The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” he responded awkwardly.

  The next morning he saw her waiting for the bus and watched from the door of the shop as she climbed in. She glanced at him but he did not wave for fear the neighbors might notice and wonder at such familiarity. As the bus drove off toward the city, he turned back into the shop to continue his work stocking the shelves.

  Later that day they took their meal as usual, in the apartment. Peter politely chewed his way through the unidentifiable concoction set before him and then magnanimously offered to make the following day’s meal. Herr Reusch sheepishly accepted, and after that they ate fairly well. On the third day, as Peter was preparing to open the shop, Herr Reusch appeared and asked him to come up to the apartment.

  Wondering if he was going to be enlisted into making breakfast as well, Peter followed Herr Reusch up the steps. The door to the apartment was ajar and he was surprised to see a man inside. As they entered the apartment, he took a closer look and recognized the visitor as a stranger who had come to the shop about a month back.

  “Here we are,” Herr Reusch announced. “Peter, this is Herr Vogel and—”

  “This isn’t a garden party, and I don’t do introductions with an Untermensch!” the man snapped. He was in his forties and roughly the same height as Peter, perhaps a bit shorter. He was a heavy man with dark blond hair that looked to be natural and clear blue eyes. In his youth he was probably well built, but now he was clearly tending toward fat.

  Herr Vogel turned to Peter and ordered, “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

  Peter glared at him. He was just deciding to refuse when Herr Reusch pleaded, “Peter, do as he says. Please.” So Peter relented and carefully went down on his knees and clasped his hands on his head.

  The man got up from the couch and walked around as if inspecting him. “Please,” Herr Vogel whined, mocking Herr Reusch. “Please?” He stopped his circuit behind Peter, stood there silently for a moment. Peter felt a wisp of his hair being lifted; he shuddered but managed not to move otherwise. The strand of hair was dropped, but still the man remained silent behind him.

  “I guess he’ll do,” Herr Vogel finally pronounced.

  Do for what?

  “Get up,” Herr Vogel commanded. He came around to face Peter once he was standing and said, “You’re coming with me.”

  “What? Where?” Peter did not even attempt to keep the incredulity out of his tone. He looked to Herr Reusch to put the man straight, but Herr Reusch had wandered over to his desk.

  “What are you talking about?” Peter finally asked the man directly.

  Herr Vogel backhanded him. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me!” he snarled.

  Before Peter could overcome his surprise, Herr Vogel had walked over to Herr Reusch. Herr Reusch was grimacing, but he said nothing about Herr Vogel’s violent outburst. Instead he handed Herr Vogel the packet of documents that Peter recognized as his papers.

  “You have to go with this man now.” Herr Reusch spoke quietly, but his voice conveyed a sense of urgency that Peter was unused to.

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “Silence!” the man hissed at him.

  “What is going on?” Peter insisted, ignoring the angry glance from the man.

  “Herr Vogel here has purchased your indenture,” Herr Reusch finally explained. He must have seen a look of total incomprehension on Peter’s face because he felt the need to explain slowly, “I’m afraid you’ve been sold.”

  Sold? Sold? Peter found himself still questioning the concept even as he was led down the stairs of the apartment to the shop to collect his things, then out into the street and over to the man’s car. He had stood in numb silence as the last bits of paper had been exchanged and signed; he could not read them from where he stood and had not even tried. He had silently obeyed when told to gather his things, painfully aware that they stood right outside the door to his room, giving him no privacy, no time to think, and now he was walking out of one life and into another. Just like that. He threw several questioning glances at Herr Reusch, but they were determinedly ignored. Sold?

  He remained at a loss, standing by the door of the car, as Herr Vogel went to the back of the car, opened it, tossed Peter’s belongings in, and removed handcuffs and a long piece of black cloth.

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Herr Reusch opined naively. “It’s the law,” Herr Vogel asserted. “Certainly, you don’t violate the law, do you?”

  “No, of course not. I only meant—oh, never mind.”

