The girl stepped back as he approached, pressing her back into the plate glass. Above her head, behind the glass, he could read the headline: “1,000 Partisans Hanged in District of Neustadt!” He did not know where this Neustadt was; he presumed it was in the eastern colonial region—there nearly everything had been renamed from the original Slavic to a “Neu-this” or a “Neu-that.” The German frustration at not having been able to press farther east, into the great open expanses of the Soviet empire, had relieved itself in a brutal occupation of the lands that they had conquered: the Central European countries that had lain between them and their ultimate and unachieved goal. Previous inhabitants of these lands had been driven from their homes into “townships” of forced labor pools or had systematically been murdered to make way for the new colonists. By all accounts, the slaughter there was still continuing.
He looked down into the ashen face of the frightened young girl. He smiled at her, but her expression did not waver. It was not a safe place to stand for any length of time, so without saying anything, he gently grasped her hand and led her back to the store. Once they were inside his room, he guided her into a chair and then asked if she wanted a cup of tea. She shook her head.
“Well, I’m going to have one, so I’ll put the kettle on.”
She watched his every move, her mouth set in determined silence. Only one chair was in the room, so he sat on the edge of the bed, across from her.
“My name’s Peter. What’s your name?”
“Emma,” she whispered. She was gaunt and pale and looked younger than her sixteen years.
“Pleased to meet you, Emma.”
“It’s not my real name. That’s just what they call me. They said my own name was too fancy.”
“What is your real name?”
“Jacqueline.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
She nodded sadly as though its loss weighed heavily on her.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Thirteen, mein Herr.”
He smiled at her honorific as well as at Maria’s deception. Thirteen—that looked more like the right age.
“You don’t want to do this, do you?” he asked gently.
“Maria says I have to.”
He shook his head.“No, you don’t.”
“She says that it’d be better for me to get it over with—with someone who won’t hurt me too much.”
“You don’t have to do anything, little one. And I think it’s better that you don’t.” He did not mention that at this point it was probably moot: her scared, wan, thirteen-year-old face was more effective than a freezing-cold shower at dousing whatever desire he might have had. “I’ll make you a cup of tea, and we can just chat a bit. Okay?”
“Maria will yell at me.”
“She doesn’t have the right to tell you what to do.”
“I can’t go back and tell her that nothing happened. She’ll kill me!”
“Then lie to her. I’ll tell you what to say.”
She looked relieved, and for the first time a small smile appeared on her face. “Would you do that?”
“Sure. Someday, when you’re ready, the information might be useful to you.” He hoped that it would be when she was ready, not when somebody else decided she was ripe, but he could do nothing to protect her for the rest of her life, and there seemed no point in dwelling on unpleasant future possibilities.
So, they drank tea and he told her what men and women did together and how it could be a beautiful and loving thing. She listened, intrigued, her eyes dancing with possibilities. At one point she got up from the chair to sit next to him on the bed. He kissed her hair and told her she was beautiful and intelligent and that someday she would make someone very happy, but that as long as she had a choice, she must not do anything she did not want to do.
He wanted to stop there, with the vague superstitious belief that if he did not mention rape, then perhaps she would be spared, but he felt almost a fatherly responsibility toward her and decided that he should at least discuss the grim realities of her life. But he did not know what to say. He did not understand the mind-set of the type of man who would do such a thing, and his own experiences with violence offered no reassuring insights. In the end, he decided to say very little. “Finally, if someone attacks you—whatever form their violence takes—remember to love yourself and don’t blame yourself. If they commit indignities, it reflects on them, not you.”
Emma nodded solemnly as she listened to his words and put them in a safe place in her heart, but she was more intrigued by what he was doing as he spoke. She noticed that the fingers of his left hand clawed at his identification band as if trying in vain to shift its position. She grinned impishly at him, and saying, “Watch this!” she folded her thumb against her palm and gently slid her band over her hand and off her wrist.
Peter stared, stunned by envy, at the loose metal circle that she held triumphantly in the air. Wasn’t it enough that she did not have to wear a permanent tattoo on her arm?
“I guess they made it loose so I could grow into it,” she explained. “But they don’t know I can take it off.”
He nodded, unable to say a word. The extent of his sudden jealous rage horrified him. Where had it come from? What had he become?
“Yours looks tight—is it uncomfortable?” Emma asked innocently.
With an effort he turned his attention away from the band she so casually flipped from one hand into the other and answered her question evenly. “Yes, very. It was put on after months of near-starvation rations. Since then I’ve had a much more normal diet and so I’ve regained the lost weight. Unfortunately, that has made this thing uncomfortably tight.”
“It bothers you to see mine off?”
He did not want to admit to being so petty, but since it was undeniable, he nodded.
“Yeah, it bothers Maria, too.”
Though it was unintended, he did not miss the irony in that.
“I’ll put it back on,” she said without rancor, and deftly slipped the bracelet back onto her wrist.
Furious with himself, he could only manage to mutter, “Thanks.”
