. “Lukasz is better?” he asks.

“Yes, thank you.” A waiter appears to pour two glasses of red wine, then leaves again. The Kommandant raises his glass. “To health.”

“To health,” I repeat, raising my glass and taking a small sip. “The wine is delicious.”

The Kommandant drains his glass. “Italian. Have you ever been?”

“To Italy?” I shake my head.

“Wonderful country.” Two waiters appear with silver-covered plates, which they set before us and uncover in unison to reveal the first course, a smoked salmon terrine. When they have gone, the Kommandant launches into a story about a ski holiday he had taken in the Italian Alps with some friends in his younger years. He speaks very quickly, pausing only for quick bites of salmon and sips from his wineglass, which one of the waiters refilled before leaving.

A few minutes later, the waiters reappear, removing the plates and replacing them with two larger silver domes. The main course is some sort of roast bird, with a gamey taste that I do not enjoy. I pick at the dish, grateful that I ate at Krysia’s before leaving. If the Kommandant notices my distaste, he gives no indication, but devours his own plate with relish.

“Have you been back since?” I ask when the waiters who have refilled our glasses have gone again.

“Not to the Italian Alps,” he replies. “I’ve been to other parts of Italy, of course, Rome, Florence, Venice.” I marvel at the way these destinations, which seem so exotic to me, roll so easily off his tongue. He continues, “And to the French and Swiss Alps. But I haven’t gone to Turin again since my university days.”

I tilt my head. “I’m trying to picture you as a student.”

“It was a long time ago,” he admits, laughing.

“What did you study?”

“History,” he replies, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I wanted to be a professor. Of course that was before…” He looks away and takes a sip of wine.

“Before what? What happened?”

“Before I no longer had a choice.” He pauses. “I was the middle of three children. My older brother, Peter, was supposed to take over the family shipping business. When the war started, he and I joined the navy together.” I realize that he is speaking of the Great War. “He was killed at the Battle of Jutland.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over the table and touching his forearm.

He clears his throat. “Thank you. He was a brave man and I looked up to him immensely. Anyway, with Peter gone, it fell to me to learn the family business, so I could run it when my father was someday gone. I never had the chance to finish my studies.”

I sit back in my seat, uncertain what to say. We eat in silence for several minutes. “How did you enjoy the pheasant?” he asks when the waiter returns to clear the table.

“Delicious,” I lie, hoping he did not notice my almost untouched plate.

He turns to the waiter. “Two coffees, one black with brandy, one with cream and sugar,” the Kommandant says. I am surprised that the Kommandant knows how I take my coffee, since I never drink it in front of him in the office. He must have remembered from Krysia’s dinner party. That was May, I realize, nearly five months ago. It seems like a million years. A moment later, a waiter returns with our coffees and a dessert cart bearing a dazzling array of pastries. My mouth watering, I choose a slice of German chocolate cake and the Kommandant takes a piece of apple strudel.

“How is it?” I ask after he has taken a bite.

“Not bad,” he replies, swallowing. “Not as good as my sister’s, though. She is married to an Austrian. They live outside Salzburg.”

“Are you and she close?”

He nods. “Quite, though I haven’t seen her since before the war.”

“Perhaps soon…” I begin, then stop, unsure of how to finish. I had started to say that perhaps soon the war would end and he would be able to see her again. But speaking of the end of the war seems strange somehow.

“I know what you were going to say,” the Kommandant replies, stirring his coffee. A crumb of strudel is stuck to his face, right by the cleft in his chin. I have to fight the urge to reach out and brush it off. “You were thinking of the war ending. It’s okay, Anna. It’s not disloyal to wish for an end to the fighting. We all do. I’m just not sure what that means anymore, even if we do win.” I am shocked. It is the first time I have heard anyone German speak of Nazi victory as anything other than a foregone conclusion. He continues, “The Führer’s plan is quite good in the abstract, but what does it mean, really? Are we to keep occupying Poland and the rest of Europe indefinitely?”