were two wicker baskets, each containing a pair of black boots, beside them a scrubbing brush and a neatly folded rag. Mother would like this house.
“Shoes off,” Trommler ordered, pulling her boots from her feet. I yanked off my shoes and looked down at my ragged toenails and the sores on my feet from working in shoes two sizes too small.
“Come in.” The girl at the door wore a maid’s outfit, a pale grey dress with a white scallop-edged apron tied at the waist. We followed her into a wide hallway. I stood under the soaring ceiling, dwarfed by the towering walls. The floors were dark wood, the walls a stark, bright white, all of them bare. There were no rugs to soften the floor, no wall hangings or side tables or umbrellas in stands, no hooks on the walls on which to hang coats or keys. The commandant may have slept in this house, but it wasn’t a home.
I peered down the hallway. The doors were all closed, save the very last one.
“The piano room,” the girl announced, stepping aside to let us through. I followed Trommler into another vast space, but this one was softened by rugs. In the middle of the room was a Bösendorfer grand. I sat at the back of the room, my eyes glued to the glossy black piano. Tucked under the gleaming piano was a black lacquered stool with a black leather seat, and on top of its polished lid sat an antique glass lamp and a handsome mahogany clock. A row of dining room chairs was fanned out behind the piano. Lagerführerin Holzman sat at the end of the row, her blond hair in a braid, her face turned toward the window. Behind her stood a soldier with a gun slung over his shoulder, and to his left Hitler watched from a photo in a silver frame.
A man entered the room trailed by a German shepherd and an SS guard. He had the bearing of a man accustomed to walking through doorways first. It wasn’t his height, though he was tall, or the gun gleaming on his belt, or even his uniform, which was cinched in at the waist and dripping with medals. It was the way he moved across the room; he expected to be noticed.
Lagerführerin Holzman and Oberaufseherin Trommler jumped to their feet.
“Would Captain Jager like to hear some music?” the lagerführerin asked. The commandant ran a hand through his cropped yellow hair, undid the top button of his jacket and sat down. A scar ran across his square jaw, pale white against his pink skin. His eyes were a metallic blue, his smile glacial. His face gave away nothing. I’d hoped his appearance might give me some clue as to his taste in music, some hint that he preferred Hayden to Handel, or romantic waltzes to fugues.
The commandant pulled a metal stick from under his chair.
“Danke schön, Frau Lagerführerin. Please begin.”
The Lagerführerin called the first girl. “A10512. Take a seat at the piano.”
Trommler elbowed the first girl from her seat. She scrambled to the piano, ovals of sweat under her arms. The commandant yawned before she reached the end of the first page.
“Tyrolean marches aren’t to my taste,” he said, ordering the girl back to her seat. The commandant wasn’t a patient man. When the second girl faltered in the third stanza of
Mephisto Waltz No.1
, he had her wait outside. The third girl to audition played a Korngold piano sonata. My heart dipped as soon she started to play. Piri had taught me the same sonata in the ghetto, on the condition I play it whisper-quiet. I hadn’t asked why; I knew Korngold was Jewish and all his sonatas were banned. The poor girl’s fingers struck the keys and I said nothing. And then the commandant was getting out of his seat, and it was too late to warn her because he was standing over her and yanking her from her seat and striking her flushed face with the back of his hand. A bruise flowered on her left cheek, and something inside me turned black. A soldier hurried to the commandant’s side. He pulled his gun from his holster, thrust it at the girl’s head and forced her through
“Shoes off,” Trommler ordered, pulling her boots from her feet. I yanked off my shoes and looked down at my ragged toenails and the sores on my feet from working in shoes two sizes too small.
“Come in.” The girl at the door wore a maid’s outfit, a pale grey dress with a white scallop-edged apron tied at the waist. We followed her into a wide hallway. I stood under the soaring ceiling, dwarfed by the towering walls. The floors were dark wood, the walls a stark, bright white, all of them bare. There were no rugs to soften the floor, no wall hangings or side tables or umbrellas in stands, no hooks on the walls on which to hang coats or keys. The commandant may have slept in this house, but it wasn’t a home.
I peered down the hallway. The doors were all closed, save the very last one.
“The piano room,” the girl announced, stepping aside to let us through. I followed Trommler into another vast space, but this one was softened by rugs. In the middle of the room was a Bösendorfer grand. I sat at the back of the room, my eyes glued to the glossy black piano. Tucked under the gleaming piano was a black lacquered stool with a black leather seat, and on top of its polished lid sat an antique glass lamp and a handsome mahogany clock. A row of dining room chairs was fanned out behind the piano. Lagerführerin Holzman sat at the end of the row, her blond hair in a braid, her face turned toward the window. Behind her stood a soldier with a gun slung over his shoulder, and to his left Hitler watched from a photo in a silver frame.
A man entered the room trailed by a German shepherd and an SS guard. He had the bearing of a man accustomed to walking through doorways first. It wasn’t his height, though he was tall, or the gun gleaming on his belt, or even his uniform, which was cinched in at the waist and dripping with medals. It was the way he moved across the room; he expected to be noticed.
Lagerführerin Holzman and Oberaufseherin Trommler jumped to their feet.
“Would Captain Jager like to hear some music?” the lagerführerin asked. The commandant ran a hand through his cropped yellow hair, undid the top button of his jacket and sat down. A scar ran across his square jaw, pale white against his pink skin. His eyes were a metallic blue, his smile glacial. His face gave away nothing. I’d hoped his appearance might give me some clue as to his taste in music, some hint that he preferred Hayden to Handel, or romantic waltzes to fugues.
The commandant pulled a metal stick from under his chair.
“Danke schön, Frau Lagerführerin. Please begin.”
The Lagerführerin called the first girl. “A10512. Take a seat at the piano.”
Trommler elbowed the first girl from her seat. She scrambled to the piano, ovals of sweat under her arms. The commandant yawned before she reached the end of the first page.
“Tyrolean marches aren’t to my taste,” he said, ordering the girl back to her seat. The commandant wasn’t a patient man. When the second girl faltered in the third stanza of
Mephisto Waltz No.1
, he had her wait outside. The third girl to audition played a Korngold piano sonata. My heart dipped as soon she started to play. Piri had taught me the same sonata in the ghetto, on the condition I play it whisper-quiet. I hadn’t asked why; I knew Korngold was Jewish and all his sonatas were banned. The poor girl’s fingers struck the keys and I said nothing. And then the commandant was getting out of his seat, and it was too late to warn her because he was standing over her and yanking her from her seat and striking her flushed face with the back of his hand. A bruise flowered on her left cheek, and something inside me turned black. A soldier hurried to the commandant’s side. He pulled his gun from his holster, thrust it at the girl’s head and forced her through
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