Playing for the Commandant (13 page)

I ran to open the back door as soon as I heard Tibor knock.

“Is it all here?” The man looked anxious.

“Yes. Same as yesterday.” I tipped the swollen load into Tibor’s drawstring bag. Something small and brown tumbled out of the basket.

“What’s this?” Tibor reached into the bag and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “You’re Hanna, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s addressed to you.” He dropped the parcel into my hand. “Open it.”

I stood there blinking, sweat prickling my forehead. Someone had gotten to the laundry basket and hidden it under the sheets.

“It could be something important, something I need to pass on to Andor.” Tibor stared down at the quivering parcel. My hands were shaking. I untied the string and pulled back the paper. Inside the wrapping was an egg, a perfectly smooth, perfectly white, perfectly plump, peeled, hard-boiled egg. I hadn’t eaten an egg, hadn’t seen an egg, in four months.

“I don’t understand.” I shook my head. Was this a trap? Should I give the egg back?

“What’s to understand? You get an egg from the commandant’s son, you take it, you eat it, and you don’t ask questions.” Tibor stared at the egg.

“The commandant’s son?” I looked up, surprised. “How do you know it’s from his son?”

Tibor’s eyes narrowed. “Vera didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Tell you about Karl. He’s the only one here — besides you and me — who knows about the basket.”

“He knows that we smuggle food into Birkenau?” I could feel the hairs on my arms rise.

“Of course he knows.” Tibor hoisted the drawstring bag over his shoulder and reached for the doorknob. “It was his idea.”

“You’ll never guess what I’ve got.” I dragged Erika onto our bunk and pulled Karl’s gift from my pocket.

“An egg?” Erika’s eyes darted across the room. “Put it away before someone sees it.” She forced my hand back into my pocket. “Where’d you get it?”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Nothing surprises me anymore. Try me.”

“It’s from Karl.”

“Karl?” Her voice rose an octave. “Karl, the commandant’s son?”

I pressed a finger to her lips and nodded.

“You’re right: I don’t believe you.”

“Maybe I was wrong about him.”

Erika shook her head. “Why would he do that? Why would the commandant’s son give you an egg?”

I looked at my sister. “I don’t know.”

I slipped off my coat, and we huddled under it. Erika tore the egg in half and passed me my share, swallowing hers in one gulp. I held the slippery white skin in my mouth before letting it slide down my throat. I trapped the yolk with my tongue and sucked at its sweetness until there was nothing left.

We fell asleep spooned together under my warm winter coat, the taste of sunshine on our tongues. The sky was still dark when I woke from a dream. I was at the villa at dusk with Karl. We were outside, alone, together. My hair was long. I was wearing my yellow organza dress, the one Mother made for the youth group’s summer dance. Karl was wearing a blue-and-white striped shirt and a pair of gray trousers. He was watching me pick globe flowers. And then he walked over, took me in his arms, and kissed me. And then Mr. Zielinski walked into the garden and Karl spun around, but he wasn’t wearing a blue and white shirt anymore; he was wearing an SS uniform. And he shot Mr. Zielinski.

I climbed out of my bunk. I needed the toilet. The night guard took my number down, gave me a bucket, and swung the door open. I shuffled out into the frozen night, the wet, warm bucket knocking against my legs. I set it down, hoisted up my dress, and crouched over it, disgusted with myself. I pictured my father, bald and bone-thin in a blue-and-white striped shirt and ill-fitting trousers, lying alone on a bunk, wondering if his daughters and wife were alive. I thought of my mother in the infirmary, losing her mind. The thought of Karl and me kissing would horrify them. It
was
horrifying. I shook my head to dislodge the dream. I didn’t want to be thinking about Karl and how his arms felt around my waist, what his lips felt like, what Mr. Zielinski’s torn-up face looked like. I pulled my dress down, carried the bucket back inside, and crept to my bunk. Light spilled from the window of the block leader’s room at the far end of the barrack. I reached into my coat and pulled the raisins from my pocket. In my rush to get to Erika, I’d forgotten to give the block leader her nightly due.