  Peter gave Herr Reusch a look bordering on panic. What have you done to me?

  Herr Reusch shrugged guiltily. He looked confused, as if things were different than he had expected. As Herr Vogel snapped one of the rings around Peter’s wrist, Herr Reusch ventured, “If you have any problems, just let me know. I’m . . . uh, maybe we can arrange something else.”

  Herr Vogel had already twisted Peter’s arm behind his back and roughly pulled the other arm back to meet it. Without pausing, he stated, “There won’t be any problems,” and snapped the second ring shut. Using one hand to guide Peter’s head, Herr Vogel pushed him into the backseat of the car. Peter climbed in, looked back at Herr Reusch again. This time he had abandoned any attempt to get an explanation; he just wanted to convey as much anger and disgust as he could through his expression. Still holding the cloth, Herr Vogel went to the backof his car, to close it. Herr Reusch grabbed the opportunity to lean inside the car and say, “Peter, I—”

  “Go to hell,” Peter hissed.

  Herr Vogel returned to Peter. “I almost forgot!” he laughed, waving the black cloth. He reached inside the car, pushed Peter’s chin to face away from them, draped the blindfold over his face, and tied it behind his head. Peter felt the cloth press against his eyes and fought back an inchoate fear. Herr Vogel nudged his shoulder to indicate he should lie across the seat, saying almost jovially, “Be a good boy, nice and quiet, and I won’t have to put you in the trunk.”

  Peter immediately slumped down as Herr Vogel had indicated. He lay in obedient silence as Herr Vogel started the car, letting nothing more than a small sob of fear escape his lips. In the time it took for him to be shoved into a car, he had lost everything and everyone. The whole thing had taken so little time, Herr Reusch would not even be late opening the shop.

  “Get out!” Herr Vogel ordered, tugging on his arm. The handcuffs were removed, and without asking permission, Peter immediately reached up and pushed the blindfold off his eyes. He stood unsteadily, blinking at the painful glare of daylight, and surveyed his surroundings.

  He stood on the curb of a well-kept, tree-lined street of detached houses each with its own fenced-in garden and many with garages. The street was quiet, but there were cars parked along its length. And such cars! Not the small, cheap, domestically produced machines available to the ordinary German working class after a twenty-year wait on the priority list. No! These were expensive, new, imported models, sleek and shiny, with polished chrome gleaming in the sunlight.

  Herr Vogel opened the trunk and Peter removed his belongings, and when Herr Vogel indicated, he removed a largish sack as well. Laden with his life’s possessions, and it would seem, some food, he followed Herr Vogel toward one of the houses. It was a huge, two-story brick house, with a stylish, steeply pitched roof, surrounded by a high fence and a somewhat unkempt garden, and though Herr Vogel had parked on the street, it had a driveway, garage, and garden shed as well. As they passed through the gate into the yard, Herr Vogel gestured toward the garden, saying, “This will be one of your responsibilities.”

  They approached the massive wooden door at the front of the house, and Herr Vogel rang the bell. The door was opened by a woman who Peter guessed was Frau Vogel. She looked to be in her late thirties, although she wore a soured expression that made her look, at first glance, somewhat older. Her bleachedblond hair was braided and pinned on top of her head, in the traditional fashion fa
vored by the wives of Party officials, and she wore a flower-print dress that did nothing to flatter her figure. She had a pudgy face that looked as though it could at any moment give way to a kind expression, if only she allowed it, and herdemeanor conveyed a one-word impression: proper. She was the picture of Aryan propriety.

  She greeted her husband and stepped back to let them in. Peter twisted his head to scan the hall of his new home. Fine wallpaper, rich paneling, a small table with delicate figurines, plush wool carpet running up the stairway.

  “So, is this what you got us, Karl?” Frau Vogel asked. “I thought you were getting a boy. He’s not very young.”

  “No, but he’s strong enough,” Herr Vogel replied.

  Peter turned from one to the other as they spoke, but they ignored him.

