The Kommandant's Mistress Read online

  "To us."

  "To my wonderful husband. And to his new job."

  We drank, then I took the glass from her and swept Marta and Ilse into my arms.

  "I love you, Marta."

  "And I love you, Max."

  "You're the best wife a man could ever have. And I love you, Ilse."

  "I'm sleepy," said Ilse, burying her face against Marta's throat when I tried to kiss her.

  "Put her on the couch," I said.

  "Let's put her back to bed."

  "No."

  "Why not?" said Marta.

  "She'll miss the celebration."

  "Max."

  I took Ilse from Marta's arms and laid her on the couch. Ilse pulled her legs up tight against her body. Her eyes closed. I removed my jacket and covered her with it. I turned back to Marta. She'd lost the weight from the baby, and curled her hair. She looked beautiful. Exciting. She smiled at me.

  "I'm so proud of you, Max."

  "Great things are in store for me, Marta," I said, pulling her into my arms and dancing her around the room. "And I have you to thank for it."

  "Me? I haven't done anything," she said, but she smiled again.

  "You stayed by me, and supported me."

  "Any wife would've done as much."

  "But I haven't always been such a good husband."

  "Max," she said, glancing over at the couch.

  Ilse was asleep.

  "That'll be different now," I said, holding Marta tightly. "I'll be a good husband. You'll see."

  "You're a good father to the children," said Marta. "And you're a fine husband except when you..."

  "Never again," I said. "I swear it. I'll be a good husband. I'll be a good man. I swear it."

  "You are a good man."

  "I'll be an even better one."

  I meant it. I've never said anything I didn't mean. I've always told the truth, even when it was a hard truth. But sometimes other people misunderstand, and the explanations make things worse. I am a good man. We were all good men. Bad men couldn't have saved Germany. Bad men couldn't have done what we did.

  "You are good men," said Heinrich behind his wire-framed glasses, and we nodded. "You are the elite of our country."

  The colonnaded reviewing stand was ablaze with light, and all around the field, the spotlights shone upward, forming pillars of light, a cathedral of light, towering against the dark. Later, we heard that the glow of the lights could be seen at Frankfurt, almost two hundred kilometers away. And I was there. The crowd swayed closer. Thousands and thousands of uniforms made the night denser.

  "You are the pure. You are the purest of the pure," he said. "And only the purest of the pure can do what needs to be done."

  There was nothing but the pillars of light rising from the darkness. Nothing but the sound of his voice in our ears. Nothing but the cathedral of light in our eyes. Nothing but the love of Germany in our hearts.

  "This house must be Jew-pure," I said, but the old couple just blinked at me. "Jew-pure. Jew-pure. You must leave. Go."

  "But we've no place to go, Herr Hauptsturmführer," said the old man. "My shop is downstairs."

  "Not anymore," I said. "It's the law. Now go."

  "Where?"

  "If you don't go, I'll have to take you into Protective Custody."

  "You're going to arrest us?" said the old woman. "What for?"

  "Papa, Papa," said a young girl who came rushing into the room. "The synagogue's burning."

  "No," said the old man as he went to the window.

  "You're breaking the law. You must go."

  "No," said the old man as he stared out the window. "No."

  "Then I'll have to take you into custody."

  "No," said the old man, and tears dropped from his chin onto his nightshirt.

  "Herschel," said the old woman, tugging at his arm. "Herschel."

  "No," said the old man, pushing her away. He ran toward the door.

  "Stop," I said.

  The old man rushed down to the street. He shoved aside one of my men who was painting Jude on the sidewalk in front of one of the shops. The torches were reflected in the shop windows. The old man stumbled down the street toward the burning building, hitting and pushing my men as he scrambled past them.

  "Halt."

  "Herschel."

  "Papa."

  "Halt," I said.

  My men's batons shattered the windows of the shops. Two of my junior officers grabbed the old man and dragged him back to me. He stretched his arms toward the sky, muttering in their incomprehensible language. Up and down the street, broken glass crashed onto the sidewalks.

  "Take him into custody."

