Writing Style
Chapter One
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Alexandria Constantinova Szeman

The writing style of Szeman's novels is highly unusual, moving as it does from past to present to a further back past and back again, without warning. It imitates how the mind works, especially with respect to memory, where everything always seems to be happening in the present, and where thoughts, sounds, smells, feelings, and words lead to memories which then lead to other thoughts, feelings, etc. and to other memories associatively.

Sometimes the switch between scenes in The Kommandant's Mistress is triggered by words in the narrator's memory; at other times, the switch is triggered symbolically by something in the previous scene(s).

For dialogue tags, only "s/he said" was used, even for questions (as William Faulkner does in his books & stories) so that the reader is responsible for "interpreting" how the character is saying the lines. There are no adverbs for the dialogue, unless it refers to volume (e.g., yelled, chanted, or whispered), and those are not in the actual tags.

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Chapter One of 

The Kommandant's Mistress

PART ONE
Maximilian von Walther
The Kommandant

For who can make straight
that which He hath made crooked?
Ecclesiastes 7:13

CHAPTER ONE

Then I saw her. There she stood, in the village store, her hair in a long braid down the center of her back, her skin white in the sunlight, and my hand went to my hip, seeking the weight of my gun. As the girl spoke, I stumbled back against one of the shelves, my fingers tightening at the leather around my waist. 

While the shopkeeper arranged the food in the bag, the morning sun glinted on the storefront windows, illuminating the girl. The wooden shelves pressed into my shoulders and back.

Sweat dampened my forehead and ribs. Another shopper spoke, frowned, pushed aside my arm to reach a jar on the shelf behind me, but I didn't move. My hand slid down over my hip and leg. No, I'd forgotten that I no longer wore my gun. 

There she stood. The first time my adjutant brought her to my office, she seemed frailer than in the yard: the faded grey dress hung loosely from her thinned shoulders. A red scarf was on her head. After my adjutant addressed me, I put down my pen and rose from my desk. 

I dismissed my adjutant and approached the girl. Her cheekbones were sharp under the skin, and the hollows around her eyes were faintly shadowed, but her lips were full, and the light grey gown fluttered over her small, firm breasts. 

I nodded as I slowly moved around her, my baton brushing her belly, hips, thighs. She did not move away. I stroked my hand down the center of her back: she wore nothing beneath the thin gown. I smiled to myself as my fingers dragged themselves around her slender body, until the girl and I faced each other. When my baton lifted her chin, she did not look away. 

"Ja," I said, returning her stare. "Ja." 

I did not look away. I have never looked away. Even in the beginning, I faced it all, without blinking. I stared up at the speakers' platform and I nodded. 

All around me, eager young men wore black uniforms, like mine, under the clear night sky. We gazed up at the speakers' platform, at the small man in wire-framed glasses. 

He was only a name to us then, his face outlined by the flames of the torches surrounding the platform, surrounding us. Our chests swelled under the black wool. Our breath sounded in each other's ears as we leaned toward the podium to catch his words. 

In the dark, the speaker's glasses reflected the torch light: bright flames burned in place of his eyes. 

"We are the pure of this nation," he said. "We are the noble. We are the good. We are the hope of our country." 
All of us officer candidates nodded. 
"We do not fear to shed our own blood for our cause," he said. "More important, we do not fear to shed others' blood." 

No, we had never been afraid of sacrifice. We applauded until he raised his hand for silence. 

"You have pledged your honor and duty, but I expect you to do more than your duty," said his voice from the flames. "I expect you to save our country. Save our country. Save our Fatherland." 

The crowd roared. I gripped the butt of my pistol with one hand and raised my other hand in salute. 

It's difficult to explain to someone who wasn't there. The speaker, high on a platform above us, his arms raised to the dark of the night. The glow of the flames, the warmth of the uniforms, the smell of excitement. The glare of the light in our eyes. 

And all around me, my companions' voices, chanting, like a prayer. 

"Mein Ehre heisst treue," I said. "My honor is my loyalty." 

The glare of the light stung my eyes. The pistol was heavy in my hand, but comfortable. Warm. It was trembling. I gripped the top of the weapon and readied it for firing, pulling up and back on the two circles of metal at its top:snap, click. 

I raised the gun. My hand lowered. I took another drink of whiskey, set the glass on the back of the sink. 

I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and lifted the weapon again. Its muzzle pressed against cold flesh. 

"Do it," I said. "Do it." 

When I opened my eyes, the image of myself in the bathroom mirror fixed me: the muzzle gouged the skin at my right temple. My hair was like an animal's. My eyes like an inmate's. My stomach and throat heaved. 

I bent over the sink until the gagging stopped, gripping the cold basin with my free hand. It seemed so easy to think of it: put the gun against bone. Pull the trigger. 

