The Kommandant's Girl (27 page)

When her sobs subside, she looks up and pulls out a handkerchief. “What else do you know?” she asks, dabbing her eyes.

I sit down beside her. “They’ve taken him somewhere outside of the city. That’s all Marta would tell me. I wanted her to take me to him, but she wouldn’t. Alek’s orders.”

Krysia breathes deeply, calmer now. “If Alek said it is too dangerous, then that’s probably right.”

Now it is my turn to become upset again. “But we can’t just sit here, Krysia! Not if Jacob is hurt.”

“I know you want to do something, Emma. We both do. It may be, though, that there is nothing to be done right now, other than to wait and pray Jacob is all right. But we need more information than what Marta has told you. First thing tomorrow, I will see what I can find out.”

The next morning I leave for work to find the city transformed. As a result of the bombing, the Nazis have placed Kraków under a state of martial law. The streets teem with Gestapo: tanks sit at every major intersection, police and soldiers stand on the street corners, watching the passersby closely. Local residents, long accustomed to the presence of the Nazi occupation, walk with heads down, not speaking. I am stopped for identification and questioned about my destination three times before I reach Wawel.

As a result of these new security checks, I do not reach work until almost twenty past nine. The castle corridors are bustling with a new sense of seriousness and urgency. When I reach our office, Malgorzata, looking smug as a cat, informs me that the Kommandant has already left for emergency meetings, and will be gone the balance of the day.

I enter the anteroom. My desk is piled high with papers, each stack topped by a small note from the Kommandant. I set about following his instructions with each. Toward the bottom of the papers there is a classified envelope. Normally, I would set it aside as I had been instructed on my first day of work. Today, however, I do not care. These are telegrams from Berlin, I am sure, and I need to see what they say about the bombing. Reckless now, I open the envelope and begin reading the telegrams. Café Warszawa had been packed with Nazis celebrating the holiday early, I learn. Seven had died, and many more had been injured. The telegrams from Berlin order swift and immediate reprisals, both against the Jews within the ghetto and across the general Polish population. My blood runs cold as I read this last sentence and think of my parents.

I read until I have almost reached the bottom of the folder. The last telegram consists of just a single sentence:

The paper drops from my hands. The telegram had been sent to Berlin that morning. It was signed by the Kommandant.

I
am making
choulent
for our midday meal, the thick beef, potato and bean soup that I had eaten every Sabbath lunch and dinner of my life until the war began. Of course we don’t dare to call it that now. I overheard Krysia telling Lukasz that we would be having “beef stew” for dinner, and I had cringed inside to think that the child of a great rabbi is growing up not knowing about this Jewish Sabbath dish. I have not had it for over a year, but now, in the deepest part of winter, it is the one food I crave.

It is mid-February, almost two months since the resistance bombed the Warszawa Café. “An act of great heroism,” I heard a man remark under his breath on the street. I could not have disagreed more. So a few Nazis had died. It was a drop in the bucket. And at what cost? Alek, the very backbone of the resistance, is dead, shot in his apartment the day after the bombing. My eyes burn as I picture his face the last time we met, resolute, unafraid of the danger that lay ahead. The Nazi-controlled newspapers portrayed Alek as a criminal, claiming that he was shot while trying to escape. I knew, though, that nothing could be further from the truth. Alek had died a hero, struggling for the cause of the resistance even as he was killed. Of that much I am sure.

As for Jacob, Krysia’s inquiries have turned up little other than what we already knew, that he was injured in the bombing and has been removed from Kraków. One of Krysia’s contacts thought he might be recuperating in the mountains. Apparently his is not a bullet wound, but rather heavy shrapnel from the explosion. But there is no news about the seriousness of his condition, the extent of his wounds. With Alek dead and a number of other fighters, including Marek, arrested and imprisoned, the resistance is in tatters and it is nearly impossible to get information. I do not even know what has become of Marta since our encounter on Florianska Street the night of the bombing. Surely she would find me, or at least send word about Jacob if she could. I wonder if she has seen him. Jacob. His face appears in my mind. I think of him constantly now. Some of my thoughts are happy ones, of our days in the apartment on Grodzka Street and the last night we spent together here. But there are other images, too: I imagine him lying in a bed in a cabin somewhere, bloodied and bandaged and alone. As hard as I try, I cannot force these images from my mind. Be strong, I pray. Come back to me. Since Jacob went underground, I have been able to endure it all—the ghetto, working for the Nazis, even being with the Kommandant—because I knew Jacob was out there somewhere and would find a way for us to be together again. I do not know how I will go on if he does not survive.

