The Kommandant's Girl (23 page)

Enough, I tell myself. I have done what I set out to do, delivered the papers. I have to get back home. It must be close to ten o’clock, the city curfew, and Krysia will be worried. I start up the riverbank, trying not to slip on the slick slope. I think of Marek. His expression was so strange when he received the information. He was almost smiling. Then I remember the conversation I overheard at the apartment on Josefinska Street after my last Shabbes dinner in the ghetto. Marek is one of the more hawkish leaders of the resistance, he wants to strike the Nazis hard and often. This information about the ghetto liquidation probably supports his position. Now they will try to do something, I realize, my stomach twisting hard. Suddenly, I am seized with the uneasy feeling that even as I had provided information helpful to the resistance, I may have also placed Jacob in grave danger.

At the top of the hill, I pause, surveying the deserted street. I set off quickly across the city center in the direction of Krysia’s house. A siren wails in the distance, signaling curfew. I quicken my pace, the soles of my shoes resonating against the slick, wet pavement. Mind your step, I think, as my toes begin to slide outward.

I press on, my chin buried deep against the wind. As I round the corner onto Starowislna Street, I run smack into a wall. My feet slide forward and to the side, and I land rather ungracefully on my backside in a dirty snowdrift.

Looking up, I realize quickly that it is not a wall I’ve hit, but a man coming from the other direction. I scramble to stand up, but before I can regain my composure, he slides his hands under my arms and lifts me to my feet. I am too surprised to resist. As I blink the snow from my eyes, I feel the stranger’s hand press down on my brow from behind, like a mother checking her child for a fever. His coat gives off a spicy smell that was somehow familiar.

“Dzienkuje…”
Now able to see again, I turn to thank the stranger, but he has already continued onward, the back of his dark overcoat receding well down the street.

Strange, I think, peering back around the corner from where I had come. The street is empty. But there is no time to stand and wonder. Brushing the remaining snow off my coat, I continue onward.

Suddenly, a loud wailing siren cuts through the silence. About fifty feet ahead at the intersection, a Gestapo car comes to a stop.

I leap back around the corner, pressing flat against the brick wall and willing myself invisible. In the distance, I hear car doors slamming, then the thud of heavy boots against the pavement. The glow from a flashlight licks the wall of bricks beside me. My heart pounds and sweat pours from my brow.

The Nazis stand in silence, searching and listening for what feels like an eternity. At last one says something in a low voice and I hear them climb back into the car. The engine starts and I cringe, waiting for the car to pass by and reveal in its headlights a pathetic, snow-covered young woman trying vainly to disappear into a brick wall. I hold my breath and count: one-one thousand, two-one thousand…

The tires screech, as the car reverses and drives off in the other direction.

As the sound of the engine fades, I collapse against the wall, shaking. If that man hadn’t knocked me down, surely I would have run right into the Gestapo. If I had been caught violating the curfew, I could have been arrested or worse. I inhale deeply, thanking my good fortune for the stranger as I start walking again.

The dampness from the snowdrift has begun to soak through my clothing. I remove my wet gloves and place my hands in my coat pockets. Deep in the right pocket, my fingertips brush against something unfamiliar and hard. My hand closes around it and I stop again. I draw forth a smooth brown stone that had not been there an hour earlier.

A small yelp escapes my lips. It is a piece of amber! I knew then that the collision hadn’t been an accident and the man hadn’t been a stranger. It was Jacob who had bumped into me. He had left the stone for me as a sign that it was him. My stomach leaps. Now I know that Jacob isn’t far away, saving the world with some other girl. He is close by, looking out for me. By bumping into me and knocking me over, he had stopped me from running into the Nazis. He was loving me from afar, the only way he could.

Suddenly I feel warm, the air around me gone electric. At this moment, nothing else matters—Jacob is alive, and he still loves me. I place my hand back in my pocket, the cool stone gripped tightly within, and race swiftly toward home.

