The Kommandant's Girl (30 page)

I look over at the clock again, then back at the Kommandant sleeping. Krysia had told me that I needed to be back at the house by four o’clock. The Kommandant’s apartment is only a short walk from the bridge to Podgorze. There is time, I realize; time to go to the ghetto, if I dare. My mind is made up. Silently, I slip from bed. The Kommandant snorts and rolls over. I freeze, terrified that he has awoken and that I will be unable to leave, but he continues breathing evenly, eyes shut. I dress quickly and start for the door of the bedroom.

Then I stop and turn to look at the Kommandant. This is the last time I will see him. I tiptoe back to the side of the bed where he is sleeping, fighting the urge to climb back into bed beside him, to wrap myself around him once more. A wave of sadness passes over me. There are so many things I want to tell him. That I’m sorry for deceiving him, for not being able to really be the woman he thought he loved. That I wish things could have been different between us. But there is no time for regrets. I bend over, touching my nose to his hair, and kiss him lightly on the forehead to say goodbye. He does not stir.

I cross the living room and pick up my coat from the chair where I had placed it earlier. As I start to put it on, I hesitate, looking down at the low table where our dinner plates still sit, half filled with meat and cheese. So much waste. I will take the food with me to give to my parents, I decide. I tiptoe hurriedly into the kitchen and grab a paper bag from the cupboard, then return to the living room and put the food inside. I make my way out of the apartment. Outside, the street is deserted, the air bitterly cold. I head toward the bridge, hugging the shadows of the buildings. My every nerve stands on end; I must not get caught. Soon, I reach the river’s edge and cross furtively over the railway bridge.

The streets of Podgorze are silent and dark. I know, though, that the Gestapo could be hiding anywhere, lying in wait for someone to come along. When I reach the ghetto wall, I press myself against it, trying to hide in the thin shadows. I look at the wall, which seems to stretch endlessly in both directions. An urge to turn and leave washes over me. Perhaps Krysia was right. I press myself flat against the wall as I inch my way along, feeling with my hand until I touch a small break in the stone, no larger than a loaf of bread. I peer through the hole. The streets inside are also deserted. This is the industrial side of the ghetto near the kitchen, I realize. It is unlikely that anyone will be here in the dead of night. Inhaling deeply, I continue along the wall.

Several meters farther down, where the wall turns and curves inward, there is another, bigger break in the stone. I look through the hole, relieved to see apartment buildings instead of warehouses. This street is not far from the street where my parents live, but it too is deserted. This is hopeless, I think, looking nervously over my shoulder at the empty street behind me. I should go now, before I get caught. But I cannot leave, not when I have made it this far. A few minutes later, I hear a faint scratching sound on the other side of the wall. I press my head through the hole, craning my neck in both directions, but I can see nothing. It’s probably just a rat, I think, sinking back. Then I hear the sound again, louder and closer. I look again. An old man shuffles along the ghetto street toward me, head down. His back is hunched to the point he is almost doubled over as he takes his tiny steps. As he nears, I start to call him over to ask if he has seen my father. Then I stop, mouth agape. The old man is my father.

“Tata,” I whisper loudly, pulling back my shawl. He looks up. Several minutes pass before the light of recognition crosses his face. He walks slowly toward me.

“Shana madela,”
he rasps in Yiddish, stretching a bony hand through the hole in the wall. Pretty girl. The eleven months since I have seen him last have aged him beyond all recognition. His face is like a skull, barely covered with skin. Only a few patches of his beard remain. The few teeth that still remain of his once full smile protrude grotesquely from his sunken mouth.

“Tata, what…?” So many questions flood my brain, I do not know where to begin.

“I walk at night sometimes,” he says, as though that explains everything. I remember, as though from a past life, the hunger pains that came at night in the ghetto, shooting through my stomach like knives, making it impossible to sleep.

“Here,” I say, pulling out the bag of food I brought from the Kommandant’s apartment. I push it through the crack in the wall. “It’s not kosher, but…” He takes the bag and holds it limply, as though he does not realize it is there. My stomach twists. Something is horribly wrong. “Mama…?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer. My mother never would have let him out alone at night. She never would have let his hair be unkempt, or his clothes dirty, even in the worst of times.

“Ten days ago,” he says, his eyes turning to dark pits.

“What…?” I ask, not wanting to understand the meaning of his words. I notice then that the front of his shirt has been torn in the Jewish ritual of mourning. “No…”

“She’s gone,” he whispers with difficulty, tears springing to his eyes.

