He had been provided with a month’s worth of food when he had first arrived, and after surveying the paltry, rotting foodstuffs, he had dutifully stored them in the cupboard, mentally dividing the quantities into daily allotments. It had not worked. He had not had the self-control to eat only a thirtieth of his food each day, and much of it had started to spoil, so he had been obliged to eatit quickly. Now there was hardly anything left and there were still eight days left in the month. It wasn’t fair, he had arrived a week before the first of the month and had not been given anything extra for that week, and the food had been old and insufficient and he had been used to much better, and now, now it looked as if he was going to go hungry for days!
Meanwhile, he prepared and served and cleaned up obscene quantities of food for the family, none of which he was permitted to touch—not even the leftovers, not even when they were thrown away. Of course, that had not stopped him from plucking them out of the garbage late at night, but by then the food was often inedible. Even the ducks took priority over him! He had once asked Frau Vogel if she would let him have the old bread instead of taking it to the duck pond in the park, and she had looked at him as though he had just asked her if he could strangle those adorable little ducklings and pull off their wings with his teeth.
He chewed at his thumb and looked at the food. God, he was hungry! His stomach kept cramping and he had a headache from the pain. Of course, the headache was probably not due to hunger—more likely it was from Frau Vogel’s habit of hitting him at every opportunity. Always a slam with the hand, or some handy object, right into his face. The temple, the ear, his cheek, jaw, chin—it didn’t matter where, just some part of his face. Everything that displeased her, anytime she needed to draw his attention to something—wham!—into his face. They were weak blows usually, especially when she used her bare hand, but the accumulated effect of her incessant pounding throughout the day was jarring, and by evening the bones of his face ached from the continuous abuse, and a dull roar of pain filled his head.
“Stop hitting me!” he had exclaimed once in exasperation. She had reported the insubordination to her husband, who had then dutifully reminded him of what real pain was. Since then he had learned to apologize more often, to address them both with excruciating deference and formality, to back away such that he kept a physical distance between himself and Frau Vogel to discourage her sudden temper, and since then the abuse had decreased. Nevertheless, it had not disappeared entirely, and he not only cringed anytime he heard his name screeched out, but he had acquired a despicable, jumpy nervousness anytime either of them were anywhere nearby.
He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a carrot. It had grown soft and wrinkled with age, but it was still edible and would divert his attention away from his hunger for at least a few minutes. He ground it between his teeth as he climbed the steps up to the back door. There on a peg was his jacket, but he ignored it, deciding that it was not cold enough to bother. He grabbed the packet of documents he needed for his morning tasks and went out into the brisk dawn.
He trod a pedestrian path that he knew was nur für Deutsche, that is, it was only for Germans. In his youth, the nur für Deutsche signs had been ubiquitous,but here they were unnecessary. Everyone knew that Gastarbeiter, as foreign workers, including forced laborers, were so genteelly called, walked along the roads; the pristine parks and pedestrian paths were for Germans to enjoy. Strolling, relaxing, sitting on a bench—all of it, all of it was illegal for him. He had no right to leave the house except to perform work. He had no right to free time and therefore no need for any comforts. Who needed signs?
The path passed by a duck pond, and for that reason alone he often risked taking it. He liked watching them, and he used the time he gained by walking the shorter albeit forbidden path to spend a moment contemplating the still water and the quiet forms of the awakening ducks. It would be nice, he thought, to throw them some bread crumbs, but instead he found himself scanning the surrounding grass and the nearby trash bins for unused bread or any other edible refuse.
There was nothing today. He crossed the little stone bridge over the stream and skirted around the monument to Hitler. Somebody had lain some flowers— forget-me-nots?—at the base, beneath the dates. A faint impression could just be discerned on the pavement where the pedestal had stood in earlier times before it was removed and then replaced according to the political fashion of the day. Currently, political orthodoxy was “in” and the old regulations were being reintroduced and more zealously enforced than in recent years. The “war effort” explained away anything that ideology missed.
