The Children's War (160 page)

With Erich gone, I’ve been trying to talk more to Charles about my feelings, but he doesn’t want to hear it. I’m not sure what to do. I think we’ll have to do something to cheer Niklaus up. I’ll see if I can’t find something he would like.

And a few days after that his mother made a short note:

Really strange several days. Two days ago Niklaus came back early, well before dinner, and he did not go back out again. He just sat in a chair all evening and read the German dictionary like it was a book. I guess he was teaching himself new words. Then yesterday, he spent the day at home. I stopped home during the lunch break to drop off some groceries (Margot took the morning off and stood in the queue and let me join her at my break) and there he was just sitting in that same chair reading the English dictionary this time. I tried to chase him out to go get some fresh air, but I don’t know how long he stayed out. He was home when I returned from work and did not go out in the evening. Today it’s the same—I’m writing this in our bedroom because I can’t get him out of the house. I swear if it’s not one extreme, it’s the other with that boy.

Peter remembered the source of that behavior, remembered it all too well. It was the day he had gotten “the word.” He had been walking along the street and
had spotted one of his mates, who apparently did not see him. The next time he called out to a friend and was ignored, he knew something was up, and he took off at a run and caught the fellow by his shirt. “Can’t talk to you,” his erstwhile friend had screamed in terror. Peter had let him go and had searched out some older member of the gang. He found one—a boy named Dennis, who promptly grabbed his arm and immediately marched him to one of their cellar hideouts. There was a meeting of the leaders—all boys of about fifteen. Most of them were engaged to be married, most only months away from conscription. The little coterie of pseudo-adults looked up from the business they were conducting with something like alarm.

“He needs to hear it from us directly,” Dennis announced. “We owe him that much.”

So they told him. He was exiled, shunned, out. He had asked why and they had said he could not be trusted, that he was being corrupted by the school he was at, that it was a violation of their security to allow such collaboration. He had protested his innocence, had explained how much he needed their support, had literally begged, but the decision was final. If he mixed with any of the members or was seen at any of the gang locations, he would be treated as any rival gang member or German would.

He had continued to beg—they were his only lifeline. Didn’t they know what it was like for him all alone in that horrid school? At that point one of them rose threateningly from his seat, ground out his cigarette, and looked ready to personally enforce the banishment. At that point Peter had switched pleas. He no longer begged to belong or to mix freely with them or to be associated with any of their actions, he just pleaded that one or two members who were his close friends might be allowed to speak to him occasionally on the street. Nothing much, but they had been close friends, were unavoidable neighbors—just a few words now and then?

The leaders put their heads together and agreed. They allowed the exile to name two of his closest friends who could talk to him occasionally without being sanctioned. The rest would shun him completely, and he was advised on pain of severe punishment not to try to initiate any contact with any other member. He had nodded his agreement, shaking with fury at the unfairness of it all.

Dennis had walked him out of the meeting, draping his arm over his shoulder. Once they were on the street, the elder boy had said, “Sorry, kid, bloody unfair. Now off with you,” and had given his young companion a shove in the direction of his home.

It had, in a way, been a relief. The growing distrust of his friends had been undeniable, and now the situation was clear: he knew there was nobody in the world he could turn to. The ache of his parents’ betrayal, the sorrow of his grandmother’s ever-increasing confusion, the pain of the growing distance between himself and his friends, the utter loneliness of his existence at school— they could all be turned off. If he did not care, then he could not be hurt. If he
did not show his pain, then they could not enjoy his suffering. He thought of himself as a human machine, an organism that had to live in a hostile environment and would play whatever game was necessary to do that. He was precious to no one in the world, and so he could ignore everyone and concentrate on simple survival. All the emotional land mines, all the efforts at pleasing, all his determination to belong—all of it was irrelevant.

He became more studious after that, branching out into subjects that were neither required nor encouraged by his school, his grandmother often supplying him with old books. He read and studied; he practiced the piano as if driven; he took long, lonely walks; he observed and analyzed and thought. At school he had to continue to fight to maintain his position, but as he withdrew from everything and everyone around him, as he often did not even hear the provocations that at one time would have led to a fistfight, he was more often than not simply left alone. He lay in his bed at school as the morning light warned him that another day was beginning and would murmur to himself:
Alone, alone, alone.
It was both a plea and a statement of fact.

His mother detected his change in behavior and made occasional notes in her diary accordingly. She was not overly concerned; after all, he was by all standards, at last, behaving himself, but she did puzzle over it a bit. Finally, at the end of his third year, she saw fit to ask him directly if there was anything wrong. She recounted the conversation in her journal.