“No!” I cry loudly, oblivious to the danger that someone might hear. Suddenly I am five years old and in bed with the flu in our Kazimierz apartment. My mother had slept with me when I was ill, and rubbed grease on my chest and made soup and sung songs. “Mama…”

My father looks at me helplessly through the hole in the wall, a tortured expression on his face. He could never handle my crying, even as a child. The notion that something was wrong with me that he could not fix had always been an unbearable one to him. My grief, I know, is worse for him than his own. “She first became sick last autumn with a terrible fever.”

“I know,” I reply between my sobs. “I tried to get help.” I cannot bring myself to tell him the resistance refused to help. “Krysia tried to do something.”

“She sent Pankiewicz, the pharmacist. The dear man was a godsend. He tried everything, used his scarcest medicines on your mother, but the illness was like nothing he had seen before, a total mystery. Eventually, the fever broke and she got a little better but she was still very weak. She was never the same afterward and the winter…well, a few weeks ago the fever returned and that was it.”

I swallow, my sobs easing. “Was she peaceful? At the end, I mean?”

My father hesitates. “She was at peace,” he replies carefully, and I can tell from his expression that she suffered a great deal. “She was strong and brave. I was with her the whole time…”

“I should have been there, too,” I say, my voice cracking.

He shakes his head. “She understood. All she wanted was to know that you were safe.” But I am inconsolable. I picture my mother the night I left, sleeping beside my father. I did not have the chance to say goodbye, not even the casual goodbye I might have said when headed out the door to the bakery or the library, planning to meet again in a few hours. No, I had disappeared in the middle of the night and now so had she.

“I’m sorry I left you,” I say.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that,” he protests quickly. “We were worried, of course, that morning when we awoke and found you gone. But we received word quickly that Jacob and his friends had somehow gotten you out. That you were okay. We were glad. In the end, your mother was sorry she didn’t have the chance to say goodbye. But she understood why you had to go the way you did. I did, too.”

I begin to sob openly again, oblivious to where I am and the danger that surrounds us. My father watches me helplessly from the other side of the wall, heavy with his own grief.
“Yisgadal, v yiskadash shmay rabah…”
he begins in Hebrew to chant the mourner’s
kaddish
. In a choked voice, I join in. It is the Jewish prayer for the dead that does not mention death, but only praises God in the highest. How many times had my father said it alone these nights? I wonder.

I inhale, fighting to regain my composure. “We have to get you out,” I say frantically. “I will come back in an hour with papers….” He shakes his head. We both know that it is impossible. No one is getting in or out of the ghetto these days. My father certainly could not pass as a messenger, or a gentile, and he could never survive the journey through the forest.

No, I cannot get him out. But I want to give him something, something that will linger where I cannot. “Tata, I am going to have a baby.” A confused look crosses over his face. “Jacob was able to come visit us once last autumn,” I add quickly. I do not tell him, of course, that the child might not be my husband’s. In that moment, it does not matter.

He smiles weakly. “
Mazel tov,
darling.” But his eyes look pained. I know in his mind he is seeing the grandchild he would never hold, never witness bar mitzvahed. Yet his family would go on. My words are both a wound and a gift.

“If it is a girl, I will name the child for Mama,” I add.

“Emmala,” he says. I shudder. It has been so long since I have heard him call me by his pet name for me. It feels like a warm blanket around my shoulders. I see in his eyes then a helpless look. It is the look of a father acknowledging all that he is unable to give to his child. His guilt at not having been able to protect me. Suddenly, his expression changes. “Wait,” he says. “Wait right here.” Before I can reply, he disappears. I press back against the wall into the shadows, seeing my mother’s face in the darkness. Had Krysia known? I wonder. Did she lie and tell me my parents were all right, knowing I would not leave otherwise? Several moments pass. Finally, I hear my father’s shuffling steps as he reappears. “Here.” He thrusts his hand through the wall once more, pressing three items into my palm. The first two are my wedding and engagement rings, which I had long ago tucked under my mattress in the ghetto. The last is a piece of paper. I unfold it and gasp aloud. It is my marriage certificate to Jacob.

I hesitate, my hand still aloft. A Jewish marriage certificate and rings. Once these things would have meant everything to me. Now I see only the danger in taking them. If I am caught, they will surely betray my identity. I look at my father then, at the light that giving me these few things has brought to his eyes. I have no choice but to take them.

“Thank you.” I wrap the rings in the paper and tuck them both in my pocket.

My father nods, content to be able to give me that much. “And when you see Jacob, you tell that boy your father said he is never to leave your side again.”

“I promise.”

My father nods emphatically. “Tell Jacob I said enough with his political nonsense. He has my grandson to raise.” I am amazed to see a small smile at the corner of my father’s cracked lips. Even now, at his darkest hour, he can find some humor, some joy.

