The Kommandant's Girl (12 page)

The day at work seems interminably slow as I wait for my meeting with Alek. At last, the clock strikes five and I make my way to the market square, the papers and satchel of coins in my bag. I try to walk naturally, but I might as well be carrying a bomb—if I am caught, I am as good as dead.

When I cross the square and approach the designated café, only Alek and Marek await. Marta is not with them, and I wonder if she is avoiding me since our awkward conversation about Jacob. Perhaps, I think with a twinge of jealousy, she is on an assignment with him somewhere. “We needed these days ago,” Marek snaps, taking the bag directly from my hands before I can even sit down. I catch Alek glancing over my shoulder, concerned that Marek’s rough gesture might have drawn attention to us.

I am taken aback by his rudeness. “The rains were hardly my fault,” I manage as I sit.

“Of course not. You did wonderfully.” Alek’s deep voice is soothing. “It’s just that there was an
akcja,
and we were hoping to get some people out before it happened with these papers.”

“An
akcja,
” I repeat in a hushed whisper. While still in the ghetto, I had heard rumors of
akcjas
in other cities. The Nazis would storm into the ghetto, ordering the residents out of their apartments to assemble in the street. Hundreds of Jews, seemingly chosen at random, would be cleared out in a single day and deported to labor camps. Those who resisted such deportations were shot on sight. “I didn’t see or hear anything about it in the Kommandant’s office.”

“You wouldn’t,” Alek replies. “Most of the work involving the Jews is undertaken at the Directorate of Operations, over on Pomorskie Street. And the few papers the Kommandant likely received would have been classified.”

“Oh.”

“Next time you go into Krich’s office…” Marek begins, but Alek, noticing my furrowed brow, interrupts him.

“What’s troubling you?” he asks.

I pause, swallowing. “Alek, please, my parents are still in the ghetto.” It occurs to me that after the
akcja
they may not be there anymore. “Isn’t there something that can be done?”

Alek takes a deep breath, holds it. “You must understand…” he begins.

“We all had parents,” Marek interjects coldly. I remember then hearing that his father had been shot in Nowy Sacz early in the war.

Alek places his hand on mine. “Emma,” he begins gently. Emma. My real name sounds so foreign now. “The situation in the ghetto has changed much since you were there. The walls are sealed and heavily guarded. The only way to get people out is with a transit pass or with a work card or messenger’s pass. That’s why your getting these blank passes was so very important.”

“Can’t my parents have two of the passes?” I demand, surprised at my own boldness.

“The thing is this.” Alek hesitates. “After you were taken from the ghetto, Jacob asked me to look in on your parents from time to time. And I have…Emma, your mother is sick.”

“Sick?” I panic, my voice rising. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Shh,” Alek soothes. “She has one of the many things that spread through the ghetto like wildfire. I don’t know if it is typhus.” I think of Marta’s mother then. “Or dysentery, or even a bad flu. But she has a high fever that she can’t seem to shake, and she is bedridden. So you see why we cannot issue her a work card. Even if she could walk, she does not look strong enough to be a worker. The Nazis would see through the scheme right away, and her fate would be far worse, then.”

I do not answer. I consider asking for help for my father, but I know he would never leave without her. “Then I should go back to them,” I say aloud.

“Back?” Marek splutters so loudly the couple behind us stares. When they have turned back to their coffees, he continues, his voice soft but full of anger. “Do you have any idea how bad things are there? How hard we worked to get you out in the first place?”

“It is impossible,” Alek agrees. I slump in my chair, defeated.

“And if she gets better?” I persist.

“If she gets better, we will do all we can. That is the only promise I can make to you. Things in the ghetto are horrible right now, and they are growing worse by the day. We have to help as many people as we can as quickly as possible. That is why our work is so very important, and you must keep doing what you are doing for us. It is the only way to help all of our families. Do you understand?” Pulling my hand from his, I do not answer. “Same time next week, then?”

I nod and stand up. He has not mentioned Jacob and I want to ask if he is safe, if there has been any word from him. But I can tell from their faces they will say nothing further; I have been dismissed. “Yes,” I say finally.

“Good.” Alek rises and remains standing until I have walked away.

