Playing for the Commandant Read Online Free Page A

food bag and pulled out a broken cracker, then she held the bag upside down. When nothing fell from it, she turned it inside out and shook it again. “I hear the camps in Austria are like vacation resorts. Much nicer than the ones in Poland.”
    I glanced at Erika. She was staring at Mother and biting her lip. She wasn’t angry with her, just sad. Mother tossed the empty bag aside. “I’m sure we’ll find a piano there for you, Hanna.” She smiled, but she wasn’t looking at me when she spoke. She was gazing out across the yard at no one in particular.
    We were allowed one small bag each. I had my backpack, Mother had the empty food bag, and Father unhappily stuffed his velvet prayer bag with a change of clothes. Erika borrowed a bag from the boy on the blanket.
    “How are we supposed to pack when we don’t know where we’re going?” I asked, opening my suitcase and running my fingers over my yellow organza gown. I pulled a clean cotton dress from under the gown and shoved it into my pack.
    Erika crammed a bra, a pair of stockings, and a nightdress into her bag, before placing the camera gently inside.
    Father grabbed her arm. “Not the camera, Erika. You’ll be caught, and I don’t want to think what they’ll do to you.”
    Erika pried Father’s fingers from her arm. “They’re the ones who should be punished, Papa. We can’t let them get away with this.” She dropped his hand and turned back to her bag.
    A tear slid down my father’s cheek. He brushed it away with the back of his hand, but it was too late; I’d seen my father cry — my unflappable, courageous, strong, smart father. I reached out to him, but he didn’t notice; he was looking at Erika.
    “You’re right,” he said. “They shouldn’t get away with it, but you’re not going to stop them and neither will that camera. I’m sorry. It’s too dangerous.”
    Erika brushed her lips against my father’s bristly chin and lifted the camera out of the bag. “Okay, Papa.”
    A voice boomed over a loudspeaker. Father turned toward the noise, and Erika lowered the camera back into her bag.
    I turned to Erika. “You can’t take it,” I began, but Father hushed me.
    We were to line up immediately and take our valuables with us. I looked around, confused. We weren’t meant to leave until tomorrow! Erika pointed at a cluster of tables set up in the middle of the yard. Each was manned by two Hungarian policemen. A banner hung from each table. The first bore the word PAPERS , the second PERSONAL EFFECTS , and the third VALUABLES . People were already standing in line. Those at the front were pushed toward the tables and forced to unzip their cases or tip them up. They poured their passports, family photos, and birth certificates onto the first table. The second table disappeared under cameras, fur stoles, and silk scarves. The third table was cleared every few minutes by an SS guard clutching a leather briefcase into which he piled watches, wedding bands, and coins and bills pulled from wallets and purses.
    We fell into line with our bag of valuables: my letter of acceptance from the Budapest Conservatorium, the engraved silver fountain pen Mother had given me on my twelfth birthday for my bat mitzvah, Erika’s final school report, and the cuff links father had worn on his wedding day. Erika said she had nothing of value to hand over, and I wasn’t going to start an argument, not when we were in line. I pulled the photo of Clara Schumann in its silver frame from my suitcase and handed it to my mother along with the leather-bound book of Clara’s early compositions. You couldn’t tell I’d torn two pages from the book. Not unless you looked really closely.
    “Excuse me, but I really must keep these,” Mother said, waving our documents in front of the officers at the PAPERS table. “They’re just bits of paper. They’d be of no value to you, but they’re terribly important for Erika and Hanna.” Mother introduced Erika and me to the