The next morning I walk up the ramp to Wawel Castle filled with newfound purpose. Time is of the essence, Alek said. In any event, there is no point in delaying getting close to the Kommandant. It is like pulling off a painful bandage, I analogize; best to do it quickly. The only question is how. Once at my desk, I review the Kommandant’s schedule. He has meetings over at the offices on Pomorskie Street all day. Usually on days when the Kommandant has afternoon meetings out of the office, he returns to his residence rather than the office, and has work delivered to his home for the evening. As I pass through the reception area later that morning, I overhear Colonel Diedrichson telling Malgorzata to arrange for a messenger to deliver files to the Kommandant at the end of the day.

“Colonel, I can take the files on my way home,” I interject. Diedrichson looks in my direction, an eyebrow raised. “There are some matters the Kommandant wanted to go over this morning, but we did not have the chance because of his meetings,” I continue smoothly. “Matters that require his personal attention.”

“I don’t know…” Diedrichson hesitates. He is a typical Nazi, thrown off by anything that is not strictly by-the-book.

“I have to go that way, anyway, to run an errand,” I persist. The reluctant expression remains on his face.

Just then, the telephone on Malgorzata’s desk rings. “Jawohl,” she says into the receiver, then looks up. “Colonel, it’s for you.”

Taking the receiver, Diedrichson looks over at me and shrugs. “Fine with me. The files are heavy, though. Arrange to have Stanislaw take you over.” Inwardly, I breathe a sigh of relief. Then my stomach tenses again. I’ve just committed myself to going to the Kommandant’s apartment, I realize. The most difficult task of my life has begun.

At five o’clock that evening, I leave work carrying the files for the Kommandant. Stanislaw drives me to the apartment building and lets me in the front door. I climb the steps carefully, not wanting to drop the files. Standing in front of the Kommandant’s door, I hesitate. I cannot do this, I think, panicking. I will just leave them on the doorstep and go. I set the files down on the mat in front of the door, then turn to leave. As I step forward, a floorboard creaks loudly. “Hello?” the Kommandant calls from inside the apartment. My heart sinks as I hear his heavy footsteps shuffling toward the door. It is too late now to run. With a deep breath, I bend over and pick up the files again. As I straighten, the door to the Kommandant’s apartment swings open. “Anna!” The Kommandant’s stubbled jaw drops and his eyes widen.

“The messenger was gone for the day,” I lie, knowing that he is too surprised to doubt my story. “Colonel Diedrichson said you needed these.” I jog the files slightly as an indication.

“Come in, come in,” he repeats, stepping back unsteadily. The Kommandant’s jacket is off and his sleeves are rolled up. His shirt has several buttons undone at the collar, revealing a small patch of hair flecked with gray. I have never seen him dressed so informally. Setting the files down on the end table where he has indicated, I stand awkwardly in the middle of the dimly lit room. The Kommandant’s steamer trunk lies on the far corner of the bare wood floor, open and still unpacked from his trip to Berlin. The temperature is too warm, and the mixed odor of brandy and perspiration hangs heavily in the air.

“Welcome.” He swings his arm in a wide, sweeping gesture and the liquid in the glass he is holding sloshes precariously. He’s been drinking, I realize. A wave of concern flashes through me; I have not seen him like this since before his trip to Berlin, and I wonder what has set him off again. “Come in, have a seat.” Reluctantly, I walk to the sofa and perch on the edge. “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

My stomach twists, and I fight the urge to turn and run. “Please.” Perhaps if he gets drunk enough to pass out, I can search the apartment without having to get close to him. “Thank you.” I accept the glass of amber liquor he offers and take a small sip. The liquid burns my throat like fire. It is stronger than anything I have ever tasted.

The Kommandant finishes his drink in one gulp. He walks to the window and draws the heavy curtains aside. The glass is unwashed, coated with a film of gray. “Do you miss the ocean, Anna?”