She nodded and smiled and hugged him, her thin little arms unable to reach around him. He stroked her hair and held her for a moment. If he had had a normal life, had married young and had a daughter, she could be this age. He could be teaching her about life, comforting her when she felt sad. Instead . . . He sighed and pulled away to make another cup of tea for them both. They talked about other topics for about another hour, then he walked her back to the bakery.
* * *
“So did you enjoy her?” Maria had only managed to contain her curiosity with the greatest difficulty.
Peter shut the door to his room and put the kettle on as she plunked herself down on his bed. She lay on her stomach, her chin cupped in her hands, her legs casually sprawled.
“Well?”
“She’s a nice girl,” he finally answered, “but get off her back—give her time to grow up.”
“She doesn’t have time.”
The seriousness of Maria’s reply was unusual and unexpected. “Perhaps she does,” he said, “nothing’s happened yet, has it?”
“But did you enjoy her?”
“Well enough,” he answered obscurely. Even pretending to have slept with a thirteen-year-old girl was repulsive to him.
“Good! Then you can keep her.”
“Maria!” he felt a surge of revulsion at her implication. “I know this may be hard for you to believe, but you just can’t go giving other people away!”
“But you said you liked her.” She sounded hurt. She rolled to a sitting position.
“That’s not the point. It’s just not right!” How could he hope to explain to her a morality that no one had ever exhibited? He wondered what would happen if the regime were finally overthrown. Where would all these children—raised without respect for themselves or anyone else—where would they fit into a normal society?
She looked at him perplexed, chewing her thumbnail.
“I know this is not . . .” He sighed, tried to be more direct. “Slavery is wrong, Maria. It’s wrong for you and it’s wrong for me, and it’s wrong for you to treat Jacqueline as if she were yours to do with as you please.”
“Her name’s Emma.”
He accepted that with a wave of his hand. “We have to put up with our situation because we have no choice, but you can’t—”
“Who says?”
He hesitated and she jumped at this sign of weakness. Pointing toward the window, she hissed, “Everybody out there says it’s okay, everyone but you! Where would I go if I wasn’t here? Huh? Answer that! What would I do? You can’t answer that, can you! You want me to give up everything I have. For what? For nothing!” She moved her finger to point it at him. “You’re the only one who’s dissatisfied, and you want to make me unhappy, too!”
He considered her for a moment, then deciding not to argue, said, “I don’t want Emma. I want you.” That, he assumed, would put an end to the messy issue.
“I’m busy.”
“Busy?”
“Yeah, there’s a German lad—he’s interested.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s got much better access to food and cigarettes and stuff. And you know . . .” She scrunched her face a bit to indicate a well-known truth.
“Know what?”
“He’s a German!”
“Ah, yes.” Superhuman, aristocratic, nearly magical. Could he blame her? He weighed his options, then offered, “I won’t mind if you see us both.”
“He would. He’d have you shot if he found out. Probably me, too!” She sounded proud of his imputed jealousy and power.
Not shot, beaten to death, Peter thought bitterly. Whereas a shooting could introduce legal complications, an overzealous beating would not be so unusual, especially if her boyfriend and his friends found him doing something illegal, such as sleeping with her. And they would, because sooner or later she would tell them. Yes, beaten to death; they could get away with that.
“As you wish.” He sighed, wondering why he felt so lonely.
“You’re not going to cause problems?” She looked at him suspiciously; obviously she had not expected him to capitulate so easily.
“No. No, I won’t cause you trouble. I promise.”
“He thinks I’m a virgin.”
“He’ll never hear otherwise. But, Maria, please be careful!”
“So, you want Emma?”
Oh, so that was it. Emma was supposed to buy his cooperation and silence. She was a nice girl, pretty, bright, she liked him. Sooner or later somebody else would . . . It’d be best if it were someone she wanted, someone she could trust. She’d be fourteen soon. He’d be gentle, patient, they could talk, be friends, maybe after a few months . . .
“Well?” Maria pressed.
Peter shook his head angrily. “No, I don’t want to even see her!” Regretting the harshness of his tone, he added gently, “Just give her my regards; I wish her a good life.”
Maria kissed him and turned to leave.
“Maria?” he knew she could not miss the plea in his voice.
She looked back at him expectantly, enjoying her power.
“Will you stay the night? Just this one last time? Please.”
“Sure,” she conceded nobly, “for old times.”
18
“IT JUST KEEPS GETTING better and better, Herr Traugutt, doesn’t it?” the organizer enthused. “The Reich goes from strength to strength!” “Yes,” Richard agreed, placing a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders to ward off the evening chill,“we are truly the envy of the world with our organization, our cultural cohesiveness, and our proud and noble master race!”
The organizer grinned. “Especially now, especially with the Americans all tied in knots.”
“This current American fiasco is just—oh, what can I say—a gift from the gods!” Richard let his fingers stray along the delicate fabric of Kasia’s dress. It was new, he had insisted that she buy something special for the occasion, aware of how many people would be observing them, and even though Kasia was still carrying extra weight left over from her pregnancy, she had chosen well and she looked exquisite.