When I reach the far corner of the square, I stop, unable to hold my tears. Mama, I think, picturing her and my father sleeping the night I escaped from the ghetto. I never should have left them. Now my mother is very sick and my parents could be deported at any moment. There is nothing I can do and the resistance is unwilling to help them. What is the good of these spy games we are playing if we cannot even help our own families? For the first time, I am plagued with doubt toward those I had trusted most: Alek, Krysia, even my beloved Jacob.

I think for a second of the Kommandant, picturing his eyes and the kindly way he looks at me. Perhaps he can help…. No, don’t be ridiculous, I remind myself. He is, first and foremost, a Nazi. If he thinks you have Jewish relatives, even the tiniest drop of Jewish blood, his affection will turn to revulsion and you will be dead, along with your family, the resistance and everyone who has helped you. Everyone you love. I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes, ashamed to have thought of him in such a way, even fleetingly. No, the Kommandant is no friend.

An hour later, I burst through the front gate of Krysia’s house. She is in the garden weeding with Lukasz. Taking one look at my red eyes, she sets down the trowel, picks up Lukasz and leads me into the house. “What is it?” she asks when the door is closed behind her. As we walk upstairs, I tell her about my conversation with Alek and my mother’s illness. “Oh, you poor dear,” she says, drawing me in her embrace, rocking back and forth while Lukasz, sandwiched between us, looks on quizzically.

“Alek says there is nothing they can do,” I add.

“I’m sure he would help if he could,” she replies calmly. Krysia, like Marta, is completely trusting of the resistance leadership and their decisions. She leads me to the sofa. “You have to see it from his perspective. Things are very difficult for the resistance right now and they have thousands of Jews to consider. He can’t risk everything to save any individual person.”

I think of Pani Nederman, Marta’s mother. Marta has been fighting for the resistance much longer than I. They did nothing to help her mother when she was sick, and she died. “I never should have left them,” I cry.

“Is that what you think?” Krysia lifts my chin. “Emma, listen to me. This is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done to keep your mother from getting sick. If you were there you might have caught the illness as well.” I do not reply. Krysia continues, “Let me see what I can do.” I look back at Krysia, surprised. Do? If Alek and his contacts, with access to inside the ghetto, could not help my parents, how could Krysia possibly help?

A few days later, when I am giving Lukasz his evening bath, Krysia comes and stands in the bathroom doorway. “Pankiewicz is an old friend of mine,” she begins. I pause, washcloth suspended midair. I had almost forgotten about the kindly, brave pharmacist, a non-Jew who had chosen to remain behind at his pharmacy in Podgorze to care for the Jews as the ghetto walls went up around him. “He checked on your mother this morning. She is very sick, and his medicine supplies are quite low. But he promised to look in on her and give her the best care he can.”

“Oh, thank you!” I leap up and throw my arms around Krysia’s neck. “Thank you, thank you!” Pankiewicz might not be able to do much, but at least someone has said they would try to help.

“Dank!”
Lukasz mimics, trying to repeat my words and splashing around in delight at the commotion. Krysia and I break from our embrace and turn to the child, stunned. It is the first time since he came to live with us that Lukasz has spoken.

Twenty minutes later, as I dry Lukasz, he is still babbling, a nonsensical torrent that has been bottled up inside him for months. I put him into his pajamas, thinking of my mother once more. My hope begins to fade and a nagging sensation returns to my stomach. Krysia’s inquiries and Pankiewicz’s attention are well-intentioned, but they are nothing in the face of the starvation, disease and despair that my parents face, not to mention that another
akcja
could come at any time to sweep them away. I brush these doubts from my mind. When one is trying to stay afloat in deep water, one grabs at any stick that is offered—and tries not to notice that the stick is in fact nothing more than a wisp of a reed, practically useless in the strong current.

A
few days after Krysia tells me about Pankiewicz, I am standing in the corner of the anteroom, putting the papers into the file cabinet. The new filing system I created has worked well, but I have to be sure to file the papers at least once a week so that I do not get behind. I pause to wipe my brow. It is mid-July and quite warm, despite the fact that it is not yet ten o’clock and both windows are open.

