The Kommandant's Girl (19 page)

I hesitate, wondering if he expects me to answer. Suddenly I am reminded of the days before the war when Jacob and I would debate political issues. Those conversations were different; there were no right or wrong answers. Here, everything I say is a potential land mine. “I—I don’t know,” I manage to say.

“You don’t have to answer. I’m not a fool, Anna. I know what the Poles think of us. We are the occupying force.”
Not occupiers,
I think.
Murderers
. He continues, “They hate us, think we’re monsters. I understand it.”

“I’m a Pole,” I offer. “And I don’t…”

“Hate me?” He smiles sheepishly. “I know. That’s the part I don’t understand.” He pauses, taking another bite. “No, the problem with the war is that nothing is certain.”

“What about the Jews?” I blurt. The question seems to fly from my mouth involuntarily, as though placed there by another.

The Kommandant stares at me, his fork hovering midair. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

I hesitate, wishing the floor would open and swallow me up. I should never have asked the question, but it is too late now. “When you spoke of the Führer’s plans long-term…” I look down at my coffee cup. “I—I was just wondering about the Jews in the ghetto, what will be done with them?”

“Do you know many Jews, Anna?” the Kommandant asks sharply.

I shake my head quickly. “Only the ones I saw around the city before the war. None personally.”

He clears his throat. “The Jewish question will be resolved. You needn’t worry about that.” He looks up and signals to the waiter for the bill.

My heart pounds. Why did I ask him that? Does he now suspect something? As he signs the bill, I study his face. But if he thinks anything is amiss, he gives no indication. A moment later, the maître d’ reappears with my coat. We make our way downstairs and outside to the car. Inside, the Kommandant turns to me. “I suppose you need to be getting back to Lukasz,” he says.

I hesitate. He is asking me if I want to come over, I realize. I do not have to go—he has given me the perfect excuse. But backing out now would defeat the purpose of everything I have already done. I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I reply. “Krysia is with Lukasz. I don’t have to hurry home.” The Kommandant smiles slightly and leans forward to speak with Stanislaw in a low voice.

Neither of us speak again until we are inside his apartment. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks, taking my coat and laying it across a chair.

“No, thank you.” We stand awkwardly in the middle of the parlor, looking at each other. There is no unexpected moment to bring us together now. Taking a deep breath, I step forward.

“Anna,” he says, opening his arms. I take another step toward him and he reaches for me. Wordlessly, we walk to his bedroom. His embrace is tentative at first, but then our lips meet and it is as if we have been together a thousand times. The sex (I refuse to think of it as lovemaking) is less animalistic now, a slower, more tender passion. At one point, I break from the hypnotic trance to a moment of consciousness. Suddenly, it is as though I am hovering above us by the ceiling, looking down on our bodies. I am pinned beneath the Kommandant, my face contorted. Go back inside, I think as I look down, hating myself.

Then it is over. A few minutes later, he is asleep. Watching him breathe evenly, eyes closed, I cannot help but think of Jacob. We would lie awake for hours after making love, holding each other and talking. You should be glad that the Kommandant is asleep, I remind myself. It is time to make this all worthwhile.

Slowly, carefully, I slip out of bed and tiptoe across the apartment in the darkness. Feeling my way along the wall, I find the door to his study. I turn the knob and open the door slowly, so that it does not creak. Inside the unlit room, I can make out nothing and I do not dare turn on a light.
This is pointless.
The only way to do this is to wait and look in the light of very early morning, before the Kommandant wakes up. But I cannot bring myself to stay, not tonight. I need to be home when Lukasz awakes in the morning. Returning to the bedroom, I dress quietly and tiptoe from the apartment. Downstairs, Stanislaw is still waiting by the car. I cannot bear to meet his eyes as I climb into the back seat. If he thinks something untoward has taken place, though, he gives no sign of it, but rather closes the car door behind me and drives me home.