The attack has had larger consequences, too: Kraków remains under a state of martial law. Gestapo are stationed on every corner and ordinary citizens continue to be subjected to frequent stops and searches, as well as a curfew from dusk until dawn. It is not the Poles, though, for whom I am most concerned; surely the brunt of the Nazi wrath and revenge is being felt by the Jews in the ghetto. My parents, I think as I stir the
choulent
. I have heard horrible stories, whispered on the streets and in the corridors at Wawel, of groups of randomly selected Jews being lined up against a wall and shot.

Malgorzata was the latest to repeat the rumor to me as I passed through reception the previous morning. Her face was sad as she told me, and there was none of the usual smugness or self-importance in her voice. It occurred to me for the first time that perhaps she had secret relatives in the ghetto, too. Unlikely, but maybe she had Jewish friends from before the war. I wanted to ask her how she knew: was this just one of the typical secretarial rumors that spread through headquarters, growing each time it was told, or had she seen an official telegram detailing the incident? More likely the former, I decided. Though meticulous in planning, the Nazis seldom put the atrocities they committed in writing. It was as if they subconsciously knew that someday they might no longer be in power and might be called upon to account for their crimes. Of course I did not dare ask Malgorzata or seem too interested in her gossip, but rather nodded and hurried into the anteroom, nauseous.

I had wanted to ask Krysia about the rumor. I decided against it, though; the strain of recent events had taken its toll on her and I did not want to add to her worries. In any event, I knew what she would say, that the story was probably exaggerated, that even if it was true there were thousands of people in the ghetto, that my parents would not be among those selected. Such words would be of little comfort.

Hadn’t the resistance thought about the repercussions they would bring on to others? They seem not to have cared, I think for the hundredth time, as I remove the
choulent
from the burner and turn off the gas. More so than my grief at the loss of Alek or even my frantic worry for my husband, I seethe with anger at this foolish act of heroism.

Yet despite all that has happened, we are forced to go on. Our charade does not stop just because my world seemingly has. Every day, I get up and go to work at Wawel as though nothing is wrong. Occasionally, Malgorzata or one of the other secretaries comment that I am quieter than usual, or ask if I am feeling well. For the most part, though, I have been able to keep up appearances.

I lift the heavy pot from the stove. Suddenly, my body weakens. I become very hot, then chilled. A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. The pot of
choulent
drops from my hands and crashes to the floor, shards of porcelain and gravy spraying in all directions.

“Oh!” My hands rise to my mouth. The pot had been one of Krysia’s favorites, a wedding present from many years ago.

Krysia, who has been waiting at the table with Lukasz, comes swiftly to my side, stepping over the remnants of our meal and her beloved crockery as though they aren’t there.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, starting to cry.

“It’s okay,” she replies, her voice sincere.

I shake my head. “No, no, it’s not,” I sob. The broken pot, it seems, is the final straw. I remember suddenly the morning I learned of Alek’s death. I had forced myself to replace the telegram in the folder and continue working, not to react. Even that night as I told Krysia the news in the safety of our home, I had not cried. Now suddenly all of the frustration and worry and grief of recent weeks seems to come pouring out of me at once. I cry for Alek, who had led the resistance so bravely and brought me a connection to Jacob once more. For the wounded husband whom I cannot be with, for my parents, and for the nameless strangers shot in the ghetto. I cry for Margot and her father. For me, Krysia and Lukasz. For all of us.

Krysia wraps her arms around me. “There, there,” she murmurs, rocking me gently from side to side as she might Lukasz when he scraped a knee. I place my head on her shoulder and melt into her warm embrace.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, still bawling. I can feel my tears soaking the shoulder of her dress, but I do not care. “It’s just that…”

“I know,” she soothes. “Let it out, just let it—” Krysia suddenly stops rocking me. She freezes midsentence.

I look up through my tears. “What is it?”

She places one hand on my stomach, the other on my cheek. “Emma, are you…pregnant?”

I straighten and pull away, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. I am stunned by her question. “Pregnant?” I repeat as though the word is a foreign one. An image leaps into my mind of Lukasz’s mother, lying on the ground after she had been shot, her lifeless arm draped across her full stomach in a gesture of futile protection. Pregnancy meant life and there was no bringing life into this dark world now. “No…”

“Are you sure?” Krysia presses. I shake my head. Pregnant is something that happens to married women with normal lives, those blessedly lucky ones who get to go to sleep each night beside their husbands. Margot had been pregnant. Krysia continues, “Because you have not been yourself lately and there are dark circles under your eyes. I’ve heard you in the water closet…” I can see Krysia’s mouth moving but I can no longer hear what she is saying over the buzzing in my ears. For weeks now, I realize, I have been trying to avoid asking myself this very question. I haven’t had my period in more than three months. I have tried to tell myself that my cycle has been thrown off by the stress of everything that has happened, all of the pretending and worrying and grieving. But there are other signs, too, the nausea and dizziness and a stomach growing rounder despite our modest food supply.