Suddenly, the Kommandant comes through the front door of the anteroom. Malgorzata is at his heels. “In my office, please,” he says as he passes, without looking at me. I hesitate, surprised. We had our daily meeting nearly two hours ago and he has never called me in a second time so quickly, much less invited Malgorzata to join us. Something is wrong. A chill passes through me. The passes, I remember suddenly, my stomach dropping. Someone has noticed that the security passes I took are missing. Perhaps Malgorzata has told him that I was acting strangely the day they went missing, or that I was seen lingering outside Colonel Krich’s office by one of the other secretaries. Feeling faint, I grab the edge of the file cabinet for support.

“Anna…?” I jump and spin around. Colonel Diedrichson has entered the anteroom and is looking from me to the door of the Kommandant’s office expectantly.

“Yes, I’m coming,” I reply. Willing my hands not to shake, I take my notebook from the top of the file cabinet. Colonel Diedrichson follows me through the door of the Kommandant’s office.

“Sit down,” the Kommandant says. Out of the corner of my eye, I study his face, looking for some sign of anger or accusation, but he is looking away from me, his expression imperceptible. Colonel Diedrichson places himself stiffly in the chair, leaving me the spot on the sofa beside Malgorzata, who has placed herself at the end closest to the Kommandant. As I sit, my mind races, trying to come up with a response if I am confronted about the passes, a reason why I was near Krich’s office that morning. The Kommandant clears his throat. “We are to have an official visit from Berlin,” he announces.

So this is not about the passes after all. A wave of relief washes over me.

“Sir?” Colonel Diedrichson sounds startled. It is the first time I have heard any emotion in his voice. “A delegation?” I, too, am surprised. Though I recall Ludwig mentioning a delegation visit at the dinner party, I have not heard or seen anything about it since my arrival.

“Yes, it was decided only yesterday. Three very senior members of the SS leadership. They arrive Thursday.” The Kommandant takes a stack of papers from his desk and distributes a portion of it to each of us. “That is only three days away and there is much to be done. The governor will meet with the delegation, of course, but all of the arrangements are to be over-seen by this office. Colonel Diedrichson will take care of the itinerary and logistics. Anna, you are to assist him, and to make sure everything here in the office goes smoothly.” Though still not entirely sure what he needs from me, I nod. “Malgorzata, please see that the office is immaculate.”

“Yes, Herr Kommandant!” Malgorzata replies, lifting her chin as though she has been asked to guard state secrets.

“Good. That is all for now.” Colonel Diedrichson stands and starts for the door and Malgorzata and I follow close behind. “Anna, wait a moment, please.” The Kommandant gestures me over to the side of the desk, but does not speak until the others have gone.

“Yes, Herr Kommandant?” Closer now, I can see that his face is pale, his eyes bloodshot.

“I don’t have to tell you how important this visit is to me, to all of us in the General Government.” I nod, wondering why he is telling me this. “Everything must go perfectly. I am counting on you to help make this happen.”

“Me?” I cannot help but sound surprised.

“Yes. You are very capable and have an eye for detail. Make sure Colonel Diedrichson and the others forget nothing. If you think something is being missed or wrong, let me know immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Herr Kommandant.”

“Good.” He lowers his head, placing his hands on his temples.

“Are you all right?”

“Just a headache,” he replies, not looking up. “I’ve always gotten them, though they’ve been more severe of late with all of the stress.”

“Perhaps an aspirin?” I offer, but he shakes his head.

“These headaches require something stronger. I have medicine that my doctor prescribed.”

“Very well. Is there anything else that you need?”

“Not right now,” he replies. He lifts his head slightly to look at me. “Thank you, Anna. I feel much better knowing that you are here.” I do not answer, but turn and walk hurriedly from the office.

The next several days are a blur of activity. Word of the visit spreads quickly around the castle, and soon every office is abuzz with preparation. The cleaning staff of Wawel work around the clock to make the marble sparkle and the endless windows shine. The Nazi flags are taken down from the hallway, pressed and rehung. Malgorzata, seeming not to trust anyone else to clean our offices sufficiently, does most of the work herself. I watched as she spends a day and a half on her knees, scrubbing the floor.