The situation with the Kommandant falls into a pattern after that day. He asks me out several times each week. I think he would see me every day if he could, but the demands of his work keep him from trying. I accept most of his invitations, usually to dinner, or occasionally to the cinema or a play. The evening always ends at the Kommandant’s apartment. A few times I stay until the earliest dawn, slipping into the study to look for papers, but I do not dare to shuffle more than a few papers at a time for fear of waking him. So far, I have found nothing of consequence. The situation remains the same for several weeks. Once or twice, Krysia asks in a roundabout way whether I need to see Alek and I always say no. I know that things are more dangerous for him and the other resistance members now, and that they cannot risk a meeting unless I have something significant to report.

One Friday morning in early November, I am seated at my desk in the anteroom opening the mail. Toward the bottom of the pile, there is a small, vanilla colored linen envelope containing a note card. I do not recognize the writing, but I can tell that it is female.
Georg,
the message begins,
I am looking forward to the gala on Saturday. Fondly, Agnieszka
. I freeze,dropping the note card to the desk. Who is Agnieszka? I wonder, and where is the Kommandant taking her? I open the Kommandant’s appointment book, but there is nothing listed for Friday night. Maybe it is a mistake. But he has not asked me for a date for that night, as usually would have been the case….

Just then the anteroom door flies open and Malgorzata barrels in, carrying a stack of folders. “These are for…” she begins, setting the folders on the edge of my desk. Then, noticing my expression, she stops. “Is something wrong, Anna?” she asks. “You look rather pale.”

“N-no, of course not,” I reply, hastily trying to shove the note card under the stack of mail. The last thing I need is Malgorzata thinking I am concerned about the Kommandant’s personal life.

But it is too late. She reaches down, picks up the note card. “Ah, the Baroness Kwiatkowska.”

“Agnieszka Kwiatkowska?” I repeat. The Kwiatkowskas are a well-known Kraków family with an aristocratic bloodline.

“Yes, I have heard that the baroness has designs on our Kommandant,” Malgorzata says, dropping the card back on my desk and winking. “Oh, don’t be too sad, Anna. Of course the Kommandant would date a wealthy, cultured woman like Agnieszka Kwiatkowska. You didn’t really think he would wind up with a lowly staff person, did you?”

“No, of course not,” I start to say, but Malgorzata has walked away, laughing cruelly over her shoulder as she leaves the room. I sit for several moments, staring at the card. Finally, I place it back in the envelope and return it, along with the rest of the mail, on the Kommandant’s desk. Still, the idea of it gnaws at me all morning: the Kommandant is going on a date with another woman. Well, why shouldn’t he? I muse angrily as I work on the filing that afternoon. He is a very eligible man, single, handsome and powerful. The fact that he is sleeping with a member of his staff should hardly matter. I feel foolish for ever thinking that it might be something more to him.

Once I am seated on the bus heading toward Chelmska, my mind turns to the Kommandant once more. So he has a date with another woman. It should not matter at all. You are only with him because you have to be, I remind myself. It is a mission for the resistance. It is not as though it is Jacob who is betraying you. No, it is I who is betraying him, I think, pressing my head miserably against the cool glass window. I betray Jacob, the Kommandant betrays me. It is pathetic. As I get off the bus at Krysia’s, it begins to rain—thick, cold drops that soak through my coat and stockings. The miserable weather suits my mood perfectly.

Opening the front gate to Krysia’s, I pause. Something is not right. There are lights burning everywhere in the house, yet the second-floor curtains, usually flung wide open, are tightly shut. I hurry up the path, wondering if Lukasz is sick again. “Hello?” I call as I open the front door. I walk up the stairs to the second floor. “Hello?”

“Surprise!” a chorus of voices bursts out, startling me. Krysia, Lukasz and the Kommandant leap out of the kitchen. Elzbieta lingers behind slightly, holding a cake with lit candles. “Happy birthday!” they cry. I blink repeatedly, trying to process what is happening. Tomorrow is my birthday, I remember, my real birthday and Anna’s, too. The resistance gave her the same birthday as me to minimize confusion. I had almost forgotten, though I know Krysia has not. But the Kommandant is here, too. A birthday celebration made up of the Jewish child we are hiding, my husband’s aunt who is sheltering us, and the Nazi she is protecting us from, who happens to be my lover. The irony is really too much.