I'd fired the weapon so many times I could have used it in my sleep. I splashed my face with cold water. I stood. I held my breath and pressed the weapon tighter against my skull. 

Tighter. Tighter. Steel against bone. Bone against steel. Tighter. Tighter. Until my head hurt. 

No, I wasn't afraid: I wasn't strong enough. 

"My head hurts, Daddy," said Ilse. 
She slumped in her chair at the dinner table, grimacing as she rested her chin in her palm. 
"From the gas." 

"Gas?" I said, my knife scraping against my plate. "I don't smell any gas." 
"Maybe the stove needs to be checked," said Marta. 

She wiped her hands on her apron after she set her own dinner plate on the table and leaned over the stove, squinting and sniffing near the burners. 

"Maybe one of the pilots blew out," she said. 

"Not that gas," said Ilse. 
"What gas?" I said, putting down my fork and wiping my mouth with my napkin. 
"The Jew-gas," said Ilse, leaning more into her hand. 

"Jew-gas?" said Marta, standing up from the stove. "What are you talking about, Ilse?" 

"The Jew-gas, the Jew-gas. The gas that kills the Jews." 

"Max," said Marta, looking at me. 
"You can't smell that gas, Ilse," I said. 

"Yes, I can." 
"No, you can't." 
"It's giving me a headache." 
"If you could smell that gas, you wouldn't be alive right now." 

I broke apart a piece of dark bread. Ilse shoved away her plate. At the other end of the dinner table, Hans knocked his spoon off the tray of his high chair. He kicked his feet and leaned over the side of his chair, reaching for the spoon. I put more potatoes on my plate. 

"I can smell the Jew-gas," said Ilse. "It's making me sick." 

"You can't smell it. If you smelled it, you'd be dead." 
"Max, please." 

Hans squealed and kicked the tray of his high chair. I cut another piece of meat as Marta sat down. Ilse pushed away her silverware. Hans kicked the edge of the dinner table. Marta reached for the baby's spoon, lying on the floor beside his high chair. 

"Eat, Ilse," I said. "You can't smell that gas." 

"It's giving me a headache anyway." 

Marta never liked it when I discussed work at the dinner table. Even if the children were already in bed. Even when I spoke with Dieter. 

I don't think women understand men's work. They're so intent on family they don't see that the family couldn't exist without everything that we men do, without our work. 

But men understand each other, without having to talk about it. Dieter and I almost always understood each other. Whenever Dieter had the time to join me for a few hours, I had the cook serve us lunch in my office, so Dieter and I could really talk.

I raised my glass of wine and stared at it before draining the goblet. The aroma of garlic and spices filled my office as Dieter and I sat ourselves down at the table. 

"Caviar," said Dieter, scooping some of the glistening black beads onto toasted bread. "How did you pull that off?" 
"I'm the Kommandant," I said.

I lifted my glass toward Dieter's. 
"To the greater glory of Germany," I said. 
"To our Führer," said Dieter, clicking his glass' rim against mine. 

We drained our glasses. As I lifted the bottle of burgundy and refilled the glasses, Dieter spread another crisp of bread with caviar. He closed his eyes as he put it into his mouth, and he made appreciative noises as he chewed. 

"Delicious," said Dieter. 
"To the everlasting Third Reich," I said, raising my glass. 
"To the wealth of the Jews," said Dieter. 

Our glasses clinked. The light from the windows glinted as the goblets were emptied and refilled. The music of violas, violins, and cellos swelled around the walls of my office as Dieter lifted the cover of one of the chafing dishes and inhaled. 

"To us, my old friend," I said. 
"To us," said Dieter, replacing the lid. 
He drank his glass of wine and lifted more food covers. 

"I envy you, Max, being here instead of at the front, or in Berlin." 
"I deserve it," I said. 
"So do I, but I don't have it." 

"You like being at the front. You like the excitement." 
"Sometimes," said Dieter. "But here: no bullets whizzing by your face in your sleep, no one hanging over your shoulder, memorizing every movement, writing down every word to put in a file on you." 

"Sometimes the stench is unbearable," I said, twisting the corkscrew, releasing the cork from the wine bottle. "Marta complains all the time." 

"And you have such a beautiful Jewess," said Dieter, his mouth full of pâté. 

We both looked over at the girl. She sat, motionless, on the floor in the corner, her legs drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs. She wore no scarf, and her short hair looked white. She gazed steadily in front of her, at the windows darkened by storm clouds. 

"Such an extraordinary face," said Dieter, "even now." 
"Yes." 

"And Marta doesn't…" 
"Marta is not permitted in my office." 
"Wives complain about everything," said Dieter, filling his plate with roasted meat. 
"Yes." 

