Free The Wrong Boy by Suzy Zail Page B

missing.”
    Vera smiled knowingly. “Tell them Captain Jager used it to wipe his boots.”
    We reached the front door and Vera handed me a winter coat. “Winter is coming,” she said. “This is yours to keep. You mustn’t get sick, not when the commandant has guests to entertain.
    “My block leader hinted the commandant likes blondes. Is that why I got the job?”
    Vera’s smile faded. “Captain Jager likes blondes, but he doesn’t like blond Jews. He’d sooner flirt with a pack of wolves than touch Jewish skin.” She opened the front door.
    “One last question,” I whispered. “My mother was taken last night and–”
    Vera shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “No talking in the hallway.” I tiptoed in after her. Every door she pointed to was locked, every room out of bounds, except for the music room where I’d be spending all my time. Vera stopped outside the kitchen and swung the door open. Seated at a wooden table in the centre of the kitchen was an old man chopping beans. His face was creased and grey. The woman at the sink peeling potatoes wore a cheerful yellow dress but her eyes were empty. They both wore yellow stars. They whispered their hellos.
    A pot of cabbage simmered on the stove. The smell reminded me of all the wasted meals I’d left on our kitchen table in Debrecen – the abandoned peas, burned potatoes, crusts of bread, the last drops of apple juice poured down the sink, the crumbs of poppy seed cake tossed into the bin, the fat cut from meat, the flesh left on pips.
    “We’re lucky to be here washing dishes instead of carting rocks, but it’s no holiday,” Vera said. “The scarf, the dress, the make-up, it’s just for show. You won’t get a three-course meal here.” She glanced back at the stove. “If the commandant is home you won’t even get lunch. Don’t confuse the commandant’s love of music with any feeling for those who play it. If he’s home, he’ll expect you to be in the music room, waiting for his summons to play.”
    “And if he’s out?”
    “If he’s out, you can sneak in here to look for scraps.” Her face grew hard. “But if you’re caught you’ll be shot.”
    I swallowed hard. “Do I practise?”
    “If you want to keep this job you will … but only when Captain Jager is away from home. Eating, using the toilet – anything that might remind him you’re human – is to be done while he’s out. And don’t talk to him,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “Unless he addresses you first. Same goes for his son, their guests and the guards.”
    I followed Vera to the music room. It looked the same as it had the day of the audition except that a small table had been rolled into the centre of the room. On it sat a black forest cake, a strudel, a pot of tea and an assortment of handmade chocolates. Vera looked at me and shook her head.
    She’d just shown me how to stand behind the piano, with my feet together and my arms by my side, when a portly couple strolled into the room. The man was laughing at something his wife was saying, his arms encircling her doughy waist.
    “Viktor, Helga!” The commandant strode in, bowed to the woman, and slapped the man on the back. “How are my oldest friends? How’s Berlin?”
    “We haven’t come here to talk about ourselves. We’ve come to see our dearest friend. Tell us, Hans, how are you?” The woman looked at the commandant, then at me.
    “She’s the pianist,” the commandant said. “I’ll have her play for you.”
    I’d always performed best in front of an audience. It was easier to play warmed by the smiles, buoyed by the audience’s expectations, jolted by the extra electricity an audience provides. But not this time, not here. I wasn’t on stage. There were no draped velvet curtains, no chandeliers. I was wearing a dead girl’s dress and no matter how well I played there’d be no applause.
    I rested my hands on the keys. What was it Trommler had said about the last pianist?