The Children's War (84 page)

He remembered his chagrin as he heard the first lines of the play—in German. Furious with his parents, with the actors, with everyone in the audience, he had begun humming an obscene anti-German ditty he had learned from his friends. His mother shushed him, she jabbed him, she tried to cover his mouth, but all to no avail. He hummed it throughout the entire first act. At the end of the act, his father had grabbed him and literally dragged him out of the theater. Outside, in an alley, his father had begged him to shut up and sit through the play quietly. In response, he had begun humming the song again. His father, who rarely hit him, swung at him and cuffed him on the side of the head. The blow sent him tumbling into the mud.

He did not get up, just stared furiously as he sat there. “Why the hell did you bring me to this bloody awful play?” he had asked in English, using a thick accent he had only recently perfected. Unusually, his father had answered him in English. He had apologized then. Apologized for hitting him, apologized for the play. They had not known it would be in German, they had assumed it would be in English and would please him. His father extended his hand, pulled him out of the mud and cleaned him off, and together they went back in and sat through the rest of the play in silence.

Puzzled by his silence, Zosia turned to look at him. She was so close, he could feel the warmth of her body. His eyes held hers, then he leaned in and they kissed. He gasped with the urgency of his desire for her, and he wrapped his arms closer around her, but she pulled gently back. Kissing him lightly, she whispered, “I’ve got to go,” and delicately extricated herself from his embrace.

She disappeared into the bedroom, and he stood for a long, long time staring at the cheerful watercolor on the wall, at the world he had never known.

12

“E
XQUISITE!
OUT
OF
this world! Unlike anything I have ever known!” Richard whispered into her ear. He closed his eyes and groaned inaudibly as his fingers traced a pattern down her body to find a new wonder. What was her name again? Oh, yes. “You are magnificent, Helga.”

“You don’t think I’m fat?” she asked nervously.

He pulled his head back so that he could look sincerely into her eyes. “No! What in the world would make you ask that!”

“I just thought—”

“You have a woman’s luxurious curves,” Richard assured her as he stroked her flab, “soft, enticing . . .” He moaned expressively.

“Some of the other women . . .”

“Who wants to touch a boy? That’s what I want to know,” Richard asked as he leaned over to kiss her. “I like women. This current fad for stick figures . . .” He shook his head in dismay. “I’m so lucky to have found you! Ach, but it can’t last long. Alas, I must leave Berlin soon.”

“Maybe you’ll get transferred here,” Helga suggested as he planted little kisses on her chest, just above the frill of her rather demure nightgown.

He looked up. “Oh, to be with you!” he sighed, then said sadly, “Still, I don’t think there’s much chance of it, or have you heard something?”

“Well, I know my boss really wants you here. He thinks you’d be marvelous to fill Schacht’s position.”

“Oh, is he leaving?”

Helga sighed. “No, unfortunately not. Even worse, he’s dead set against havingyou in Berlin.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“I don’t really know. I think he’s afraid of you and doesn’t want the competition. That’s sort of what his secretary said to me, but you should ask her directly.”

Tried that, Richard thought, but she was unreachable. So, here he was making love to an insignificant and insecure lump of womanhood, trying to wring every last bit of gossip out of her. It was stretching his talents to the limits, but he could at least console himself that every word he said seemed to make her feel happier about herself.

He reviewed all the information he had gathered and decided that his source had served her purpose. Now, it was time for one grandiose, final act of lovemaking, then tomorrow he could have one of his men discover her, woo her, and shortly thereafter, given the choice of a married man in a distant city and a young, handsome, unmarried man in Berlin, she would be able to let Richard down gently. If that didn’t work, a sudden, guilt-induced impotency always did the trick. In any case, there’d always be a special place in her heart for him, and he would always give her a longing, albeit resigned, sidelong glance. Sometimes, when he entered a crowded room, he had to let one such look serve for four or five women at a time. It was getting ridiculous. Ah, but enough digression, it was time to get to work.

“It is well past time to take a break from work!” Richard enthused as he trotted-down the Ministry steps into the early November night. “Don’t you agree?”

“I have a thousand other things I should be doing right now,” Schacht grumbled as he followed Richard. “I see no reason why I should be wasting my time going to the club with you now.”

“Ach, my dear colleague, I know you are a very busy man. After all, you’ve turned down three of my invitations so far! If the Führer himself hadn’t insisted I seek your advice, then I would let you go home to your dear wife and eight children.” Richard walked rapidly, pulling his comrade along in a friendly manner.

“I have nine children.”

“Yes, of course, nine children. But he did insist and he himself suggested we do it this evening over a beer.” They turned the corner together and approached the construction site that was adjacent to the club.

“I’ll have to ask him about that,” Schacht muttered.

“Yes, do that. Tomorrow.” Richard slowed his pace as they walked past the placards posted on the wooden wall surrounding the construction site.