He passed two gardeners— Zwangsarbeiter, naturally—carefully trimming the grass from the edge of the path. The one had been muttering something to the other, but they stopped when they heard him approach. They eyed his uniform suspiciously, deciding to remain silent as long as he was near. Once he was several yards past, he heard the muttering resume.
When he reached the bakery, no one was in line. He went up to the window and was greeted by Roman, the baker’s assistant. Roman had been forced labor since early childhood and barely remembered any other life. His uniform carried a similar set of badges to Peter’s, giving his number, identifying his nationality, and indicating that he was a Zwangsarbeiter. Unlike Peter, however, there was no green triangle, so he was not labeled criminal, and the yellow inset on the red stripe was missing, indicating that, though he was of an inferior race, he had not formally lost his Aryan status. Indeed, he was not being punished, he was simply working under the guidance and at the direction of his superiors to achieve a more perfect society.
“So, how’s it going?” Roman asked.
“Eh, the usual. I’m hungry.” Peter handed over the ration book. The Vogels received first-class rations, a rarity even in their well-to-do neighborhood, and their ration book was appropriately impressive.
“The usual?” Roman asked as he paged through the leatherbound book to remove the requisite number of coupons.
“What else?” Peter grunted.
Roman looked behind himself to see if any of his bosses were nearby. “If you wait a few minutes, we’ll have some fresh out of the oven.” It was an invitation to converse.
Peter glanced behind himself to be sure no police were around. “Sure. How are things?”
“Oh, not much new. We got a new worker about three days ago. I’ve been showing him the ropes. How are things there? Have you asked Frau Vogel about your rations?”
“Yeah. I pointed out to her that they were running low and it wasn’t my fault since I had come into the house before the first of the month.”
“And?”
“And she said it’d do me some good to learn some self-discipline.”
“Ouch! She’s a hard case. Do they keep the food locked up there?”
“Yeah.” Peter glanced behind himself again, then said in a low voice, “Once I get the right sort of tool, I’ll solve that problem.”
“Don’t you think they’ll notice?” Roman asked, quite concerned.
“If I were to take what I wanted, definitely. Frau Vogel’s not the trusting sort. You’re right, I won’t be able to abscond with much, but even a little will help. I could really use some fresh food!”
“Yeah, you look like hell.” Roman brought his hand out from under the counter and keeping it cupped over something reached forward. Peter pressed his hand around the offered roll and shoved it immediately into his mouth. As he struggled to chew it, Roman explained, “There’s always some clumsy clod who drops a tray here. We take it in turns, on account of the punishment.”
“Thanks,” Peter murmured, trying not to spit food as he spoke. He swallowed the last of the bread and added,“My mother would have been appalled to see me wolf down food like this.”
“I thought you were an orphan.”
“Oh, yeah. Whatever.”
“So, you’re still settling in there?” Roman asked, indicating that he had no interest in prying.
&
nbsp; Peter sputtered. “Ach, it’s just nonstop shit: Do this, do that, why haven’t you done such and such, why can’t you read our minds!” he whined in imitation. “The kids, too. They all think I’m their personal slave.”
“How many of the kids are at home now?”
“Five. Uwe and Geerd are off to the military. I’ve not even met them. The oldestone at home is Horst. He’s the worst of the lot.”
“Is he the tall, blond kid?”
“Yeah, skinny as a rail, pale blond, pale blue eyes. He’s only sixteen, I think, but he already wants me to use Sie with him.”
“And he uses du with you?”
“Of course! He’s sure he’s destined for leadership. Too bad he’s as thick as a brick, dumber than his father even.”
Roman laughed. “I’ve heard Herr Vogel is quite sharp.”
Peter screwed up his face in thought. “You know, I really can’t tell. Sometimes he seems reasonably bright, and at other times . . . Well, maybe it’s just that he’s so brainwashed.”
