Playing for the Commandant (14 page)

Karl was waiting for me in the kitchen the next day.

“I only have a moment.” Karl looked nervously at the door. “Father’s in the dining room.” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out my C-sharp. I took it from him. His hand was warm, his fingers smooth.

“Thank you.”

“He shouldn’t have thrown it in the fire.” Karl shook his head. “What he said about sentimentality, ignore him.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant, but Ivanka walked into the room with a tray of breakfast dishes. She laid the tray by the sink and filled the basin with water. Karl plunged his hands into the soapy water. I reached for a dishcloth, but he shook his head.

“I told my father I had to wash my hands.” Karl spoke quickly. “Better if they’re wet.”

All our conversations were like that — half finished, tentative. They were small offerings at first — a whispered word about a piece I was practicing or the tilt of his sketch pad toward the piano. Single words, scraps of information. From the books he left piled on the floor, I knew he loved horses. He learned about me through my music.

The winter wore on, and we grew more bold. I told Karl about my mother’s disappearance. I was on the porch one morning, taking off my boots. He was heading out. We had less than a minute. I faced the door while I untied my laces. He faced the street.

“I got back from the audition, and she was gone,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t turn to look at me.

That’s how it always was when we spoke. Karl facing away from me or looking past me or staring down at his feet, never looking me in the eye.

“I miss her,” I whispered, my breath pale in the frozen air.

“My mother’s dead,” he said. “I miss her, too.”

I looked forward to those moments, even though I knew I was supposed to hate Karl. He was the enemy, or at least the enemy’s son. He slept under an eiderdown, read by the fire, ate when he was hungry, and rested when he was tired. I wanted to hate him. I tried, but then he’d hide a biscuit wrapped in tissue between the sheets in the laundry basket or leave a drawing on his chair, knowing I’d see it, and my resolve would weaken.

I found myself looking forward to my days at the villa. Knowing I’d see Karl the next morning made the nights easier. I’d lie on my bunk, my joints stiff from the cold, my arms wrapped around Erika to stop her teeth from chattering, and I’d think about Karl tucked up in bed, reading, or singing an aria for his tutor, or drawing in the music room. I hated the camp, and I hated the snowflakes that clung to my hair and dripped down my back. I hated roll call and I hated the guards, but I couldn’t hate Karl.

I turned sixteen in Birkenau. It was the eleventh of December, 1944. A Monday. Erika nudged me awake.

“I was going to bake you a cake.” She smiled weakly. “But we’re all out of flour. So I got you this.” She reached under the bunk and pulled out a piece of bread. In the center of the slice was the stub of a candle burned down to the quick.

It was still dark outside, and the women on either side of us were fast asleep. I pretended to blow out the candle, and then we shared the “cake.” I’d always looked forward to birthdays — to the party and the presents and growing a year older. This year I just wanted to know that Mother and Father were alive and that there was a chance we’d celebrate my seventeenth birthday together in Debrecen.

When I saw Rosa on the steps of the villa that morning, I didn’t tell her it was my birthday. I’d hoped she and I might become friends, but Rosa didn’t want friends.

“The commandant is out,” she reported stiffly. “He’s entertaining visitors from Berlin. They’ll be having lunch in town. Upon their return, you’re to play Wagner and Bruckner.”

“No Schubert?”

She shook her head.

“Chopin?” I ventured a smile. “What about Brahms?”

Rosa rolled her eyes and walked inside.

I shook the snow from my coat and followed her into the house. The warmth was an assault after the bitterly cold hike. Rosa disappeared up the stairs with a bucket and mop. I peered into the kitchen. It was empty. So was the dining room. Maybe Karl was out with his father. I headed to the music room, hoping I was wrong, hoping he was sitting by the window with a sketch pad in his hand, but he wasn’t. I stood in the corner until lunchtime, then crept to the piano to practice. I was halfway through Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 4 when Karl walked in. His hair was slick with oil, and he wore a tie knotted at his neck. I tried to ignore how handsome he looked.

“Do we have
Tristan and Isolde
?” he asked, rifling through some sheet music. “Father wants me to sing it next week for some guests.” I wondered if he knew that the name Tristan meant sorrow and that he died of a broken heart in the last aria.

I rummaged through the cupboard next to the piano.

“You do,” I said, sitting down and setting the music on the piano stand.

“I don’t know all the words,” he said, walking around to where I sat. “Do you mind?”

He stopped beside me and leaned in to read the music.

“Of course not,” I said, my skin prickling with heat.

His first notes were tentative.

“Come with me,” he sang, faltering on the high notes.
I can’t
, Isolde’s reply sang in my head.

“Why not?” Karl sang, and I fumbled for the right notes. I didn’t know if it was the music or being close to Karl or turning sixteen, but whatever it was, I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t let myself cry. Not now, not after all I’d been through, not for a boy. A tear skidded down my cheek.

He reached into his pocket and held out a handkerchief. I stared at it. A perfect square of white cotton, folded into fours. And embroidered in the corner in red stitching, his initials: KJ.

“Keep it,” he said.

I shook my head. “It has your initials on it.”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“If anyone saw me with it, they’d think I’d stolen it.”

His face reddened. He balled up the handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket.

Rosa hovered in the hallway, a rag in her hand. Karl took a seat at the back of the room and pretended to read. I filled the space between us with music. I played Schumann’s
Fantasie
, my heart hammering against my chest.

“Why that piece?” Karl asked when Rosa had disappeared up the stairs.