Today before Charles came home from work, I asked Niklaus about things at school. He’s been home for a week and nothing has changed from the last time he was home. Still studious, quiet, well-behaved. Practices on the piano a lot and he’s getting really quite good. He treats his father with respect now and even, sometimes, asks his opinion or advice. It really pleases Charles, it’s so good to see the two of them acting like father and son. No fighting about language. When we speak German, he is well-spoken, uses proper grammar and a very good vocabulary (much better than mine). As a reward to him, we sometimes speak English now. His accent is remarkably improved (none of that street slang) and he doesn’t swear anymore.

After he went back to school last time, he even started sending letters home. They were filled with the usual stuff: good news about grades, gossip about school. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say everything was simply wonderful. But it is so unlike him, and such an abrupt change, and when he’s not actively engaged in conversation, he looks so distant, like he’s on another planet.

I really didn’t know what to ask him, I mean, how can a mother say, “My boy, you’ve been behaving, giving us no trouble, your reports from school are good—what’s the problem?” yet I felt I had to find out if something was going on. So I talked with him. I really tried hard to find out what’s going on in his life, what things are like for him, how he’s getting
on with his friends. He just kept assuring me everything was wonderful. He fretted about why I was quizzing him. Wasn’t I pleased with him? Had he upset me in some way? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Either everything really is fine or he’s a consummate and shameless liar.

Peter laughed quietly to himself as he read that. “It was the latter, Mum,” he said softly into the darkness. He closed his eyes to rest them a bit and thought of the mistakes he had made in his life. She had reached out to him then, he should have grabbed the hand that offered to pull him out of the flood, but it was too late, he no longer believed in her or anyone else.

He reached behind himself and turned off the small light he had been using to read the diaries. His eyes ached, and he knew that if he did not rest, a headache and the attendant nausea would preempt his efforts. The darkness surrounded him. From the next room he could hear Barbara’s regular breathing, the ticking of the clock. The sounds of a sleeping city drifted through the window; the regular steps of a patrol punctuated the desultory noise of the infrequent traffic. A dog barked; it sounded like one of the shepherds that the patrols used—perhaps they had spotted some kid violating the curfew or an unsavory character stealing food. In the distance he heard the ominous thumping rhythm of one of the ubiquitous police helicopters. His city. The place of his birth. His homeland. The place where he had spent his youth, had joined the Underground, had found the woman he thought would be his forever. Never once had he walked its streets without fear of challenge by a patrol; never once had he cast a vote for the government that regulated the city’s life; never once had he felt free or at home.

His thoughts returned to his mother’s words. What had they had then? It had been the summer break, just before his fourth year at the school. There was still fall, winter, and spring term, summer break, and then she would be gone. In fifteen short months—just two weeks before his thirteenth birthday. Their time together was running short; his mother’s time on earth would not last two years from when she wrote those words.

If only he had known.

Their lives were so brief and so unsure. How could he have spent the time he had been allotted with them so badly? It was a mistake, he realized, that he was doomed to repeat: the constant arguing with Allison about her dual affections. Wasted time. Words wasted on a future they did not have. Was it happening again? Was that the road he and Zosia were traveling?

He got up from the couch and went to the table and penned his thoughts in a letter to her. He could not read the words he wrote, nor did he even try; he just used their blurry outlines to keep them straight on the page. He did not expect the letter would be read, he just hoped that by putting his thoughts in print, he might be able to clarify what was happening.

30

“H
EY, SLEEPY, WAKE UP.”
Barbara jostled his shoulder.

Peter awoke and stretched. His whole body ached and he realized that he had spent the remainder of the night sleeping in the chair, his head on the table. He stretched and yawned and moaned. “What time is it?”

“Nearly time to open the shop. Did you finish the books?” Barbara set down a cup of coffee in front of him.

“No,” he sighed. Now he’d have to wait until the evening. Oh, well, he had waited this long in his life.

She seated herself opposite him at the table and began munching on her
Brötchen
. It was a day-old roll, anathema to a true German, but neither of them could be bothered to run out to the bakery early in the morning. “And what have you discovered so far?” she asked in between bites.

“More than I should ever have learned. I learned a lot about my mother. Made me feel rather sorry for her. She had so much promise and then to see it all just wasted like that.”

“Did you learn anything about yourself?”

“I’ll tell you about it while we’re working.” He smiled at her as he sipped the coffee. It was nice having someone to talk to, someone so understanding and unjudgmental. Such a sweet kid.