“Thank you,” I manage to say at last. Suddenly I am mindful of my disheveled hair and mud-soaked stockings.

Elzbieta steps forward with the cake. “Are you surprised?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, blowing out the candles. It is one of the great understatements of my life.

“Happy birthday, Anna,” the Kommandant says, taking a half step toward me. I do not answer or meet his eyes. For a moment when I first saw him, I had felt a rush of warmth. Now I am reminded of his date with the baroness and his presence seems hypocritical. Of course he is here tonight, I think. Tomorrow, on my actual birthday, he will be with someone else.

Lukasz breaks the awkward silence. “Ca!” he says gleefully, stepping toward the cake with outstretched fingers.

“No, darling,” Krysia admonishes gently, catching his hands. “We need to eat our meal first.”

“Dinner is ready,” Elzbieta says. “Why don’t you go sit down?”

“Come, Lukasz.” The Kommandant holds out his hand. The child hesitates, looking up at the giant man in uniform. Then he places his tiny hand in the Kommandant’s. I shudder. It is all part of the plan, I know, having the Kommandant warm to Lukasz. It means that our disguises are working. Still, I cringe at the sight of the rabbi’s child holding the hand of a Nazi.

“I’m sorry,” Krysia whispers as we make our way to the dining room. “He found out that it was your birthday and contacted me. I had no choice but to invite him.”

I nod. She could not know why I was really upset. Why make the effort, pretend that he cares about me enough to celebrate my birthday? I wondered. This time tomorrow night he would be on a date with the baroness.

“Happy birthday, Anna,” the Kommandant says again once we are seated. I do not answer but turn slightly away. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the puzzled expression on his face. He does not know that I know about the baroness. I am silent through the meal, leaving Krysia to keep up most of the conversation.

After dinner, Elzbieta serves coffee and the birthday cake, which is a yellow cake with lemon icing. “It’s delicious,” I say, knowing that white flour and sugar cost dearly these days, even for Krysia. Krysia stands and returns to the table with two boxes wrapped in paper. “Thank you,” I say, touched. I had not expected anything. I unwrap the presents. One is a pale pink scarf that Krysia has secretly knitted for me. The other is something made from sticks that Lukasz has put together. “I love it!” I exclaim, circling the table to hug and kiss him. He giggles, squirming to get away.

“It’s late. I’d better get this youngster to bed,” Krysia says, standing up and picking up Lukasz. “Say good-night, darling.”

Lukasz raises his hand.
“Salom,”
he says.

“What’s that?” the Kommandant asks.

“Sabat salom,”
Lukasz repeats. I freeze. Lukasz is trying to say
shabbat shalom,
the Hebrew greeting on the Sabbath.

The Kommandant turns to me. “What is he trying to say?”

“Nothing,” I reply quickly, shooting Krysia a warning look. “He is just babbling because he’s tired.” Krysia carries the child hurriedly from the room, leaving the Kommandant and I alone. Where did Lukasz learn that? I wonder frantically. I have never spoken Hebrew around him. It must have been something he recalled hearing from his parents as a young child. Surely the Kommandant would not have recognized the words…. I study his face, but he does not appear to have noticed anything suspicious. “I need some air,” I say, standing up. I step out onto the balcony off the parlor. The Kommandant follows me. The rain has cleared, leaving a gorgeous, crisp autumn evening sky freckled with a thousand stars.

“Anna.” The Kommandant comes to stand beside me. “This is for you.” He draws from his pocket a small wrapped box, the same size as the one he gave me the evening we went to the orchestra.

“I can’t accept it.” My voice is cold. The hurt expression returns to his face once more. “There is no need to give presents to a lowly member of your staff.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Are you angry that I am here?”

“It’s just that perhaps your time would be better spent with someone else. Someone more your equal.”

“Someone else?” he asks, puzzled. “What on earth are you talking about?”