The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  After that first blow, Lederman paused as if deciding whether to continue the beating. By all measures the prisoner had performed admirably, and he decided to reward him by not punishing him further. He hung the truncheon on his belt, then turned to the guard and asked, “Have you kept my orders with regard to food and water?”

  The guard replied enthusiastically, “Yes, sir! Not a crumb of food nor a drop of water since you gave the order, sir!”

  Lederman paced back to the center of the room. “Come here!” he snapped.

  The prisoner began to rise, but Lederman ordered, “No! Crawl!” Obediently, the prisoner returned to his hands and knees and crawled toward the center of the room. His chains scraped noisily across the floor, and he favored the arm that had just been hit. When he reached the center, he was ordered to stand and he immediately struggled back to his feet. Richard could now see the unnaturally thin, cracked, dry lips, the bones that jutted painfully out of the sunken flesh of his face.

  “Are you thirsty?” Lederman asked him.

  The prisoner seemed stunned by the question. Bewildered, he raised his gaze from the floor and looked at his tormentors with unfocused, bloodshot eyes. His mouth lolled open and a swollen tongue touched the lips as if wetting them in preparation to say something, but his lips remained dry and he remained silent.

  Completely mad, Richard thought, as he listened to the rasp of the prisoner’s labored breathing.

  “I asked you a question!” Lederman screeched at him.

  “I am sorry, mein Herr,” the prisoner apologized in a hoarse whisper, mechanically, as though he had said the phrase countless times. He seemed to collect himself and added carefully, “Yes, I am thirsty. Very thirsty.”

  “Get me a cup of water,” Lederman ordered one of the guards. He motioned for the other guard to stand behind the prisoner, and Richard wondered at this maneuver. A slight smile played across the guard’s face as he assumed a position with which he was obviously familiar.

  The cup of water was brought in and handed to Lederman. Richard watched with detached curiosity as the prisoner’s eyes lighted on the precious fluid. His face assumed a look not unlike lust, and again the tongue tried to wet the lips. The prisoner’s hands twitched but did not move to reach for the cup; instead he waited, quivering with anticipation, like the well-trained animal that he was.

  They stood like that a moment, a tableau of thirst about to be quenched, then Lederman began waving the cup back and forth, carelessly letting water spill over the sides and splash noisily to the floor. The prisoner’s eyes widened at the cruel waste, his body jerked convulsively with aborted attempts to snatch at the water. Then suddenly he realized what was expected, and he went arduously down on his knees and in the most abject tones began begging for the water.

  Lederman smiled benevolently at the performance, glancing up at Richard to invite him to share the triumph of their explicit superiority. Richard stifled a yawn and wondered if he could get a cup of coffee somewhere. The prisoner continued to beg, his words emerging hesitantly, sticking in the dryness of his throat. As he pleaded, he raised his chained hands in supplication. Lederman brought the cup nearer so that the prisoner could smell the water, putting it within his grasp.

  As the prisoner thankfully reached for the cup, Lederman’s indulgent smile turned to an angry scowl and he motioned to the guard behind the prisoner. The guard responded by agilely raising his leg and kicking the prisoner brutally in the back, just below the neck. The prisoner was slammed forward, the water went flying; the cup clattered noisily to the floor even as the prisoner landed with a heavy thump, his face crashing painfully into his arms and his chains.

  Richard watched as the man desperately wet his lips on his arms and then moved his face to the floor to try to lap up the spilled water before it had all seeped away. Lederman’s laughter filled the cell, the two guards joined in, and Richard added his own weak chuckle of approval to the humiliating performance.The others were so involved in their merrymaking that they did not see the way the prisoner interrupted his efforts to look up at them, but Richard saw it, and the expression of pure hatred that greeted him told him that the prisoner was not completely mad, that someone was hiding deep inside that wretched exterior, and that one day, if that person ever escaped, they should all fear for their lives.

  Unnerved, Richard glanced at his oblivious companions. By the time he looked back down at the prisoner, the expression was gone, and the man was busily trying to suck water from stone. Lederman indicated that the guards should return the man to his work crew, then suggested to Richard that they take a break and have a cup of coffee and a pastry in the lounge. “Made right here in our own bakery on the premises,” Lederman enthused as he described their pastries, “absolutely fresh and simply delicious!”

  He was right, the pastries were delicious, but the coffee was even better. Real coffee, freshly brewed. Richard savored a mouthful, then asked, “Why that man?”

  “Man?” Lederman repeated, confused. “Oh, the prisoner!” he corrected.

  “Why him?” Richard repeated, bored by the pedantry.

  Lederman sipped his coffee and tasted his cherry tart before answering, “I chose him deliberately because he’s a tough case; I wanted you to see that I’m not afraid of challenges.”

  “Indeed,” Richard commented ambiguously. “What makes him so difficult?”

  “Oh, you saw him! He thinks he’s part of the master race because of his looks. Even worse is the way he speaks—like he’s somebody. That from a common criminal!”

  “What exactly was his crime?”

  “Now this is interesting.” Lederman dropped his voice as if revealing secrets. “His file says draft-dodging and an unauthorized exit from the Reich with the usual fraud and deception that involves.”