He blinked away the last of the morning muck from his eyes and glanced down at the letter he had been writing. He could not be sure, but it looked as if it had been moved. Barbara looked away, twisting around in her seat so she could look out the window.

“Did you read this?” he asked.

There was a long silence.

“Did you read what I wrote?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Barbara. I need my privacy.”

“We’re supposed to be married,” she replied defensively.

“We’re supposed to
act
married in front of others. We’re not married!”he snapped.

Finally Barbara twisted back around so that she was facing him. “I said I was sorry.”

He rubbed his forehead; he felt tired and had a headache. “I’m sorry, too,” he said at last. “It’s no big deal. Nothing you didn’t already guess, I’m sure.”

“She doesn’t deserve you,” Barbara stated baldly. “She doesn’t treat you right.”

“Be that as it may, it’s not your business.”

“It is if it affects my work, and it does. She doesn’t want you. Not really. You should get a divorce, get your freedom.”

“I made a commitment that is meant to be a little stronger than that,” he replied unsteadily.

“She treats you like . . .” Barbara could not summon up an appropriate analogy.

A lot of words came into his mind. Barbara was only saying what he had thought a thousand times, yet he responded, “I’m not easy on her either.” He wondered at how he suddenly felt obliged to defend Zosia’s honor. Maybe there was more there than he realized. He saw her smiling face, heard her easy laughter, remembered the way she had held him and listened to him on so many difficult nights. He saw her popping a strawberry into Joanna’s mouth, the two of them giggling as they chased each other down a hallway, Zosia’s face white with fear as she heard Joanna hum a dangerous tune. He thought of the beautiful golden curls that never stayed where she put them, the womanly curve of her hips, the lines of knowledge and maturity that made her face warm and beautiful to him. He closed his eyes and imagined what she looked like now growing heavier as their child grew within her. She had looked tired when they had said their goodbyes, weary of the constant load, the burden that could never be put down even for a second. He should have said something else when she had said she loved him. God, how he missed her!

“You’re not even listening to me!” Barbara huffed.

He looked up at her, stunned. “What?” he asked, confused. He tried to replay what she had just said, but it was lost.

“Never mind!” she replied scornfully.

That evening Peter let Barbara close up the shop and made his way back to the flat so that he could finish the diaries. He had not marked his place and it took him a while to determine exactly where he had been. Finally, he found the appropriate page. Catherine seemed to accept her son’s word that all was well at school and did not comment further on that, though she did continue to wonder at his strange behavior at home.

Niklaus still not going out much. He plays the piano a lot and is getting really good at it. I’ve found some old sheet music that my mother had and I’ve passed it on to him. Mum looked at me sort of funny and asked if I really wanted the music, but then, she’s always acting queer now. Niklaus seems to really like it, he spends hours and hours each day working on the songs. Just a few, over and over. He seems to be trying to pound them directly into his brain. Really irritating, especially when he first starts learning a new piece, but I don’t say anything.

That was a bit rich! Peter thought. It was the technique, if one could call it that, that his mother had taught him. No scales, no practice songs, just dive into a difficult piece and learn it bar by bar. Like the sheet music she had given him: it
was far too difficult for him to read and play simultaneously, so he had memorized it bit by bit, and after months he could play one piece. It was also why, after years of absence, he could sit down at Elspeth’s piano and draw up physical memories in his fingers without knowing which note would come out next.

The entry continued:

Had to chase Niklaus out of the house again today. I guess he really has no friends left in the neighborhood. I know that is what I wanted, and it’s the best thing for him, to keep him out of trouble, but still he seems lonely when he’s here. I guess he misses his schoolmates. He doesn’t talk about them much, but when I ask, he assures me he has loads of friends there. He tells me all about them and their families, he just doesn’t visit them over breaks because they live in gated neighborhoods, and as Niklaus so delicately put it, it would be awkward to try and reciprocate with an invitation here. We really should see about moving in or at least closer to those areas. I hear there are satellite neighborhoods that are mixed and don’t require the bloodline proof for residency. They are so much nicer and the crime is so much lower!

