The Kommandant's Girl (8 page)

“Thank you, Elzbieta.” The young woman disappears into the parlor once more. Krysia turns to me, her brow wrinkled. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Perhaps it was an accident,” I suggest, scrubbing harder at the stained pot and not looking up. The Kommandant must have switched the place cards in order to sit next to me. My stomach twists.

“Perhaps…anyway, I’m not sure that you working for the Kommandant would be entirely a bad thing.”

“How can you say that?” I ask in a loud whisper. “This will jeopardize everything. My identity, our situation…”

“Anna,” she interrupts. We had agreed that she should call me by this name all of the time, even when we were alone, to reinforce the habit. “This is the perfect cover. A hiding Jew would never walk into Nazi headquarters. And the Kommandant is one of the most important men in Poland right now.” She pauses. “You may in time be able to get close enough to him to help with our work.”

“Help? Krysia, I cannot work for the Nazis!” My voice rises, and Krysia quickly raises a finger to her lips, gesturing with her head in the direction of the dining room. “I’m sorry,” I mouth, embarrassed at my outburst. In that moment, I am reminded of the precariousness of our situation. How much worse can this charade get, now that I am expected to bear up under the close scrutiny of Kommandant Richwalder day in and day out? A wave of nausea sweeps over me.

Later that night, I lay awake, staring up at the oak beams that run across the bedroom ceiling, listening to dogs howling in the distance. My life has changed again, I think, and for the third time since the war started, I am ending the day nowhere near where I started it. One day I woke up in Jacob’s house and went to bed that night a prisoner in the ghetto. I had gone from being a Jew in the ghetto to a gentile in Krysia’s home just as quickly. And now I am going to work for the Nazis. A chill races through me and I draw the blanket closer, oblivious to the fact that it is May and not at all cold.

My mind rewinds to a few hours earlier, when the party had broken up. Kommandant Richwalder had been the last guest to leave, lingering in the doorway in his long gray military coat. He had taken my hand in his own, now clad in smooth leather gloves, and raised it to his lips once more. “I will be in touch in a few days, once all of the paperwork is complete.”

My hand shook as I retracted it. “Th-thank you, Herr Kommandant.”

“No, Miss Anna, thank you.” And with that he turned and departed. Lying in bed now, I shiver. The way he stared at me had reminded me of a spider eyeing a fly. Now I would be forced to go to work in the spider’s web every day. I shiver again, listening to the dogs’ howling echoing in the breeze.

W
e do not hear from Kommandant Richwalder for several days. “It probably takes time to complete the background check,” Krysia explains when I comment about the delay.

“Background check?” I panic, certain that an investigation by the Nazis will reveal my true identity. But Krysia tells me not to worry, and a few days later, I learn that she is right. The resistance organization apparently extends throughout Poland, and there are people in Gdańsk who are willing to verify that they had known Anna Lipowski, lived beside her, worked and gone to school with her, and wasn’t it too bad about the death of her parents? On Friday morning, nearly one week after the dinner party, I receive word via messenger that my clearance has come through and that I am to report to the Kommandant’s office the following Monday.

“We need to go to town tomorrow,” Krysia says that Saturday night after we have put Lukasz to bed.

“Tomorrow?” I turn to her in the hallway, puzzled. The stores are not open on Sundays.

“We have to go to church.” Seeing the stunned expression on my face, Krysia continues. “The mayor’s wife commented at the dinner party on the fact that I have not been there with you and Lukasz.”

“Oh,” I manage to say at last. I cannot argue with her logic. Krysia is a devout Catholic, and it only made sense that Lukasz and I would be, too. The fact that she normally went to mass every week but had not gone since our arrival might raise suspicions. Still, the idea of going to church sticks in my throat like a half-swallowed pill.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “We don’t have a choice. We have to keep up appearances.”

I do not answer but walk to my bedroom and open the wardrobe. I study my few dresses, trying to figure out which one most looks like the ones I have seen young women my age wearing on their way to and from church. “The pink dress,” Krysia says, coming up behind me.

“This one?” I hold up a cotton frock with three-quarter sleeves.

“Yes. I am going to have coffee. Care to join me?” she asks. I nod and follow her downstairs to the kitchen. A few minutes later, we carry our steaming mugs to the parlor. I notice her knitting needles and some bright blue yarn on the low table. “I am making a sweater for Lukasz,” she explains as we sit. “I think he will need it for the winter.”

Winter. Krysia expects us still to be with her then. I do not know why this surprises me. The Nazis’ stronghold on Poland shows no signs of weakening, and we certainly have nowhere else to go. Still, winter is six months away. My heart drops as I think of Jacob, of being without him for that long.

Trying to hide my sadness, I lift the needles to examine Krysia’s handiwork. She has only knitted a few rows so far, but I can tell from the small, even stitches that she is working with great care, and that the sweater will be lovely. The ball of yarn is kinked, and I realize that she must have unraveled a garment of her own to get it. “The color will match his eyes perfectly,” I say, touched once again by how much she is doing for us.