"Rudi had to send his Jewess off," said Dieter, pouring gravy over his meat and sighing. 

"He did?" 
"And the son." 
"When?" I said, leaning forward.
"Last month." 
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought I did," said Dieter. 

"He sent her to the gas?" 
"Maybe he shot her," said Dieter, his mouth full. "I'm not sure. I'll ask around." 

"So the rumors were true," I said, and Dieter nodded. "Owl-eyes had him." 
"If he didn't, the Blond Beast did," said Dieter. "Delicious goose." 
"Done just right," I said. "Just the way I like it." 

"How will you take care of the girl?" he said. 

"What do you mean, how will I take care of the girl?" 
"You heard me," said Marta. "How will you take care of the girl?" 

When I looked up, Marta slapped a book down on the coffee table in front of me. 

"What are you talking about?" I said. 
"You should have taken care of her before," said Marta, "when I told you to. Now look what she's done." 

On the coffee table lay a slim book, dark red, with black lettering: The Dead Bodies That Line The Streets. 

When I stretched out my hand to pick up the book, Marta snatched it away, opening it as she stood there, frowning at me, tapping her foot. 

"Do you want to hear? Do you want to hear what that Jewish whore wrote about you?" 
"She didn't write anything about me," I said, standing, the newspaper sliding from my lap to the floor. "That's impossible." 
"You want to hear 'impossible'?" said Marta, flipping the pages. "Listen to this: 'First Day of German Class'." 

"Give me the book," I said, and Marta stepped back. 
" 'The German sweeps in: blue-grey uniform with a halo of sunlight'." 
"Let me see it." 
" 'He trembles, and I know that he, too, has been longing to play this part'." 

"Give it to me," I said. 
"And this," said Marta, slapping my hands with the book when I reached for it. "This: 'In the Bedroom of the Kommandant'." 

"What?" 
"You took her to our bedroom," said Marta, shaking the book at me. "A whore. A Jewess. In our bedroom. In my bed." 

"Marta, let me see the book." 
"You lied to me," said Marta, slamming me on the arm with the closed book. 
"It's all a lie," I said. "All of it." 
"And the things you said to her." 

"I didn't say anything to her." 
"She's just a Jew, you told me, over and over," said Marta. "Isn't that what you said?" 
"She is just a Jew." 

"She's a Jew who understands German," said Marta. 
"She didn't understand German." 

"It's all here," said Marta, her forefinger stabbing the book's cover. 
"Not even the simplest things." 

"You stupid, stupid man. She understood everything." 
"No." 
"She put it all down." 
"No." 
"Names. Dates. Places." 

"She didn't understand," I said, shaking my head and reaching for the book again. 

"Everything you ever said around her." 

"She couldn't " 
"You're the one who doesn't understand, Max." 
"It's a lie." 

"It's an indictment. She wouldn't even need to be called as a witness. She's already testified. Here. In these pages." 

"It's a mistake." 
Marta threw the book across the room. 
"It's every mistake you ever made, Max." 

I stared at the thin book.
"You should have taken care of her when you said you would. You shouldn't have lied to me, Max." 

I crossed the room and stood, looking down at the book. 
"If she testifies, they'll hang you. What will I do then? And the children, what about them?" 

I knelt. 
"Didn't you think of us? Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself?" Marta paced, her hands clenched. 

I picked up The Dead Bodies. 
"There must be some mistake," I said. 
"A Jewess," said Marta. "In my bed." 

"There's been a mistake," I said. "You're not a Jew." 

The young girl who had just alighted from the train stared up at me. The spotlights glowed on her hair, and her skin was translucent. 

An elderly man and woman clung to the girl's arms as she stood there amidst the jumbled luggage. The guards with their rifles and their barking dogs swarmed around, crushing the resettled families together on the night platform. 

"Are you a Jew?" I said. 

The girl looked silently at me. When the Sonderkommando dragged themselves nearer, with their black and white striped uniforms and their shaved heads, the elderly couple shrank against the girl. 

"Josef," I said, and my adjutant came over to stand beside me. 
"Kommandant?" 
"Find out what language she speaks," I said. 

He spoke to the girl. She answered. 
"Hungarian," he said. 
"Are you a Jew?" I said. 
The girl looked at me while the adjutant translated. The girl nodded. 

"You don't look like a Jew." 
The girl glanced down at the six-pointed gold patch stitched securely over her left breast. Her fingers brushed its edges. 

"She says she's a Jew." 

"Are both of your parents Jews?" I said. 
"These are her parents." 
The two old people clinging to her arms nodded. 

"Do you have any ancestors who were not Jews?" 
The girl shook her head. I stared at her a moment before walking away. 