I snuck to her room, tapped gently on the door, and pushed it open. I’d never been inside the block leader’s room. It wasn’t much better than ours. She had a nightstand, a small cupboard for her clothes, a single bed and a blanket, but the walls were peeling and the room was cold. The block leader was slumped in a chair. She looked up.

“What’re you looking at?” She lifted a bottle to her lips.

“Nothing.” I held out my hand and showed her the raisins. “They’re for you. I meant to give them to you earlier.” She swept the raisins from my palm. Stared at them.

“Marek loved raisins.”

“Who?”

“Marek, my son.” She put down the bottle. “What do you care?” Her face hardened. “Safe and warm in the commandant’s house. You think he’s gonna take care of you?” She threw back her head and laughed. “Know how I got here? Know how I got to own this whip?” I shook my head. I didn’t want to know. “Three soldiers came to my house. It was a Friday night. I’d just lit the Sabbath candles.” She picked up the bottle and took a swig. “They made us go outside and dig a ditch. I didn’t know what it was for, this ditch. How could I know?” She rose from the chair and gripped the bed to steady herself. “They shot my husband first. Then they shot Marek.” She sat down on the bed. “He was three.” Her face caved in. “They rolled Nikolai into the ditch, then Marek. They gave me a spade. They pointed a gun at my head and made me bury them. Nikolai was still breathing.”

They rewarded her for her effort. They threw her in a cattle truck with a hundred other Polish Jews, and when they arrived in Birkenau, they made her a block leader.

“They said if I was tough enough to bury a husband and child, I’d make a good barrack boss.” She fell onto the bed. I took the bottle from her hand and pulled the blanket over her.

“What’s the point of washing?” Erika complained as we walked to the washroom the next morning. “They’ll still use their truncheons no matter how sweet I smell.” I unwound the silk bandage from Erika’s head. She’d stopped bleeding, but the gash on her forehead hadn’t knitted together. It looked angry and red. I turned on a tap and helped Erika out of her dress. Her legs were like toothpicks.

“The point is to stay human, remember?” It felt like a lifetime since my sister had said those same words to me. Erika bent over the bowl of brown water and splashed her face. I pulled another scrap of silk from the lining of my coat, held it under the tap, and used the wet cloth to wipe down her arms and legs. A mob of women surrounded us, eyeing the rag. Erika pointed to a small, pale girl who’d been elbowed from the group. I pushed through the clawing group and placed the wet rag in the girl’s hand.

“Thank you,” she whispered, running the rag under her arms as the women descended upon her. I helped Erika into her dress, and we walked back to the barrack.

“I have to go,” I said, tipping up my cup and sucking out the last drops of black water. The woman next to us pulled a crust of bread from under her blanket, shook the lice from the bread, and slipped the crust into her mouth.

I took Erika’s face in my hands. “Don’t give up, Erika. Don’t lose hope.” She looked so small and old. She climbed onto our bunk and gave me a wan smile.

“Hope’s tiring.”

I should’ve dragged her out of bed, but I was late for my shower. I ran to block 11, warmed my body under the spray, and stepped into my clothes. The rain that had tapped on the tin roofs of our huts for the last eight days continued unabated, and by the time I reached the villa, my coat was soaked through and my legs were spattered with mud. I changed my shoes and ran to the music room.

“The commandant won’t be requiring you this morning.” Rosa set a pot of tea on the side table and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “You can make yourself useful in the kitchen.”

“What did he say?” A wave of nausea snuck up on me. “Am I in trouble?”

The girl’s thin lips curled upward. “I wouldn’t know.” She smiled crudely. “Perhaps you can ask his son.”

I reached out and grabbed her apron. “Please, what have you heard?”

