The Children's War (55 page)

“No, I want to talk to you. Why are you handling money? Why are you alone with this cash?”

“I don’t know,
mein Herr,
perhaps you’d like to talk to the manager.”

“Well, I only stopped in to get directions. How do I get to the Central Hotel, by the train station, from here?”

“I believe the bus out front goes to the center of town.”

“I’m in a car, you idiot!”

“My apologies,
mein Herr,
I don’t know. I don’t leave the estate.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Let me see your papers.”

“I’ll get them for you,” Peter had replied, feeling an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

“You don’t have them on you?”

“They’re just in the back room. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He returned with his papers and handed them over. The stranger studied them for a long time, then said, “Will you sell me these items now?”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask the manager.”

“Then fetch him for me.”

After a few minutes, Peter located Herr Reusch. He happily instructed the stranger on the best route into the center of town and then told Peter to sell him the items he had selected. Once the stranger had left, Herr Reusch turned to Peter and said, “What an odd man! And what a fuss over nothing! Why didn’t you just sell him the things in the first place?”

“I guess I should have. My apologies.”

“Well, let’s close up, at last.”

The occurrence had stuck in Peter’s mind, and he had not failed to recognize Herr Vogel when he returned several weeks later. Yes, he remembered.

Frau Reusch continued, “He knew that we were violating the law. He had proof. And, of course, if interrogated, our customers would corroborate. It would be easy for him to make trouble: he’s very high up, you know. Lots of power. Well, he came back and told Ernst he would turn him in if we didn’t sell your contract to him. The fines would have done us in! And Ernst might even have had to do prison time. You know, that would have killed him.”

“Yes, I’m sure it would have been very difficult.”

“And he said we would lose you in any case. He said you would be taken away and could end up anywhere. He told us that you would be considered guilty as well for having worked after hours. It didn’t make sense to us—you were just doing as we asked, but he insisted that that was the case and that you would be punished. When he realized that we cared about what would happen to you, he told us all the horrible things that were possible. Then he promised that if we sold him your contract, you would live with them. That you would be safe.”

“So why didn’t you tell me what was going on? Why did you leave me in ignorance?” Peter demanded. “I felt so betrayed,” he added unwillingly.

“We were afraid. After what happened to our son, we couldn’t bear to think what you might do. We thought you might try to escape and then you would be caught and tortured or killed. We didn’t think you’d understand. We thought it’d be best for you not to know.”

“So you made my decision for me.”

“Yes.”

A heavy silence hung between them. Finally Peter said, “I really must go, I’m already terribly late.” He turned to leave.

“Peter.”

“What?”

“It took me longer to find you than I expected. I’m leaving today.”

He nodded, his back toward her.

“Peter.”

He turned and looked at her. She looked so forlorn.

“Will you forgive me?”

His lips trembled. As much as he wanted to, he could not say yes. Instead, he said, “You never told me your name.”

“Magda,” she responded, surprised.

“Magda,” he repeated. “Good-bye, Magda.” He started to walk away, then decided to add, “Thank you for telling me all this. It means a lot to me.”

He held on to her kind words and the sense of humanity she left with him as he returned to his routine and his life, and even though he struggled to maintain
his distance, there were now cracks in his cocoon; the numbness was wearing thin.

54

“L
OOK,
D
AD!
A
BUTTERFLY!”
Joanna exclaimed excitedly.

The fragile creature fluttered over the stream, wove its way up into the air, and then brought itself down to settle on Joanna’s shoulder.

“Hold still,” Adam advised. He looked admiringly at the peaceful image of his daughter, bathed in dappled sunlight, the butterfly delicately balanced on her shirt, her little legs hanging over the edge of the rock, swinging back and forth as she tried to contain her excitement and not move her upper body.

Joanna carefully turned her head to look at the creature. “It’s beautiful!” she whispered. The butterfly fluttered its wings as if in farewell and flew away.

Adam put his arm around his daughter and held her close. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered into her silky, golden curls.

“Dad?” Joanna turned her face up to her father with that I’m-going-to-asksomething-important look.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Will you and Mommy have another baby? Please? I want a sister!”

“How about a brother?”

“That’d be okay, too!” Joanna exclaimed.

“You do realize that whatever we have, it will be a baby and won’t be able to play with you for months, or even years?” Adam warned.

“That’s okay. I’d help out with the baby. I really would,” Joanna promised.

Adam smiled at his daughter. “Okay,” he said, to Joanna’s obvious surprise. “Let’s go see if we can’t convince your mother.”