I hesitate, caught off guard by his question. “I have never…” I stop midsentence. I had almost said that I had never seen the ocean. Anna is from the seaport town of Gdańsk. In that moment, I had nearly forgotten who I was supposed to be.

“Never what?” He looks back at me.

“N-never seen such dry weather in late summer,” I improvise, trying not to panic.

“Mmm,” the Kommandant murmurs, and nods in agreement, too inebriated to notice my slip. “The weather is much milder on the coast,” he adds. Suddenly I feel as though my life is a balloon balancing on a needle; the slightest misstep could burst it.

I take another sip, welcoming the burn that now reaches to my stomach. The Kommandant is looking out the window again. I hesitate, unsure what I am meant to do. Get close to Richwalder, Alek said. But how? I know nothing about flirting with a man, much less seducing one. When I met Jacob, it was different, we courted like young people…Stop, I order myself, knowing that if I allow myself to think of my husband even for a moment, I will never be able to do this. But it is too late. Suddenly, Jacob’s face burns in my mind and I know I must get out of there.

I stand up quickly. “Well, it’s getting late. I should be going.” I hesitate again, torn between wanting to escape back to the safety of Krysia’s house, and hoping he will stop me from leaving so I can go through with my mission. “Thank you again for the drink.” The Kommandant follows me as I leave.

“Anna.” Suddenly, the Kommandant is in front of me, standing between me and the door. He reaches out and I freeze, watching his hand as if it is moving in slow motion, fighting the urge to jump backward. He touches my temple, brushing back a lock of hair that has fallen from behind my ear. His fingertips graze my cheek. “Good night,” he whispers, not moving out of the doorway.

“Good night,” I say, turning away from him, my face burning. My hand reaches around him and grasps the cool brass doorknob. I slide through the narrow opening, take a step.

“Anna,” he calls again through the half-open door. I can barely hear him through the blood that pounds in my ears. I hesitate and, in a moment that I know I will wonder about for the rest of my life, turn around. The Kommandant’s lips crash down upon me like a wave.

I do not know how we got back inside the apartment, nor can I remember taking my coat off. Suddenly my memory and most of my senses are gone—it is as if I can no longer see past the star-bursts in my mind, nor hear above the roaring in my ears. Only taste and smell and touch remain, the saltiness of his ear on my tongue, the grating of his stubbled cheek against my collarbone. I have forgotten my role: Anna should be a virgin, a faraway voice in my head reminds me, tentative and shy. Instead, the noises that come from within me, the way I clutch at his shoulders and back are those of a woman who has known desire. But surely I am not Emma, either, for by the time the Kommandant carries me to his bedroom, lips still glued to mine, I am half dressed and kissing him back with an urgency that gives no hint of the deception this is meant to be. Later, I will tell myself that my passion was part of the role, the mission, to get close to him. But in that moment, as he lays me across the bed, my skirt lifted and crushed under me, I am lost in his musky scent, and in the strong hands that claim me for their own.

I lay trembling on the sweat-soaked sheets some hours later. My limbs throb with an ache that tells me there will be bruises later, as much of my own making as his. The Kommandant snores, one arm thrown back over his head, the other draped heavily across my midsection. Earlier, when his breathing had subsided to a level where he could speak again, he had apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, stroking my face. I knew he meant for the roughness of it all, that what he thought was my first time should have been gentle and romantic. I pressed my lips together in what I hoped passed for a smile and nodded, afraid of what might have come out of my mouth if I tried to speak. Taking my silence for contentment, he soon drifted off to sleep.

Now, lying awake beside him, the reality of what has happened begins to sink in. I have slept with another man. A Nazi. I tried to leave, I tell myself, but even as I think it, I know that my walking away was part of the seduction, the chase. No, my betrayal was calculated. Not here. Do not think of it here. But it is too late; panic rises within me and I can stand lying there no longer. Carefully so as not to wake the Kommandant, I slide out from under his weighty limb, dress hurriedly and run from the apartment.

