The Children's War (47 page)

The horse picked its way carefully along the path, and Zosia was enjoying the sensation of warm, strong muscles between her legs and Adam’s arms around her waist too much to be seriously concerned about sloppy security.

“We should have brought our skis,” Adam commented. “Stretch our legs a bit.”

“It’s too rough for skis,” Zosia murmured, feeling sleepy and relaxed and not at all in the mood for physical exertion. The up-and-down rhythm of the horse’s movements were making her feel horny as well, and she wished Adam would concentrate more on the way her back pressed against him rather than think
about their mode of transportation. She snuggled in closer to him and murmured provocatively, “Do you know I love you?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you, too.”

“I’ve always loved you,” Zosia said as a romantic spirit inhabited her.

“Then why were you so hesitant to marry me, hmm?” Adam asked just to tease her.

“Oh, you know me, I’m not the marrying type!”

“You were afraid that once you tied the knot, I’d tie you down?”

“Well, yes, if you want honesty,” Zosia answered. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t my soul mate. Anyway, I did marry you!”

“After prodding and blackmail and my having to pout! Do you know how many girls would have leapt at the chance to have me?”

“No, how many?” Zosia reached behind herself so she could touch Adam.

“Millions, my dear. Millions.”

“Ah, yes. Well, aren’t you glad you waited for me?” Zosia asked as a clump of snow descended lightly on their heads.

“Yes, and aren’t you glad we did marry? Hasn’t it been wonderful?” Adam gently brushed the snow from Zosia’s hair.

“Yes, it has. Joanna has been more fun than I ever imagined a child could be, and you’re such a loving father.”

“Halt!” a voice called out. “Who goes there?”

Adam stopped the horse and called out the day’s password. “We’re from Central,” he added.

The patrol emerged from the woods and checked their passes. Adam and Zosia did not offer identifications and were not asked: the patrols knew that the inhabitants of the Central region guarded their anonymity and only carried a general pass when traversing the borderlands.

Zosia looked from her lofty height at the young kids who surrounded the only slightly older corporal who was their leader. So young! she thought. They were all so young nowadays.

As the corporal handed them their passes, Adam asked, “Is there a shelter nearby where my wife and I might have an hour or so of privacy?”

One of the younger soldiers giggled.

The corporal pointed into the woods. “It’s about a mile in that direction, sir. I’ll lead you there and then I will personally”—and at that he turned to look at the offending soldier—“personally guarantee your privacy.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Adam responded with a grin. “Wouldn’t we, Colonel?” he added, nuzzling her neck.

Zosia blushed with pride at Adam’s use of her title even though it was, technically, a breach of security. It was typical of him. Though he had a reputation of being levelheaded and she had long ago been branded as impetuous, he was the more reckless of the two of them. He just pulled off a better act, first in front of their elders, and later before their political and military bosses. In fact, she had,
out of love and because she was already labeled as reckless, taken the blame for some of his more foolhardy actions, just as he had often withstood a great deal of pressure by defending hers. It was one of those bonds of love that was all the stronger because no one knew about it.

“In fact,” Adam said, “I think we’ll stay the night there. We’ll take the afternoon off and finish the trip to the camp tomorrow. Would there be a problem with that?”

“No, sir. I’ll inform the relevant authorities, sir,” the corporal replied respectfully.

“Would that be all right with you, love?” Adam asked.

“Yes,” Zosia murmured.

“Shall we go?”

“Yes, we should,” she said as Adam turned the horse to follow the path the corporal was taking. “I feel so incredibly alive,” she whispered to the trees. “I wish this day would last forever.”

49

I
F ONLY THE NIGHT
would last forever, he thought, as he stared up at the beams of the attic. He could just rest, in darkness, like in death. Peter turned his head languidly to look at the window, and though he lay drenched in sweat, he saw, shimmering enticingly in the cold dawn light, a patina of frost on the panes. He climbed to his feet and stood for a moment, shivering convulsively. A sudden nausea caused him to retch, but he did not vomit. And his head ached. God Almighty, so now, on top of everything else, he was ill! Just great. With the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his forehead, then he pulled on his clothes and left the attic. After opening the blinds and drapes on the ground floor, he went down into the cellar and washed thoroughly, including his hair. Still shivering, he dried himself, pulled on the rest of his clothes, and looked for something to eat.

By the time he trudged off to the bakery he was already covered again in a slick sheen of sweat. Each bakery was open only one Sunday per month, so the location of the open bakery changed each week. This week’s was the farthest away—almost certainly outside the limit of his pass. This had never been a problem before, but he suspected that if there was ever a day it would be a problem, today would be it.