T
he brown stain on Lukasz’s bowl refuses to budge. I dip it once more in the warm, soapy water and rub at it harder with a cloth. If it was any other dish, I would leave it to soak overnight, but this is the bowl with the rabbits on it, the only one Lukasz seems to like. The prospect of seeing the picture on the bottom provides motivation for him to finish his breakfast cereal. Without it he sometimes refuses to eat. It has to be clean and dry by morning.

I set the bowl in the water once more and lean against the countertop. It is nearly ten o’clock on Friday night. Lukasz has long since been put to bed and Krysia, usually so helpful around the house, begged off to bed with a headache, leaving me to clean up. I don’t mind; it’s easier to stay up knowing that I do not have to rise at dawn for work the next morning, and the evening hours provide rare quiet time. Still, the stress of my situation, of keeping up pretenses, is wearing on me—I am simply exhausted.

It has been more than two weeks since I gave the papers to Marek. I have heard nothing further from the resistance. I reach into my pocket to touch the amber stone I found there the night I went to the cabin. A few times since then, I have had the sense that I was being watched while walking down the street. I spin around quickly each time, hoping to catch some glimpse of Jacob, some sign that he is near. But I have seen nothing and I wonder if I am imagining things.

If only I had some more information for the resistance, some excuse to go to the cabin again, I think wistfully. I continue to go to the Kommandant’s apartment when he calls for me and to search for documents when he is asleep, but I have found nothing new. In recent days, I have had fewer chances to look because I have seen the Kommandant less often. The war is not going as well for the Germans, I know, not only from the official telegrams that cross my desk but also from the hushed whispers and dour faces of the Nazi officers in the corridors of Wawel. As a result, the Kommandant has been working longer hours and frequently has meetings that last well into the night. The few times we have spent the night together, he has slept little, rising before dawn. I hear him pacing the floors and poring feverishly over papers in his study as I lay awake in his bed. Even when he does sleep, he is restless, and I do not dare to try to look for papers for fear he will awaken.

With each passing day that I have been unable to search, my frustration has grown. Perhaps I should try to contact Alek and talk to him about terminating the assignment, I think as I stand before the kitchen sink. There is little point in continuing this game if it produces nothing further. Still, I have not contacted Alek to make such a suggestion. I try to tell myself that it is necessary to continue in case I can learn something new. In truth, I am not sure that I want my visits with the Kommandant to end. I look forward to our dates and his warmth has become comforting to me. I have stopped telling myself that my attraction to him is purely physical. The truth is, I also enjoy his company, a fact that has become more apparent since our nights together have become less frequent.

Anyway, even if I wanted to get out, how could the situation possibly end? One does not simply “break up” with a high-ranking Nazi official, especially not the Kommandant, and I can tell from the loving way he looks at me that he does not envision our relationship ending. We have agreed that it must be kept secret for the present time, since it would not do for him to be seen cavorting with his assistant, and such information would only be ammunition for his enemies. But in private, he has often spoken of a future together. “After the war we will be married,” he has promised more than once, “and you will come back to Germany, you and Krysia and your brother, and live with me on our estate in Hamburg.”

I do not respond when he speaks of marriage, but inwardly, I cringe. Any other young woman who was involved with her boss would likely find great comfort in promise of marriage. But I am already married and find such notions ludicrous, if not terrifying. How would I escape the Kommandant and return to Jacob in the end? If the Germans were defeated, it would not be a problem. But if the Nazis won…well, I cannot allow myself to think of such a scenario.

