Playing for the Commandant (9 page)

I turned from the mirror and followed the girl to the house. Her name was Vera. She was from Czechoslovakia, and had been working for the commandant for a year. She spoke quickly.

“Once we’re through the front door, we can’t talk until we’re in the kitchen. I’ve a lot to tell you, so listen carefully. Leave your shoes at the front door. There are shoes for you inside. Keep them clean. You won’t find shoe polish in the camp, but if you save your bread, you can trade it for margarine. Margarine makes great shoe polish.” I looked at her blankly. “You’ll find margarine in Canada.” She looked at me and sighed. “It’s the warehouse barrack behind the infirmary. They call it Canada because it’s the land of plenty. I’ll arrange for you to get in. You’ll find everything you need there — soap, toothpaste, toilet paper . . .” She looked down at my nails. “Nail clippers, too. It all costs. A potato for a toothbrush, a piece of bread for a scrap of margarine.”

“Where do they get it all?” I asked, confused.

“The suitcases left at the station. They’re taken to Canada. The furs and jewelry are sent to Berlin; the rest stays at Canada for the SS and the block leaders, the interpreters, the runners . . .” She touched her bony hand to my scarf. “You could trade that scarf for margarine. They might even throw in some nail clippers if it’s real silk.”

“But the guards will notice it’s missing.”

Vera smiled knowingly. “Tell them Captain Jager used it to wipe his boots.”

We reached the front door, and Vera handed me a winter coat. “Winter is coming,” she said. “This is yours to keep. You mustn’t get sick, not when the commandant has guests to entertain.”

“My block leader hinted that the commandant likes blondes. Is that why I got the job?”

Vera’s smile faded. “Captain Jager likes blondes, but he doesn’t like blond Jews. He’d sooner flirt with a pack of wolves than touch Jewish skin.” She opened the front door.

“One last question,” I whispered. “My mother was taken last night and —”

Vera shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “No talking in the hallway.” I tiptoed in after her. Every door she pointed to was locked, every room out of bounds, except for the music room where I’d be spending all my time. Vera stopped outside the kitchen and swung the door open. Seated at a wooden table in the center of the kitchen was an old man chopping beans. His face was creased and gray. The woman at the sink peeling potatoes wore a cheerful yellow dress, but her eyes were empty. They both wore yellow stars. They whispered their hellos.

A pot of cabbage simmered on the stove. The smell reminded me of all the wasted meals I’d left on our kitchen table in Debrecen — the abandoned peas, burned potatoes, crusts of bread, the last drops of apple juice poured down the sink, the crumbs of poppy-seed cake tossed into the bin, the fat cut from meat, the flesh left on seeds.

“We’re lucky to be here washing dishes instead of carting rocks, but it’s no holiday,” Vera said. “The scarf, the dress, the makeup — it’s just for show. You won’t get a three-course meal here.” She glanced back at the stove. “If the commandant is home, you won’t even get lunch. Don’t confuse the commandant’s love of music with any feeling for those who play it. If he’s home, he’ll expect you to be in the music room, waiting for his summons to play.”

“And if he’s out?”

“If he’s out, you can sneak in here to look for scraps.” Her face grew hard. “But if you’re caught, you’ll be shot.”

I swallowed hard. “Do I practice?”

“If you want to keep this job you will . . . but only when Captain Jager is away from home. Eating, using the toilet — anything that might remind him you’re human — is to be done while he’s out. And don’t talk to him,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “Unless he addresses you first. Same goes for his son, their guests, and the guards.”

I followed Vera to the music room. It looked the same as it had the day of the audition except that a small table had been rolled into the center of the room. On it sat a Black Forest cake, a strudel, a pot of tea, and an assortment of handmade chocolates. Vera looked at me and shook her head.

She’d just shown me how to stand behind the piano, with my feet together and my arms by my side, when a portly couple strolled into the room. The man was laughing at something his wife was saying, his arms encircling her doughy waist.