Surprisingly, the walk in the frosty air made him feel somewhat better, and despite his misgivings, nothing untoward happened. In fact, other than feeling somewhat feverish, he felt essentially recovered from the unpleasantness earlier in the week. When he thought about it, from the perspective of a few days, he
had gotten off rather lightly. He had known when he had started talking to Ulrike that it was a major gamble, and he had screwed up and allowed himself to be caught. Karl could easily have taken it much further, but, if he remembered correctly, Elspeth had restrained him. Now that it was over with, now that most of his injuries had healed, now perhaps, things could settle back to normal and he could put his life back together.

After breakfast, the family rushed around putting the finishing touches on their Sunday finery. Elspeth wore the new shoes she had bought the day before, and even Ulrike was a bit less subdued. They departed for their rally-cumreligious-service in good spirits. After quickly cleaning up the mess they had left, Peter used the opportunity to pick the lock on the pantry and sort through the food.

After eating, he secreted the remaining items he had stolen in the attic, gathered his extra clothes and bedding, and threw everything into the washing machine. He had never asked Elspeth if this was permitted—he suspected it was not; so, he chose to remain in ignorance and only use the machine when everyone was away. He watched the water as it swirled around and rolled in the large tub. After a few minutes he drained the soapy water while pulling each item out and pushing it through the wringer into the tub of rinse water on the other side. He swished the clothes around a bit then drained the rinse water, enjoying the brief dance of the soap bubbles in the eddies as it swirled down the drain.

Such an extravagant use of water! But it was normal here in their wealthy suburb—the supply never gave out, never gave forth that pathetic spurt of rusty sludge that was so familiar in his youth. Back then, the kids liked to drink the sludge and, on a dare, would down an entire glass. It tasted metallic and they named it tomato juice or orange juice depending on the color. Most of them had never tasted such exotica, but their imaginations allowed them to believe they were drinking the intriguing red or orange liquids they saw served in German establishments.

The sludge was the precursor to no water at all. Sometimes it lasted minutes, sometimes days, but it always happened at the most awkward times. He remembered how his father would howl with dismay and rage whenever the water would quit on the occasions he chose to shower. Better to bathe—then the supply was guaranteed for the duration and the water could be reused, his mother would remind his father each and every time. And each and every time his father would point out that the flat had been supplied with a shower not a tub, and that the tub that they had, stored above the kitchen cupboard, was uncomfortably small for a fully grown man. So his father showered. His brother, Erich, had shown him how to break into the cellar and turn off the water, thus manufacturing a water shortage for the entire building. They did it just to hear their father bellow—like a wounded water buffalo—or so they imagined, water buffalo being fairly uncommon in the streets of London. He or his brother would clamber into the cellar to turn off the supply, and the other would wait outside
the door of their flat for the inevitable audio extravaganza. Still giggling, they would turn the water back on within a few minutes so nobody would detect their joke.

On the occasions of genuine shortages, he and Erich, along with all the other children, made the numerous runs, up and down the steps, back and forth along the street, to the firehouse to pick up buckets of water for the evening’s activities. They used it for cleaning dishes and bathing. His mother took the unusual step of actually purchasing drinking water—especially in the summer months. Most people did not do that, they would simply boil the water from their buckets. Of course, if the natural gas supply was low or out on those days, there was a problem, and they would drink up whatever preboiled supply they had and then take their chances with the unboiled stuff. Most of the residents also kept water standing in their flats and collected it in vats on the roof, but the main effect of these was that the roof was an excellent breeding ground for mosquitoes and disease since no one bothered to clean their vats out frequently enough. Between the roof vats of standing rainwater and the irregular garbage collection, the English sections of London became deservedly known as foul-smelling, disease-ridden, and thoroughly disorderly. Not unlike the English themselves, his schoolmates had been fond of telling him.

As the rinse water drained away, he put the laundry through the wringer a second time to squeeze out the excess water, then grabbed the resultant sodden mass and took it to the attic to hang it out to dry. It was cold and damp and he doubted the laundry would dry by nightfall, but he had little other option— there was no place by the furnace where he could spread it. In any case, he did not need the extra set of clothes immediately, so they could hang for a day or two. As for the bedding, he would either do without it for the night or sleep with damp covers.

The next thing he did, he knew, was strictly forbidden, and that was to use the family’s bathroom to bathe with hot water and good soap. He gingerly washed the remainder of the dried blood from his hair, then thoroughly rinsed away any lingering scent of the soap—not that they would notice with all the perfumes they used. He trimmed his hair using good scissors, then shaved with a sharp razor, carefully cleaning the blade and placing it back into the packet when he was done. After that he washed and dried all the surfaces so no one could tell the room had been used. With that done, he returned to the sitting room, and using one of the couch pillows to cushion his head and a blanket to cover himself, he lay down on the sitting room rug to sleep. That, too, would of course be forbidden if they knew he did it. The thought did not disturb him at all, and within seconds he was sound asleep.