The windowpanes rattle noisily. It is early December and bitterly cold. We have managed to keep Krysia’s house warm with the firewood and coal we stockpiled last autumn. But I worry constantly about Jacob and my parents, who surely cannot have such comfort. I miss them more now than ever. Hanukkah starts tomorrow night, I know, by the Hebrew calendar that my childhood had permanently installed in my head. If only we could all be together to celebrate the holiday. Earlier that evening, I looked at Lukasz as he played with his blocks on the floor, thinking how he does not even know about Hanukkah. I longed to take him in my lap and tell him the story of the brave fighters that had saved the temple, and the miracle of the light that had burned for eight nights, as his father surely would have done. But even though I feel as though I am failing Lukasz by not carrying on the traditions of our religion, I do not dare. He is three and a half years old now, by our estimate, and becoming more talkative by the day. If he were to repeat the Hanukkah story to a neighbor, we would all be in danger. For the same reason, we will not give him Hanukkah gelt, the coins or small presents I had received on the holiday as a child. Nor will I fashion a dreidel, a small wooden top, and teach him to play Hanukkah games. Instead, Lukasz will get presents a few weeks later at Christmas, the holiday we pretend to celebrate in order to keep up appearances. But tonight, Krysia, in a wordless concession to our faith, made latkes, the fried potato pancakes with sweet applesauce and sour cream that are traditionally eaten on the Jewish holiday. The taste brought visions of my mother and tears to my eyes. I vowed that someday I would tell Lukasz all of this, why we had eaten the pancakes and who our own brave fighters had been.

In the hallway, the floor creaks. It must be Krysia going to the water closet, I think as I drain the dishwater and wipe off Lukasz’s now clean bowl. I press my hands on a dry towel. Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me in the kitchen doorway, heavier than those of any woman. Someone is in the house. I freeze at the sink, my hand wrapped around the handle of a frying pan that rests in the dish rack. I lift my arm, but before I can turn to wield the pan at the intruder, he presses up behind me and grips both of my forearms.

“
Shabbat shalom,
Miss Emma.”

My heart leaps. “Jacob!” I cry, dropping the frying pan into the sink. I spin around. Standing there in the kitchen is my husband. For a second, I wonder if it is a dream. I throw my arms around him, expecting to close around empty air, but he is there, real and solid and safe. “Oh, Jacob!” I cry as his arms close around me. I cling to him as hard as I can, kissing him over and over again on his forehead and cheeks.

A moment later, he pulls back slightly and we look at each other, not speaking. My mind races. Jacob is here. He has come to me. I have dreamed of this moment so many times that it is hard to believe it is real. “Emma,” he says, taking my face in his hands and bringing his lips to mine.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say when at last we break. I study his face. It is thicker and tanner now, almost like a boy who has passed through adolescence to manhood, though of course that had happened years ago. I touch his cheek, which is ruddy and weathered from the outdoors. “It’s been so long.”

“I know. I’m sorry…” he begins, but I bring my finger to his lips.

“Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s okay. As long as I know that you’re all right.”

“I am now that I’m here with you,” he replies solemnly. “But…”

“Shh,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his. Wordlessly, I lead him up the stairs to my bedroom. Closing the door behind us, I kiss him again. Our lips do not part as I take off his tattered coat and shirt and pull him down onto the bed. Our bodies fit together as though the past year had been an awful dream and we had never been apart.

“I should have offered you something to drink,” I say sometime later when we lay spent on the bed.

Jacob shakes his head. “I’m not thirsty,” he replies, reaching for me again. For a moment, I hesitate. In the heat of our initial lovemaking, I had forgotten about the Kommandant and all that has transpired since I last saw Jacob. Now I remember my betrayal and my shame crashes over me in waves. As Jacob moves above me, his torso pale and thin, an image of the Kommandant, large and muscular, flashes through my mind. No, I think, trying to block out the image. Not here, in this precious moment with my husband.

Closing my eyes, I force myself to concentrate on Jacob’s movements, his touch. But as my passion rises, the Kommandant’s face appears in my mind once more. Suddenly a horrible thought races through my mind: what if Jacob notices? For some time now, I have realized that I am different in bed with the Kommandant than with Jacob. My rhythms have changed in response to the Kommandant’s and I find myself moving with more confidence and strength. Panicked now, I wonder if I am behaving as I should with Jacob. I try to remember how I acted when we used to be together, before he went away.

