The Children's War (31 page)

31

“I
T’S
LATER
,”
K
ARL
HISSED
at Peter as the carriage doors of Frau von dem Bach’s train slammed shut. Whistles shrilled along the platform, the train began to roll, and Elspeth waved cheerily at her mother’s carriage, hoping that she would take the time to look back to see her and know she would be missed.

No sooner had they stepped through the door of the house than Karl turned to Peter and ordered, “Into my study, now.”

“Karl, now? There’s lots of cleaning up to do, I need him,” Elspeth protested.

“Now!” Karl snarled as he marched off. Peter glanced at Elspeth before following obediently.

Karl sat at his desk, put his feet up on it, and indicated with a wag of his finger that he wanted a cigarette lit. Peter placed one between Karl’s lips, lit it for him, and then retreated to the far side of the desk.

Karl motioned for him to shut the door, then smoked philosophically for a moment as he surveyed his visitor. “You know, you confuse me,” he said suddenly. “You have such a bad attitude. Why?”

Surreptitiously Peter scanned the room, trying to find a clue as to what lay in store for him.

“I’ve asked you a question! Answer me!” Karl snapped.

“Sorry,
mein Herr.
I thought it was rhetorical.”

“Rhetorical,” Karl repeated as if annoyed. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward to speak intensely. “I don’t like your attitude, boy. It’s going to change.”

Peter remained worriedly silent as Karl stood up, walked out from behind the desk, and strolled around the room. He approached Peter from behind and said to the back of his neck, “I planned to beat the shit out of you. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yes,
m’n’err,”
Peter acknowledged grimly.

“In fact, I even thought of taking you down to the Ministry—let the boys have a go at you. They need practice, you know.”

Ludicrously, Peter nodded his agreement.

“But they can be so careless, hmm?”

“Yes,
mein Herr.”
Peter felt sick with apprehension.

Karl strolled to the bookcase. “You seem surprisingly well educated,” he said, suddenly conversational, his finger running across the volumes of pristine books on the shelves. “Where did you go to school?”

“The Horst Wesel Academy near Slau,
m’n’err,”
Peter answered, then grimaced with self-disgust at his own stupidity. Whatever had possessed him to say that? He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to work out the implications of the inconsistencies between his words and his documents.

“Well?” Karl asked, still studying his bookshelf.

“Forgive me,
mein Herr.
What did you say?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? I said, that was my old school. Eton,” Karl barked. He used the old name for the upper school, flaunting the laws of his own government in an uncontrollable display of snobbery. “Why don’t I remember you being there?”

“I don’t know,
mein Herr.
Maybe we weren’t contemporaries. So you grew up there? In England I mean?” Peter asked, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

“Yes, I spent some time in London. My father was posted there.”

“Do you speak any English,
mein Herr?”

“I didn’t own a dog.” Karl laughed, pleased by the wit of his rejoinder.

It wasn’t an original. Peter had heard it numerous times before. Indeed, it was the style among the local population of Germans to speak to their dogs in English. Thus, for many of them, the extent of their English consisted of such words as
sit, stay, beg, good boy,
and
shut up.
Peter thought about the quote he had heard attributed to Charles V about only speaking German to his horse, but he decided not to repeat it. Rather, he asked, “How long did you live in London?”

“Too long. Barren place, no trees, no parks.”

“It didn’t used to be like that.”

“How would you know?”

“I had heard,” Peter replied steadily. The casual tone of their interchange was reassuring—maybe he could avoid being beat up after all. “Is your family still there?”

“I’m asking the questions here.”

“Sorry,
mein Herr.”

“The question is, why were you at my school? How did you get in?”

“I don’t know. It was . . .” He had almost said that it was his parents’ fault. “I didn’t really attend,” he admitted on a sudden inspiration. “I worked in the kitchens. The orphanage arranged that for me. I used to just listen in to the lectures.”

“So a liar as well as a thief.”

“A thief,
mein Herr?”

“Stealing knowledge. It was clearly a mistake. It gave you ideas above your station. Well, we can remedy that. We’ll start with a simple lesson.” Karl chose a book from the shelf and returned to his seat at the desk. He took another deep draw from his cigarette, then looked at it as if it had somehow surprised him. He ground it out before continuing.

“Here,” he said, leaning back and shaking the volume in his hand, “is knowledge.” He placed the book carefully on the desk and, leaning forward again, reached into his jacket and removed his gun. “And here,” he continued, holding the gun in the palm of his hand, “is power. The question is, which is stronger?”