“I thought so, too. Do you know how to knit?” I shake my head. “Here, let me show you.” Before I can reply, Krysia moves closer to me on the sofa, placing her arms around me from behind and covering her much larger hands with my own. “Like this.” She begins to move my hands in the two-step knitting pattern. The touch of her hands, thin and delicate like Jacob’s, brings back a flood of emotions. My head swims, and I can barely feel the knitting needles. “That’s all there is to it,” she says a few minutes later, sitting back. She looks at the needles expectantly, as though I will continue on my own, but my hands fall helplessly to my lap.

“I’m sorry,” I say, placing the needles and yarn back on the table. “I’m not very good at such things.” It is the truth. My mother had given up on teaching me to sew when I was twelve, declaring my large, uneven stitches an abomination. Even now, looking down at the knitting needles, I know that Krysia will have to unravel and redo my few clumsy stitches.

“Nonsense, you just need practice.” Krysia picks up the needles and yarn. “If you learn how to knit well, you can make something for Jacob.”

“Jacob,” I repeat, seeing his face in my mind. I could knit him a sweater, perhaps in brown to bring out the color in his eyes. I see him pulling it over his thin shoulders and torso. Sometimes he seems fragile, almost childlike in my memory. It is hard to imagine him as a resistance fighter. I wonder suddenly if he took enough warm clothes with him when he left.

“You miss him, don’t you?” Krysia asks gently.

“Yes, a great deal,” I reply, forcing the vision of Jacob from my mind. I cannot afford to get caught up in memories right now; I have to stay focused on starting work Monday, on being Anna. “Krysia…” I pause before asking the question I have wondered about since the night of the dinner party. “What is Sachsenhausen?”

She hesitates, knitting needles suspended in midair. “Why do you ask?”

“Ludwig said that the Kommandant used to oversee Sachenhausen?”

Krysia frowns, biting the inside of her cheek. “Sachsenhausen is a Nazi prison, darling. It is a labor camp in Germany, near Munich.”

My stomach drops. “For Jews?”

She shakes her head. “No, no! It is for political prisoners and criminals.” Though I want to feel relieved, something in her emphatic response tells me she is not being altogether truthful. She sets down her knitting again and pats my hand. “Don’t worry. Richwalder likes you. He will not be unkind.”

“All right,” I say, though her words are far from reassuring.

“Goodness!” She looks at the grandfather clock. It is nearly ten-thirty. “I had not realized the time. You should get some sleep. We need to get an early start tomorrow, and you’ll need your strength.”

For tomorrow, and everything that lies beyond, I add silently. I take another sip of my still-too-hot coffee and stand. I pause in the doorway. Krysia has picked up the knitting again, her hands making the small, quick circles over and over. “Good night,” she says, without looking up. I do not ask if she is coming to bed. Even on a normal night, Krysia stays up late and sleeps little. She reminds me of Jacob in that way—he would stay up until all hours of the night and I would often find him asleep over a book or article he was working on in the study the next morning. But at least Jacob would sleep well into the next day when he could to compensate for his late hours. Krysia, I know, will be up before dawn, doing chores and preparing us for the day that lies ahead. I worry that caring for Lukasz and me may be too much for her. And now, with our foray into church the next morning and my starting work for Richwalder the day after, she has more on her mind than ever.

That night I sleep restlessly, dreaming that I am on a street I do not recognize in the darkness. In the distance, I hear voices and laughter and I rub my eyes, trying to find the source. Fifteen meters down the road, I see a group of young people wearing some sort of uniform, joking and talking as they go. One voice, a familiar baritone, stands out above the others. “Jacob!” I cry. I start to run, trying to catch him, but my feet slide out from under me on the slick, wet pavement. I stand quickly and begin running again. At last I reach the group. “Jacob,” I repeat breathlessly. He does not hear me but continues talking to a woman I do not recognize. I cannot understand what he is saying. Desperately, I try to reach out and touch him, but I am brushed aside by the crowd as it moves forward and I fall once more. When I look up again, they are gone, and I am alone on my knees in the cold, wet street.

I awake with a start. “Jacob?” I call aloud. I blink several times. I am still in my bedroom, of course. It was only a dream. Nevertheless, I peer into the darkness for several seconds as though Jacob might have actually been there. Jacob, I think, the dream playing over and over in my head. I miss him so. And I am always chasing, but never reaching him in my dreams. What if he really is so preoccupied with his work that he has forgotten me? What if he’s found another girl? What if…I cannot finish the most horrible thought of all, that something may happen to him and I may not see him again. I press my face into my pillow, soaking it with the wetness of my tears.

The next morning, Krysia knocks on my door at seven. I rise and dress quickly. Downstairs, Krysia already has Lukasz washed and fed. Seeing the child, I hesitate. I had hoped that he would somehow not have to go to church with us, but of course there is no one else to watch him. Without speaking, we make our way from the house to the bus stop at the corner. The bus, which comes along shortly, is almost full of mostly farmers and peasants. They are going to church, too, I can tell, from the way they have tried to press their worn clothes and clean the dirt from their nails.

