The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  Peter went to the door and opened it. His salutation and brief nod were met with a sullen stare. Obviously Karl was still suffering through the agony of not knowing whom to flatter at work.

  “Shall I bring you a drink?” Peter asked as he handed Karl a cigarette from the box that was kept by the door and lit it with the crystal lighter that sat next to the box.

  Karl sucked greedily on the cigarette, then blew the smoke back into Peter’s face. As Peter blinked away the smoke, Karl smiled slightly, clearly relieved of some of his monumental burden of stress. “Yeah, bring some vodka. I’ll be in my study.”

  Peter got the keys to the liquor cabinet from Elspeth, took Karl the drink, returned the keys, and then went into the sitting room to tackle the job he had delayed doing since early morning. Elspeth wanted the rug cleaned; not only that, she wanted it cleaned by hand because it was, as she put it, “so very valuable and so delicate.” He had hoped to vacuum it while she was out, but the day had slipped by without his having had an opportunity, so he finally swallowed his pride, got down on his hands and knees, and picked lint off the carpet. It took ages. As his fingers worked through the fine wool, he thought of the hands that had woven the exquisite pattern. Small hands, probably. Probably a child, most likely a child who would never earn enough to do anything more than condemn his or her own child to work in an airless factory, weaving carpets. Elspeth was right, he thought, the carpet merited some care. Now, if only she’d be so enlightened about human beings!

  “Now, I’m not an expert, but I thought we had a vacuum cleaner,” Karl teased from the doorway.

  Peter sat back on his heels and looked at Karl in exactly the manner he knew he wasn’t supposed to. “Meine gnädige Herrin feels that this carpet is too easily damaged and too valuable and wants it cleaned by hand, m’n’err. Thus, I am cleaning it by hand.”

  “That’s idiotic.”

  Peter bit his tongue and resumed working.

  “Do that later, I have a job for you.”

  “I’ll be done with this job in just two minutes, m’n’err,” Peter answered as he worked a tiny dead bug out from one of the wool strands. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Karl walk across the carpet toward him. Clearly he had angered Karl, and cursing his foolishness, he cringed expectantly.

  However, Karl carefully stepped around him and over to the ashtray, where he took a few more puffs from his cigarette and then ground it out. Then, carefully lifting the cover off the ashtray, he casually flung the contents onto the rug.

  Stunned, Peter could do little more than stare at him with his mouth open.

  “Now you have more than two minutes’ work, so the job will be worth returning to.” Karl smiled. He looked almost happy, completely relieved of the day’s worries. He walked back across the carpet, grinding the ashes in as he did so. He stopped next to Peter, a promise of violence in his stance. “I’m taking my car out tonight. I want it scrubbed inside and out. Now. Understood?”

  “Immediately, mein Herr,” Peter agreed as Karl walked out of the room. Peter stood, threw a resigned glance at the rug and the hours of work it now represented, then quickly left the room to carry out Karl’s command.

  The sleek black Zil was Karl’s pride and joy. It was the same one Peter had been forced to ride in when he’d made his journey from the Reusches’ and he had trouble looking at it without feeling a slight nausea. It was kept scrupulously clean at all times, but on certain days, Karl wanted it particularly shined and polished. Those were the days when he was going “out.” Peter did not know where “out” was, but he suspected that Karl kept a mistress. It would certainly not be unusual, despite the Party’s shrill insistence on family values; in fact, in some social circles, it seemed to be almost obligatory. Still, the outings were relatively infrequent; so either Elspeth had put her foot down about their frequency, or they were explained by something other than another woman.

  In any case, it was left to Peter to make the car gleam. He was still polishing the chrome when he heard Karl bellow his name from inside the house. Exasperated, he threw down his cloth and went inside. Now what the hell does he want, he fumed silently as he asked politely, “Mein Herr?”

  “It’s time for our tea. Haven’t you prepared it?”

  Peter glanced at the clock as he apologized. He turned to go into the kitchen and almost ran into Elspeth entering the room. He apologized even as she asked, “Where’s our tea?” and then, seeing the rug, exclaimed, “Aren’t you done with this yet? My God, how long does it take you to do something?”

  He ground his teeth and looked back at Karl to see if he would offer an explanation, but he was wrapped up in reading the Party newspaper. Peter apologized for the rug and turned to go to make the tea. Before he reached the door, Elspeth added, “And look at those damn windows! They’re filthy! Do I have to tell youevery single thing to do? Why can’t you just take care of things! Why do I have to notice everything?”

  He stopped in the doorway and held on to the frame. As he was apologizing yet again, he watched Ulrike come into the hall from outside. She kicked her shoes into a corner, dropped her coat on the floor, and tossed her hat toward a table, but missed; then she ran up the stairs. He pushed himself out the door, but before he reached the kitchen, he heard Horst yelling for him from his bedroom. He put on the kettle, then headed for the stairs. En route he picked up Ulrike’s things and hung them in the closet, even as Horst yelled for him a third time.