Peter read the title of the book—it was a series of readings on the development of civilization compiled by the Boys’ League for the Preservation of Fatherland Values. He swallowed a laugh.

“Answer me!”

“It took knowledge to construct the gun,
m’n’err.”

“But very little to use it.”

“If you say so,
m’n’err.”

Karl did not notice the insult. “Put your hands flat on the desk.”

Peter did as he was told. He had to lean forward to place his hands on the surface of the desk, and he stood there awkwardly, wondering what Karl was up to.

“Now you tell me which is stronger!” Karl said, picking up the book and slamming it down on Peter’s right hand. Peter winced more from surprise than pain. Karl stood up, held the gun by the barrel, and raised it over Peter’s left hand. Peter watched in horror as the butt of the gun came crashing down toward his hand. Instinctively, he pulled his hand away. The gun smashed into the desk, denting the fine wood.

“You swine! I did not give you permission to move your hand! Look what you’ve done to my desk!” Karl screamed. “Put your hand back there. Put your hand back on the desk!”

Peter hesitated, weighing his options and his instincts. Finally he placed his left hand, palm down, flat on the desk and said quietly, “Please,
mein Herr,
please don’t do this.”

“Oh, so you don’t want me to test which is stronger?”

“No,
mein Herr.”

Surprisingly, Karl did not push the point. “So, you are not completely devoid of reason,” he stated dryly as he set the pistol down.

Peter stared at it, relieved, but still he did not dare move his hand.

“You recognize that power is what’s important, and you know, instinctively, that I have it and you don’t. That’s not the problem, is it?” Karl asked, surprisingly conversational again.

“Mein Herr?”
Peter asked, confused.

“They taught you well enough not to disobey direct commands, and you’re
clever, you learned your lessons.” Karl eyed his gun, then smiling amiably said, “If I broke your hand, it would prove nothing, nothing at all. All that would happen is I would end up shorthanded!” He giggled at his joke.

Cautiously, Peter removed his hand from the desk. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

Karl circled around the desk to him. “It’s not direct commands that are the problem, it’s your entire attitude. Sullen and insubordinate. You just don’t appreciate how good you have it here, do you, boy?”

Clearly an answer was required, but Peter was stymied as to what he could say.

“See”—Karl seemed to be speaking to someone else—“you can’t even answer.” He leaned close to Peter and hissed into his ear, “You’re meant to be useful to me, do you understand? You’ve failed our society once”—he tapped the green triangle on Peter’s sleeve with two fingers—“but you’ve been given a second chance. You’re a very lucky boy.”

Karl backed away, assuming a conversational tone again. “But you don’t appreciate your luck, do you? You have a job in this life, but you don’t want to do it. You think you’re too good for it, don’t you?”

Karl did not pause long enough for Peter to answer. “If you can’t do this job, then we’ll get you another. I can replace you, and you can do something else to serve the Fatherland. How about working in a mine? You’re strong, I’d give you six whole months there. Or how about a submarine base? There’s a lot of nuclear crap that needs cleaning up. You’d last longer and you could watch yourself dying. Lose your hair, excrete blood from every orifice. How would that suit you?”

Peter could think of nothing less absurd to say than, “It wouldn’t,
mein Herr.”

“You’re right. You don’t really want a different job, you want to learn how to do this one right, don’t you?” Karl snapped his fingers theatrically. “I have it! I’ll send you back for further reeducation! I’m sure they’d be interested in improving your shortcomings. They could make a study of you. How about that?”

Peter stared at the gun on the desk. He had given his answer ages ago, to that psychiatrist.

“It’s up to you,” Karl said. “You have a straightforward choice: you can be well-behaved, courteous, and grateful and serve me here, or you can go back there. Which is it?”

Peter swallowed, then answered, “Here,
mein Herr.”

“You
want
to serve me?”

“Yes,
mein Herr,”
Peter whispered.

Karl shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m sorry, you’re just not very convincing.”

“I don’t understand,
mein Herr.
What do you want from me?”

“Convince me,” Karl answered innocently.

Peter resorted to feigning further confusion.
“Mein Herr?”

“I’m losing patience. I need proof that your attitude is going to improve. Either you convince me now, or I will hand you back over to them. Understood?” Karl pointed imperiously toward the floor.

Peter understood all too well. He knew what could be done to a human and he knew he would not face a second time. So, slowly, reluctantly, painfully, he went down onto his knees.