  “I suppose so. Too bad we must make do with only one . . .” Frau Vogel fingered the insignia on his uniform. He glanced down at her hand in vague disapproval, but his action went unnoticed. “English,” she muttered, then her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Green? Is he a criminal?”

  Discreetly, he pulled away from her grasp.

  “Technically. You know how things are, you take what comes. Better than a political.”

  “Yes, at least he won’t be spouting propaganda all the time. But should we really let him into the house?”

  Wondering what the alternative was, Peter looked questioningly at her, but she did not see him.

  “Don’t worry, he’s quite safe, gone through a rigid training program. Besides, he’s been working for more than a year with no problems at all. His previous owners swear by him.” At this, Herr Vogel’s eyes gleamed mischievously as if he were privy to some joke. “Here are his papers and those are his first month’s rations. You’ll need to get an identity card for him tomorrow; his old one had to be turned in. Give me a call at work if there’s a problem.”

  She nodded, scanned the papers Herr Vogel had handed her, murmuring, “What should we call him?”

  “Peter,” Herr Vogel answered, emphasizing the English pronunciation. “That’s what he’s been called up to now. I see no point in changing that. It’d only confuse him.”

  Peter sputtered, but still they simply ignored him.

  Frau Vogel nodded. “How long do we have him for?”

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  “Lifelong, darling. Completely ours.”

  “Really!” Frau Vogel’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s wonderful! How did you manage-it?”

  “Trade secret, love. I thought you’d like the surprise.”

  Peter set down the bundles he was carrying and crossed his arms. Enough already! He did not like being a “surprise” for someone else, and he wanted their ridiculous conversation to end.

  For the first time, Frau Vogel addressed him directly. “You will not stand like that—uncross your arms immediately. It looks disrespectful.”

  He hesitated; his eyes narrowed as he debated whether he should obey. Sudden dark memories fluttered at the edge of his perception; voices echoed into a pandemonium inside his head: the price of disobedience . . .

  “I said—” Frau Vogel began.

  Disconcerted by the clamor in his head, he uncrossed his arms. “Sorry, gnädige Frau,” he said reflexively. A rigid training program —so that was what they called it. To him it had been torture and the continual threat of death.

  Frau Vogel accepted his apology with a brusque nod. Drawing herself up to her full height, she indicated his belongings. “Let’s see what’s in there.”

  They went into the kitchen and opened the bundle on the table.

  “Books!” Herr Vogel howled, looking at the three books Peter had dared to bring. “What are you doing with books? What is this trash?”

  “Poems, by William Blake. Songs of innocence and experience,” Peter said, translating the title for them.

  “Songs?” Frau Vogel asked. “I thought you said poems!”

  “It’s in that illogical, polluted pig-language,” Herr Vogel remarked, paging through the book. “The Americans speak that crap. A gangster language, that’s what it is.”

  “Is it pornography?” Frau Vogel asked, glancing at one of the reprinted plates.

  “It’s trash,” Herr Vogel asserted, and set it aside. “He can throw it in the fireplace tonight.” He set the other English-language book, a set of short stories, on the same pile. He then picked up the third book and opened its cover. “At least this is in German!” he said, then squinting his eyes at the pages, he asked, “Mathematics? Do you understand this?”

  Sensing danger, Peter answered, “No, mein Herr. I just noticed it among some junk in the stockroom and asked if I could have it.”

  “Why?”

  “I liked the funny-looking characters.”

  Herr Vogel sniffed. “You shouldn’t have such things. I’ll put it in my office.”

  Once they had finished picking through his meager possessions, discardingor confiscating this and that, Frau Vogel ordered him to follow her. “Bring that stuff with you,” she added, indicating the depleted pile and his rations, and they began a tour of the house. They went through each floor and for each room she listed daily and weekly tasks she expected to be carried out. The house consisted of three floors and a cellar. The ground floor had a reception area near the front door with a wardrobe for coats and a stairway off to the left. Behind the stairs was Herr Vogel’s study. On the right was a sitting room—the television was in that room; currently the title sequence for a documentary about crime in America was playing. Next to the sitting room was the dining room, and across the back of the house was the kitchen, with a large pantry that contained all the food cupboards as well as the refrigerator. Peter noticed that all the cabinets and doors had locks and that Frau Vogel, in keeping with tradition, carried the keys. A back door in the kitchen led outsideto the back garden, and beyond that was an alley where the garbage was put.