  Horst wanted his boots polished and another award sewn onto his uniform; Peter tromped down the steps with Horst’s things, assured Elspeth that her tea was coming, and headed directly back to the kitchen. He set the things down and stood there for a moment, staring blindly out the kitchen window, waiting for the water to boil.

  “No wonder you never get anything done,” Elspeth chided angrily from the doorway, then added, “Fix the latch on the dining room window. It doesn’t close right anymore.”

  It never had. It was one of those innumerable repairs that had apparently accumulated over the decades.“Yes, gnä’ Frau,” he replied, and added it to his mental list.

  “The hall is muddy again.”

  “I noticed. I’ll give it another swipe as soon as I get a chance, gnä’ Frau.” Elspeth glanced downward and commented,“This floor needs to be swept as well.”

  “Of course, gnä’ Frau.”

  “And the armchair in the sitting room—the arm is loose. I noticed it when Herr Schindler leaned against it the other night. Why haven’t you fixed it?”

  Though probably rhetorical, he answered the question anyway: “I didn’t notice it.” Surprisingly, it was the truth.

  “Fix it today.”

  “I’ll need to take it apart.” Or at least get Karl’s fat carcass out of it. Actually, Peter had no idea what needed doing, but it was best not to let Elspeth know that, otherwise she would probably try to direct him, and then he’d never be able to sort out what was wrong.

  “Then do it tomorrow. I don’t want you disturbing us.”

  “I’ll need tools,” he said, finally forcing his attention away from the window.

  Elspeth clicked her tongue in exasperation. “All right, I’ll get Herr Vogel to leave me the key to the tool cabinet.” With that settled, she returned to her original reason for coming into the kitchen. “Now, why is the rug not done?”

  He sighed. He knew if he told her the truth, she would have him punished for lying or lack of respect or something, so he simply shrugged. Elspeth took a step toward him, casting about for a likely weapon. He took half a step back but was otherwise resigned to whatever expression her anger would take. Elspeth stopped and looked around in confusion; there was nothing to hand! She snorted angrily, spun on her heel, and left the room. He stared at the empty space where she hadbeen. He did not move. He felt a pressure in his head, behind his eyes. It felt like a dam beginning to burst. This was his life? This was his life. He squinted his eyes slightly, as if trying to focus on a distant object, but t
here was nothing to look at. The kettle shrieked, and mechanically he turned to pour the tea.

  The next morning Roman listened to Peter’s brief description of the idiotic behavior he had endured the previous day.“Ach, it’s been the same throughout history, there’s always some sort of nobility pushing us peasants around,” Roman said.

  “They’re insane,” Peter countered.

  “Naw, he’s just a bully.”

  “And she’s a spoiled brat.”

  “Ach, she just wants someone to love her,” Roman suggested humorously.

  Peter snorted. “Well, it ain’t gonna be me.”

  Roman laughed. “Better knock on wood when you say something like that.”

  Peter scanned around, then tapped his fist against the building. “Concrete will have to do.”

  Several other workers joined the queue, so with that their conversation had to end. Roman handed Peter the bag of rolls and advised,“Unpack it yourself.”

  Intrigued, Peter stopped outside the house and rummaged through the bag. In the bottom was a slender, sturdy piece of metal. He pulled out his treasure and grinned. It would be perfect! He silently thanked his friend, hid his new treasure, and entered the house.

  The first job he tackled after breakfast was the armchair. It was the sort of work he preferred: Elspeth had no idea what needed to be done; so, if he managed to advertise the job as sufficiently complicated, she would leave him alone for quite a long time as long as he looked busy. He also had no idea what needed to be done, but that was neither here nor there. With a bit of patience and common sense, he knew he would be able to figure something out.

  First he went to Karl’s tool cabinet in the cellar and selected a few likely tools. Elspeth watched him do this so that she could be sure he did not steal anything. He was careful not to let her see him smile at the thought that he would now be able to pick the lock anytime he wanted. Besides the tools, hanging in orderly rows on their little racks, several pairs of handcuffs were in the cabinet. He felt a slight chill as his eyes settled on them, and the smile vanished from his face.

  Elspeth duly noted what he decided to remove and grumbled, “Why so much? Don’t think I’ll lose track!”

  “I’m not sure what I’ll need, gnä’ Frau. This will save me making trips up and down.”

  “Goodness, you’re so lazy!”

  “And it will prevent me from having to disturb meine gnädige Herrin unduly each time I realize I need something.”

  “Ah, well. Okay then.”

  They went up the stairs together, but then she left him alone. He located theloose arm, and after reaching down between the arm and the seat, he quickly decided that was the wrong approach. He turned the heavy chair upside down and carefully began removing the fabric that covered the bottom. It had been fixed to the wood with brass studs, and he removed each of them and set them aside in a little dish. Beneath the fabric were springs and upholstery material, padding and support struts.