“I’ve also heard he can be quite violent.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Peter sighed. “Certainly the children are scared of him. They seem to use me as a buffer. Lucky me.”
“Well, be careful.”
Peter began to say something, but he stopped as he saw Roman’s boss approaching.
“What the hell are you doing?” the boss demanded.
“I was waiting to give our valued customers a fresh batch of rolls, mein Herr,” Roman replied crisply.
“All our rolls are fresh!” the baker snarled. “Fill his order now!”
Out of sight of his boss, Roman made a slight face and packed a bag of rolls and croissants. “The freshest for our most valued family,” he said with a wink as he handed the bag over.
Peter nodded his farewell and headed back to the house. He started to head down the pedestrian path, but he spotted an older couple walking along, heading toward the duck pond. They were exactly the stodgy, pious sort who would fuss about his presence, and he decided to walk back along the road to avoid the possibility of trouble.
Traffic was beginning to pick up. The pavement along the street’s edge was easily wide enough for two people, but as a businessman approached from the opposite direction, Peter was obliged by law to step into the gutter to let the man pass; so, he stood among the wet and decaying leaves and waited rather than walk on through the mud. They studiously avoided looking at each other—the man with his head held high and his gaze fixed forward, Peter with his attention focused on something on the other side of the road, his eyes lowered enough so as not to incite trouble but not so low as to make him feel cowed: it was a delicate balance, a compromise contrived to preserve his sanity. He had to make a point of not actually noticing the man, for if he did, he was obliged to greet him with a sign of respect—a simple bow of the head, a touch on the forehead, would do it. It was an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy, a remnant of tipping one’s hat, but the element of coercion had replaced all pretense of civility, and he loathed the gesture with his entire being and did whatever he could to avoid performing what was to him a thoroughly sinister ritual.
When the man had passed, Peter stepped back onto the pavement, pointedly wiping his feet as he did so. Before he took a step, a patrol of three young guards approached. They demanded to see his papers and managed to spend nearly five minutes inspecting them. First they thumbed through his identity papers, finally satisfying themselves that those were in order, then they inspected his pass.
He carried the same pass each day on his trip to the bakery. It allowed himfreedom of movement during certain morning hours within the administrative district. The exact boundaries of the district had never been clarified, but he knew that the local bakery and shops were within the borders. Judging from what he knew about the administration of local government, he guessed he could wander about two kilometers before violating the confines of his invisible prison. In any case, he was, he knew, well within those boundaries and he did not expect trouble from the youths on account of his papers; nevertheless, he felt a growing nausea as he stood with his head and eyes lowered.
Finally, they decided all was in order. He walked on rapidly. When he got back to the house, he set down the documents and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. He arranged the rolls nicely in a basket, dumping the crumbs into his hand so that he could eat them, then he set the table and prepared the coffeepot using the exactly measured amount that Frau Vogel allowed him to put out the night before. He turned off the kettle just as the water boiled so that it would be nice and hot and ready to boil when he needed it later, checked the time, and headed toward the stairs.
At the base of the steps he hesitated. This was the worst part of the day and it took some effort of will for him to force himself through the routine. Finally, he compelled himself to ascend and approach the master-bedroom door. He knocked lightly and the sleepy voice of Frau Vogel told him he could come in.
He entered and greeted the two of them as cheerfully as he could manage using the order he had determined was essential: Herr Vogel first, then Frau Vogel. Herr Vogel did not even reply; Frau Vogel grunted something about the worklist for the day. He ignored her and opened the drapes, then went into the bathroom and quickly whisked out the tub, cleaned the toilet, arranged the towels, and started the water for a bath. “Shall I open the window a bit for meine Gnädige?” he asked as he returned to the bedroom.
“Is it cold out?” Frau Vogel replied, sitting up in bed.
He carried her robe over to her and helped her into it as she stood. “It will be warm soon.”
“But is it cold now?” she asked impatiently.
That was a matter of opinion, he thought, but he did not dare say that. Instead he replied,“No, gnädige Frau.”