  "Please, Herr Hauptsturmführer, " said his wife, kneeling and throwing her arms around my legs while their daughter sobbed. "Don't."

  "Let go of me. Let go."

  "Please," said their daughter, imitating her mother by kneeling on the sidewalk and clutching my thighs.

  "You're breaking curfew. I'll have to arrest you."

  "Don't hurt him," they said. "Please, don't."

  My men stood, waiting for my orders. The broken glass glittered on the sidewalk. The smell of smoke filled the air. The women wailed, their mouths open against my trousers. I pushed at them, but they wouldn't release my legs until my weapon convinced them. The old man fell onto his knees beside his wife and daughter. I cursed at the damp spots on my trousers. I shook my head. It was a new uniform.

  "We'll have to change uniforms. Change names. Change faces," said Dieter. "But it won't make any difference."

  "What are you talking about?" I said.

  "A thousand years will pass," said Dieter, "but Germany's guilt will never be erased."

  "Guilt? What guilt? What are you talking about?"

  Dieter stared into the fire, the glass of Cognac held close to his chest.

  "Is there anything else you two boys need," said Marta, "before I go to bed?"

  "Absolution," said Dieter.

  "What?" said Marta, frowning.

  "Abso..."

  "Nothing," I said. "Good-night, Marta."

  "Is everything all right?" said Marta.

  Dieter smiled and drained his glass.

  "Ask Max," he said.

  "Good-night, Marta," I said.

  "Good-night," said Marta uncertainly.

  She stood a moment longer, her hand on the doorframe, before she turned on the hall light. Dieter smiled as she slowly went up the stairs.

  "What's wrong with you, Dieter?" I said.

  "Guilt."

  "Whose guilt?"

  "Mine."

  "What have you done?"

  "Yours. Germany's."

  "I haven't done anything," I said.

  "Our guilt will never be erased," said Dieter. "We'll never be free of it."

  "I've done nothing wrong."

  "No," said Dieter as he stood, moving unsteadily toward the liquor. "You never do."

  "You're drunk."

  "Not yet. Or at least, not enough."

  "What's wrong with you tonight?"

  "The same thing that's wrong with you, Max, with all of us."

  "You've been saying cryptic things all evening."

  "All the directives are very clear," said Dieter as he refilled his glass at the sideboard. "All the directives end with the same phrase: 'Avoidable cruelties are to be avoided'."

  "Yes? Yes?" I said. "And?"

  "And I've done things that ought not to have been done."

  "No," I said, and he looked at me. "We've done what we had to do."

  "It's always so easy for you, Max."

  "We gave our pledge," I said, and he smiled. "We took an oath."

  Dieter closed his eyes.

  "That's one of your virtues, Max. Absolute, unswerving loyalty. And honesty."

  "You are drunk."

  "I wish I could be more like you, Max. Honest. Loyal. Obedient. Trustworthy."

  "You're in no condition to drive. You'd better sleep over."
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  "I can't sleep here. I can't bear the smell of this place."

  "The windows are closed. I don't smell anything."

  "Marta's right," said Dieter. "The stench here is unbearable."

  I wasn't drunk. I'm never drunk. Not that way. Except maybe once. After I saw her. She was buying vegetables in the market and I saw her. My heart started pounding even before she looked up. There she was. There were so many people, most of them refugees, begging for money, trying to pilfer some food. She was at one of the tables, a filled basket on her arm, handing the vendor some coins. I pushed the people around me, shoving their bony limbs aside. Their fingers scraped at me as they tried to stop me. Their voices were faint beneath the calls of the vendors and the clatter of coins. I had to reach her. I stretched out my hand. Call to her? What name would I have used?

  "Warte," I said. "Bitte. Warte."

  "Stop," said one of the scarecrows dressed in rags. "Stop pushing."

  "Bitte."

  "Stop."

  "Stop with this girl," said Marta at the breakfast table.

  I looked up from my paper. She wasn't dressed yet: she was wearing her dressing gown, and her hair was uncombed and tangled. Her eyes were red, puffy. Her bottom lip was bruised and swollen, from where she kept biting at it. She was clenching and unclenching her fists as she stood there, breathing heavily. I turned back to the paper.