“Aunt Zosia! Congratulations! I’ve just heard the news!” Stefi enthused as she hugged her aunt in greeting.

“So, you’re here.” Zosia smiled in response.

“Yes, am I ever glad to take a break from those lunatics! Arghhh. You wouldn’t believe . . . Well, I won’t go on about it all right now. After all, this is your party, not mine!”

“Yes, Adam insisted on a party to announce the pregnancy. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“You know these people—any excuse will do. How far along are you?”

“Nearly two months,” Zosia answered. “Maybe it’s still a bit early to celebrate.”

“Nonsense! Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re knocked up. Still, you have a ways to go to catch up with my mother!”

“Ah, nobody can keep up with her!” Zosia laughed. “At least not any woman who has better things to do with her life than be a brood mare.”

“Tch, tch, tch,” Stefi chided. “You know she’s just doing her duty.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Katerina interjected as she came into the room.

“Ach, Mother Goose herself,” Stefi commented.

“No respect,” Katerina muttered, shaking her head. “This lack of respect is intolerable.” It was unclear whether she was joking or not.

Zosia hugged her, trying to dispel her bad mood. “Aren’t you happy for me and Adam, Auntie Katje?” she cooed.

“No! Adam, yes. He’ll continue his work just like before, but for you, no,” Katerina growled. “Let others have children, you have too much to do here.”

Zosia released Katerina from her hold and waved her hand dismissively. “Ah, the work will get done. And Joanna is such a wonder, we felt it was time to repeat the experiment.”

“Yes, Joanna is a darling,” Katerina admitted somewhat less sourly, her eyes straying to the corner of the room where Joanna was playing with several other children. “But, Zosia, don’t throw your life away. Promise me this will be your last!”

Zosia shook her head. “No, I won’t do that. I want children. I want someone to carry on for me.”

“It’s ideas that are carried on,” Katerina argued. “Fight for our ideals. Let that be your legacy.”

“Ideals are no good without people to hold them,” Adam commented as he joined the little group. He handed out glasses and began pouring shots of vodka in each. “Here’s to our future!”

“Your future is with your cause,” Katerina objected.

“Ah, you’re just pissed off because all your people are dead. Don’t wish that on us,” Adam retorted.

“Adam!” Zosia breathed.

“Colonel Firlej,” Katerina responded, clearly rattled, “maybe one day you will learn the value of . . . Zosia, what is it?”

Zosia was leaning forward slightly, holding her arm across her abdomen, a look of dismay on her face. “No,” she murmured, shaking her head as if she had been asked a question.“No.”

“Zosia?” Adam and Stefi both asked in alarm.

Zosia turned and fled the room. Adam and Stefi followed her out. Katerina remained behind, staring after them in sorrow. She recognized exactly what had happened, and her heart went out to Zosia even as her thoughts retreated back in time to a young girl whom she no longer recognized as herself. Then it had been malnutrition that had caused her to lose her baby; today, in their
ivory bunker, isolated from the misery outside, it was probably nothing more than bad luck.

55

“Y
OU WILL NOT SEE
that tramp again!” Elspeth screeched.

“Just try and stop me,” Horst yelled in response. He was dressed to impress a girl. That meant that, despite the June warmth, he was clad in his usual tight black leather pants, high black leather boots with decorative metallic clasps along the side, and a matching leather jacket. The jacket had a bit of leather fringe at the shoulders, and this made it not only magnificently stylish, but also one of the pieces of Horst’s clothing that Karl loathed the most. He opined frequently that in his day only queers would wear something like that, and they inevitably met with an unhappy and well-deserved fate. Perhaps that explained why, even on a warm night, Horst wore the jacket.

“While you live in my house, you will obey my rules!”

“I’ll live at the academy, then.” Horst headed toward the door, but Elspeth blocked his way.

“She’s unsuitable!”

“She’s pure Aryan. They have the documents.”

“Those mean nothing! She’s a round-faced peasant. She should be out there tilling the soil,” Elspeth spat.

“We are all the Führer’s children,” Horst stated calmly. “And working the land is a noble calling.”

Elspeth snorted. “I’m going to get your father to talk to you.” She turned to Peter.“Make sure he stays here.”

Peter watched numbly as Elspeth disappeared into Karl’s study. Horst smirked at Peter, turned on his heel, and left the house.

Elspeth was furious with Peter when they returned to find Horst already gone, but Karl shrugged and said, “What did you expect?” Then, turning to Peter, he said, “Whatever he said, I know he’ll be back. Make sure you’re up to let him in and see to his needs.”