At the door to the building, I hesitate, worrying that Stanislaw has waited for me with the car. I cannot bear to face anyone. But of course he is gone. Hours have passed since my arrival, and I can tell from the position of the moon that it is nearly midnight. The streets are deserted, residents terrified of what will happen if they are found breaking curfew. Normally I would be, too, but I am too preoccupied with getting home and away from all that has happened. I begin to walk in the direction of the road that will lead me to Krysia’s house. My mind races. I never expected this to happen so soon. I thought there would be days, even weeks, of build-up. But in no more than an instant, we were upon each other…Stop, I command myself once more. Do not think about it. I begin walking faster, taking deeps breaths with each long stride. You did it. The hardest part is over. You survived. A strange sense of calmness overcomes me.

Suddenly an image flashes through my mind of the Kommandant’s face above me in the darkness, his weight pressed down on mine. As though watching a film, I see myself reaching up to embrace him, meeting his movements with my own. I stop, sickened by the memory. A wave of nausea overwhelms me. Ducking behind a tall bush, I manage to muffle the involuntary retching sounds I make as I bring up the brandy and what little else was in my stomach. Even on the deserted road in the middle of the night, I know better than to attract attention. When my stomach has calmed, I stand up, wiping my mouth and breathing deeply. The street is empty, except for a single rat that pops up from the gutter and glares at me disdainfully. I had to do it, I explain silently. I had to make it look as though I really liked him and was enjoying the moment. The rat turns and runs away from me, not convinced. I smooth my hair and begin the long walk home.

When I have gone about a quarter of a mile, I stop again. The documents, I think. I left the Kommandant’s apartment in such a hurry that I forgot to look for the documents and information Alek sent me to find in the first place. Never mind, a calm voice inside me says. It would not do to be rummaging about the Kommandant’s apartment on your first visit. You must learn his sleep habits in order to make sure he doesn’t wake. First visit. I shudder. That means there will have to be others. My stomach turns menacingly once more.

It takes me more than an hour to walk back to Krysia’s. When I reach the front gate, the house is dark. Krysia and Lukasz are long asleep, I think. I wonder if Krysia had worried about me when I had not come home. Though I had mentioned to Krysia that morning that I might have to work late, I had not been able to bring myself to tell her about my new “mission.” It is possible, I realize, that she may have known, anyway. She seemed to have a great deal of information about the resistance that did not come from me. In any event, I am grateful that she is not awake. I could not face her questions right now.

Upstairs, I fall to the bed, drained. My body aches from head to toe. More than anything, I want to soak in a hot bath to scrub away my filth and shame, but I do not dare to run one and wake the others. Instead, I slip under the covers. Though exhausted, I lie awake, imagining the dreaded moment when I will have to face the Kommandant at work, to meet his eyes, both of us knowing what has happened. To act like I want it to happen again. Perhaps…I try to picture the calendar that sits on my desk, the one that keeps all of his appointments. Tomorrow is August 12th. The Kommandant will be at Pomorskie all day for meetings, I realize. I will not have to face him. A wave of relief washes over me and I exhale.

Suddenly, I stop mid-breath. August 12th is the anniversary of my marriage to Jacob. How could I have forgotten? It was one year ago tomorrow that we stood together underneath the marriage canopy in his parents’ parlor. After the ceremony and a small lunch, we had traveled by train to Zakopane, a small town sixty kilometers south of Kraków, nestled in the High Tatra mountains on the border between Poland and Czechoslovakia, for our honeymoon. For three days, we stayed in a tiny guesthouse nestled at the foot of the mountains, taking long walks outdoors and wandering through the town. I had bought Jacob a sweater, knitted by the mountain peasants and still smelling faintly of sheep, and he gave me a necklace of round amber stones.

I remember now how we lay together those first few nights. I had known little about sex, but the smoothness of Jacob’s touch made me wonder if I was his first. He was gentle and patient with my inexperience, introducing me to this strange, newfound joy that brought a perpetual glow to my cheeks.