  "There's only so much I can ignore," said Marta.

  "Mommy, my oatmeal's too hot," said Ilse.

  "I must think of my position," said Marta.

  "Mama," said Hans.

  "Mommy, Hans spilled his milk."

  "The children are calling you."

  I buttered my toast while I scanned the front page. I spread some jam on my toast. Ilse dipped her spoon in and out of her oatmeal. Hans rolled his emptied glass across his highchair's tray. I looked up.

  "Children, that's enough," I said.

  Marta yanked the paper out from under my hand.

  "Yes, it is enough. This has to stop, Max."

  "Don't tell me what to do."

  "This time you've gone too far."

  Ilse raised a spoonful of oatmeal to her mouth. After she touched her tongue to it, she dropped the spoon, dripping oatmeal onto the table. Hans splashed his hands in the milk on his tray.

  "Mommy."

  "Give me the paper, and tend to the children."

  "Mommy."

  "I've had enough," said Marta.

  "Enough of what?"

  "Enough of your lies."

  "I don't lie. You know about her. That's not lying."

  "You always say that. As if it makes any difference."

  Hans pushed at the spilled milk until it washed over the edges of his highchair's tray, dripping onto the floor. He leaned over to look at it. Ilse put another spoonful of oatmeal on the table, beside the first.

  "Hans, Ilse, stop that," I said.

  "You said you'd stop, Max."

  "I'll stop when I'm ready, not when you tell me to stop. Don't let Hans..."

  "I'll complain to someone if you don't stop."

  "Complain?"

  "My aunt's husband still has influence."

  Hans slapped his hands in the spilled milk. Ilse dripped her oatmeal onto the tabletop. My hand on Marta's wrist freed the paper. I snapped the paper straight, and turned the page. Marta stood, holding her wrist. Ilse began to cry. Hans stopped splashing and joined in the crying.

  "Tend to the children," I said.

  I took a bite of my toast, a sip of my coffee. Marta rubbed her wrist.

  "I hate you, Max. I hate you."

  She ran up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door. When I looked at the children over the top of the newspaper, their sobs increased.

  "Ilse, Hans," I said. "Stop. Please."

  They cried louder.

  She never cried. Not once in all those years. She never showed any weakness. She looked at everything absolutely unflinchingly. They weren't all like that. In fact, none of the rest was like that. Not even their men. I looked at the whimpering boy over the top of the paper he held out to me: a letter. He stood right next to her, next to the girl. This was the second time I had seen her in less than an hour. She wore a fur coat, but no hat. Her parents weren't with her any longer. She had no letter. This whimpering boy stood beside her. He rattled the letter in my face.

  "It's a Protective Custody letter," he said. "It certifies that I'm essential to the economy."

  "I know how to read," I said, pushing aside his arm with my baton.

  "The country needs me. I'm an engineer."

  "You're a Jew," I said, and ended the discussion.

  The page drifted to the crowded platform. I turned toward the girl. Behind her, in the unopened boxcars, other essential members of the economy pounded on the wooden door with their fists. She stared right at me, without blinking, with no emotion on her face. The dogs strained on their leashes as the guards herded the inmates toward the doctor at the end of the ramp. The spotlights passed rhythmically over the camp, cutting the dark in a predictable pattern. In the boxcars, the pounding of fists and boots on wood continued. I touched the girl's face.

  "You can't be a Jew," I said, though there was no translator near.

  The pounding continued. Pounding, pounding, until it seemed it was in my head. As I opened my eyes, my hand slipped under the pillow for my pistol. It was still night. The knocking continued. I pulled on my pants in the dark and crept to the door. By the light of the hall, I glimpsed the young man who had accosted me in the hotel dining room.

  "Let me in, von Walther, or everyone on the floor will hear what I have to say."

  I leaned against the door.

  "I can talk to you just as well from here, von Walther."

  I tucked the pistol inside my belt, at my back. I opened the door.

  "Turn on a light," he said.

  I did. He glanced anxiously about the room before he entered, and again when I closed the door. He was very thin, and he coughed almost constantly. His eyes and chin were weak.