The two of them retired long before Horst returned. Peter sat up and waited. His old habit had been to sit on the floor in the hallway and sleep with his head cradled in his arms, but now he found he could not fall asleep, so he passed the time staring sullenly at the wall opposite, looking for secrets in the pattern of faint bloodstains that were just barely visible.

Horst returned in the predawn hours, drunk as usual. When Peter greeted him, he did not come in, but stood framed in the doorway, grasping the doorjamb with his right hand for support, a nearly full bottle of
Korn
in his left. The
orange streetlights cast a surreal glow on the night mist, forming an unearthly halo behind his blond hair. He swayed slightly, then drawled, “You. Again.”

Peter stepped back to try to encourage him to enter.

“You. You, you, you . . . ,” Horst sang. He screwed up his face in an effort to focus his vision. “Only you ever stay up to greet me. Why’s that?”

Peter saw no point in answering.

Horst continued with slurred emphasis, “Do you think it’s because no one else cares? Do you? Or do you think it’s because they have better things to do? Huh?” His voice suddenly hardened. “Answer me! You”—he paused trying to settle on an appropriate epithet—“subhuman,” he concluded rather lamely.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know,
mein Herr!”
Horst pronounced with exaggerated precision.

“I don’t know,
mein Herr.”

“Of course you don’t. You don’t know anything. You’re too stupid to live! You’re, uh . . . oh, hell, well, at least you’re here when, uh . . .” Horst stumbled over his thoughts, hiccuped loudly. Suddenly an idea crystallized and he asked with surprising clarity, “Why do you bother to stay alive?”

Peter had yet to answer that question for himself and had given up trying. Inertia. Perhaps that was the most honest answer. “The alternative is illegal,” he finally answered, in jest.

Horst furrowed his brow and stared at him, trying to determine what that meant.

“Destruction of State property,” Peter explained. “I’d get the death penalty for suicide.”

Horst burped noisily. “Oh, yeah. I guess you would,” he said, apparently serious. With that question logically settled, he stumbled inside.

Peter shut the door and started to walk away.

“Come back here, you shit! I’m talking to you.” Horst sounded desperately intense. He leaned against the wall, decided that he was more comfortable on the floor, so he slid down into a sitting position. “Come here. I take it back. Come sit down here. You’re my friend. Honest. It doesn’t matter that you’re not an
Untermensch
—I mean,
are
an
Untermensch
, I don’t care. Come on, boy.” He whistled and motioned as though he were calling a dog. “Come on, sit!”

Peter chose the path of least resistance and sat down by Horst on the floor in the darkness of the hallway. He stared ahead, readjusting his sight to the dim shadows as Horst took another gulp from the bottle. There was a long silence and he wondered if Horst had fallen asleep.

“She left me.” The bald statement emanating from the gray silhouette surprised Peter. He turned to look at Horst. “She left me, because she knew they didn’t like her. Thought she wasn’t good enough. Said she didn’t want all the trouble it would involve.” Suddenly, Horst turned toward Peter, grabbed him, pulled him close. “She didn’t care what I thought! The bitch!” Horst’s breath reeked of drink. “I’ll be an officer soon. My own man, but she couldn’t wait. Shit,
I hate them all.” He released his grip, threw his head back, hit the wall. “Ow! Shit.”

Peter was hardly listening; he was weary and wanted to leave. There were a few moments of silence; he hoped that Horst had finally collapsed. Suddenly Horst said quite loudly, “How can anyone exist like this? Day in and day out, like a robot. I mean like you, not like me. Like you. Not me, not me.”

“Is there an alternative I’ve overlooked?”

Horst ignored him. “Do you even know what it’s like to be drunk? Go on,” he goaded, “have a drink—act like a real man!”

Without knowing exactly why, Peter reached over and gently removed the bottle from Horst’s grasp. It was a lot of whiskey for someone as debilitated as he, but that did not matter. He raised the bottle to his lips and slowly, deliberately, drank it down.

Horst only slowly grasped what he was doing. When he saw the empty bottle, his mouth dropped open in astonishment and he stammered, “You—you bastard! You drank it all! You drank all my
Schnaps!”

Already Peter could feel the effects of the alcohol. He stood up, gripped Horst’s jacket and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, boy, it’s time you were in bed.”

Horst’s mouth worked up and down, but no sound emerged. Finally he managed to blurt, “How dare you!” but by then he was already being steered toward his bedroom.