"I wish I could help you, but there's nothing I can do." 

"There's nothing you can do now," said the young man in the hotel dining room as he hit his fists against my table, jostling my wine glass. His eyes and features were wild. 

"Have we met?" I said, putting down my newspaper. 
"I know who you are," said the young man. "I know what you've done." 

"Waiter," I said. 
"You killed my father," said the young man. 
"Can I help you, sir?" said the waiter, looking at the young man. 

"Get away from me. My business is with him." 
"Herr Hoffmann is one of our guests. I must ask that you …" 
"This isn't your business." 

"This young man is disturbing me," I said. "And I doubt that he's a guest here." 

"Come away," said the waiter as he took hold of the young man's arm. 

"You killed my mother," said the young man. "Did you think I would forget you? Did you think any of us would forget you?" 

"I'll notify the desk," said the waiter, waving one of his colleagues from another station. 
A second waiter joined the first, and several diners turned to view the commotion. The boy bumped the table, spilling the water and the wine. 

"You won't get away so easily this time," said the young man. "I'm not alone." 

"Come along," said the first waiter. 
"Don't disturb our guests," said the second. 
"I know you, von Walther," said the young man. 

"You've mistaken me for someone else," I said, and I stood as the young man twisted his body in the waiters' grip. 

"We'll call the police," said the waiters as they tugged him toward the doorway. "Come away. Don't cause trouble." 

"He killed my sister," said the young man. 

The desk clerk picked up the telephone. I straightened my jacket and glanced around the room. The other diners looked down at their food. I reseated myself at the table as the two waiters struggled with the young man, dragging him toward the lobby. 

Several diners leaned toward each other over their tables and whispered. My bread had fallen onto my plate and was lying there, reddened, beside the steak. A third waiter righted my wine glass and filled it. 

"We're sorry for the disturbance, Herr Hoffmann," said a fourth waiter as he dabbed at the spilled wine with towels. 

"Do you want to hear what we're going to do to you?" said the young man from the lobby. 
"Most embarrassing, sir," said one of the waiters as he removed the soaked newspaper. "We do apologize." 

"It's not your fault," I said, reaching for my wine glass. 

The glass trembled when I touched it. I left the glass on the table. 

"Do you want to hear your future, von Walther?" said the young man as he strained against the grip of the waiters and the hotel's guard. 

"We do apologize, sir," said the waiter as I picked up my knife and fork. 

"Do you want to hear?" 
"Yes, tell me," I said. "Tell me what happened." 

" 'In my life I have been a prophet, and tonight'," said Dieter, " 'I want to be a prophet once more'." 
"Did he really say that?" I said. "During dinner?" 
"Between the soup and vegetable course," said Dieter, nodding. "He said…" 

"How did you get invited?" I said, leaning back into the cushions of the couch. "I've never been to dinner with him." 

"I told you," said Dieter as he lit his cigar. "My sister-in-law's cousin's husband. Do you want to hear what he said or not?" 

"Of course," I said. "Tell me." 
"Between the soup and the vegetable course he said, 'We will annihilate the Jews in Europe'." 

"Yes. What else?" 
" 'We will save Germany'," said Dieter as Marta brought in the tray with coffee and cake. 

"Chocolate cake," said Marta. "And real coffee." 
"Marta," said Dieter, swooning toward her. "I'm in love. Will you marry me?" 
Marta laughed as she sliced the cake with its thick caramel icing. 

"Was he really wearing a tie that didn't match his jacket?" said Marta. 
"Unfortunately," said Dieter, spooning sugar into his coffee. 
"Was she there?" said Marta. "What's she like?" 

"The Führer says we'll save Germany," I said, and Marta looked at me. 

"How does it feel to be a Saviour?" said Dieter. 

"Save Germany?" said Marta. 
"Yes," I said. "Save…" 
"Save Germany? We have to save ourselves," said Marta, "and the children. We can't think of anything else right now." 

"Are you sure it's a warrant for my arrest?" I said, tying the belt on my robe. 

"As soon as I heard your name, I grabbed my coat and rushed out," said the boy. "If they're not on their way now, they'll be here first thing in the morning." 

"For my arrest?" 
"Go," said Marta to the boy. 

He clutched his cap, and rushed back into the night. Marta went to the stairs. 

"Max, the trunks are in the upstairs closet." 
"They're going to arrest me?" 
"Max, we have to move quickly." 
"Arrest me? On what charges?" 
"Max," said Marta. 

She hurried over to me, her fingers digging into my forearm. 
"Max." 

"What did I do? Name one thing." 
"Go wake the children," said Marta.

 

 from The Kommandant's Mistress
© 1993, 2000, 2012 Alexandria Constantinova Szeman
(formerly writing as "Sherri")

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