“I’ve heard nothing. What? You think Captain Jager spends his days talking about you?” She shook me off. “Dr. Mengele is coming over, and the commandant doesn’t want us listening to their conversation — that’s all.”

“Dr. Mengele?” I chased her down the hall to the kitchen. In the three months since Lili and Agi’s disappearance, two other sets of twins had made their beds in our barrack, then been called away by Dr. Mengele. “He’s interested in twins,” I said, not wanting to end the conversation. The new girl might know where Lili and Agi were or have information about my parents.

“Yes.” She passed me a plate and a rag. “He calls them his children.” She stared at me. “That doesn’t sicken you?” she said, stepping toward me. I edged away from her. “You really have no idea, do you?”

I shook my head.

“He conducts experiments on them.”

I felt like I was slipping underwater. I felt like I was drowning. I played Schumann’s
Fantasie
in my head to stay afloat, to stop myself from slapping her, to stop myself from screaming.

As soon as the commandant and Dr. Mengele left the villa, I ran to the music room. I sat down at the piano and stabbed at the keys.

I played Beethoven and Bach. I played until I didn’t know what I was playing anymore. I played until I was inside the music, hidden between the bass line and the treble, slipping between the sounds, numbed by the notes. I played till my fingers were sore.

When I stopped playing, I saw Karl sitting in the corner. I slipped from my stool and grabbed a rag from the shelf to clean the piano. I knew I should thank him for his gift, but when I looked over at him, he shifted in his seat and brought his book up to hide his face. I slunk back to my stool. My reflection stared back at me from the black lacquered lid: shaved head, long neck, tired eyes. What was I thinking — that he’d welcome a conversation?

Sleet tapped at the windows. I stared at the keyboard, and the keyboard stared back at me.

“The war won’t last forever.” I looked up. Had Karl just said what I thought he’d said? I opened my mouth, closed it again. Karl put down his book. “I’ve heard rumors that the Russians are close.”

I nodded. “I used to think about going home all the time.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” The question was too intimate, but I couldn’t help feeling touched that he’d asked. “Sometimes it’s easier not to think about the people you miss.”

“Then, just play piano. Forget everything else.” Karl glanced at the door. The hallway was empty. “I’ve seen you do it. When you’re at the piano, your eyes glaze over.” His face flushed. “Sometimes you smile.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Play something,” he said, but I didn’t lift my hands to the keys.
He’d been watching me
. All those times I’d thought his nose was stuck in his book, he’d been peering over the pages, watching my hands and my eyes and my lips.

“I said play! Now!”

I jumped at his anger. Then I looked behind him and saw his father.

The commandant had walked into the room and stopped behind his son.

“Father, you’re back?” Karl turned to his father, feigning surprise.

“What’s this?” The commandant brushed his son aside and stepped toward me. He held out a gloved hand. “It was on the kitchen floor.”

My hands froze on the keys. My C-sharp lay in his palm. I must have ripped a hole in the secret pocket of my coat when I tore off some of the lining for Erika. I hung my head. The commandant leaned over the piano and brushed his hands over the keys.

“It’s not one of ours,” he said, walking toward me, “so where did you steal it?” He held the note as if it were a dagger. I stood there, paralyzed. Had he searched my coat? Had he found the secret pocket? He pressed the note to my throat, drove the splintered wood into my skin. “Answer me!”

“It’s mine,” I croaked, stumbling backward. “From home.”

The commandant shook his head and turned away. “Sentimentality is dangerous.” He hurled the C-sharp into the fire and stalked away. “My son has learned that lesson. You’d do well to learn it, too.”

I watched the flames curl around the rectangle of wood, but I didn’t let myself cry. I kept my head bowed and my face blank.

The commandant called for a guard to escort me home, then disappeared into his study. I turned to Karl. He was bent over the fire, stoking it, his face so close to the flames, his skin glowed orange. Something clattered to the floor by his feet. I turned toward the sound. On the hearth, blistered from the heat but still whole, was my black C-sharp.