“I really don’t understand why this can’t wait,” Schacht groused.

“Just one evening, dear colleague! You won’t deny our Führer that, will you? Well, look at this!” Richard stopped dead and pointed in amazement at a handwritten notice on the wall. “It’s pure smut!”

Schacht bent forward to have a closer look.

“Herr Traugutt!”

Richard swung around to see who was calling him. At the corner, his assistant, Stefan, stood panting, holding one hand against his chest as he gasped for breath and holding out a piece of paper in the other hand. “It’s a message for you!” he gasped.

“I’ll be right back,” Richard said, but Schacht was too intrigued by the letter on the wall to take note of him.

Richard sprinted over to Stefan, grabbed the note from his hand, and began to peruse it. Stefan scanned the street, reached discreetly into his pocket, and pressed the button on a small device. Not two seconds later they were both thrown backward by a blast emanating from the construction site, from behind the point where the letter had been posted. Both men looked in alarm to where Schacht had been standing.

“Bloody hell,” Richard swore. “Terrorists.” He motioned to Stefan. “You go get help, I’ll see if Schacht is okay.”

Stefan took off at a run back toward the Ministry. Richard ran toward Schacht’s body. A few pedestrians were reasonably near, but they stood unmoving, paralyzed by fear.

Richard gently rolled the body over. The bloody, charred mask that was Schacht’s face greeted him. Richard reached down to the neck and frantically searched for a pulse. He was startled to find one, strong and steady. Convulsively, his fingers dug into Schacht’s throat with a sudden, violent force. Schacht’s eyes popped open; he stared unseeing into the night sky.

A policeman approached.
“Mein Herr,
it’s not safe here. There’s usually a second blast. Please come away quickly.”

Distraught, Richard looked up at him. “I can’t find a pulse! I think he’s dead.”

Gently the policeman tugged on Richard’s arm to pull him away. “Come,
mein Herr.
Your bravery won’t do your friend any good now. Please, come away.”

As they crossed behind the police cordon, Richard was greeted by others from the Ministry. A flurry of negotiations took place around him as the various branches of the police tried to determine who would take responsibility for the investigation. It was finally determined that Richard and Stefan would give their statements the following day to RSHA investigators. The local police were left to clean up the mess and clear the area of any unexploded bombs.

As they walked Richard back to the offices, Herr Schindler placed an arm around his shoulders. “Close call there, Traugutt; we’re lucky that thing didn’t get both of you.”

Still obviously shaken, Richard only nodded.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital and get checked out,” someone else opined.

That opinion was seconded by a number of voices.

Richard stopped and rubbed his face. “No, I’m okay.”

“Hell of a Berlin welcome, eh?” a third voice asked.

Richard nodded. “It’s okay. We have blasts in Göringstadt as well.”

“I’ve heard they’re a lot less frequent since you took over that division. Maybe you should come to Berlin,” Helga’s boss suggested.

“Yes, maybe.” Richard gestured back in the direction of the blast. “Do you have any idea who was responsible?”

“Oh, lots of ideas!” Schindler assured him. “Too many!” He laughed and some of those around him ventured to laugh as well.

“You don’t think it was random terrorism?” Richard asked, somewhat concerned.

“Could be, I suppose,” Schindler explained. “Still, Schacht had so many enemies!” At Richard’s surprised look, Schindler laughed again. “Don’t worry, there won’t be a shortage of suspects. You want to get in on the investigation? There’ll be a lot of people who’ll have to be questioned. It could be fun.”

Richard shook his head.“No, sorry. I can’t stay more than a few days. I’m due back. After I make my statement, I’ll have to catch a train to Göringstadt.”

13

R
ICHARD SAT GLOOMILY
staring out the window of his first-class compartment, his feet resting casually on the seat opposite, as Stefan handed over their papers to the conductor. The train was crowded and the conductor scowled meaningfully at Richard’s feet but after perusing his identity papers decided not to comment.

Click-click, click-click. Thump-thump, thump-thump. The rhythm of the train’s wheels kept reminding Richard of Schacht’s pulse. It had been so unexpected! He had almost not bothered to check! He felt unusually rattled by the whole affair. It had taken so much to lure Schacht out that, if he had survived the blast long enough to speak, he would definitely have pointed a finger at Richard. Not only that, but the gruesome interrogations that had followed: some of the suspects had been genuine lowlifes—apparently Schacht had been deeply involved in some criminal conspiracies—but still there were the others, the various Danish nationalists who had been brought in. Richard closed his eyes and sighed. It shouldn’t have to be like this, he thought.