“Viktor, Helga!” The commandant strode in, bowed to the woman, and slapped the man on the back. “How are my oldest friends? How’s Berlin?”

“We haven’t come here to talk about ourselves. We’ve come to see our dearest friend. Tell us, Hans, how are you?” The woman looked at the commandant, then at me.

“She’s the pianist,” the commandant said. “I’ll have her play for you.”

I’d always performed best in front of an audience. It was easier to play warmed by the smiles, buoyed by the audience’s expectations, jolted by the extra electricity an audience provides. But not this time, not here. I wasn’t onstage. There were no draped velvet curtains, no chandeliers. I was wearing a dead girl’s dress, and no matter how well I played, there’d be no applause.

I rested my hands on the keys. What was it Trommler had said about the last pianist? That she’d played the wrong note? I glanced at the commandant, seated in the front row, his legs crossed, his metal baton poised in the air. My hands trembled; my head was pounding. I started to play a Chopin nocturne, tentatively at first, wary of my fingers and nervous of the notes. By the third nocturne, my breathing had returned to normal. I was in the middle of Bach’s Piano Concerto in D Minor when I saw the boy standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed. His father saw him, too.

“Karl, you remember Helga and Viktor. Come and say hello.” The boy took a step forward and pulled out a chair. His blond hair was perfectly parted, his skin smooth, his teeth white. If he’d lifted his head, he would have been looking straight at me.

“He’s turned into such a morose boy.” The commandant spoke as if his son wasn’t there. “He sits in his room all day or wanders around the house with his nose in a book.” He winced with irritation. “I think it’s the Jews. Even being in the same room as them sets him on edge. I keep telling him, you can’t catch anything by looking at them; you have to touch them for that!” He grinned broadly.

He stood up and walked toward the piano, waving his baton in the air. I was playing a Brahms intermezzo, pounding at the keys to drown out the conversation, grabbing huge handfuls of notes and hurling them into the air. The commandant stopped behind me. I could feel his warm breath on my neck. I switched from Brahms to Schubert, but he still didn’t move away. He hovered over me, watching me play. At the end of the impromptu, he returned to his seat, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his eyes. I tried not to stare.

Vera approached the commandant. She had a silver teapot in one hand and a steaming cup of black tea in the other. She held the cup out to him. “Tea, Captain Jager?”

“Tea?” he thundered, his face turning red. “Did I ask for tea?”

Vera’s shoulders sloped forward. I launched into a Mozart sonata, hoping to mute the commandant’s anger, but it was too late. He lifted his baton and struck Vera’s hand, sending the cup and saucer crashing to the floor, where they lay splintered and steaming.

“Get out!” the commandant yelled, his anger hot and red. Vera gathered up the broken porcelain shards, mopped up the spilled tea with her apron, and escaped to the kitchen. The commandant turned to his guests.

“So sorry for the interruption. Let me make it up to you with a little Chopin.” He turned to me and lifted his baton. My hands were shaking. “The Fifth Étude?”

Karl left the room as I played the opening bars, my heart thumping away beneath my dress. The commandant had requested a happy song. I didn’t feel cheerful, but after a time, I felt anesthetized by the music. Buffeted from the commandant’s rage, I played the rest of the repertoire, but I played mechanically. I wondered whether Captain Jager could tell the difference.

The day dragged. A fresh pot of tea was left to brew on a side table. Strudel was sliced and swept onto plates. The Black Forest cake was cut up and disappeared. The chocolates were devoured one by one. The light grew weak, and my hands grew tired. I needed the toilet.

At half past five, the commandant’s guests stood to leave and a guard was summoned to escort me to the camp. As we passed the kitchen, I turned and saw Vera sitting at the worktable, her hand wrapped in rags. The commandant’s son was in the kitchen, too, pacing the floor. He was talking in a low voice, his mouth tight with anger. Vera looked up as I passed, and the boy swung around. He walked toward me and shut the door.

