The Children's War (54 page)

“That’s my point, dear. He knows his place now, he won’t forget it.”

“Yes he will. He’s stupid.”

“But it is his natural place, isn’t it?”

“Natural?”

“Yes, isn’t that right?” Elspeth turned her eyes back to her husband and surveyed him admiringly. “He’s not like us, is he? Not like you. You’re strong-willed, forceful, naturally superior. A true Aryan.”

Karl nodded his agreement.

“You could never be held down for long, but one such as he, well, his arrogance was forced, unnatural. Now that you’ve shown him your superiority, he knows and understands his place. He won’t want to leave it again because it feels right. Serving you comes naturally to him.” Elspeth gestured dramatically out the window. “Just look at the care he lavishes on your possessions! He wants to please you.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Still, it doesn’t hurt to keep reminding him . . .”

“But it does! Others will wonder why you fret so over such a nothing! They might wonder if you have something to fear!”

Karl looked hard into his wife’s eyes. “And do I?” he asked coldly.

“Of course not!” Elspeth breathed. She ran a finger down Karl’s broad chest. “Who even glances at cart horses when they have a thoroughbred in the stable?”

“You did.”

“My thoroughbred kept leaving his stable!” Elspeth answered, somewhat exasperated. “Besides, all that is long in the past.” She managed to focus a loving gaze back on her husband. “Let him go, darling. If you don’t, we’ll lose another one, and we can’t afford that. It was nothing but a conversation with Ulrike. That’s all.”

“I don’t know.” Karl rubbed his chin, still watching Peter intensely. “He still worries me.”

“He shouldn’t. You’re the
Übermensch,
he’s nothing. You’ve got to let up—it looks bad if you don’t. Besides, he’s so beaten up, he’s nearly useless! You see the way he is—nearly crippled! We need a healthy, alert worker; there’s a lot to do here. Ease up on him.
Please!”

Karl nodded as he continued to stare at his chattel. “All right. I have better things to do anyway.”

Elspeth smiled winningly and wondered how grateful Peter would be to her for her merciful intervention.

The answer was not at all. He did not even notice. Over time, his response to their abuse had become so dulled that, though he knew he should feel outraged, insulted, or something, he had only felt depressed. The sensation had been there for a long time, that much he recognized. The paralysis of emotion had freed itself from the constraints he had unconsciously placed on it and began to take him over. It had started behind his eyes—they had felt tired and weak and unable to focus—then it had spread through his mind like a shadow, and he had had no desire to stop it. It was not a black mood—no, that would imply too much involvement—rather it was the covering blankness of night across his perception, a gray mist enveloping his thoughts. He detached himself from his surroundings, from whatever happened to him, and withdrew behind the shield of unknowing. The leaden cloak of depression settled upon him, and he hunched under its weight, tired and resigned, unwilling to throw off its embrace.

Drugged by his despair, he did little more than carry out his work as best he could and hope his legs would heal completely. He moved through the days of his life cocooned in numbness, carrying out all his duties blindly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. He did not realize he was fulfilling Karl’s ideal, did not know that he was fitting into his natural place in the order of things. If he had known, he would not have cared. It was too much. Somewhere, somehow, it had just grown to be too much.

He walked with his head habitually bowed, the path defined only by the broken slabs of asphalt that lined the road. He kept his eyes downcast, and when he noticed anyone approaching, he stood aside, as obliged, in the wet gutters, letting the spray from the passing cars soak him. He did not look into the face of the uniform that demanded his papers, did not react when smacked jovially on the forehead with his documents as they were handed back to him; he just tucked them away and continued his painful, mechanical pace toward the bakery.

It had rained for the past several days, and now, with the sun and the warmth, the world sprang into life. Shoots of vibrant green grass beckoned from the edge of the park, the leaves of the trees rustled softly in the gentle breeze. He noticed none of it. He did not look up, did not care to notice the emergence of new life around him; nor did he notice the woman sitting on a bench that was located
only a few meters away at the entrance to a pedestrian path. As he drew near, she left the bench to approach him. She seemed to be deliberately blocking his path, but he was beyond provocation and blindly stepped out of the way into the gutter to make his way past. She said his name, but he did not hear her.

Only when she nearly shouted “Peter!” did he stop short, turning around to face her.

“Peter. Don’t you recognize me?” A car sped by dangerously close to him; she flinched but he seemed utterly oblivious to the danger.

“Frau Reusch.” He wanted to say more, but was at a loss for words.

“I need to talk to you.” She motioned for him to follow as she went back to the bench and sat down.

At one time, he might have shown his contempt by walking away from her, but now he was so numb that he mindlessly did as he was told and went to stand uneasily by her.

