Free The Kommandant's Girl by Pam Jenoff Page B

Elzbieta’s boyfriend, Miroslaw, has a particular gift for procuring items that can no longer be found in the shops, delicacies we will need for the party. Within two days, he magically produces smoked salmon, fine cheeses and dark chocolate. “I haven’t seen such items since before the war!” Krysia exclaims upon receiving the bounty. I can only nod; I have seldom seen such things in my life. To round out the meal, we pillage the garden, pulling up the few heads of lettuce that have already sprouted, bring up the remaining winter potatoes and cabbage from the root cellar, and buy from our neighbors what other vegetables we lack.
    The morning of the party, Krysia helps Elzbieta to steam the fine table linen and polish the silver while I make dinner rolls and pastries. Kneading the dough, I am reminded of baking with my father. As a child, I used to grow frustrated with the resilience of the dough. No matter how hard I tried to make it take shape, long or round or flat, it always resisted, snapping stubbornly back to a nondescript mound. Only a few of my ill-shaped pastries even made it to the shelves, and those were always the last ones remaining late in the day. But now the challenge is a welcome one. I imagine my father working beside me, kneading the bread with his light, almost magical touch. His thick, gentle fingers could cajole the most stubborn dough into intricate shapes: braided challah, or hamantaschen for Purim, or obwarzanki, the crusty pretzels enjoyed by Jewish and non-Jewish Poles alike.
    “Here,” Krysia says, handing me a package wrapped in brown paper later that afternoon. We are in the kitchen, having just completed a final walk-though of the house to make sure everything is in order. I look at her puzzled, then set the package down on the table and open it. It is a new dress, light blue with a delicate flowered pattern.
    “It’s beautiful,” I gasp, lifting it from the paper. Until now, I have made do with old dresses of Krysia’s, pinning up the sleeves and hems to fit me. Growing up, all of my dresses were handed down or homemade. This is the first store-bought dress I have ever owned. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” she says, waving her hand as though it were nothing. “Now, go get ready.”
    A few hours later, I walk down the stairs once more. The house has been transformed. Scented candles flicker everywhere. Pots simmer on the stove burners under Elzbieta’s watchful gaze, giving off a delicious aroma. Soft classical music plays on the gramophone; I think I recognize it as one of Marcin’s recordings.
    At fifteen minutes to seven, Krysia descends the steps from the third floor, wearing an ankle-length burgundy satin skirt and white silk blouse, her hair drawn neatly to a knot at the nape of her long neck, which is accentuated by a single strand of pearls. She looks restored and almost untouched by the war, as if all the care and hard work of recent months have been erased from her face. “You look lovely,” Krysia says before I have the chance to compliment her. She brushes a speck of dust from my collar and then steps back to admire my dress.
    “Thank you.” I blush again. I have used a hot iron to curl my hair into ringlets, which cascade down onto my shoulders. The dress is the grandest thing I have ever worn. “I wish…” I begin, then stop. I had started to say I wished Jacob were here to see me, but I hesitate, not wanting to sadden Krysia.
    She smiles, understanding. “He would think you are even more beautiful than he already does.” I cannot help but beam. We walk into the dining room together. “Dinner parties are always so hectic,” she explains, reaching across the table to adjust the orchid centerpiece. “No matter how many I plan and how well I prepare, there are things that cannot be done well in advance, which makes the last few hours chaotic.”
    I nod, as though I have thrown dinner parties all my life and understand. In truth, the few I had