Playing for the Commandant (16 page)

Erika didn’t reach out to me. She didn’t say anything. She flung my coat from her body and turned the other way.

“Merry Christmas, Hans.” Lagerführerin Holzman handed the commandant a box wrapped in red and gold crepe paper.

“How long has it been?” Captain Jager asked.

“Since my last visit? Five months, maybe six.” The
Lagerführerin
smiled. “You were looking for a pianist. I brought you some girls.”

“Yes, of course, the audition.” The commandant put down the gift and poured himself a drink. “There were six girls. Karl picked her.” The commandant glanced at me.

Lagerführerin Holzman shrugged off her fur coat, sat down, and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. She was wearing a navy-blue suit and pearls. The war had been good to her.

“It’s nice to hear music in your house again, Hans.” I was playing Schumann’s
Widmung
, a love letter to Clara that was full of sweetness and despair. My thumb was tender, but I’d get through the day. The commandant drained his glass and picked up his baton.

“We used to do this every Christmas, didn’t we — you and Max, me and Hilde?” He whispered the words, his eyes strangely slack. “She loved to play.” He spoke in a faraway voice, as if the words came from a place deep inside, a place rarely visited.

Karl stood in the doorway, staring at his father. The commandant refilled his glass and loosened his tie.

“Ignore him. He’s always lurking around the house, aren’t you, son? Lurking around and looking miserable.” He drained his drink again, and Karl sat down.

“It’s the war.” The commandant’s face hardened. “My son thinks we’re losing it. I tell him not to listen to rumors, but still he mopes.” He refilled his glass and swilled it around. “Where’s that daughter of yours?”

“Sorry, Captain Jager. I was just outside, admiring your garden.” A girl, not much older than me, appeared at the door. She was a carbon copy of her mother, tall and lean, with the alabaster skin of a film star. She had painted lips and painted nails, and long, loose curls framing her face.

I touched my head scarf.

“Karl, say hello to Frau Holzman’s daughter.” The commandant nudged his son.

“Hello,” Karl said.

“Hello.” The girl smiled. “I’m Marthe.” She unbuttoned her coat and slipped her arms from the sleeves. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She extended her hand.

I leaped into Wagner to drown out the girl’s voice. I missed Karl’s reply — Wagner’s Sonata in B-flat was best played fortissimo — but something shifted in his face, and he shrank back in his chair. When the music dipped and I could hear them again, the commandant was talking about his son’s paintings.

“Karl, why don’t you take Marthe up to your room and show her your watercolors?”

Karl looked at Marthe, and I belted the keys.

The commandant lifted his baton and struck the piano.

“I can’t hear myself think.” He struck the lid, then the keys. “Your music is to melt into the background. Continue to play as if this were a concert hall and it’ll be your last performance.” He turned to his guests. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, Karl, you were going to take Marthe to your room.”

I took a deep breath and returned to the sonata. Piri had always said, if you’re nervous, find one person in the audience and play for them. I didn’t know who Piri played for when she performed for the SS, but I chose Karl.

“I’d rather listen to music.” Karl’s eyes flickered toward me. Marthe’s mouth sagged. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t smile and played Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
, hoping Karl would understand. I played it softly, daring him to listen.

“Karl sings, you know.” The commandant’s voice cut through the closing bars. He turned to his son. “Sing for our guests.”

He had me play “Ave Maria.” I played Schubert’s notes, and Karl sang the words. A pitch-perfect baritone, just as I’d remembered. But there was something else in his singing, something new, a shimmering in the top register, a dark power in the lower notes. An urgency I hadn’t noticed before.

I didn’t look up from the keyboard until the last refrain. The commandant was sitting in the front row, the
Lagerführerin
behind him. He was leaning forward in his seat, muttering into the carpet, his fingers at his temple, his face glazed with sweat. I’d kept my head down. I’d been careful. He couldn’t have guessed I was playing the song for Karl. The commandant rose from his chair.

