Playing for the Commandant Read Online Free Page B

officers as if they were suitors coming to tea. She was holding up the line, but the officers didn’t hurry her. They seemed amused by the distraction. They bowed theatrically. Erika scowled at the men. I ignored them.
    “Erika is going to apply to the university. She’s very bright,” Mother said earnestly. “She’ll need her school report for admission.” The officers began to snigger, but Mother didn’t notice.
They’re teasing you
, I wanted to yell at her.
They’re laughing at you. Please. Stop.
But she didn’t.
    “And Hanna here.” She put her arm around me. “She’ll be taking up her position as a soloist at the Budapest Conservatorium.”
    Father reached over and took my mother’s elbow in his hand. He looked worried. “Mira,” he whispered gently, “enough.”
    But my mother didn’t seem to hear. She pulled free of my father’s grip, apologized to the smaller of the two officers — a stout man with a sunburned nose — and handed him my letter of acceptance. The officer inspected the notice and handed it to his partner with a wink.
    He turned to my mother. “Most impressive. Unfortunately, we can’t let you keep your papers. We could put them in safekeeping, though.”
    “Yes!” Mother clapped her hands. “That would be wonderful! They’ll be much safer with you. You keep them until we return.”
    A cruel smile split the officer’s face, but Mother had already moved on. She was holding up my silver fountain pen and talking to the officers at the next table.
    The next day, we marched through the front gates of the brickyard, a long line of Jews with sacks on our backs. We no longer had pets, iceboxes, bicycles, beds, pianos, or photo albums. We had crumbs in our pockets and, if we were lucky, water. Most of us carried underwear, socks, and a toothbrush. Erika had a camera. I had Clara’s Piano Concerto in A Minor and a black C-sharp.
    My feet ached in my strappy sandals, but we weren’t allowed to stop. Those who begged for water or stopped to catch their breath were forced back into line with the butt of a rifle. I heard a voice cry out and turned back to look. The boy from the blanket had tripped over a rock. He lay on the ground, clutching his ankle, while a guard stood over him, holding a gun.
Get up!
I wanted to shout.
Get up or they’ll shoot
. But I didn’t call out. I turned back and kept my eyes trained on the back of my father’s head. You didn’t yell or fight back or step out of line here. You did as you were told. You put one foot in front of the other, and you kept your head down. You marched in time and shut out everything else: your thirst, your aching legs, the screams. I counted my steps in 4/4 time — one-two-three-four, over and over, like a metronome, blocking out everything except the beat. Just as Piri had taught me.
    We arrived at a train station in the early afternoon, but it wasn’t a station that I’d been to before. I stepped into line behind my father and inched forward slowly, past cargo wagons and freight cars. Across the tracks, on another platform, a passenger train was idling. Its compartments were empty, except for the dining cabin, where an SS officer sat drinking tea with his wife and daughter. The young girl wore a cream-colored shirt with a lace collar and a straw hat with a matching ribbon. Her hair was set in waves, and her lips were painted pink. She was reading a book.
    We didn’t cross the tracks to board the train. We stopped at the mouth of a cattle car, an empty slatted box without seats or windows. I faltered, confused, but the swell of the line carried me up and in, after my parents and sister. A hundred bodies piled in after us, on top of us, pressed against the walls of the wagon and crammed into its corners. The cattle car groaned, and when we couldn’t be packed in any tighter, its heavy door was closed and nailed shut.
    Outside, children screamed, dogs barked, and soldiers shouted. Inside, it was dark.

The train car smelled