“Grandson,” I reply, desperately trying to find the humor to match his own. “I knew you always wanted a boy.”

He shakes his head, serious now. “I wanted you. You are my everything.”

I fight back the tears that are starting to well up again. “And you are mine,” I reply softly. “But, Tata, the ghetto…”

“Yes…” He is not smiling now. He, too, has heard the rumors of liquidation. Having witnessed two terrifying
akcjas
already, he surely knows what to expect, the horrors that lay ahead for him. Yet his eyes burn clear and unafraid. “The Lord is my shepherd,” he says simply. There is a kind of radiance to his thin, starved face. I realize then that I am staring into the eyes of absolute faith. I think of all of the days spent in the tiny Remuh Synagogue on Szeroka Street, davening and chanting his prayers. Of candles lit and wine blessed. Even in the ghetto, I know he has spent these long nights reciting over and over to himself the Twenty-Third Psalm. Still, I wonder how he remains so serene. Perhaps he has walked God’s path for so long that he has no need for the searching and fear that others do. Or perhaps he has lost so much there is nothing else to take. Most likely, he knows that my mother is waiting at the end of this path.

“Go now,” he urges.

“I can’t leave you again,” I protest. “I won’t.”

He shakes his head. “You must.” I do not reply. I know that he is right. I cannot free him, and staying here will mean certain death for us both. Still I linger, wanting to hold on to the last page of my childhood, a book that is about to close forever. I press my head through the hole in the wall, the cracked edges scratching my cheeks and forehead. My father tries to ward me off, not wanting to pass whatever germs and disease lay in the ghetto on to me and my unborn child. But I reach my arm through and draw him close to me. I am just able to graze my lips against the papery skin of his cheek.

“I love you, Tata.”

“God be with you, my darling.” I hold his fingers in mine for another second until he pulls away and, with great effort, turns from the wall. I watch as he walks away, grateful that he has gone first, knowing that I could not. I stand motionless as his figure grows smaller and then disappears into the darkness of the ghetto. I reach through the hole in the wall once more, but on the other side is emptiness. Finally, I can stand it no longer. I turn away from the ghetto wall and begin to run.

O
nce away from the ghetto, my thoughts turn to getting safely back to Krysia’s. I consider trying to find my way back through the forest, but I know from hearing talk around Wawel that the Nazis have long since identified the woods surrounding Podgorze as a potential escape route from the city. Since the café bombing, the forest is crawling with Nazi sharpshooters who will fire at anything that moves. No, I realize, I will have to chance going back through town.

I reach the foot of the railway bridge. The clanging of my shoes is painfully loud as I climb the bridge steps. When I reach the top, I hesitate, scanning the length of the bridge. It appears to be deserted, but the full winter moon shines down like a spotlight. The other side seems as far as another country and there is little cover, other than the shadows of the widely spaced columns. I draw my shawl over my head. As I start across, a fierce gust of icy wind cuts through me. I hunch over, nearly doubled in half, clutching the shawl under my chin as it threatens to blow away. My eyes concentrate on the ground as I try to walk softly and avoid the slippery patches and uneven metal seams.

Suddenly I hear the sound of a vehicle in the distance ahead of me. My breath catches. Someone is coming. I am almost halfway across the bridge, too far to turn back. I leap behind one of the steel columns of the bridge. Seconds later, a Nazi truck with a lone driver approaches, heading in the direction of the ghetto. I cower in the shadows, pressing myself into the column, not breathing. The truck continues past me, slowly, painfully. Don’t stop, I pray, and it does not. A minute later, it disappears off the far side of the bridge.

I exhale deeply. I am safe, at least for the moment. Still standing behind the column, I bury my hands in my pockets. My fingers graze my marriage certificate. I wrap my fingers around the thin paper, feeling the hardness of my wedding and engagement rings wrapped within. I should not have these things with me, I think. I should get rid of them in case I am stopped. I picture myself throwing the items over the edge of the bridge, watching as the rings drop quickly to the water below, the paper fluttering behind it. Jacob would understand, even agree. He had instructed me to get rid of the certificate the night before he left. But I cannot bring myself to part with them. They are my last connection to him, a promise that we will be together again.

I look over the railing of the bridge. Even if I could do it, the point is a moot one. The river is frozen, unwilling to hide my secrets beneath its dark waters. The paper would blow away, the rings might be found. And I do not dare to move to throw them for fear of attracting attention. No, I have taken these things from my father and they are with me now.