Now, hearing Krysia say it, I know it is true. I nod, unable to speak the words.

She does not appear surprised. “How long?”

“I only suspected it a few days ago,” I lie quickly, not wanting Krysia to think I have been hiding something from her. “I wasn’t even sure until now.”

“No, I meant, how far along do you think you are?”

I shrug. “I don’t know….”

“A doctor could tell us, if there was a decent one to be trusted still left in this town,” Krysia laments. “When was your last cycle?”

I blush, unaccustomed to speaking of such things. “Three months ago, give or take.” I can see her doing the math in her head, trying to see if the timing coincides with my husband’s only visit. It does not. “I don’t know if it is Jacob’s,” I add softly.

She looks at me sharply. “I didn’t ask.”

“Oh, God…” The full reality of what is happening begins to sink in. I am pregnant, and the child is likely the Kommandant’s. I feel my knees start to wobble once more.

Noticing, Krysia takes my arm and guides me to a chair. “Breathe deeply,” she instructs, placing a glass of water on the table in front of me. “Drink this.”

I obey, taking sips of water in between my sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not your fault.” Krysia walks to the cupboard and pulls out a whisk broom and dustpan. Not my fault, I think as I watch her clean up the mess I made. I feel stupid, as though I should have known better. But how? I knew so little about having a child. My mother had not spoken to me about such things, even before my wedding to Jacob. In our religious community, a married woman did not try to prevent pregnancy, at least not openly; it was her duty to bear as many children as God saw fit to bless her with. I had heard whispers from some of the girls in my neighborhood about being less likely to get pregnant at certain times of the month, but I had not really understood what they were talking about and had not dared to ask. I should have thought about it when this business with the Kommandant began, I realize. Perhaps Krysia could have helped me be more careful. But everything happened so quickly and I was focused on getting the information for Alek. And now it is too late.

Krysia returns to the table a few minutes later, having managed to save some of the
choulent
that has not touched the floor. She sets three small bowls of the stew on the table and puts Lukasz in his chair. Food is precious, I realize. Even in a catastrophe, one must be practical. She scoops a spoonful of
choulent
and blows on it to cool the temperature before feeding it to Lukasz. She alternates spoonfuls between the child and herself. Numbly I eat my stew, trying not to think.

When Krysia’s bowl is empty, she pushes it away from her and begins speaking. “Emma, I was pregnant once, too. In Paris. Before Marcin.” I look up, stunned by her admission. I had no idea that Krysia had ever been pregnant, and certainly had not imagined her having lovers other than her husband. I think of all of the times these past several months that she has comforted me about my illicit affair with the Kommandant, how she tried to assuage my guilt about my confused feelings about him. She understands, I realize, because she had an affair of her own as a young woman.

“Who was he?” I ask. Though I know him only from the photographs, it is difficult to picture Krysia with anyone but Marcin.

Krysia smiles. “His name was Claude. He was a writer, or wanted to be, anyway. He lived in a tiny room above a café. The landlord let him wash dishes in the kitchen and sweep the café floor because he could not afford to pay rent.” She pauses and studies her fingers. I can see a thin line of blood where a shard of porcelain cut into the pale, smooth back of her hand. “I never thought it would happen. I was young and carefree and in love. We both were, or so I thought. I was prepared to leave my family to be with Claude, but he said it was impossible, that he had no money for a family. That a child would interfere with his art.” I can see the sadness now in her eyes as she remembers going to her lover with dreams of a future together, only to be rejected. “I would have kept the child and raised him or her alone, scandal be damned. But my parents would not hear of it. The nineteen-year-old daughter of the chargé d’affairs studies art and music at the Sorbonne. She does not have an illegitimate child. They threatened to cut me off entirely. I would have been penniless.”

“Oh, Krysia,” I say.

She stares straight in front of her, unblinking. “I could have chosen to make a go of it on my own with the child. I could have gotten by somehow. But I was young and afraid. So I did what they wanted. I asked if I could go away and have the child then put it up for adoption. They refused, said the scandal would have been too great.” She rises and walks to the sink, her back to me, turning the faucet until the cold water sprays hard on her hand, flushing out the wound. “I let my parents decide for me, and it is a decision I have paid for all my life.” Krysia shuts the water off and wraps her hand in a clean towel. She turns to face me again. “Do you understand what I am telling you?” I nod. Whatever they had done to Krysia to end her pregnancy must have left her unable to have children. “Good. A child is a blessing.” As if on cue, Lukasz toddles across the room and tugs at Krysia’s skirt.