I tried not to blush. “Robert Schumann wrote it for Clara Wieck.” I returned the pages to the music cupboard and tidied the shelves so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“They weren’t allowed to see each other.”
Clara’s father didn’t want his famous daughter marrying a struggling composer. He took her on tour to keep them apart
. I’d read it so often, I knew the story by heart, every stage of their courtship, the date Schumann proposed, how many days they were kept apart. I never tired of telling it. I closed the cupboard with clammy hands and returned to my seat. “Robert sent her the first movement of the
Fantasie
opus during their separation.”
He wrote it for her, had it hand-delivered behind her father’s back, and when she played it, Clara knew her fate was sealed
.

I looked down at the piano. Neither of us spoke for a while. Karl stood up and walked to the door. “Wait here.”

I sat on my hands.
If he doesn’t come back by the time I reach one hundred
. . . I started counting.

He returned with a cup of tea and a custard cake glazed with honey.

“It’s left over from yesterday, but it’s still good.” He held out the plate and saw that I resisted. “I’ll set it down here.” He placed the plate and the cup on the side table and dragged his chair alongside it. “If anyone comes in, they’ll think it’s mine.”

We both listened for footsteps. The house was quiet, the corridor empty. I lunged at the cake. I tried to eat delicately, to take small bites and chew with my mouth closed, but after the first lick of custard, I gave in. I tore a slab from the cake and shoveled it into my mouth. I turned to Karl, custard dribbling down my chin.

“That’s my second piece of cake today.” I smiled. It felt good to smile, but it also felt wrong. Karl looked confused.

“It’s my birthday,” I said, regretting the words as soon as I’d said them.

“Happy birthday. How old —?”

The grandfather clock in the hall struck midday and Karl stood to leave.

“My singing teacher will be here soon.” He gathered up the plates and walked to the door. “Sorry about the handkerchief. It was stupid of me.” He looked down at his feet. “Me even being here. It was selfish. I’m sorry.”

I spent the afternoon playing Bruckner and Wagner for the commandant and his guests. My fingers found the notes even when my mind was elsewhere. I was in the Puszta forest, picnicking with Karl, and beside him at the opera, and in the park, feeding the ducks. He kept me company all afternoon and on the long walk back to the barrack, but he disappeared at the barbed-wire fence.

I opened the barrack door. It was dark. I was tired. I climbed onto the bunk. Next to me three women huddled together.

“Hanerot halalu anachnu madlikin.”

I recognized the whispered prayer. The woman next to me was reciting a Hanukkah prayer in Hebrew, a blessing my mother made every year over the Hanukkah candles. We’d light the candles and eat doughnuts sprinkled with sugar, in celebration of the miracle of the burning oil. I reached under my bunk.

“Here,” I whispered, handing the woman the stub of the candle Erika pretended to light for my birthday.

“Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu . . .”
She pulled a matchbox from beneath her bunk, struck the one remaining match, and lit the wick. It sparked and fizzed, but failed to light.

“Hashem, God of our fathers.” The woman held the blackened wick above her head and returned to her prayers. “We light this light for the miracles and wonders you bestowed upon our forefathers.” The women next to her repeated the prayer, their fingers outstretched toward the burned-out wick. I looked at their faces alight with hope and wished I could find the comfort they sought.

“When the Maccabees went to the temple to light the Menorah, they found only enough oil for one day.”

“One day,” the women echoed, their faces shiny with hope.

“One day,” the woman with the wick whispered into the dark. “But the oil lasted eight.”

“The commandant won’t be needing you to play piano this morning. He has important business to attend to and doesn’t want to be distracted.” Rosa stopped me in the hallway. “I’m sure you’ll find something to do. The commandant’s son is already in the music room.”

Karl was bent over a battered cardboard box, his hands buried in tinsel. A small tree stood unadorned in the corner of the room.

I opened the music cupboard and pulled out a rag. Another day of dusting. I bent over the piano and ran the rag over the keys. The commandant had come to the music room only once in the last two weeks. I hoped his absence had something to do with the recent fireworks over Birkenau. The block leader said the Russians were coming to save us. The barrack windows had rattled and the sky had glowed orange, but the Russians never came.

“Is the commandant entertaining tonight?” I looked down at the thumb I’d scraped on the rough wood of my bunk and hoped I wouldn’t have to play piano. I could still see the dark tip of a splinter buried under my skin.

“No. He’s on his way out. It’ll just be the two of us.” He hunched over the box. It was just the two of us now, and Karl still wouldn’t look at me.

“Why won’t you look at me? Is it this?” I asked, peeling my scarf from my head.

“No.” Karl looked wounded. “Of course not.”

I tugged the scarf back over my head.

“It’s just . . .” Karl tunneled deeper into the tinsel. “When I look at you, I see what we’ve done.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

“I know.” He stared at the box. “You hate Birkenau. I hate it, too. I thought I could hide here, that if I didn’t leave the house and go over there”— he looked in the direction of the camp —“I could pretend it didn’t exist.” He looked down at his feet. “And then you arrived.” He stood up and brushed the tinsel from his trousers. A strand of silver ribbon clung to his shirt. He pulled his sketch pad from the side table, opened it to the last page, and walked toward me. I stopped dusting. When he reached the piano, he pulled the stool out and placed the sketch pad on it.

“I did this a while ago.” Patches of red spread over his cheeks. I looked down at the open book. On the last page was a drawing, done in charcoal, of a girl with large pale eyes. She was half hidden in shadow, so you couldn’t see her hair or her clothes, but you could tell she was beautiful. Her skin was infused with light, her lips parted in a secret smile.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered, turning to Karl.

He looked down at the drawing. “Of course she’s beautiful.” He brought his face close to mine. “She’s you.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” Rosa stepped from the shadow of the doorway. Karl reached for the sketchbook and flipped it shut. “I just wanted to see if Master Jager wanted a fresh pot of tea?” She didn’t look sorry. And when she said it, she wasn’t looking at Karl; she was staring at me.