  A stairway led from the kitchen into the cellar. The cellar contained two rooms: the one with the stairway was used almost exclusively for storage and a workbench. The other room, at the front of the house, was divided in two: to the right was the furnace and the coal bin with a chute leading up to street level; to the left were storage cupboards, a toilet, and a laundry area including washbasins. He was told to leave his rations in this area; presumably, none of his food was fresh enough to need refrigeration, though Frau Vogel did advise him to store it in the cupboard and not on the floor, to discourage rats. As Frau Vogel continued to detail his work assignments, Peter opened the cupboard. Inside he found a single electric coil for cooking, several utensils, a chipped plate, a bowl, a tin cup, and a couple of dented tin pans. If his mood had been a little less bleak, he might have laughed. It was so predictable: Where in the world did they get these things? He realized that since a washbasin was down here as well, he would have no need to use the kitchen at all. So, not only his food would be separate, but every aspect of his life would be kept scrupulously apart from theirs. Clearly, though he was clean enough to work for them, he was too filthy to live his life in their presence.

  They worked their way back upstairs. Already the numerous jobs he had been assigned were swimming in his head. He doubted that he would remember everything and was hard-pressed to care. The first floor consisted of bedrooms. There was a family bathroom and a separate room for the toilet, and the master bedroom had its own bathroom suite. Frau Vogel mentioned repeatedly how important it was to keep the bathrooms and toilets scrupulously clean, implying that this would be no once-a-day task, rather more like a vocation.

  They continued up to the second floor, under the roof, which was split in two. There were two more bedrooms for the younger children in one half, and the attic occupied the other half. As they looked into the attic storage area, Frau Vogel spoke for the first time without enumerating a job or a restriction. “You can sleep in there. I think there are some rags about which you can use to make a bed. You really shouldn’t be under the same roof with us,”
she fretted aloud, “but there isn’t anywhere else right now.”

  As she spoke, he wondered idly if she was referring to some sort of manual, thinking that it would be amusing, but not surprising. Even with the mild weather he noticed that the attic was considerably colder than the rest of the house. It obviously was not insulated and would be an uncomfortable residence at the best of times.

  He set his bundle down inside the attic as Frau Vogel consulted her watch. “The children will be home shortly. We have to get dinner prepared. Come on.” She turned on her heel and strode away without looking back. Peter fought backa crushing sense of despair and, after giving the attic room one last glance, followed her down the stairs.

  21

  MARYSIA SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in bed. Julia, her poor Julia. Always the same dream, always the faceless assailant attacking her little girl. She turned to look at her husband, hoping to gain some comfort from him, even as he slept, but in the dim light she could just barely make out that his side of the bed was empty.

  She cursed quietly, climbed out of bed, and crept silently into the other room of the small apartment. Olek was asleep on their couch; no one else was in sight. She spent a moment contemplating her grandson as Siwa purred and rubbed herself against her legs. Marysia decided against waking Olek; it was better they kept as much from him as possible. He already knew too much for one so young.

  After pulling on some clothes, a coat, and a pair of boots, she headed outside. After about an hour of tromping through the woods, along a difficult path that ran next to a rivulet, she began to hear the sounds of the waterfall. A sentry greeted her and, without her asking, pointed out where her husband sat.

  “It’s always the same,” she acknowledged wearily. “Could you give us some privacy?”

  The sentry withdrew some distance and Marysia approached her husband. He was sitting on a rock, staring into the pounding water, holding his knees and rocking slowly back and forth. Marysia sat next to him and waited silently. She could hear his moaning, a soft, rhythmic sobbing, like the weak cry of a child inured to long suffering.