Пэм Дженофф – Kommandant's Girl (страница 7)

One Friday night, when I had been coming to Shabbes dinner at Josefinska 13 for about six weeks, Helga, the woman who cooked the dinner each week, approached Marta and me as the evening was ending and we were putting on our coats. “Alek would like to see you,” she said, addressing me.

My stomach jumped. Marta flashed me a questioning look. I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “You don’t have to wait for me,” I told her. The woman gestured toward the door at the back of the room. I approached nervously, wondering if perhaps I had done something to offend Alek. But when I knocked on the half-open door, he waved me in affably.

The back room was less than half the size of the front, with a small table covered in papers, a few chairs and a cot. “Emma, I’m Alek,” he said warmly, extending his hand. I shook it, surprised he knew my name. Alek introduced the man who had been seated beside him at dinner. “This is Marek.” The other man nodded and, gathering a stack of papers from the table, excused himself from the room. “Have a seat.” I perched on the edge of the chair Alek had indicated. Up close, I could see the dark circles and fine lines around his eyes. “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner, but I have had pressing business.” I wondered what kind of business one could have in the ghetto. “Emma, let me be blunt.” He lowered his voice. “We have a mutual friend.” His eyebrows lifted. “A very close friend. From the university.”

Alek knows Jacob, I realized, my heart leaping. I was unable to control the flash of recognition that crossed my face. Then, regaining my composure, I started to protest. “I … I don’t know what you’re …

“Don’t worry.” He raised his hand to silence me. “I am the only one who knows.” He continued, “I heard about you from him some time ago, saw your picture.” I blushed. He was referring to our wedding photo, the same one that Krysia had hidden. I knew Jacob had a copy, but I didn’t realize he had shown it to anyone. Did he still have it? I wondered. How long ago had he shown it to this man? “He asked me to keep an eye out in case you arrived here,” Alex explained. “I didn’t know who you were until you came here recently. We do the same work, you see, your friend and I.” I realized then that Alek was also part of the resistance movement.

“Have you …?” I didn’t dare to finish the question.

“We occasionally have word from him, usually through our messengers, since of course he cannot come to the ghetto. I will send word that we’ve made contact and that you are all right.”

“Please, it would mean a great deal to me.” He nodded. I hesitated before speaking again. “Can I help, too … with the work, I mean?”

Alek shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, but no. Our friend thought that you might ask, and he made it very clear that you were not to become involved. He is concerned for your safety.”

“I wish he was a little less concerned with my safety and a little more with his own.” I was surprised at the forcefulness of my own words.

Alek eyed me sternly. “Your husband is a great fighter, Emma. You should be very proud.”

“I am,” I replied, chastised.

“Good. For the time being, I will respect his wishes and keep you uninvolved. But—” he paused, stroking his goatee “—you are your own person, and if you wish to help, the time may come when you can be of use to us. As you can see, many women are involved.” He gestured to the larger room and I realized for the first time that the others at the Shabbes gathering, including Marta, were actually part of the resistance. “Meanwhile, you are always welcome here. Of course, the others cannot know who you are—your marriage must remain a secret. I just wanted to make contact and let you know about our connection.”

“Thank you.” I grasped Alek’s arm, a wave of relief and gratitude washing over me. He nodded and smiled warmly, then turned back to his paperwork in a manner that, while not rude, told me that our conversation was over and it was time for me to go. I crossed back through the apartment and out the door, almost dancing. Alek knew Jacob and he knew about our marriage. For the first time since my husband had disappeared, I did not feel completely alone.

CHAPTER 4

The Monday after my conversation with Alek, Marta appeared at the orphanage as my shift ended. I was not surprised to see her; she had dropped by almost every day in the time since we’d become friends. “I have to return the kettle to the kitchen,” I told her. Each morning, the central kitchen in the ghetto delivered a large vat of soup to the orphanage for the children. The broth was always pale and watery, with only tiny flecks of potato or cabbage. The meager cup that each child was allotted as one of two meals each day was not nearly enough; 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.