Kasia looked up at her husband and smiled, but was then distracted by the fireworks that exploded magnificently across the river, over the sky of Göringstadt. So, this was to be their new home. It was a huge, sprawling colossus of a city—the administrative center for the region, the place of refuge for tired German colonists, the transportation nexus, and the location of wagepaying industrial jobs. The Traugutt family would move from Krakau to Göringstadt, following Richard’s magnificent career progression. Richard’s promotion was big news and he was already being treated with greater respect. Even she was treated more delicately. Gone were the sneering references to her improper accent, gone were the penetrating stares as the other wives searched for faults in her manner or her words or the way she dressed. Richard had achieved a position of significant power, and that meant he could hurt people, and so now everyone was more careful, more respectful, more civil.
Kasia looked around at the heroic expanse of concrete that made up the central square and felt a wave of nostalgia for something she had never seen. Just a few miles upstream, on the Weichsel before its confluence with the Bug River, were the ruins of Warschau, or as her people had called it, Warszawa. Images of the medieval old town, the royal palace, the Barbican, and the palaces of the Szlachta came to mind. She had seen none of these things, they no longer existed, but the images were part of her youth and they remained burned into her soul as they were into the souls of all her people.
Warsaw, the capital, the seat of their resistance. The city had been demolished, completely leveled, in retaliation for an uprising long ago. The entire population had been destroyed: arrested and shot or deported to concentration camps and starved. The order from Hitler had been to burn, bomb, and raze everything and, to fulfill a boast, to build an airstrip over the historic center. When their train had passed through the ruins earlier in the day, she had seen mile upon mile of charred rubble, had gazed sorrowfully at the ashes that blew in the wind. Wildflowers and trees sprouted here and there, but none were very old—they were regularly bulldozed, doused in oil, and set on fire in a senseless act of ongoing vandalism; salt on an ancient and terrible wound. The Poleswould not be allowed to forget the price of resistance—their capital was to lay in ruins for as long as one of them was alive to see it. For as long as she was alive. Kasia looked down at the river and noticed, even in the darkness, that a scattering of ash floated on the surface.
“Vandalism,” their host was saying as if he had read her thoughts. “Apparently vandalism is on the rise there as well.”
“Fortunate that we don’t have such things here,” Kasia commented sourly.
The host smiled at her, though Richard threw her a warning glance.
“It’s all evidence of their incredible decadence,” Richard commented. “The financial scandals, that fag for a vice president, all of it, just food for the fires of revolution. That culture won’t last long. They have no morality, no direction. They need leadership, true leadership.”
“Like what we could offer.”
“Exactly. Aryan purity.” A barrage of fireworks kept Richard from saying more. Kasia watched entranced as the beautiful bursts of color filled the sky. Red, black, and white exploded in a finale of dizzying sound and light, and there, in the sky, was formed a giant, glowing flag. The crowd roared its approval and there was a surge of energy as a chorus of the national anthem was raised. Around her voices rose and fell with the hypnotic tones of glory and power to Deutschland äber alles.
The extravaganza finished and the crowds were ushered into the new Party Congress Hall. The general public thronged into the massive marble lobby; those with invitations were led into the main reception hall. Richard and Kasia wer
e pressed from all sides, and Richard complained to the organizer about the lack of order and security.
The organizer begged their patience and boldly forced his way through the crowd to make a path for them. At the door, their passes were inspected and they were released from the swarm into a light and airy hall with only several hundred other guests. The organizer showed them to their reserved seats, then made his excuses to go handle the mess created by security.
The hall buzzed with conversation, the women’s laughter tinkled lightly, the men guffawed and slapped each other’s back. Champagne was served in glistening glasses, music from a string quartet floated around them, the chandeliers sparkled magically, a feeling of gaiety and happiness was everywhere. Kasia and Richard were seated at a round table with eight other distinguished visitors to the city. They quickly introduced themselves and fell into a lively conversation about the city’s architecture, cultural life, and livability.
As they spoke, there was a muffled boom and the sound of distant panicked screams. They all looked up in alarm but nobody moved. After a moment of intense silence in the hall, excited whispers began spreading like a swarm of bees through the room.
“Not another idiotic bombing!” Richard commented as he waved to a waiter to light him a cigarette. “Can’t we keep these damn people in line?”
“Do you think we should go?” Kasia asked softly as she fingered the intricate pattern on the pewter plate in front of her.
“No, no, it will all be sorted out soon,” Richard assured her, and indeed it was. The bomb had been in a wing in which nobody had yet entered; it had done minor damage and had caused no injuries. The political fallout would be immense, but for now, they could enjoy their meal.
“This is good luck for you, isn’t it?” the man next to Kasia commented to Richard. He had introduced himself as visiting from the Security Divisional Headquarters in Paris, and he was already aware of Richard’s impending move.
“Ah, Herr Bloch, whatever do you mean?” Kasia asked, smiling sweetly.
Herr Bloch smiled in return. “Dear lady! Women are so naive! Minor damage, timed so there are no injuries, but located inside the building! Doesn’t that tell you anything!”
The Children's War Page 16