“Then open it.”
He opened the window and returned to check the bath. Frau Vogel usually preferred to bathe in private, and as she shut the bathroom door, he went about using the time wisely, preparing the clothing she had indicated that she wanted laid out and making his rounds of the children’s rooms, rousing them and opening their blinds.
The youngest, a shy little girl of five named Gisela, asked for a glass of water and wanted him to stay with her as she sat up in bed and drank it. She told him that she had had bad dreams, and she held his hand tightly as he stooped down next to her. When she had finished, he kissed her forehead and told her it wastime to get up and so she did not need to worry about her dreams anymore, then he rushed back to Frau Vogel’s side.
Once he had finished helping Frau Vogel, he returned to the bathroom to clean it and begin Herr Vogel’s bath. Herr Vogel had drunk too much the night before and was truly averse to getting up. Peter tried several times to wake him with quiet words, finally resorting to gently shaking his shoulder.
Herr Vogel opened one eye and looked up at him. “Remove your hand from me this instant,” he said threateningly.
“Sorry, mein Herr. Your bath is ready.”
The routine was repeated except that he had to attend to Herr Vogel as he bathed, shaved, and otherwise prepared himself. Peter was allowed only a brief respite to go to Herr Vogel’s closet and fetch the clothing needed for that morning. Herr Vogel called out to him from the bathroom like an admiral aboard a great ship instructing him on each piece of clothing as he made the bed, searched through the closet and drawers, and laid out the suit on the bed as instructed.
When Herr Vogel emerged, he surveyed the clothing with a scowl. “I said the dark brown tie.”
“That isn’t it?” Peter asked as he gestured toward the tie.
Without answering, Herr Vogel pointed imperiously toward his belt.
Cursing his own stupidity, Peter reached for the belt. He carefully folded it in two and handed it to Herr Vogel so he would be inclined to grab the end with the buckle. Peter stared at the floor and stood stock-still then, knowing it would be quicker that way. About twice a week, he tho
ught, as Herr Vogel swung the belt into his upper arm. His eyes squeezed shut against the sharp pain. The belt was swung at him a few more times: his head, his neck, his arm again. Suddenly, Herr Vogel flung the belt to the floor. Peter opened his eyes, contemplated it, then stooped down and picked it up. He held it briefly before he could bring himself to offer it back to Herr Vogel.
“Get the correct tie,” Herr Vogel commanded, neglecting to accept the belt.
Peter thanked him, set the belt on the bed, and went to the closet to locate the tie.
Once Herr Vogel was satisfactorily dressed, Peter left him to return to the kitchen. Frau Vogel was already there; she unlocked the pantry and directed him to bring out the usual items. It was nearly always the same, but she insisted on the ceremony of directing him. As he reemerged with the desired items, the pantry door closed behind him with a reassuring click. Frau Vogel nodded her approval and went into the dining room to join her family as he stocked the table with the jams and butter and the cheeses and sausages, then went back to get the coffee as the family began their morning meal.
After breakfast was served, Herr Vogel left for work and the children were sent to their various schools. Peter cleared the dishes, prepared Frau Vogel a cup of tea, then returned upstairs to clean the bathrooms, make the beds, and pick up after the children. The first room he tackled was Horst’s. It was, actually, quiteclean, but the military precision upon which Horst insisted meant that his room involved the most work of all. Peter made the bed to the required specifications, picked up the dirty boots that had been left out for him to polish, and made a mental note to return and repair the frayed drapery cord that had been pointed out to him earlier. He then went to Ulrike’s room; she was the eldest daughter, a quiet, studious girl of nearly fifteen. He made her bed, tidied her books and papers, swept and dusted, and cleaned the hair out of her brush. He looked at the brittle, damaged strands and felt rather sorry for the poor girl—not even fifteen and she felt obliged to bleach her hair to a horribly unnatural whitish blond. Ah, the price of Aryan blood!
The Children's War Page 21