On the last day of our honeymoon, we took a cable car up the mountainside. Looking over the border into Czechoslovakia, I stared at the jagged, snowcapped peaks, gasping in wonder at enormous vistas I had seen before only in paintings. Jacob squeezed my hand. “We’ll come back in the winter and I’ll teach you to ski,” he promised.

It is hard to believe that was only one year ago. It seems like another lifetime. I wonder what our anniversary would be like if he was still here: another trip to Zakopane, perhaps, or even just a picnic by the river. I sigh. He has been gone longer than we had been together. I still love him as much as I had on the day we were married, but sometimes I have trouble seeing his face clearly in my mind. And now I’ve betrayed our marriage and slept with another man, I think, tears rolling down my cheeks. It was for Jacob that you did it, I try to tell myself, for him and the cause he believes in. The thought is of no comfort. I roll over and cry myself to sleep.

The next morning, I awake and depart for work early, leaving a note for Krysia so she will not worry. I cannot face her yet. As I walk to the bus stop, my thoughts turn to the Kommandant. Walking home the previous night, my humiliation still fresh on my skin, I had not been able to imagine going to work and seeing him ever again. But in the calm light of morning, I know that I have no choice. I hope to be first in the office so as not to be forced to walk past Malgorzata—I am certain that to her, my shame would be apparent. Fortunately, my plan works, and the office is empty. I look at the Kommandant’s schedule and am pleased to discover that he is out of the office all day for meetings. Though I am too exhausted to actually get much work done, I am able to sit at my desk in the anteroom uninterrupted until it is time to go home.

When I arrive at Krysia’s that night, the garden is quiet and empty. I am surprised; usually on summer evenings, Krysia and Lukasz are playing there, waiting for me to come home. I wonder for a moment if their absence was some sort of rebuke for my returning home late the night before and leaving early that day.

I open the front door. “Hello?” There is no answer. Something has happened, I think, racing up the stairs. In the parlor, I find Krysia holding Lukasz, wrapped in a blanket, pacing the floor. “He’s sick,” she informs me, her eyes wide.

“Here, let me.” I try to take him from her but she moves away.

“We don’t need you getting sick and missing work,” she replies coldly.

“Krysia, please,” I insist, at last wresting the child from her. Lukasz’s face is pale and his half-closed eyes are glassy. His forehead, plastered with damp blond curls, is burning. But the most alarming part are his sobs. Lukasz, usually so quiet and complacent, wails openly now, and I can tell from his swollen, red-rimmed eyes that he has been crying all day.

“He has been sick to his stomach several times, and he can’t hold anything down,” Krysia says, hovering over my shoulder. It is her lack of composure that frightens me most. Her hair, usually immaculate, is loose and wild, and her dress is soiled. I have never seen fear in her eyes before.

“Perhaps a cool bath?” I suggest, but Krysia shakes her head impatiently.

“He’s had two already.”

“Well, then, another.” I begin to strip the blanket and clothes from the child, unsure of what else to do. Krysia walks wordlessly upstairs, and a moment later I can hear the water running.

As I carry Lukasz past the kitchen toward the stairs, a flash of something bright red catches my eye. I pause. A bouquet of red roses, still wrapped in paper, sits on the table. I know who they are from without asking.

“I tried all of my home remedies,” Krysia says a few minutes later, as I cradle the child in the tub and trickle water on his head. He has stopped crying and is still now, but he does not feel any cooler.

“Children get ill. It is normal,” I reply without conviction. In truth, Lukasz has not been sick at all in the time he’s been with us. I cannot help but feel that his sudden illness immediately following my interlude with the Kommandant is not a coincidence. Surely I am being punished for my sins.

The problem, of course, is not just that Lukasz is sick—it is that we cannot take him to the doctor. Jewish boys are circumcised, Polish boys are not, and a doctor inspecting the undressed child would immediately know his true identity. There are no Jewish doctors to call and no Polish doctors who can be relied upon not to turn us in for hiding the child. It seems to me a great shame that, with all of Krysia’s underground contacts and all of the people she knows, there is not a trustworthy physician among them. Even Pankiewicz, the ghetto pharmacist, can no longer help us—Krysia had mentioned a few weeks ago that he’d been deported from the ghetto to one of the camps as punishment for caring for Jews.