Catherine wrote how she had learned of a production of
King Lear,
which she hoped Charles and she could take their son to. She was astonished by her son’s reaction to the news, writing how his eyes lit up with anticipation and he spent hours studying the copy of the play that she had acquired for him. In late June they went to see the play, which he remembered so well and which had cost him such humiliation at Karl’s hands. Even as he read his mother’s words, he could hear that single word
“Later”
hissed at him with such venom. The whistle of Frau von dem Bach’s departing train, the malevolent smile, the subdued threat of
“It’s later,”
played through his mind so vividly that he nearly missed the impact of his mother’s words:

. . . told Charles I was really upset. He asked why and I couldn’t really explain. Of course I should have known that if it didn’t explicitly say “in English” that it would be in German, but as much as I should have known, it still bothered me. Why not in English? That’s what the play was written in, that’s what we all speak! Damn it, I’ve been trying for all these years to accept their presence on our island, and now it seems like all that’s been achieved is that it is we who have to be accepted. We’ve become aliens in our own land. I just can’t hide that fact anymore. Charles, for all his efforts, is getting nowhere, and that is the least of the injustices we have seen.

I look at what we have done over the years and I realize that it is worse than nothing. We have been so ineffectual, our lives have been a waste. I think of my relatives and friends and I can think of not one person who has made a difference. Even worse, we’ve taken out our frustrations on
our kids. How could we have accepted this government? This idiotic ideology? It’s corrupt, unjust, unfair, cruel. Nothing but a pack of thugs and murderers and we let them carry on with it all. God Almighty! Niklaus is right, he’s been right all along, it’s no wonder he hates us. I thought we had peace, but all we’ve done is refuse to fight, and what a mess we’ve left for our sons and daughters. We called it peace but there is no peace without justice. There is just this never-ending war that has poisoned us all, and now we’ve passed it on to our children and left them to fight it, alone and without any support or help or understanding from us.

Peter read and reread those words, finding a comfort in them that was beyond measure. Her words had made it clear that the school was to them what they had said it was: a chance for his advancement, not the secret plot he had always hoped. His disappointment at that discovery could now at least be tempered by her admission: even though they had imposed such a hell on him, his parents, or at least his mother, had come to realize that collaborating with such an enemy was hopeless. He read on eagerly as she described her feelings in more detail. Over a period of days, she apparently had long conversations, or rather arguments, with her husband, the result of which she summarized:

I’ve agreed to have Niklaus return to school. I’m sure it’s awful for him there, but since Niklaus refuses to say anything, I can’t convince Charles of that. Besides, he says, Niklaus will be entering the Upper School this year, and that is sure to make things better for him. I told Charles that I’ll agree to send him there, but now my intent is for him to learn the ways of the enemy so that he can fight them more effectively! Charles told me not to be so melodramatic. He also said I’d better not say anything to draw suspicion to us, because there are always sorts within the bureaucracy who are looking for ways to get rid of so-called foreigners (meaning us!). He said that some people get arrested on simple suspicion of this or that, and then they just disappear. God in Heaven! I was furious that he hadn’t mentioned anything about this earlier. He said he didn’t want to worry me!! The only reason I didn’t say more was I could see he was truly worried. He doesn’t know what to do—he doesn’t want to lose all he’s worked for, yet if he keeps moving up, he’s afraid that these jealous sorts will target him. He feels completely trapped. We’re going to have to work out what to do.

I told Charles I was scared and he assured me it’s not as bad as all that. Just some whispers over the years. Still, I’m scared and I’m really and truly angry as well. After all our efforts to fit in, to receive such a welcome! What a waste of our lives.

As time went on, Catherine’s opinions against their occupiers only hardened. She actively sought out information and began attending clandestine meetings
held by the Underground to educate the populace. Once such meeting impressed her sufficiently to merit a special entry.

They had a guest speaker tonight. We’ve been warned about this meetingfor ages and I took extra precautions. The speaker was a man who had been in the military some thirty years ago. SS, I think. He described some of the things he saw and the reasons why he had joined the Resistance. I was nearly sick just listening and I think everyone else felt the same. I don’t think he was lying or that it was exaggerated—at least in part because he broke down in tears. We asked if all this is still going on, and he said he didn’t know, but he did know that they never brought the guilty to justice and that the actions of those years have been accepted as “ necessary” and “for the benefit of the Reich.” As he said, if that’s the sort of thing that benefits the Reich, then I must fight it with all my being.

There was a handout as well. It was an eyewitness account presented to the American Congress in 1950. I’ll tuck it into these pages as a sample of what I heard that night.

Peter pulled out the badly printed piece of paper. The ink had faded and smudged, but the words were still readable. It was not unlike some of what he had read in the archives at Szaflary:

They brought an aged woman with her daughter to this building. The latter was in the last stage of pregnancy. They put her on a grass plot and several Germans came to watch the delivery. This spectacle lasted two hours. When the child was born, Menz asked the grandmother whom she preferred to see killed first. The grandmother begged to be killed. But, of course, they did the opposite. The newborn baby was killed first, then the child’s mother, and finally the grandmother.