Jacob cries out above me, jarring me from my thoughts. I open my eyes as he collapses beside me, lost in his own passion. A wave of relief crashes over me. He has not noticed anything different.

“Mmm,” he mumbles, his arms circled around me tightly, eyes closed. His breath grows long and even. I do not sleep, but lay on my side, eyes open, drinking in his presence. There is so much I had forgotten: his warmth, his breath, how our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. We had both traveled great distances since our last meeting, me through the ghetto and my work at Wawel, Jacob through God only knew what.

A few hours later he wakes, and for the rest of the night we lay together, talking endlessly as we had when we were newlyweds. He tells me that he has been in the forest, and traveling between Warsaw, Lodz, Lublin and other major Polish cities, trying to coordinate the efforts of various resistance groups. “There are non-Jewish resistance groups, too,” he says, “but efforts to coordinate between the Poles and the Jews have largely been unsuccessful. That’s enough about my work for now, though.” He strokes my hair. “Tell me what happened after I left you.”

I hesitate, uncertain how much to tell. “Well, I tried to go back to my parents like you said,” I begin slowly, my head resting on his chest. Being guarded with Jacob is an unfamiliar sensation. “But they were gone.”

“And then you were in the ghetto.” I can tell from the sound of his voice that he knows what we went through there, and that my suffering caused him pain.

“It was not so bad when I was there,” I lie. “Alek and the others were wonderful to me.”

“I heard you met Marta.” I can hear him smile in the darkness and a flash of jealousy passes through me.

“Yes.” I pause uneasily. Though Marta was my friend, I do not want her presence in the bedroom with us.

“She’s quite a girl.”

I am glad to hear him speak of her as a child. “There were many friends in the ghetto,” I say.

Jacob presses his lips to my forehead. “Still, I know it could not have been easy.”

“My parents…”

“I understand they are still there. We have tried, but it is so hard to get the older ones out.”

I consider asking him if there is some way to help them, but he sounds like Alek, and I know that talking about it further is pointless. “I’ve heard of people escaping over the border to Czechoslovakia,” I say instead.

“It’s risky. The mountain passage is difficult and it is just as risky once you are there. The Slovaks can be so brutal to the Jews as to make the Poles look kind.”

“The Poles are kind,” I respond quickly. “Look at Krysia.”

“Some are kind like Krysia, some are indifferent, others are as bad as Nazis. Most are only doing what they have to in order to survive.”

“I suppose.” Even after all we have been through, I have trouble accepting that the non-Jews I had known all my life had turned on us so willingly.

We fall back to sleep, waking late the next morning and making love again before rising. Krysia has left a note saying that she and Lukasz have gone into town to market. She has also left a fixed lunch for two. “So Krysia knew you were coming?” I ask, placing the bread, fruit and hard cheese onto plates.

Jacob rummages through Krysia’s cabinets to find two glasses and fill them with water. “She knew there was a chance I was coming.”

We carry the food into the parlor and settle on the floor in front of the fireplace. “How long do you have?” I ask, cutting a slice of apple and feeding it to him.

“I have to leave as soon as the sun goes down,” he replies between bites. I silently curse the fact that the days are short and it will be dark by late afternoon.

We eat in silence for several minutes. My mind races with the many questions that I want to ask him. “Jacob…” I say at last. I hesitate, setting down the knife. “How is it that you are here?”

He stops eating and looks at me. “What do you mean?”

I take a sip of water, swallow. “I mean that for over a year, it has been too dangerous for you to come to me. In the ghetto, even here, you haven’t been able to do it. But now?”

“I have been traveling between the other cities, mostly,” he replies. “I came back to Kraków only recently.”

“So a few weeks ago, on Starowislna Street, the amber stone…that was you, wasn’t it?”