Finally, when the child’s fingertips are wrinkled like raisins and the water is turning from cool to cold, I draw Lukasz from the bath and wrap him in fresh towels. As I dry him, he seems to drift off into a fitful sleep, his eyes dancing beneath their lids. What does a child his age dream about? I wonder. I cradle him to my breast. In another lifetime, he would have nothing but safe and warm experiences to fill his dreams. Instead, Lukasz has nightmarish visions of his mother being shot and his father taken away, of being hidden and taken through the woods at night to strangers. No matter how warm and safe a world Krysia and I might try to provide, nothing could take away the haunting experiences the child has suffered in his young life.

We redress Lukasz in fresh pajamas and put him to bed. “We should take turns staying with him,” Krysia says, and I nod in agreement, although in fact neither of us can bring ourselves to leave the child to sleep first. So we both sit, Krysia in the small chair by his crib and I on a pillow on the ground, watching him and touching his head every few minutes.

“The flowers, they’re from the Kommandant,” Krysia whispers when at last Lukasz’s eyes have stopped moving and his breath has evened.

“I know,” I reply flatly.

“Are you all right?” I shrug, unable to speak. “It will be okay, darling. I promise.”

Neither of us speak further. When I look over a few minutes later, Krysia is dozing lightly in her chair, head back against the wall, mouth slightly open. So the grande dame of Kraków snores, I cannot help but think. Once it might have surprised me, but these days I know that nothing is as it appears.

I sit on the pillow on the floor and watch them sleep, these two people I have come to call my family. I don’t think either Krysia or I realized until tonight what Lukasz has come to mean to us. Once caring for him had been a task, a way to help with the resistance and defy the Nazis. Now he is our child, the son I someday hope to have with Jacob and the grandchild Krysia knows she will never see.

For the first time, I stop to think about what will happen after the war: will the rabbi, by some miracle, survive the camps and come to reclaim his child? If he doesn’t, will Lukasz stay with Krysia or with me? To envision the answer means trying to picture what my life will be like after the war. In my dreams, I am always reunited with Jacob and my family. I cannot bear to imagine otherwise. But the backdrop is clouded and obscured. I have no idea where we will be. I doubt we will be able to stay in Kraków. The Jewish quarter has been shattered and will never be whole again. Indeed, judging from the comments I occasionally overhear on the street, and the way the Poles seem to carry on unperturbed with their daily lives, Kraków is more glad to be rid of its Jews than I would care to admit. It is unlikely that Jacob and I would return to a big apartment in the city center and to our jobs at the university. And would the rest of the world be so much better for us? I’ve heard of the magical kingdoms before: New York, London, even Jerusalem. I cannot imagine these fairy-tale places I have never seen. These thoughts overwhelm me then and I fall into a light sleep of my own.

I awaken, sore and stiff, on the floor at first light. Krysia still sleeps in the chair, and I stand to place a small blanket around her shoulders. I peer into the crib. Lukasz is awake, not crying but holding his feet and talking softly to himself. “Lukaszku,” I coo softly. I reach for him and he extends his arms toward me as though it were any other morning. He wraps his arms around my neck. I place my lips to his forehead and it is cool.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my eyes wet. God, it seems, has not chosen to punish me in this way. “Thank you.”

Lukasz looks up at me and smiles, perhaps the first real smile I have seen since he has come to us. “Na,” he says. “Na.”

“Anna?” I ask, emphasizing the second syllable.

“Na,” he repeats, reaching out to pat my nose. Now it is my turn to smile. He is trying to say my name. It hardly matters that the name isn’t really mine. Lukasz is healthy, and happier than I have ever seen him. The scare last night made me aware of how precious he is and how, in this world, even the very little we had could be taken in an instant. Tiptoeing so as not to wake Krysia, I carry the child downstairs for breakfast.