I remain motionless behind the column for several more minutes, terrified of stepping out into the open again and risking being seen. I have to keep going, I realize at last. Krysia will awaken soon and wonder where I have gone. I listen carefully, and hearing nothing, I peek my head out and look in both directions. The bridge is clear. Taking a deep breath, I step reluctantly out from my hiding place. My legs shake as I continue across the bridge in quick, tiny steps. Just a few more meters, I think. I can see the end of the bridge, its shadows beckoning like a promise. I’m almost there.

Suddenly I hear a loud noise behind me. I jump. It is the sound of an engine, coming from the far end of the bridge. The truck, I think, panic seizing me. Its driver has seen me and turned around. I consider leaping behind a column once more, but it is too late. In the distance behind me, I hear the engine switch off. A door opens. “Halt!” a male voice shouts. “Halt!”

My blood runs cold. I know that voice; it belongs to the Kommandant.

“Hands up,” he orders, his heavy footsteps growing louder as he crosses the bridge toward me. I obey, my mind racing. What is the Kommandant doing here? He is supposed to be asleep. The powder must have worn off too soon; perhaps I did not use enough. But how did he know I was here? Did he follow me to the ghetto? I can hear him coming closer now. He stops, just feet behind me. “Turn around,” he orders sharply.

He does not realize that it is me, I realize. He thinks I am just a Pole who has broken curfew. I hesitate. For a moment, I consider revealing myself to him. My mind races to come up with some excuse why I am out, wandering the streets at night, but I can think of none. “Turn around,” he repeats, a familiar impatience in his voice. Taking a deep breath, I turn to him, keeping my head low, my face covered. Don’t let him recognize me, I pray. From underneath the shawl, I can see the Kommandant, now just a few feet away. His gun is drawn.

“Miss, what are you doing out alone at night?” The Kommandant’s tone is somewhat softer now that he realizes that he has apprehended a woman. “Don’t you know that you are breaking curfew?” I shake my head slightly, knowing that he expects an answer and that if I speak he will recognize my voice. He lowers the gun slightly, extending his free hand. “Your papers, please.”

Oh, God, I think. There is no way out now. “Papers!” he demands, growing impatient once more. Hoping to stall for a few minutes, I reach into my pocket slowly, pretending to search for my papers. I feel once again the possessions my father returned to me, the cool metal of my wedding and engagement rings, the wrinkled marriage certificate. If I refuse to turn over my papers, I will be arrested and searched and these items will surely be discovered. Then my hand closes around my identity card, the one that names me as Anna Lipowski. I pause, wondering whether to reveal myself. Perhaps if I can come up with a plausible explanation for being on the bridge in the middle of the night, and if I tell it to the Kommandant with just the right smile and touch, he may believe and forgive me.

I lift my head an inch, trying to gauge his expression. As I do, my shawl opens slightly at the neck. Something flashes in the darkness. It is the necklace the Kommandant had given me, its brilliant blue stone caught by the moonlight.

The Kommandant gasps. “Anna,” he exclaims, recognizing the jewel.

“Yes, Herr Kommandant,” I say softly, too nervous to use his first name. “It is me.”

He lowers his revolver and pulls the shawl back from my face. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you? What are you doing here?”

“I can explain.” He looks at me expectantly. “I—I…” I stammer.

“Why did you leave?” he demands. “I was so worried when I woke up and found you gone.”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend my last night at Krysia’s.” I study his face, but I cannot tell if he believes my explanation. “I missed Lukasz,” I add.

“You could have told me, Anna. I would have understood. And Stanislaw would have driven you home. You shouldn’t be on the street alone at night. You could have been arrested, or worse. Anna, this is very dangerous!”

“I know,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”

He looks out over the side of the bridge in the darkness. “But that’s not all, is it?” he asks.

My stomach drops. “I—I don’t understand…”

“I mean, that’s not the only reason you are out here, is it?” He knows, I think, too paralyzed to respond. He knows everything. He looks back at me. “You were running away.”

“No,” I reply quickly. “I mean…”

“It’s okay,” he says. I look up at him, surprised. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” he says without anger. “This all must be so scary for you. Having a baby, leaving Kraków. It is only natural that you should panic.”

A wave of relief washes over me. He does not know the truth. “It is scary,” I say nodding hard. “I am terrified.”

“So you were running away…” He looks out over the water into the darkness. “Where were you going to go?”

“I don’t know.” I study his face as he processes what he has heard, wondering if he will believe me. “Are you angry?” I ask.

“No,” he replies quickly, reaching out and taking my hand. “It’s okay. When I woke up and found you gone, I realized how scared you must be. That’s why I came to find you. I wanted to see you and reassure you that everything will work out.”

“Oh…” I am uncertain how to respond.