“I have a headache,” he said, lurching toward the piano. “No more music.” He pointed his baton at me, then laid it down on the lid. “Go home.”

The commandant stumbled from the room.

Karl turned to Lagerführerin Holzman. “I’m sorry, but I have to arrange for the girl’s escort.”

I slipped from the piano, bowed to the
Lagerführerin,
and followed Karl from the room. We walked down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the back door into the still, muddied light, the two of us standing there under the same square of sky.

“How did you know?” Karl stopped under the snowy branches of the weeping willow.

“Know what?” The guard at the front gate had his back to us and his scarf wrapped around his ears, but I whispered anyway.

“The
Moonlight Sonata
— it’s my favorite.” His cheeks flushed, and then he looked at me — not past me, or through me, but at me. It was like stepping into the spotlight from a darkened stage.

“I’m sorry I can’t walk you home.” He shifted from one foot to the other, and then the guard turned around and Karl’s smile fell away.

I walked back to camp, pulling Karl’s words apart and putting them back together, trying to piece together the puzzle of his affection. After a time, I couldn’t remember what he’d said, only what I wanted him to say — that I was more to him than a Jew in need of saving.

It was dark by the time I reached Birkenau. The cold gnawed at my fingers and clung to my skin. I saw Michael Wollner in a column of boys heading back to camp. He saw me and smiled, but I couldn’t smile back. I turned away, but everywhere I looked there were more Michael Wollners — stick-thin boys in blue-and-white rags with heads like peeled onions and limbs like twigs. Boys who might never fall in love or be kissed. I’d left the villa thinking about Karl, imagining what it might feel like to touch and be touched by him. I watched the dark, skeletal boys disappear into the steel-gray dusk, and I felt like a traitor.

“They’re losing the war,” I told Erika as I huddled against her for warmth. The wind whistled through the cracks in the barrack walls, and the cold crept into our beds. An airplane roared overhead. “It’s the Russians. They’re coming. Everyone’s talking about it.” Erika didn’t raise her head from the mattress. “The commandant’s miserable,” I persisted. “He must know it’s over.”

The commandant had asked me to play only twice in the last week, and when he did, he had me play military marches with rousing crescendos in strict 4/4 time. Karl stayed away from the music room. He hated the music his father had me play. I hated it, too, mostly for the transformation it wrought on the commandant. He’d enter the room sullen and exhausted and leave an hour later, galvanized for battle. Karl and I spoke less; the house was too quiet. The officers who assisted the commandant moved soundlessly through the rooms, and the soldiers who guarded the villa patrolled the grounds like bloodhounds. People skulked around with dour expressions. No one made small talk.

“So the Russians are coming. When? Tomorrow? Next week?” Erika shrugged. “I can’t wait another month.” She pulled herself up to rest on an elbow. She looked pale and worn. Her eyes were glassy, and she was hot to the touch. I wanted to stroke her forehead, but I kept my hands by my sides. She was still angry about Karl.

She lay back on the bed, and her eyes drifted shut. When her breathing slowed and I was certain she’d fallen asleep, I lay down next to her and closed my eyes.

I dragged my sister out of bed the next morning, washed her face, and helped her dress. I made her promise she’d march to the quarry and march back again. I promised her green beans and turnips for dinner. I asked her to be brave.

“I’m tired of being brave. I’m tired of being hungry.” She clawed at her scalp and stepped into the breakfast line. “We lug rocks from one side of the quarry to the other. Then they march us to the same spot and make us drag the rocks back again.”

“So, drag them back. You’ve lasted this long,” I whispered.

“Drag them back?” Erika grabbed my arm. The women around us turned and stared. “What would you know about lugging rocks? You sit at the piano all day in front of a goddamn fire.”

“Not you, too,” I said, but in truth I’d been waiting for this moment, expecting it. “I didn’t ask to audition. You told me to. You told me to do it to feed Anyu.” I dragged Erika away from the food line. “I didn’t know things would turn out like this.”