After Peter had seen Horst into his room and taken care of the rudiments of undressing him, he climbed up to the attic and collapsed on his bed of rags. The drink made him feel warm and comfortable; thoughts that had eluded him emerged with stunning clarity. His mind was ablaze with emotions and memories and plans. They all jumbled together, competing for attention. It was as if a shade had been lifted and bright sunlight streamed into the gloom of his mind dazzling him with a sudden ability to perceive. It was, he realized, the first time he had felt alive in months.

As the room revolved with ideas around him, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. And overslept. He awoke with a start. Elspeth was leaning over him; he had a suspicion she had just kicked him. “What are you doing here? You should be out, it’s late!”

“Uh” was all he could manage in reply. He realized his head ached horribly and he felt like vomiting. His mouth was parched, his tongue coated with fur. He grasped at the floor to stop the sickening revolution of the walls: around about halfway, then magically back to the beginning. Right to left and back, right to left and back. He squeezed his eyes shut, wished the effect away, but even the blankness under his lids revolved. He felt like death, wanted to curl up and vanish, wished Elspeth would leave him alone, but most of all, deep inside, he was elated that he felt anything at all.

“Get up.” She kicked him again. He rolled over in response and climbed to his
feet. He belched and a hot brew of stomach acids burned his throat. He swallowed the foul concoction, struggling to control his urge to throw up. He needed water, and maybe some food in his stomach.

“You reek of booze. What have you been up to?”

He shook his head in response. Nothing, absolutely nothing. If only the damn floor would stop moving! After several deep breaths, he informed her, “Horst came in very late last night. I . . .” He let his voice trail off. He simply could not think fast enough in this condition to come up with the rest of his excuse. He left it to her imagination to fill in the details.

Surprisingly, she had no trouble. “I see. All right, hurry downstairs. You’ve got a lot to do.”

He stood still, concentrating on his balance as he watched her go. What did she see?

As he came down the steps, thoughts tumbled through his head. He noticed that, other than for an appalling and self-inflicted hangover, he was essentially healthy. Karl hadn’t laid a finger on him in weeks, since before Frau Reusch had apologized. Frau Reusch had apologized? She had, she had apologized! And the neighbor, the one who had taught him about gardening, the neighbor had saved him! Taking such a risk, coming over to the fence like that to distract his powerful neighbor from his frenzied anger! Elspeth, too, had been almost understanding. She had simply ignored his drunkenness. And Roman told him repeatedly that his friends missed him. He should return to them. He could reorganize his school, he could keep alert and watch for a good opportunity to escape, he had survived his deadly mistake of getting caught talking with Ulrike. He had survived!

Before he reached the kitchen, the doorbell rang. He did up the buttons of his shirt and rolled down his sleeves as he hurried to answer the door. It was a telegram. Elspeth had also rushed out, and when she saw the telegram, she snatched it from the delivery boy’s hands, read it several times, and then crumpled it. Disappointed by her reaction, the boy left and Peter shut the door. Elspeth held the crumpled paper in her fist and stared silently at the door for several moments.

Finally he asked, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” but she ignored him. She dropped the telegram on the floor and wordlessly went into the sitting room, shutting the door behind her.

It was, no doubt, a capital offense; nevertheless, he picked the telegram up and read it. Uwe, their eldest son, had been injured by a terrorist bomb. There were severe injuries to the lower half of his body. He had lost one leg and might well lose the other. He was recuperating in the hospital and would soon be transferred home. The family should make preparations to receive him and care for him.

Peter snorted: so much for loyalty! The hospitals were overcrowded and caringfor an injured man was expensive, so under humanitarian pretenses, he was being released into his family’s care far earlier than he should be.

He replaced the telegram on the floor, at a loss for what to do next. Although she had said nothing after reading it, Elspeth was unquestionably distraught. He imagined her holding Uwe as a baby. Imagined her rocking him to sleep, singing a lullaby. He imagined her concern when he was sick, her pride as she presented the baby to her friends and relatives. Had she imagined then the unceasing violence, even in their lives? For reasons he did not fully understand, he felt an urge to speak to her.

With absolutely no pretext, he knocked lightly on the sitting room door and entered unbidden. Elspeth was by the window, her back to him. She stared idly into space, rocking gently back and forth, as though in a trance. He remembered a scene from his distant past—a mother, carrying a young child who had been injured in a shoot-out between some squatters in a cellar and the police. She had hugged the child so tightly, crooned comforting words to it, as tears had streamed down her cheeks. Then as now, he had wondered, where did it all go so wrong?