  “So?”

  “But I know he was involved in homosexual activities. Not only that, but he has no record before being arrested for draft-dodging, about four years ago.”

  “No record? What’s wrong with that?” Richard asked, betraying some confusion.

  “You misunderstand. I mean no record at all! His file has all the normal stuff—orphanage, school, work—up to when he was sixteen, then poof! He vanishes from the face of the earth. No work record, no residences, no ration coupons, nothing for years and years.”

  “Hmm, that is strange. Was he prosecuted along those lines?”

  “No! Well, he got five years for having his papers out of order and fifteen for not being able to prove he had done his conscription, but what I want to know is, what was he doing all those years?”

  “Good question,” Richard agreed.

  “You can imagine the crimes he must have committed! And he wasn’t prosecuted for any of them!”

  “Maybe he was just a beggar.”

  “Does he look like a beggar to you?” Lederman asked with a touch of derision.

  Richard raised an eyebrow at the tone. “We must not exclude any possibility,” he answered dryly.

  “I guess not. But he doesn’t talk like a beggar either. There’s something there, mark my words! He thinks he’s somebody, he even tried to match wits with me!”

  “Yes, I remember how he made fun of that psychiatrist, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “The first day, when we watched from above. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, even then,” Lederman agreed uneasily. “Anyway, he had ideas about himself, and that always takes a bit of time to break. What I want to do is find the quickest way to let his sort know their place. You could say I’m looking for the fastest way to drill through their thick skulls and suck out all the unnecessary dross. He’s one of my test cases.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, as you know, when we want to break a prisoner, but keep him physically intact, we tend to use drugs,” Lederman explained, clearly relishing his role as expert.

  “Um-huh.”

  “The problem is, the drugs tend to leave them in a very
unsuitable condition.”

  “Unsuitable?” Richard asked.

  “Psychotic. All well and good if you plan to keep them locked up, but it becomes problematic if there is any intention of releasing them into a more complex work situation.”

  “I see. So, what are you doing instead?”

  “I’m testing out various combinations of torture and drugs. Rather than simply-beating them into submission or drugging them into insanity, I’m developing a technique of changing their personalities. Or rather, erasing them. The brutal punishments keep them reacting in an acceptable manner, the drugs secure that their thoughts flow in one direction only: mindless obedience. No other thoughts allowed, none at all.”

  “Impressive.”

  “All I have to do is get the mix just right, then we can put them to work in any capacity for the Fatherland!”

  “Ah, yes. You are a true patriot.” Richard ran his finger around the edge of his coffee cup, watching the ripples that his action created.

  “I’ve worked on the one you saw for three months, and I must admit,” Lederman confessed, “I hardly expected he would survive this long, but as you can see, he’s not only still alive, he’s essentially presentable—no broken teeth, no significant facial scarring . . .”

  “I noticed. It is quite remarkable. How did you manage it?”

  “With difficulty. Frankly, I have trouble keeping the staff under control. We lose about fifty percent of our prisoners through their carelessness.”

  “What do you mean by lose?”

  “Ach, when they get too damaged, we have to carry out their sentences. But with this case, we’ve been lucky. No unfortunate accidents, and as far as modifying his behavior, we’ve had some success.”

  “Some success?” Richard asked. “I’d say complete success! He behaved himself admirably during your demonstration.”

  “Oh, that!” Lederman waved away the compliment. As no further assertion of his expertise followed, he cocked his head to the side and said, “You may be right. He does seem truly subdued.”

  “No doubt the prisoners recognize your natural superiority and respond to it.”

  “Do you think?” Lederman asked, stroking his mustache.

  “Oh, yes, definitely. I’m sure of it. You can be proud of your accomplishments, you have a real talent. I’ll tell you what.” Richard was now on a roll and he only stopped long enough to light a cigarette. “Give that fellow some food and water, clean him up, let him recuperate for a week or so, and I bet you will be amazed at the product you have.”

  “You don’t think he’ll just slip right back into his old ways?”

  “With your handling? No way! As you said, you’ve erased his personality. Nothing left but a drone. Don’t underestimate yourself!”

  Lederman looked pensive. “What about the way he grabbed for that water so presumptuously?”

  Richard shook his head vigorously. “No, no! You misinterpreted. He was pleading, not grabbing.” He raised his hands in mock supplication. “You see? Prayer! To a superior being.”

  Lederman nodded. “I see, I see. Hmm. Maybe I have underestimated myself.”

  “Put him in a household.”

  “A household?”

  “Yes, right in the midst of society! With somebody important. That will impress everyone.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that! At least not right away.” Lederman stroked his chin.

  “You must show him off. He’s such an accomplishment!”

  “Well, perhaps I could find something . . .” Lederman paused, then asked again, “You really think he’s ready? So soon?”

  Richard thought of that look of pure hatred and he grinned. “I’m sure of it!”