He opened his eyes and stared out the window as the countryside sped by. The old Reich lands had long ago given way to the new Reich, and now as they crossed yet another internal border, the colonial lands emerged. Vast estates with their worker townships dotted the terrain. Gated German villages stood out in isolation on the plains or were surrounded by miserable dilapidated housing. Military installations with mile upon mile of barracks and airfields, warehouses and firing ranges, loomed large on the landscape. Huge tracts of forest lay in
ruins—clear-cut, the logs left to uselessly rot—either in retaliation for resistance or out of fear of what, or who, might lurk within. Huge industrial complexes rose up out of the horizon, defiling the land for mile upon mile with their concrete and their pollution, then vanished back into the earth as the train moved on. Miles of electrified, barbed wire lined the track at various points as the train passed by concentration camps.

The towns the train stopped in were sometimes reconstructed, or even newly constructed, with a heavy emphasis on fortifications, walls, gates, and barriers. Other towns, older cities, where the train did not stop, were bombed out and consisted of nothing but ruins and weeds. They sped through wrecked stations— ghostly shells of metal and broken glass. Bridges arched over the railway line and then fell away to nothing. Burned-out farmsteads, their chimneys rising above the charred roof struts, hinted at a life gone by. Animal corpses, bones whitewashed by the sun, littered fields here and there as if no one dared collect them. A landscape of wanton destruction, of resistance and waste, of oppression and fear.

Richard decided to stretch his legs and left the compartment. He took up a position against the compartment window so that he could look out across the landscape. He was the only one who did so. The other passengers in the aisle— mostly Germans—seemed determined not to look out the windows. It was supposed to be their triumph, it should have been their proof of superiority! Yet, judging from their faces, their animated conversations carried on with everybody casually leaning with their backs to the outside windows, it was an embarrassment to them. An undeniable sign that they had put their fates, their country, and their hearts into the hands of madmen.

He wondered at what had brought each of his fellow passengers to the region—the incentives were high: money, land, prestige, and slave labor being just a few. But still, for every three immigrants to the colonizable lands, one returned within five years. And that despite the social stigma and low-level government harassment that they had to face upon returning. It was not a wellknown fact, yet it spoke volumes. How many people were shocked when they learned the reality about the “New Lands”? How many came expecting green fields and friendly, compliant peasants offering baskets of fruit and bouquets of flowers to their new masters? The image of the ubiquitous poster appeared before him, contrasting sharply with the desolate landscape, the result of decades of pillage and hatred and destruction, that rolled past.

As the train headed north to cross the river, the landscape began to change. He returned to his seat to watch as entire suburbs of ugly, squat, but serviceable concrete-block houses began to appear. The houses grew more substantial, and occasionally a wealthy suburb of proper pitched-roof houses passed by. The beginnings of Göringstadt and their final destination.

“Write out the chit when he drops you off,” Richard ordered Stefan, as he climbed out of the taxi. Richard stretched, rubbing the small of his back to relieve a pain there, and surveyed the Party-assigned house that he called home.
For as far as the eye could see, cheaply built, ugly, squat houses surrounded his manor, like concrete mushrooms springing up in its confiscated fields. Only a generous yard and the house itself remained of the old estate.

Stefan collected the luggage, told the driver to wait, and followed his boss as they proceeded to the front door. Kasia herself answered the door, and as Stefan deposited the luggage in the hall and took his leave, Richard embraced her.

“How was your trip?” she asked. “Successful?”

“Yes, I’m going to be transferred to Berlin soon,” he answered, accepting the cigarette that she offered him. Then, glancing around, he asked, “Have the guests arrived?”

“Not yet, the servants are upstairs making the last-minute preparations. I’ve doubled up the children so we have two bedrooms free. We’ll put your sister and her mother-in-law in one room. We’ll put her nephew in the other, and her daughter can . . .”

Richard nodded disinterestedly as Kasia continued to explain how she would arrange everyone. “What about the servants?” he interrupted suddenly.

“I’ve given them weekends and the evenings off. I can’t do better than that. They’ll need you to write them special transport passes—it’ll be too early in the evening to use their usual ones. And you should give them a little extra to cover the higher fares.”

“All right, all right,” Richard groaned. He wandered into his study and began picking through the small pile of accumulated post.

Kasia watched for a moment from the doorway, then she ventured, “Your father called this morning. He said he had important business and would meet up with us here, this evening.”

“Then who’s . . . ?”

Kasia raised her eyebrows. “All right. Which train?”

The train arrived on time and she was one of the first to descend to the platform. Richard greeted his sister with a peremptory hug. “Welcome to Göringstadt, dear . . .” He stopped dead and stared at the SS major who had stepped off the train and stood expectantly behind her. Richard took a step back to better survey his guests, then drawing in his breath slowly, he stated, “I didn’t realize your husband would honor us with his presence.”

“Yes, I thought I’d surprise you,” his sister answered breezily.

