Kommandant's Girl

“Yes.” My father, who had been raised in a town by the German border, had taught me the language as a girl, and given its close linguistic relation to Yiddish, it had come easily to me. When I arrived at Krysia’s house, she suggested that I refresh my knowledge of the language. It only made sense that a girl from Gdansk, which had once been the German city of Danzig, would be bilingual.

“Herr Kommandant,” Krysia interrupts. With seemingly reluctance, the Kommandant turns to her so that she can introduce him to the other guests. Grateful that the introduction is over, I leave the room and step into the kitchen to recompose myself. What is wrong with me? I pour a glass of water and take a small sip, my hands shaking. You are probably just nervous, I tell myself, though in truth I know it is more than that—none of the other guests had such an effect on me. Of course, none of the other guests looked like Kommandant Richwalder. Picturing his steely gaze as he kissed my hand, I jump, sending water splashing over the edge of the glass.

“Careful.” Elzbieta, who had been pouring the soup into bowls, comes to me with a dry towel. Enough, I think, as she helps to blot the water that has splashed onto my dress. Compose yourself. He’s a Nazi, I remind myself sternly. And regardless, you are a married woman. You have no business having such reactions to other men. I smooth my hair and return to the parlor.

A moment later, Elzbieta rings a small bell and the guests rise. As we make our way to the dining room, I try frantically to recall the seating cards Krysia had set out. Put me next to the elderly general, I pray, or even the endlessly carping Mrs. Ludwig—just not the Kommandant. There is no way that I can maintain my composure next to him for an entire meal. But no sooner have I made my silent wish than I find myself standing on one side of the table with General Ludwig to my left and the Kommandant to my right. I try to catch Krysia’s eye at the head of the table, hoping she might somehow intervene, but she is speaking with Mayor Baran and does not notice. “Allow me,” the Kommandant says, pulling out my chair. His pine-scented aftershave is strong as he hovers over me.

Elzbieta serves the first course, a rich mushroom soup. My hand shakes as I lift the spoon, causing it to clink against the side of the bowl. Krysia discreetly raises an eyebrow in my direction, and I hope that no one else has noticed.

“So,” General Ludwig says over my head to the Kommandant. “What is the news from Berlin these days?” I am grateful that he has chosen to leave me out of the conversation, relieving me of the need to speak for a time.

“We are having success on all fronts,” the Kommandant replies between spoonfuls of soup. Inwardly, I cringe at the news that the Germans are faring well.

“Yes, I heard the same from General Hochberg,” Ludwig replies. I can tell from the way Ludwig emphasizes the name that he hopes it will impress the Kommandant. “I have heard talk of an official visit from Berlin?” He ends the sentence on an up note, then looks at the Kommandant expectantly, waiting for him to confirm or deny the rumor.

The Kommandant hesitates, stirs his soup. “Perhaps,” he says at last, his face impassive. Looking at him more closely now, I notice two scars on his otherwise flawless face. There is a deep, pale line running from his hairline to his temple on the right side of his forehead, and another, longer but less severe, traveling the length of his left jawbone. I find myself wondering how he got them, an accident perhaps, or a brawl of some sort. Neither explanation seems plausible.

“So, Miss Anna,” the Kommandant says, turning to me.

I realize that I have been staring at him. “Y-yes, Herr Kommandant?” I stammer, feeling my cheeks go warm again.

“Tell me of your life back in Gdansk.” As Elzbieta clears the soup bowls, I recount the details I have been taught: I was a schoolteacher who was forced to quit my job and move here with my little brother when our parents were killed in a fire. I recount the story with so much feeling that it almost sounds real to me. The Kommandant listens intently, seemingly focused on my every word. Perhaps he is just an attentive listener, I think, though I have not noticed him so engaged in conversation with anyone else at the party. “How tragic,” he remarks when I have finished my story. His eyes remain locked with mine. I nod, unable to speak. For a moment, it seems as though the rest of the guests have vanished and it is just the two of us, alone. At last, when I can stand it no longer, I look away.