I stare out the window as we bounce along the curving road, trying to pretend we are just out running errands. But the thought keeps repeating in my mind: I am going to church, actually walking inside for the first time. Often growing up, I would pass by the crowds that gathered at the various church doors around the city for mass. I would watch as they stood, heads bowed, swaying slightly to the chanting melody that escaped through the open doorways. Above their heads, I saw only darkness. I could not imagine the mysteries that existed on the other side of those enormous wooden doors. Today I will find out. In my mind, I see my father’s face, staring at me with sad eyes, my mother shaking her head in disbelief.

At the edge of the Planty, we climb from the bus. Lukasz walks between us, each of his hands in one of ours. As we cross the square, the towers of the Mariacki Cathedral loom before us. Though there are hundreds of churches in Kraków, it is not surprising that Krysia attends the largest and most imposing. At the doorway of the church, I hesitate. “Come,” Krysia says, stepping in between me and Lukasz and taking our hands. Inside, I blink several times to adjust my eyes to the dim light. The air is different here, a cool dampness emanating from the stone walls. Krysia pauses, lifting her hand from mine to cross herself. I see her look at me out of the corner of my eye, lips pursed. Did she expect me to follow her lead? I shake my head inwardly. I cannot manage it, at least not yet.

I allow Krysia to lead me down the center aisle, trying not to stare at the gold crucifix, many meters high, which dominates the front wall of the church. People seated on either side of the aisle stare at us as we pass, murmuring. Can they tell that I am not one of them? I wonder. In truth I know that they are just curious because we are newcomers. Gossip travels quickly in Kraków and many likely have heard of the orphaned niece and nephew who have come to reside with Krysia Smok. If Krysia sees their reactions, she pretends not to notice, nodding to people on either side of the aisle and touching a few hands as we walk. Then she guides us into an empty pew halfway up the aisle and we sit on the hard wooden bench. Organ music begins to play. I look around, surprised at how many people are there. The Nazis are against religion, and they have arrested many priests. In a country where the population was almost entirely Catholic, they have not dared to outlaw the church entirely, but I marveled that more people do not stay away out of fear of persecution.

A priest appears at the front of the church then and begins to chant in Latin. A few minutes later, as if on cue, Krysia and the others around us shift forward to kneel. I hesitate. Jews do not kneel, it is forbidden. But Krysia tugs on my sleeve at the elbow. I have no choice. I slide forward, putting my arm around Lukasz to bring him with me. I look at him. He is staring upward, eyes wide. We remain kneeling for several minutes. My knees, unaccustomed, ache as they press into the hard stone floor. I notice that Krysia’s head is bowed and I quickly follow her lead. The priest continues chanting and the parishioners echo his words at certain parts. It is one of the many secret rituals I do not know. At one point, Krysia and the others cross themselves. Hesitating, I wave my hand in front of my face in a nondescript manner, hoping that it will suffice. Something catches the corner of my eye and I look down at Lukasz. The rabbi’s child is waving his hand in front of his face, earnestly attempting to cross himself, to imitate Krysia and the others. Crossing himself. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end at the sight of this.

Stealing another glance at Krysia out of the corner of my eye, I see that her lips are moving slightly, as though memorizing something. She is praying, I realize, really praying. I look around, trying not to lift my head, and wonder if my prayers will work here, too. It has been so long since I have prayed anywhere. I don’t know where to begin. I consider saying the Shema, the most basic of Jewish prayers.
Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.
Then I stop. It does not feel right here. I try again. Please, I pray, uncertain what to say after that. Please, God. Suddenly, the words pour forth inside me like a fountain turned on. I pray for the safety of my parents and Jacob. I pray for Krysia, and Lukasz and myself, for the strength to keep up our charade as I work for the Kommandant. I ask forgiveness for being in this place, for kneeling. I pray that Lukasz will never remember being here.

Then the kneeling part is over. We sit up again, and I lift Lukasz to my lap, pressing his cool cheek against mine as the priest keeps chanting. The priest steps in front of the altar then, a silver chalice and plate in hand. People in the front of the church begin to rise and go forward. “Communion,” Krysia whispers, so softly I can barely hear. I nod. I have heard of this before. A few minutes later, Krysia stands and touches my shoulder. She means for me to go with her. I rise, my legs stone at the prospect of going up. We make our way to the center aisle and join the line as it shuffles forward, Lukasz coming with us, although, I suspect, he is too young for Communion. When we reach the front, Krysia goes first. I watch as she kneels and opens her mouth, allowing the priest to place a wafer there. Then she rises and turns, taking Lukasz’s hand from me. It is my turn. I step forward and kneel. “Body of Christ,” the priest says as he places the wafer on my tongue. I close my mouth against the dryness, wait for lightning to strike me dead.