Erika was waiting for me in the barrack. She looked gaunt and exhausted. She didn’t notice my new coat. “I don’t have to give it back,” I whispered. “We can sleep under it.” Erika didn’t answer. “I can hide food in the pockets.” She turned and smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes I’d never seen before and it scared me. We stood in line for dinner, and when I got my ration, I told Erika I’d eaten and slipped her my square of bread. She took it gratefully. Our bunk mates watched her enviously, hating her for her extra ration and hating me for giving it to her. No one in the camp gave food away, not unless they were getting better food — and plenty of it — elsewhere. Erika didn’t seem to notice the bitter stares or hear their pointed whispering, but I did. I saw their lips form the words
slut
and
whore
and heard them guess at the sexual favors I bestowed on the commandant.

“I’m sorry,” I said, but Erika didn’t look up. “They don’t talk to you, and it’s because of me . . .” My voice trailed off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Erika said. But I knew it did. She pretended not to care, but with Mother gone, me at the villa, and the twins still at the infirmary, Erika was lonely. I was content with a piano for company, but Erika needed people. She needed conversation and connection as much as she needed food and rest. I could give her my coffee, sneak her my crusts, and hold her at night, but it wasn’t enough.

Vera was on the front porch shining the commandant’s boots when I arrived at the villa the next day. She placed one gleaming leather boot by the door and picked up the other. Mud spattered the sides of the boot. Vera grimaced and pulled what looked like a clump of hair from the heel.

I swapped my grimy boots for clean shoes and followed Vera inside. I could hear the commandant’s son talking from behind the closed door of the dining room. Vera stopped outside the door and put a finger to her lips.

“Studying by correspondence is not the same as going to school in Berlin, Father. I want to go back.”
That makes two of us
, I thought, pressing my ear to the wood. I knew how it felt to want to rewind time, to want to go home, but it didn’t make me feel any sympathy for Karl.

“There’s nothing you can learn in Berlin that you can’t learn here.” The commandant’s anger bled through the walls. “We’re making history. If you bothered to accompany me to the camps, you’d see that. Your schooling can wait; the führer cannot!” We leaped back at the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor. Vera grabbed me by the collar, and we flew down the hallway. I turned for the music room, dizzy with fear, and Vera ducked into the kitchen. I stood with my feet together and arms by my sides, waiting for the commandant’s arrival and dreading it. I waited for hours.

I rubbed my hands together to warm them, stepped from one foot to the other to stop my legs from going numb, and ran through all of Clara Schumann’s concertos in my head to pass the time. I played every crotchet and semiquaver till there was no room left in my head for hunger or exhaustion or wondering or worrying. I looked around the room. It was cold, even with the afternoon sun filtering through the drapes. There was a rug on the floor, silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece, and a crystal wine decanter on the side table, but there were no family photos, no artwork or flowers. I thought of our living room in Debrecen and the photo of my parents’ wedding that hung in a gilt frame on the wall, the photos of Erika and me that crowded the mantelpiece, the bundled birthday cards, travel mementos, and graduation photos that filled the bookshelves. Even when the gas in the ghetto was turned off, I’d felt warm in that room.

The commandant finally entered, trailed by his son and a man in uniform. I sat down and waited for his signal.

“I always prefer to start with a little music. Shall we listen first and talk later?” The commandant invited his guest to sit down. I played Schubert while the commandant and his guest drank a glass of schnapps.

I looked at the commandant, seated in the front row and spotlit by the sun, and then at Karl, at the back of the room, cast in shadow. That was the one difference between father and son — the commandant wore his hatred like a badge. Occasionally, he took it off when listening to music or patting Lottie, his German shepherd. Karl’s anger was more muted, but it never let up. His father was quizzing his guest about the efficiency of the showers, and even that banal conversation was enough to set a muscle working angrily in Karl’s jaw.