Erika peeled my fingers from her arm and stepped back into line. I looked at my sister. She was the only other person who’d heard the same bedtime stories as me, camped in the same forests, eaten the same meals. I couldn’t do this without her. What I’d wanted to say to her was that we were meant to survive. That prisoner at the station — the one with the weeping eye — he had told me to say I was sixteen. Then Mengele had pointed us both to the left and we got to share a barrack. I won the commandant’s audition even though I wasn’t the best pianist. We had extra food. We were
meant
to survive.

The SS closed the quarry the next day. When I told Karl our barrack was to be deployed to a nearby factory, his face crumpled. He fled from the music room and returned a few hours later looking relieved and exhausted. He’d persuaded his father that he needed piano accompaniment to practice for an upcoming performance.

“You’re not going with them. I’ve arranged everything.”

“But I have to go. I want to go.” I fought to keep my voice low.

Karl look confused.

“It’s already done. Father’s contacting the camp authorities as we speak.”

I should have been flattered. Karl had intervened on my behalf. He’d lied to his father to keep me close. He didn’t want me gone, even for a day. And part of me
was
flattered; part of me was thrilled. But I was also angry. My sister needed my help. I wanted to be with Karl, but I needed to be with Erika, especially now, when things were so fragile between us.

“Tell him your plans changed. Tell him I don’t want to accompany you. He’ll send me back to camp and then I can be with Erika.”

“No.” Karl shook his head. “He won’t send you back. He’ll . . .” His eyes jerked up to the window. His father was outside, calling to his driver. Karl looked at me.

“You don’t know my father. You don’t know what he’ll do.”

“So tell me.”

Karl exhaled. “I had a nanny,” he began slowly. “Father hired her to care for me after my mother died. He was never around.” He walked to the window and stared out at the bare branches of the plum tree. “Liesl raised me. She took me to the park and to concerts. She taught me to read and draw and sing. I loved her. He knew that.” His breath fogged up the pane. “He joined the SS when I was six, and a few weeks later, he sent me to stay with my grandparents. When I got back, she was gone. Her room was empty.” He turned to face me, the words spilling out of him. “When I asked my father where she was, he said that she’d lied to us. That she was a Jew, as if that explained everything.” His face flushed with anger. “I’ve never forgiven him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I don’t want your pity.” His anger drained away. “I just need you to understand what kind of man he is. He sent Liesl away. Think what he’d do to you if . . .” He shook his head. “She was the closest thing I had to a mother.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he looked lost.

“What happened to your mother?”

“She died a long time ago.” He took a seat at the back of the room and pulled a silver chain from his pocket. Dangling at the end of the chain was an antique silver locket. “I have a photo of her.” He held up the locket. “I found it buried under some papers in my father’s desk.” He pressed a catch on the side of the heart-shaped locket, and it sprang open. “My father’s photo was on this side.” He pointed to the left side of the locket. It was empty. On the right was a black-and-white photo of a beautiful woman with pale eyes and glossy hair. “That was my mother, Hilde. It’s the only photo I have of her.” He shut the clasp and slipped the necklace into his pocket.

His only photo? There were no picture frames in the hallway, and no personal photos in the music room. I’d just assumed the commandant and Karl stockpiled their memories upstairs.

“The commandant won’t let me go,” I told Erika as we stepped from the barrack. It was the morning of our hike to the factory, and our toes were already numb. She seemed relieved.

I made her take my coat. I did up the buttons, pulled the collar close around her neck. She was so small and so frail. She used to tower over me, fill a room, turn heads. “About Karl,” I began, but she shook her head. I followed her to the main gate and watched her drag her feet through the snow until she grew smaller and smaller and the fog swallowed her up. I turned toward Osweicim. In an hour, I’d be in front of a roaring fire and she’d still be out here, in the cold, on her own.