  "Leave the door open," he said.

  "What do you want?"

  "Is there anyone else here? Show me your hands."

  "You don't tell me what to do, Boy."

  "Let me see your hands. I don't trust you."

  "What do you want?" I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "Money?"

  He coughed for several seconds before he was able to answer me.

  "Money? You make me sick. You killed my family."

  "Not that again."

  "You killed them."

  "The war killed them. Many people lost their families in the war. I lost mine."

  "Not in the war. In the camps."

  His coughing bent him over.

  "In your camp."

  "I was a soldier in the war."

  "You were the Kommandant."

  "No."

  "Kommandant of..."

  "As I told you in the dining room, you've mistaken me for someone else. My name is… "

  "Von Walther."

  "Hoffmann," I said.

  He shook his head. He pulled a stained handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth. This fit of coughing made him sweat and turn pale. A blotch of red spattered the cloth as he wiped his mouth. His voice was weaker after that.

  "You shot my sister."

  "I'd never shoot a woman."

  "She was screaming. And crying. When we got off the train. You told her not to be frightened. Not to frighten the others."

  "No."

  "You told her she was upsetting everyone else. Some of the babies started to cry."

  "I served in the east. I was wounded in battle."

  "You told your guards to pull her out of the group. The other women and children were going to the showers. You had them pull her out. You walked with her around the side of the building. She was crying. The babies were crying."

  "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave now."

  I went to
the door and put my hand on the knob. He was coughing too much to speak.

  "I'm not the man you think I am," I said.

  He stopped coughing. He shook his head.

  "You put your left hand on her shoulder. Like you were really talking to her. Telling her to calm down. Not to upset the others. 'Think of the children,' you said. Then you put your pistol to the back of her head. You pulled the trigger."

  "An officer wouldn't shoot a woman. I've never shot a woman."

  "You pulled the trigger. I saw you do it."

  I shook my head.

  "I saw you do it. I saw it all."

  "No. You didn't see anything. There was nothing to be seen."

  "I've been looking for you ever since. Ever since you ran away from the camp."

  I stood with my hand on the knob of the opened door. Out in the hall, a drunken woman guided a more drunken man to their room. When they bumped into the wall, the man grabbed wildly for the woman, calling her name. She hushed him as she pulled him toward their room. The boy in my room coughed and coughed. As I turned to look at the boy, I pushed the door of my room closed. The boy blinked, swallowed convulsively, coughed.

  "You ran away," he said, "when the Russians were coming."

  "I've never run away from anything in my entire life."

  "You ran."

  "Never."

  "You didn't even go with your wife. Your adjutant took her and the children away. You were already gone."

  "Liar."

  "I was there. I saw it."

  "Get out."

  "I'll make you pay for your crime," he said. "I'll kill you myself."

  "Who do you think you're talking to, Boy?"

  I grabbed his shirtfront and shook him as if he were a puppy. When I pushed him from me, he stumbled back, hitting a table, knocking off the phone's receiver. I looked at him, and he threw himself at me, knocking me and the phone over the low table. When our bodies hit the floor, my pistol gouged my back. Our legs bashed into the small table and chairs as we scrambled against each other. His boots battered my shins, and his broken nails scraped at my chest and throat. His head banged against the foot of the bed, and he dragged off the bedclothes, trying to shove them into my face. I pushed him from me, and rolled away. I yanked one of the cushions from the chair and crushed it over his face. I reached behind me for my gun. He kicked and clawed. One shot from my weapon stopped him.

  Breathing heavily, I disentangled myself from him. He lay still. I looked down at him, then grabbed the bedspread and sheets and laid them on the floor beside him. I kicked away the chair cushion and rolled the body onto the bedclothes. His eyes were open. I wrapped the spread around him, covering his staring face. I opened the closet door, pulled out my clothes and luggage. I dragged his body across the floor and shoved it into the closet. His shoulders and back thumped loudly against the back of the closet. I stood motionless, holding my breath, listening for any sound from the adjoining room, or from the hall. I bent his legs and shoved them into the closet. There was no movement. I forced the door closed.