Kommandant's Girl. Pam Jenoff
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Pani Nederman and I and some of the other orphanage staff would share our own rations with the children whenever possible.
“I’ll walk with you,” Marta offered. “Okay.” I pulled my coat from the hook on the door. We said goodbye to Marta’s mother and headed out onto the snow-covered street. The winter air was crisp, but the bitter wind that had been blowing when I’d arrived at work that morning had died down.
“What did you and Alek talk about Friday night, anyway?” she asked as we turned left onto Lwowska Street and walked along the inside perimeter of the ghetto wall. I could tell that she was a little jealous that he had singled me out for conversation.
“Just about a mutual acquaintance,” I replied evenly, not looking at her.
“Oh.” Seemingly placated by my answer, she did not speak for several minutes. “Did you have a boyfriend before the war?” she asked abruptly as we approached the brick warehouse that served as the central kitchen.
I hesitated, uncertain how to answer. I did not enjoy deceiving Marta about my marriage. I had never had a girlfriend to confide in before and I desperately wanted to tell her about Jacob, to share my memories and make them come alive. Perhaps she had even met him through the resistance. But I had promised Jacob I would tell no one of our marriage. He, and Alek, too, had said it would not be safe to do so. “No one special,” I answered at last. My heart twisted at having to deny Jacob’s existence, our love for each other.
“So there were several!” She giggled. I shook my head, suppressing a laugh at the notion of my having multiple suitors; before Jacob, there had been no one.
“I think Alek fancies you,” she whispered, after I handed the empty kettle to the woman at the back door of the kitchen.
“Marta, he’s married!” And so am I, I thought. If only she knew the truth. I liked Alek, but mostly because he was my one connection to Jacob. We began the walk back. “And you?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Have you met anyone in your travels as a messenger?” She looked away and did not answer, a faint blush creeping upward from her neck.
“There is someone,” she confessed in a low voice.
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “I knew it. Tell me about him.”
“He’s one of us.” I knew she meant the resistance movement. Her voice grew wistful. “But he doesn’t notice me.”
I squeezed her shoulder. “Perhaps he will someday. Give it time.” It began to rain then, thick, heavy drops that signaled the coming of a larger storm. We ran for cover back to the orphanage and spoke no more about it.
I thought about my conversation with Marta several weeks later, as I stood in the kitchen of our apartment, trying to wash linens in the impossibly small sink. It was a Thursday afternoon and I was home alone, enjoying a rare moment of solitude. Normally I worked days at the orphanage, but I had swapped shifts with another girl, agreeing to work the following Sunday instead. I remembered Marta asking me if I had a boyfriend, if I had dated anyone special. Perhaps she knew about Jacob, I mused, and was trying to get me to admit it.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud knocking sound in the alleyway below. I jumped, splashing soapy water everywhere. Wiping the water from my dress, I leaned forward. Through the window over the sink, I heard a woman’s voice, high pitched and desperate, a man’s low and angry. I stepped to one side of the sink, pressing myself against the wall so I could look out the window without being seen. From this vantage point, I could just make out two figures below. I was alarmed to see a man in a Nazi uniform standing in the doorway of the apartment building across the alley. The Nazis, afraid of disease, seldom came inside the ghetto, preferring instead to let the Judenrat run internal, daily affairs. He was arguing with a blond woman I did not recognize. She was tiny but thick around the middle, and I could tell even from where I stood that she was several months pregnant. “Prosze,” I heard her plead.
The voices continued arguing. Though I could not make out most of their words, I surmised that she was trying to keep the soldier from entering the apartment. The woman is very brave, I thought. She must be hiding something important.
At last, the Nazi said something and shoved the woman aside harshly. She hit the door frame and fell to the ground with a thud, motionless. The Nazi stepped over her and into the building. Loud crashing noises arose from inside the apartment, as though furniture was being thrown. Moments later, the Nazi reemerged, grasping a small, religious-looking man by the collar.
The woman on the ground seemed to instantly revive. She wrapped her arms around the Nazi’s ankles, seemingly oblivious to any danger to herself. “Don’t take him!” she pled. The Nazi tried to shake the woman from his ankles, but she would not let go. As the woman continued to beg, the small man’s eyes darted around, like a trapped animal looking for an escape. His gaze shot upward and I ducked back from the window, fearful that he might see me.
The voices rose louder. A shot rang out. I froze. It was the first time in my life I had heard that sound.
Now it was the man who cried out, his wail almost as high pitched as the woman’s had been. Unable to keep from looking, I stepped in front of the window. The woman lay motionless on the ground, her eyes open, her head ringed by a halo of blood. One arm lay draped protectively over her full, round stomach. The Nazi dragged the screaming man from the alley.
I ducked my head and vomited into the sink, great heaving waves of hatred and despair. When at last my stomach spasms subsided, I wiped my mouth and looked back out the window.
The door of the apartment was still ajar. In the doorway, I saw something move. It was a child, not more than three years old, with the same blond hair as the woman’s. The child stood motionless in the doorway, his blue eyes luminous as he stared at the woman’s lifeless form.
A set of hands shot out of the doorway and snatched the child back inside. The door slammed shut, leaving the dead woman like unwanted refuse on the pavement.
I sank to the kitchen floor, trembling and weak, the taste of bile still heavy in my mouth. Until now, I realized, it had been easy to stick my head in the sand like an ostrich, to pretend that the ghetto was just another neighborhood and that the violence and killing were isolated incidents far away. Though we had heard rumors, stories of brutal executions in the forests and even in the street, we had wanted to believe these accounts were exaggerated. Now it was no longer just a rumor from Tarnów or Kielce. The killing had come home.
I spent the rest of the day trying to compose myself, to block out what I had seen. My parents had enough to worry about, and I did not intend to upset them with the news. But others in our apartment block had seen or heard the commotion, and the story spread quickly. When my parents arrived home that night, the shooting in the alleyway was all they could talk about. At dinner, I listened to them describe thirdhand accounts of the events that had taken place next door. Finally, I could hold back no longer. “I saw it!” I burst out, weeping. “I saw everything.” Stunned, my parents looked at me in silence. My father came to my side then. My mother disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a cup of steaming tea. With shaking hands, I recounted for them exactly what I had seen earlier that day. “And the woman was with child, too,” I added. My father blanched—that was the one detail that had not made it to the ghetto rumor mill. “What had she done to deserve that, Papa?” I asked, sniffling. “Just because she was a Jew?”
“Her husband, the man they took, was Aaron Izakowicz, a rabbi from Lublin,” my father replied. “He is descended from a very great rabbinic family, dating back centuries. Pan Halkowski told me that he had arrived with his wife and child a few days ago. I had no idea they were staying so close by. The Nazis knew that his presence in the ghetto surely would have buoyed the spirit of our people here. That is probably why he was arrested.” He shook his head. “Such a loss.” My father spoke as though the man was already dead.
“Surely they would not kill such a respected and famous man.” But even as I said this, I knew that nothing could be further from the truth.
“They killed his wife.” It