My own role is limited. The day after our meeting, I help Colonel Diedrichson type the final version of the itinerary which, he tells me, is classified for security reasons. The delegation, a party of three high-ranking Nazis and their military attachés, will be here for one night, and will visit the labor camps Plaszow and Auschwitz and the ghetto. I shudder as I read the last part. In truth, I know that the ghetto is large, that there is only the slightest chance the delegation will see my parents, but still…I force the thought from my mind, keep working. On Friday, the Kommandant invites me to sit in on a review of the itinerary with himself and the colonel. When every last detail has been reviewed, the Kommandant declares that we are ready.

That night, my stomach twists as I think of the visit. “I wish there was some way I could be ill tomorrow,” I confide to Krysia that night after dinner as I clear the table. “I haven’t been this nervous since my first day of work.”

“You’ll be fine,” Krysia reassures, still seated at the table. She is trying to spoon peas into Lukasz’s mouth. “You work around the Nazis every day.”

I shake my head. “These are different.” They are SS from Berlin, I think. Surely something will give me away.

Handing me a plate, she continues, “Anyway, if they are like other self-important men, chances are they won’t even notice you.” Looking over at Krysia, I find that she is smirking.

“Krysia!” I exclaim, surprised. I cannot help but giggle. Her observation is both funny and true at the same time. With the possible exception of the Kommandant, men of stature, whether they are Nazis or professors, seem to look right through young women such as me. Suddenly, we are both laughing full and hard. It is not just her comment, but the ludicrousness of the entire situation and months of pent-up anxiety. Lukasz stares at us in amazement. He has never seen either, much less both of us, in hysterics. Soon he joins in, cackling wildly and banging his spoon against the table. Peas fly everywhere. The sight of him makes us laugh even harder. Later that night in bed, I find that my throat is scratchy from laughing. It is no longer accustomed to making such a sound.

The next day I arrive at work half an hour early. The Kommandant, Colonel Diedrichson and Malgorzata are already there, scurrying around with last-minute preparations as though the delegation was scheduled to arrive momentarily, instead of in the early afternoon. We do not take lunch that day. Even the Kommandant, usually so composed, paces from his office, through the anteroom, to the reception area and back again. For once, he barely seems to notice me. At exactly twelve-forty-five, the telephone in the reception area rings and Malgorzata throws herself across the desk to get it. “Herr Kommandant, they’re here!” she exclaims.

“Early…” I hear him mutter under his breath, as though this was a bad sign. “To your desks, please, ladies.” He straightens his jacket. “Colonel, come with me.” As the men leave the office, I look at Malgorzata. She is sitting perfectly straight in her chair, smoothing her hair, her face flushed with excitement. I have never despised her more.

I return to the anteroom and close the door. I sit behind my own desk and assume what I perceive to be a professional position, tablet and pen in hand. A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps and deep voices in the hallway, followed by the sound of the front office door opening. The voices are louder now. Breathe, I think. Act naturally. The door to the anteroom swings open, and the Kommandant enters. He is followed by seven men. Though I keep my head low, I can tell that the three men immediately behind them in heavily decorated brown uniforms are the official delegation. The other three younger men who follow are clearly the attachés. None of the men are as tall or imposing as the Kommandant. Krysia was right, I think, as they pass me without looking in my direction. Perhaps if I do not have to interact with them, I can manage this after all.

The last of the party is Colonel Diedrichson. As he reaches the door of the Kommandant’s inner office, he turns to me. “Anna, bring eight coffees. Quickly.”

Inwardly, I cringe. I had not anticipated having to serve refreshments. For a moment, I consider asking Malgorzata to do it, but I know the Kommandant would prefer to have me. “Yes, Colonel,” I reply, rising and heading for the small kitchen just down the hallway. A few minutes later, I return through the reception area, balancing a serving tray laden with a pitcher of hot coffee and saucers. Malgorzata opens the door to the anteroom without my having to ask her, and I can tell from the way she follows me that she is hoping to come into the office, too. “Thank you, Malgorzata,” I whisper firmly when she has opened the door to the Kommandant’s inner office for me. She turns away, defeated.