Initially, he had taken his naps on the sofa, avoiding the bedrooms so he could stay near the door and hear them if they came home early, but after he had worked on the armchair, he had taken to napping on the floor rather than have his brief sleep disturbed by the death screams of women—their heads shaven—
as they asphyxiated in poison-gas chambers labeled as showers. He knew it was superstitious nonsense: the inanimate furniture was no more a part of the crimes committed decades ago than the land upon which the blood had been spilled. The criminals themselves had walked freely, lived richly, run an empire with brutal efficiency, promulgated racial laws, and been received as civilized representatives of their regime. They had been and still were beyond his reach, and whatever had happened, he could not undo it. In comparison to the enormity of the suffering the furniture represented to him now, his simple gesture of mournful respect seemed pathetic and pointless, but it was all he could do, so he did it nonetheless.

When he awoke, he checked the time—about twenty minutes yet. No point even thinking about going out. In theory, he could use the time to get a start on the day’s work, but he had never actually done that: there really was no point since they always manufactured more. Sometimes he used the brief respite from the family to read, but aside from his lacking the time, there was not much of interest in the house. He considered for a moment perusing the week’s newspapers to see if he could sift any news out from between all the self-congratulatory nonsense, but decided he was too tired and his eyes ached. No, better to return to sleeping and get some much needed rest—especially if he wanted to finally put that horrible night behind him.

The thought brought him up short. In a disarming feat of denial he had up to that moment managed to entirely forget Karl’s words that night as Elspeth had at long last placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “All right,” Karl had agreed, “I’ll finish with him on Sunday.” Sunday, the day when household and family matters were dealt with. Sunday, a day that was infinitely in the future back then. Sunday. Today. The idea dismayed him, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was to dismiss the vague memory. The anger of that night would not be enough to sate Karl’s need for revenge or justice or whatever he wanted to call it. There was still a price to be paid.

He debated for a few minutes what he should possibly do. His eyes strayed to the door. The time to leave would be now, before they returned. He could don one of Karl’s suits, steal a car, and take his chances on the road. How long would he last? Without papers, maybe an hour or two. Arrested, convicted a third time. He shuddered at the prospect. Perhaps walking. It would be easier to avoid having his papers checked that way. Maybe a day or two. Then what? He realized he was trembling, and he pointedly turned his attention away from the door.

His options seemed rather limited, and he realized that, short of a suicidal escape attempt, there was nothing to be done. Nothing but wait. It made him laugh a bit as he realized that his entire defense system had collapsed to simply hoping for the best, and he rubbed his temples and marveled at the pathetic creature he had become.

When it was nearly time for the family to return, he went and sat on the floor
in the hallway by the door waiting to hear their footsteps. When he heard them approaching, he got up to open the door and take their coats and help them settle in. After he had served them their lunch, the family gathered, as usual, in the sitting room to handle the week’s affairs. When called, he came in from the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up from cleaning dishes, and took his assigned place. It was clear the children had not yet been dealt with—the week’s events had obviously disrupted the routine. They sat in their usual places, their faces taut with anticipation; Ulrike was pale, her jaw clenched. They all looked miserable; even Elspeth, taking her place in the armchair, looked somewhat unhappy and pensive, as if she had disagreed with Karl about something. Only Karl was oblivious to the unpleasant mood; he stood up and moved into the center of the room, relishing his powerful position.

“So, we’re all together now,” he announced uselessly. “I think you all realize that this week has been somewhat unusual due to, uh, certain circumstances.” He threw a scripted look at Ulrike, who, in response, lowered her eyes, as would be expected. “Now, as for you, little ones,” he continued, looking at the three youngest, “you’ve been very good this week. Our beloved Adolf would have been proud of you. You can go outside and play now.” He nodded in response to the unspoken question in their surprised faces. He winked at the two youngest as they tumbled with astonished relief out of the room and smiled benevolently after them. Teresa stood up slowly from her seat, gave her parents an odd look, and then left without saying a word. Karl then turned toward Horst and assumed a businesslike manner. “You, too.” He nodded toward the door.

“But, Father!” Horst protested.

“No, Horst, it’s not your business.”

“It is, too! I should know what goes on in this family!”

“Horst,” Elspeth interjected softly, “go.”

Horst whirled around, wanting to stare her down, but her determination was evident. He glowered at his parents for a moment, then stomped angrily out of the room.

“That boy certainly has a well-developed sense of
Schadenfreude,”
Elspeth muttered.

Karl nodded, then shifted his gaze to Ulrike. She sat alone on the sofa, looking for all the world as if she wanted to disappear. Her whole body was pulled in as if she could achieve this goal if only she made herself small enough. She did not look at her father, so he said, “Ulrike,” to get her to look up.