“Sit down, so we can talk,” she suggested.

“It is not permitted,” he replied.

“Oh, you’re with me. It’ll be okay,” she said.

“It is not permitted,” he repeated.

“You didn’t used to be like this,” she commented, quite confused. After an awkward moment, she added, “You look awful! What’s happened to you?”

That penetrated his emotional paralysis—he felt oddly affronted by her question. Now was a hell of a time to feign concern! “Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks,” he finally managed to answer. “I get by.”

“Look, I need to explain what happened,” she said plaintively.

He was not sure he could stand to hear an explanation just right now, so he asked, “How did you get here?”

“I have a sister in Berlin, I’m visiting her. I knew Herr Vogel was from Berlin, so while here, I had a friend look up his address in the registry. Then I waited each day in that little park near the house until I saw you. I kept waiting to talk to you when you left the house, but you rarely left and were never alone. Finally, I ascertained your routine and realized that the only time I could see you alone was at this god-awful hour, so I’ve been waiting for you here.”

He nodded absently, distracted by a patrolman who was approaching them.

“Gnädige Frau,
is this man disturbing you?”

“No, no, we were just conversing.”

“Your papers?” The patrolman studied their documents, then looked at Frau Reusch.“He does not belong to you.”

“No, as I said, we were just conversing.”

“That is not recommended,
gnädige Frau.”
“Nonsense!” Frau Reusch insisted. “I have . . .”

“Frau Reusch is a friend of Frau Vogel’s,” Peter quickly interjected. “She was just inquiring as to Frau Vogel’s health.”

“I see. My apologies,
gnädige Frau.”
The patrolman returned their papers
and then leaning toward Peter said softly, “Your insubordination won’t be forgotten.”

They waited silently, watching him stride away. When he was safely out of earshot, Frau Reusch snorted, “What a man! I have every right to talk to whomever I want!”

“Perhaps. But I have no right to talk to you.”

“What did he say to you then?”

He told her.

“What ‘insubordination’? You just answered his question.”

He shrugged. “I guess he didn’t like that I answered a comment directed to you.”

“But what did he mean?”

“It means his pride has been hurt, and sooner or later, he’ll let me make it up to him.”

“How?” Frau Reusch asked, perplexed.

In spite of himself, he smiled. She seemed so incredibly naive. “He and his friends will probably drag me into an alley and beat the shit out of me.”

“You’re not serious! They can’t do that!”

“Oh, they can and they do.”

“I won’t let them.”

“And how long are you going to sit here?” he asked cuttingly.

She thought a moment. “Well, don’t you have any recourse?”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know. Herr Vogel, perhaps.”

“No, he’d probably approve. At least as long as they didn’t do any permanent harm.” He added under his breath,“He saves that privilege for himself.”

“How can you be so calm about it all?”

“I’m not! It makes my gut ache. But what can I do?” And his gut did ache—a visceral pain that warned him that he was losing his protective numbness.

“Oh, Peter, we had no idea. Certainly there must be some way to protect your rights.”

“Rights?
Rights?
I have none! It’s there, in black and white! No rights! None!” He brought his tone under control. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I mean yes, it’s just that . . .”

“It’s just that you never bothered to find out what it all meant. Just like before.” He stared at the tree behind her so he didn’t have to see the hurt look on her face. “Do I need to quote you the law? Read it someday, find out what’s done in your name.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but decided better. He stared remorselessly at the tree; the pale green leaves of spring spread in a fine lace against the blue sky. He was beginning to regret his outburst. He felt uncomfortable with the emotions that were threatening to return.

“Peter,” she begged, “I want to tell you what happened.”

“You sold a slave. No crime in that,” he murmured.

“We had no choice.” She rushed on before he could interrupt, “Do you remember a stranger coming into the shop after hours a few weeks before . . . before you left? That was Herr Vogel.”

He nodded, he remembered it well. It was a Saturday afternoon, well after shop closing, but the store had been busy and Herr Reusch had decided to stay open. Peter was at the cash register waiting for the last customer, a fragile old woman, to disentangle her money and sort out her change. He saw the stranger approaching the shop, but since Peter was in the middle of a transaction, there was little he could do. The man picked up several items, almost randomly it seemed, and approached the register. Peter was at a loss as to what to do. He knew that he should not sell anything to somebody who was not a regular, trusted customer, but the stranger had clearly observed the previous transaction.

As the old lady walked off, the man placed the items on the counter and looked expectant.

Peter hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, the shop is closed, it’s well past two.”

“But you just sold that lady some groceries.”

“That was a transaction begun earlier, before closing.”

“Before closing? It’s twenty till three!”

Peter shrugged. “Would you like to talk to the manager?”