I had hoped that I could place the tray on the low coffee table and leave, but it is clear from the way the delegation is spread out across the room that I will have to serve. I walk first to the far end of the office where the Kommandant and two senior officers are clustered around the conference table, poring over a large map. Keeping my eyes low, I set down the tray and begin to pour the coffees. As I begin to pour the last cup, my hands tremble involuntarily. Hot coffee splashes over the edge of the cup, burning my hand and I jump, setting the cup back on the tray with a loud, clattering sound. One of the officers looks up at me, glaring.

“Anna,” the Kommandant says softly. I expect him to sound angry, but he does not. Our eyes meet. He is staring at me intensely, his expression one of concern and, I think, something else I cannot describe. My breath catches. “Thank you.” I nod, my eyes still locked with his.

“Kommandant Richwalder…” a male voice says. My head snaps to the right. For a moment I have almost forgotten where we are, that there are others in the room. The men at the table have stopped working and are staring at us. The officer who glared at me has turned slightly toward the Kommandant, bewildered. I can tell he is unaccustomed to hearing someone of the Kommandant’s stature address his subordinates with kindness, and that he is even more taken aback by the way the Kommandant looks at me.

“Thank you, Anna,” the Kommandant repeats. “That will be all.” He clears his throat and rearranges the papers on the table in front of him before addressing the men. “Now, if you will turn to the chart on page three…”

Taking care not to spill again, I carry the tray to the Kommandant’s desk, where the third delegation member sits, talking on the telephone. He does not look up. The photograph of the Kommandant and the dark-haired woman has been removed from the corner of his desk, I notice as I pour. I quickly pass out the remaining cups to Diedrichson and the other attachés who are sitting around the coffee table by the door. These are younger men, and as I bend over the low table I can feel their eyes on me, taking me in. My face burning, I straighten quickly and escape back to the anteroom.

I return to my desk, shaking. My head pounds. It will be over soon, I tell myself. The delegation is only scheduled to be in the office for a brief time, and they will not be coming back. Twenty minutes later, the voices inside the Kommandant’s office grow louder and the door opens. The Kommandant, leading the group once more, does not look at or speak as he passes me, and for a moment I wonder if he is angry at me for spilling the coffee. But as he reaches the door, he turns back toward me. “I’ll call you,” he says. I nod. He told me yesterday that I am not to leave at the normal time tonight, but that I should stay in case the delegation needs anything. He has promised to let me know once they have retired for the night so I can go home.

When I hear the front door of the reception area close, I exhale. They are gone. A few minutes later, I pick up the serving tray and reenter the Kommandant’s office to clean up the coffee cups. I could have left it for the Wawel cleaning staff, or even Malgorzata, to do, but I want to see if the delegation left any papers behind. The Kommandant’s desk and coffee table are as clean as before they arrived, except for the empty cups. As I near the conference room table, I stop. There, spread out as it had been when I served, is the map the men had been poring over. Easy, I tell myself, as I approach the table. It’s just a map. Surely they wouldn’t have left it behind if it was important.

I look over my shoulder to make sure Malgorzata has not followed me. The door to the office is closed. Slowly, I edge my way toward the map, keeping the serving tray in one hand and an empty cup in the other, so that I can appear to be cleaning if anyone walks in. I look down. It is a map of Kraków, labeled in German. There are several buildings outlined in red: Wawel Castle, the administrative offices on Pomorskie Street, Kazimierz, the ghetto. There are red arrows pointing from Kazimierz to the ghetto. Probably just all of the places they are going to visit, I think, as I start to clean up once more. Then, as I reach to pick up the last coffee cup, I stop again. The arrows, I realize, aren’t pointing to the ghetto, they are going through the ghetto toward Plaszow, the labor camp. And drawn through the ghetto, in pencil, is a large
X
. I freeze, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end. The ghetto has been crossed out. What can it mean? Another
akcja?
Are all of the ghetto inhabitants to be deported to Plaszow? Stop it, I think, as my stomach starts to twist. Don’t go imagining things you know nothing about. I make a note to tell Alek when I see him again on Tuesday.