Richard continued to stare at the stranger, who at first met his gaze with a fleeting smile, then after a moment, nervously averted his eyes to watch an incoming train. “I guess we should go,” Richard announced without even bothering to greet the others.

As they drove back, Richard searched feverishly through his memories trying to answer the jumble of questions in his head. An Englishman. That’s what he had heard. But where else? An Englishman who looked a bit like Adam. But not
just Adam, somebody else. Who? Where? Those mannerisms. So familiar! Someone from the RSHA? An agent? Richard glanced nervously at his unexpected guest and then at his sister. Damn her anyway! He lit a cigarette to calm himself and decided to wait until he could speak to her in private.

Kasia was no less surprised by the unexpected guest, but with the servants present, she put on a brave face and kissed her supposed brother-in-law warmly, then carefully explained to the servants where to place the luggage. The family all retreated to the sitting room and conversed stiffly as drinks and hors d’oeuvres were served. Richard’s parents arrived and the conversation continued in its oddly stilted manner until finally Richard announced to Kasia, “I think we don’t need the servants anymore.”

Kasia readily agreed and leapt to her feet to help hustle them out the door.

“Polish?” Zosia asked as Kasia shut the door on them.

Richard stood and paced to the window, watching silently as the servants left the property.

“Ryszard?” Zosia pressed.

“Yes, they’re Polish,” Kasia answered testily. “We prefer the risk of a knife in the back to being spied on by German employees.”

“No luck with getting some of our own?” Marysia asked.

“Not yet. We’ve been making do ever since the last pair were reassigned.” Ryszard turned away from the window to face his sister, ready to lambaste her, but was distracted by the way the stranger shifted nervously in his seat, rose suddenly, and walked aimlessly around his chair. When he realized that everyone was staring at him, he smiled nervously and sat back down.

Ryszard noticed how the man met his eyes only briefly, then turned his gaze away, off to the side again. Why was that expression so familiar? Unbidden, grimy images crowded his mind: a bare bulb, concrete walls, an officer’s incomprehensible curses, the sound of a truncheon striking flesh. He winced at the familiar, unwelcome imagery and glanced again at the man’s face. It was the eyes. That look of an impenetrable distance, of an isolation defined by pain. The look of a prisoner. Ryszard felt relieved: it wasn’t the man he recognized, it was that look. If their paths had ever crossed, it had probably been during one of his numerous prison tours, and that made the man unimportant and forgettable. And fragile. Ryszard let out his breath slowly, deciding to hold his tongue for the moment.

“So, how about introducing us to your husband?” Alex suggested jovially to his daughter.

Zosia gladly obliged, the ice was broken, and everybody relaxed and exploded into conversation. Joanna disappeared upstairs with her younger cousins to play. Olek shyly excused himself to go talk with Ryszard’s eldest—their daughter Stefi. Marysia and Anna retreated to the kitchen to sip vodka and exchange Council gossip. Kasia busied herself as hostess, not taking part in any conversation except in passing. Alex sat himself on the edge of the couch near Peter’s chair and
insisted, in English, that they get to know each other, and Ryszard rubbed his face tiredly and sat down to talk with Zosia.

She, however, was not interested in answering questions. Instead she started talking about Adam and how nothing was the same without him. Ryszard nodded his head wearily and let his mind wander.

“Make Zosia speak it to you—and make her listen to you in it!” Alex was advising Peter. “And don’t worry if she laughs. Hell, they all still laugh at my accent!”

Ryszard listened to his father’s nasal whine, and though he could tell Peter’s accent was quite different, he did not know what significance that held, if any. He furrowed his brow as he listened in, trying to follow the rapid, fluent English. He could not catch everything, but they seemed to be discussing the corruption of English by German neologisms and comparing it with American English. “I would suppose that the Americans have always considered their language ‘proper’ English,” Peter was saying.

“Yes, but we know better, don’t we?” Alex laughed.

“So what do you think?” Zosia was insisting. Ryszard drew his attention back to her. “Hmm? I don’t know yet. Tell me more.”

Zosia launched into the details.
“Ananas?
That’s pineapple!” Alex was saying, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you know that?”

“But we’ll need to get him out and about, to prove he can be trusted . . .” Zosia was saying.

“. . . the English word for those, dear boy, is
venetian blinds,”
Alex was explaining. “Just what sort of language are they speaking back home nowadays?”

Anna and Marysia wandered back into the room. Their voices rose and fell in the happy exchanges of old comrades-in-arms. Kasia kept refilling everyone’s glass with cherry-flavored vodka, and Olek and Stefi ventured downstairs, giggling and blushing as they exchanged their last-minute private observations before joining the adults.

“Sunny-day showers, eh? Never heard that one,” Alex was admitting. “There is some silly American joke about April showers, but I doubt there’s any connection. God only knows what obscure rhymes kids will be singing in five hundred years about the invasion and good ol’ Uncle Adolf.”