“And you, Kommandant, where are you from?” I ask quickly, eager to take the focus off myself.

“The north of Germany, near Hamburg. My family is in the shipping business,” he replies, still staring intently at me. I can barely hear him over the buzzing in my ears. “I was orphaned at a young age, too,” he adds, as though our purportedly mutual lack of parents gave us a special bond. “Though mine died of natural causes.”

“And what is it you are doing here?” I ask, amazed at the audacity of my own question. The Kommandant hesitates, caught off guard; clearly, he is accustomed to people knowing his role.

Ludwig interjects, “The Kommandant is Governor Frank’s deputy, second in charge of the General Government. What the governor decrees, the Kommandant ensures that the rest of us implement.”

The Kommandant shifts uneasily in his chair. “Really, General, you are overstating it a bit. I am just the owner of a shipping company doing his service to the Reich.” He looks away, and I notice that his dark hair is flecked with gray at the temples.

“Not at all,” Ludwig persists, his fat face red from too much wine. “You are far too modest, sir.” He looks down at me. “Kommandant Richwalder was decorated for his valor at sea as a young man in the Great War.” I nod, doing the math in my head. If the Kommandant served in the Great War, he must be at least forty-five years old, I think, surprised. I had taken him for younger. “He was gravely injured, and he served Germany with great distinction.”

Looking at the Kommandant’s face once more, I realize then that his scars likely came from battle. He touches his fingertips to his temple then, his eyes locked with mine, as though reading my thoughts. “Please pass the salt,” I say abruptly, forcing him at last to turn away.

But Ludwig is not through with his praise of the Kommandant. “Most recently, he served the Reich overseeing Sachsenhausen with remarkable efficiency,” he adds. I have not heard of Sachsenhausen, but Ludwig says the name as though its nature is self-evident, and I do not dare to ask what it is.

As the meal progresses, I try to keep focused, but my head grows heavy from the wine, and the Kommandant seems to refill my glass each time I take a sip. “Your German is flawless,” he remarks as we finish the main course of pheasant with roast potatoes and carrots.

I hesitate. German, like Yiddish, came so naturally to me I had almost forgotten we were not speaking Polish. “We learned German in school,” I manage at last. “There is a large German population in Gdansk.”

“You mean Danzig!” Ludwig interjects loudly, offended by my use of the Polish name for the city. Hearing his outburst, the other guests stop their conversations midsentence and turn to us.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize quickly, feeling my face turn red. “It’s just that Gdansk is the name I grew up knowing.”

Ludwig is not placated. “Well, fräulein,” he continues haughtily. “It is time to adjust to the new reality.”

“Really, General, this lovely dinner party is no place for politics.” The Kommandant’s voice is quiet but stern. Chastised, Ludwig turns his boorish attention to Mrs. Baran, who is seated to his left. I smile gratefully at the Kommandant. “It’s a beautiful city no matter what one calls it,” he offers, more gently than I have heard him speak before.

“I agree.” Relieved, I reach across my plate with my right hand to lift my water glass. The Kommandant does the same with his left and our knuckles brush. I pull back, feeling my face grow red. His hand remains suspended in midair as though frozen. Neither of us speaks for what seems like several minutes.

“I am a great fan of German authors,” I say at last, resorting to literature, the one subject about which I can always speak.

He replaces his water glass and retracts his hand. “Really?”

Elzbieta appears on my left then, and as I shift slightly to the right to allow her to take my plate, I am forced within inches of the Kommandant. I smell his aftershave once more, underlain by a heavier, more masculine scent. “Yes,” I continue, when Elzbieta has moved on and I am able to straighten in my seat. “Goethe must be read in the mother tongue.” I lift my napkin from my lap and blot my lips. “To read in the translation simply doesn’t do it justice.”

The Kommandant nods slightly and smiles for the first time that evening. “I agree.” Reaching carefully this time, he lifts his wineglass and I follow, raising my own. “To German literature,” he proposes, touching his glass gently to mine. I hesitate before drinking. My head is already cloudy. But the Kommandant downs his glass of wine in a single gulp, and under his watchful gaze, I have no choice but to take a healthy sip.

“Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?” Krysia suggests when Elzbieta has cleared the dessert plates. In the parlor, Elzbieta serves small glasses of cognac to the men and Krysia, and cups of steaming tea to the rest of us. I lean against the doorway to the parlor, the warm cup clasped in both hands. Too weary from the wine and rich food to carry on conversation, I escape to the kitchen. “May I help?” I ask, but Elzbieta, who now stands before the sink rinsing the dishes, only shakes her head.

I am drunk, I realize, as I stare numbly at the soap bubbles that overflow from the sink. I have never felt this way before. The only alcohol I tasted growing up was the kosher wine of Shabbes and the holidays, too sweet to manage more than a few sips. Once or twice with Jacob I had tasted some whiskey or a glass of wine with dinner and felt warm. But this is different. My tongue is thick and dry. There is a cool sweat on my forehead and the floor seems to move under me. “Elzbieta,” I say uncertainly.

She turns, sees the paleness of my face. “Here.” She brings me a glass of water. I drink it gratefully and hand the glass back to her. She returns to the sink, placing the glass in the warm water with the rest of the dirty dishes. I lower myself into one of the kitchen chairs, breathing deeply. Of all the nights of my life, I had to pick this one to drink too much.

Elzbieta touches my shoulder. I look up, and she nods her head toward the parlor. “Anna,” I hear Krysia beckon, and I can tell by her tone it is not the first time she has called my name. I lift myself from the chair, make my way back to the parlor.

“Tak?” My head is clearer now from the water and brief rest.

“Come here.” Krysia waves me over to where she and the Kommandant are sitting on the large sofa and pats the cushion between them. “Sit down.” I perch uneasily on the edge of the sofa, just inches from the Kommandant. I do not look at him. “Anna,” Krysia pronounces my alias with ease once more. “The Kommandant has a proposition for you.” The room quiets as she turns to him expectantly. My breath catches. Though I cannot fathom what she is talking about, I am certain I will not like it.

“Anna, I am looking for a secretary, an assistant, really, to manage some of the daily administrative tasks of my office,” the Kommandant says. “Your aunt thinks you might be interested.” My stomach jumps into my throat.

“It is a flattering offer,” Krysia adds. There is a message behind her words I cannot decipher.

“Me?” I ask, trying to buy time to formulate a response.

“Yes,” the Kommandant replies. I can feel everyone staring at me.

“But I can’t!” I say, my voice rising sharply. Noting the surprised looks on the faces around me, I modulate my voice. “I mean, I’m a schoolteacher. I’m hardly qualified for such a position.” I am unsure which notion is more inconceivable: working in the Nazi headquarters or spending every day in close proximity to this terrifying man.

The Kommandant is undeterred by my response. “Your German is excellent. Krysia says that you can type. Other than that, only good judgment and a pleasant demeanor are required.”

“But I couldn’t possibly. I have Lukasz to care for and Krysia to help….” I protest. I look to Krysia for support, but she flashes me a pointed look.

“We will manage just fine,” she says firmly.

“Well …” I hesitate, searching for further arguments.

“This is ridiculous!” Ludwig blusters, though no one has asked him. “One does not turn down such an honor.”

The Kommandant turns to the fat man, glowering. “I would not force the girl.” He faces me again. “It is up to you,” he says, speaking softly now. “You can let me know later.”

I swallow. Krysia obviously wants me to accept this bizarre offer, although I have no idea why. “No, there’s no need for that.” I force myself to smile. “I would be honored to work for you.”

Krysia stands. “Well, that’s settled. Now, I believe I promised Mrs. Baran I would play for her before the evening was over.” She strides over to the grand piano, and ever diplomatic, she plays first Wagner, then Chopin. I am amazed at her talent, how her hands fly over the keys with the dexterity and grace of one decades younger, playing full classical pieces from memory.