  13

  THE FOG THINNED AND the features of a man slowly coalesced into view: a pale, thin face; half-closed, gray-blue eyes; blond hair, streaked here and there with brown. He looked down, leaned forward, and brought both hands up to his facein a mechanical, well-trained way. Something scraped against his skin and he pulled his hands away to inspect the razor for blood. Again the ghostly image caught his eye. Who was this person? What in God’s name was happening?

  The thoughts scared him and he immediately ducked back down to repeat his well-practiced maneuver. Water was running slowly from a tap in front of him and he used it to rinse the razor. Though he was not thirsty, he felt a pressing need to drink and bent down and let some of the water into his mouth. He savored its taste and swallowed reluctantly. He raised himself and was again greeted by the eerily familiar face. With both hands he reached toward it and was not surprised to feel a cold, glassy surface. His attention was diverted from his reflection to his wrists—there were no chains binding them. He brought his hands down and very carefully separated them. They moved freely apart, and he stared at his left hand as it hovered independent and distant from his right. He glanced up from his hand, along the row of sinks, then, reassured by the lack of imminent danger, he allowed himself the incredible bravery of free thought.

  His brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. It had been some time now, days at least, since they had removed his chains. Water, food, those things, too, had been provided. His work had been tolerable, the time allowed for sleep . . . Dare he think it? Longer than usual? Adequate even? He rotated his head, looking nervously all around. He was alone at a row of sinks, there was a mirror in front of him and a sharp razor in his hand. The last command he could recall was that he should shower, shave, and dress in a new uniform. What the hell were they up to? Everything was so different, so impermissible! His body ached, he was awash with pain, there was no doubt about that, but as he did a slow inventory, he realized that he had not recently been hurt. Not for days at least.

  He finished shaving and glanced down the long row of empty sinks and located his guard, sitting on a bench against the far wall casually reaming out his left ear with his little finger. The guard noticed his prisoner’s look and interrupted his efforts long enough to ask, “What’s your problem?”

  He froze at those words, casting his eyes down to stare at the floor. There could be no clearer sign that punishment was due, yet in the time it took the thought to pass through his mind, nothing happened. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked carefully back down the line of sinks. No reaction. The guard had proceeded to clean his right ear as thoroughly as he had reamed out the left.

  With a confusion of fear and hope, he returned to his cell and collected his belongings in a bag he was given for that purpose. Despite the myriad crimes he committed—hesitating, looking around, thinking—nobody came to take him away. The usual guard who paced the hall had opened his cell door incuriously and did not comment when he stepped back out with his meager supplies. The guard who had watched him in the showers led him away, taking him out of the building and to an office in a section of the complex in which he had never been.

  Three other men were already there. Behind the desk sat a young bureaucratwith a well-honed expression of disinterest, and behind him and off to one side stood the officer who had overseen his reeducation. The third man was old with wispy white hair. He wore the medals of a pensioner, a minor Party official, and a veteran and looked the sort who had earned some level of gratitude from his society. The three did not interrupt their conversation as he was brought in and left standing to one side of the desk, although the old man did give him a curious glance.

  “. . . in lieu of the usual payment and with regards to the sum exchanged for the aforementioned official fees,” the bureaucrat finished droning.

  “Whatever, whatever,” the old man agreed, waving his hand impatiently. “Just show me where to sign. No money, or for that matter”—he glanced pointedly around—“body is going to replace my son.” The old man sighed as the two men behind the desk looked at him with a mixture of pity and annoyance, then continued quietly, almost to himself,“But I need somebody to help out now that . . .” He sighed again, looked to the bureaucrat. “Where do I sign?”

  “Here.�
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  “There, is that all?”

  “Yes, except of course for the follow-up formalities I already explained. You did understand that—”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” The old man stood up with surprising alacrity. Upon closer inspection it was clear he was not really all that old, rather more worn-out.

  The officer finally spoke. “Well, Herr Reusch, we wish you luck. He has been thoroughly trained, and if you follow the simple instructions I gave to you, then you should have no problems. If, however, you do have any trouble with him, no matter how trivial, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’ll see to it personally.”

  Outside in the cold sunshine, once they were entirely alone, the old man turned to him and extended his hand saying, “My name is Reusch. Ernst Reusch.”

  He stared in panic at the hand. Herr Reusch seemed oblivious to his dilemma but eventually withdrew his hand as he continued, “Don’t be misled by them. We’re not as bad as all that. Anyway, all I want is a helper, and this is the only way they could find a . . . find, er, someone to, uh, find a replacement for my son.” A note of sadness crept into Herr Reusch’s voice. “He died, uh, tragically, in an, er, accident, I guess.” There was a moment of silence, then Herr Reusch added in a markedly different tone,“Don’t worry. We’ll treat you well. My wife and I, that is. She’s waiting at home. With supper.”

  He nodded, astounded by the words. Was he hallucinating? Was this all a drug-induced fantasy? Had he, at long last, stepped over that invisible line into insanity? But it felt like reality—some core part of himself still knew the difference. He turned around and looked at the outside of the military complex for the very first time. The huge flags with their swastikas hung limply over the gates. A motto was mounted over the entrance, but he could not read it from his distance.The brick of the walls looked no more or less terrible than any other brick walls. He turned his gaze upward to stare into the sun.