“Anna…” He reaches down and lifts my chin gently with his fingers. “I don’t want you to be afraid anymore. I’ll do whatever you need to make this okay for you. If you want, I will leave my position tonight, if need be, and we can run away together.”

“Georg…” I am stunned by his words.

“I mean it. All that matters to me is your happiness.”

I do not answer. My mind whirls, overwhelmed by all that has happened. In an instant, I have gone from my secret nearly being discovered to the Kommandant pledging his undying devotion. I look up into his eyes, bewildered. This awful beast of a man, who has killed so many innocents, is offering me absolute, unconditional love. No, not unconditional, I remind myself. My identity is a condition that, if discovered, would change everything. In truth I know that it is Anna he loves, an imaginary woman who does not really exist. Or does she? It is my face and my voice, my words and touch that have engendered his feelings, perhaps the truest I have ever known from a man.

Suddenly, I begin to cry with great heaving sobs. The Kommandant steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “Oh, Anna,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry,” I say through my tears, meaning it.

“No,” he says softly, stroking my hair. “No more apologies for either of us. No more tears. Let’s move forward with our life together, okay?”

I nod, taking a step back and wiping my eyes with my hand. “Okay,” I say. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out my handkerchief. As I do, I feel the possessions my father gave me start to fly out. I try to stop the motion, but it is too late. The rings clatter noisily to the bridge, and the paper flutters softly behind them. I gasp involuntarily.

“You’ve dropped something,” the Kommandant says, starting to bend down.

“No!” Forgetting my composure, I leap to the ground, trying to get to the items before he can.

But it is too late; the Kommandant straightens, the paper and rings in his right hand. “What are these?” he asks, holding the items up and studying them in the moonlight. I do not answer. “Wedding rings?” As the Kommandant scans the writing on the paper, I pray desperately that he will not be able to discern the meaning of the paper, written in Hebrew, but the illustrations around the border of the paper make the meaning clear. “A Jewish marriage certificate? I don’t understand.” For the moment he is more puzzled than angry, but I know that is only because he has not put all of the pieces together. I realize that he still does not understand the connection, or does not want to. Perhaps there is a chance.

“I—I…” I try to come up with a story. I consider telling him that Krysia asked me to pawn the rings, that we need the money. But the idea is implausible and it still does not explain the paper. “A friend,” I manage to say at last.

He clicks his tongue, holding up the marriage certificate to try to read it in the moonlight. “Such friends you keep, Anna. I knew Krysia was amenable to the Jewish artists before the war, but really…” He freezes midsentence, the realization I dreaded coming to him at last. “Krysia was married to a Jew…” His arm drops, the paper still dangling from his fingers like a wet cloth. “You’re Jewish?”

“I can…” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Are you Jewish, yes or no?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

He takes a step back, looking as though someone has punched him. “Herr Kommandant…Georg…please let me explain…”

“There is nothing to explain. You are a Jew.” He looks away, his eyes burning. Again, I can almost hear him thinking,
again, like Margot.
I eye the gun, which he holds low by his waist, pointed at the ground. I could try to run for it while he is distracted, I think in that instant, but I do not. He looks at me again. “I don’t understand how…”

I hesitate. I know that I should say nothing, give nothing away to him, but part of me thinks that perhaps if I explain he will be more sympathetic. “My real name is Emma,” I begin. I consciously avoid using either my married or maiden surnames, hoping he will not connect me to either my parents or Jacob for their safety. “I have been living with Krysia under an assumed name since the beginning of the war.”

“So your being a schoolteacher from Gdańsk, your parents dying in a fire…all contrived?” he asks. I nod weakly. “What about Lukasz?”

“He’s not my brother, but he is Krysia’s nephew. From her Catholic side,” I add quickly, desperate to continue at least part of the lie in order to protect the child. I can tell from the Kommandant’s expression that he doesn’t believe this, doesn’t believe anything I say anymore. “That’s it, the whole story,” I conclude, though of course it is not. I have said nothing about Jacob or Alek or the resistance. He does not speak. “So now what?” I say after a few minutes have passed. I look up at him imploringly; my eyes scan his face for some sign that he has some feeling for me.

“You are a Jew,” he says again, as though that in itself contains all of the answers.

“Does that have to matter?” I ask desperately. I reach out and touch his arm. “I am the same woman you loved five minutes ago.”

He pulls his arm away roughly. “No, five minutes ago you were Anna. But she no longer exists. Everything between us was a lie.”

“No,” I protest. “My feelings for you were real. Are real,” I correct myself. He looks down at me and I can tell there is a part of him that wants to believe me. I touch my stomach. “And our baby…”