  It did not take much looking, or rather feeling, to locate the source of the problem. The arm was affixed to the main body of the chair with several heavy bolts—most of which had been stripped out of the wood by overuse.

  He stood for a moment thinking about what he could do to remedy the problem. He could try to fill in the holes, but he doubted it would hold for long given the way both Karl and Herr Schindler threw their weight against the arm. And Ulrike had a habit of perching on it and pressing her legs against the arm opposite. Or he could use bigger bolts and hope they would hold in the gouged wood. But where would he get some? The ones in the chair were already quite large. It was in fact a rather well-made piece of furniture. Old, almost antique.

  He thought about drilling new holes and moving the bolts, but the thought of explaining all that to Elspeth to get her permission and the necessary equipment was rather off-putting. He stared at the chair for a moment longer. Funny, he wasn’t even allowed to sit in it. All of the furniture was off-limits to him. It meant that if he ever had a spare moment, there was nowhere he was legitimately allowed to rest. It really was quite ludicrous. Even more ridiculous was the constraints this rule put on his performing simple tasks such as sewing the endless little honor badges that the children earned onto their uniforms or repairing some small household device. Sometimes, he simply waited until everyone was tucked up in bed to finish such jobs; then he could use a table and chair with impunity. Also, whenever they were all out of the house, he would throw himself into the armchair or onto the sofa just for the sake of enjoying the forbidden luxury, but those occasions were rare. His only determined and obvious use of their furniture was that he would use the step stool in the kitchen, mainly to eat his meals, even when Elspeth was in the house. If she came into the kitchen, he simply stood up immediately. Of course she noticed, and once or twice she had reminded him that it was not his chair, but she had never punished him for using it. At least not yet.

  “Why aren’t you doing anything?” Elspeth asked, checking up on him earlier than usual.

  Deciding on his course of action, he explained,“Here’s what I need to do, gnä’ Frau.” He explained how he needed to put in an extra piece of wood along the arms to support the bolts and how he would have to dismantle the chair a bit further to reach all the relevant points.

  “I don’t see what you mean.” Elspeth was, for once, perplexed rather than accusing.

  “Here.” He shoved both hands in and pulled the padding back to show her how the arm was connected farther up, under the cushion. As he pressed forcefullyagainst the ancient upholstery, his fingers broke through an already existing tear in the fabric. The stuffing felt odd to him and he pulled a bit out as he extracted his fingers. He held it in his hand and they both looked at it.

  “Horsehair,” Frau Vogel announced as though he had asked.

  He shook his head, disconcerted. “No, it’s too soft.”

  “Nonsense. Put it back in.”

  He rolled the hair around in his fingers. “It’s human,” he said, mostly to himself. He realized that this was something he had not wanted to know. He looked at Frau Vogel, hoping she would offer an alternate explanation.

  “Nonsense. It’s horsehair. Now put it back!”

  “No, it’s too soft. Feel it.”

  “I said put it back. Don’t make me have to say it again!”

  “It’s human hair!”

  “Peter! Do as you’re told!” She spun on her heel and left the room.

  He continued to roll the hair in his hand. Black and brown and gold and gray strands tangled together in an irremediable knot. Finally, without knowing exactly what he planned to do with it, he put the selection of hair in his pocket and tried to concentrate on finishing his work.

  27

  ALEX STUDIED THE PAPERS on his lap, but he just could not concentrate on his work. He glanced down the aisle of the airliner, but no stewards were in sight. He leaned forward slightly so that he could see past his neighbor out the window. The Manhattan skyline was just visible on the horizon, and Alex smiled. Something about the Free City always appealed to him. He remembered how his father had talked about New York, back when it was still an integral part of the United States. New York was his second Vienna—the only other possible destination in his father’s abruptly terminated musical career. What would his father think of the teeming metropolis now? He would probably be pleased. Still a center for art and music, still the capital of the free world, and now a Free City in its own right, the home of numerous exiles, the seat of their temporary governments, the nexus of resistance to the Third Reich’s stranglehold on Europe. Only Britain had chosen a different location for its government in exile, choosing Toronto as its base of operations.

  His father would have laughed at that. He would have guessed that Manhattan was too lively for them, and so they had fled to the stultifying atmosphere of Toronto. He had hated the English—not his wife, she was different, but the English as a group. “Cold people,” he would snort. “Think that show
ing affection to their children is a sign of weakness.” He had said that at Paddington, when Alex had pulled away too quickly from his embrace. “No soul!” his fatherhad snapped, waving his hands in an embarrassing display of emotion. Alex had winced, hoping that nobody in the busy train station would notice them. True to form, none of them did.

  Alex had never understood his father’s rantings, never understood his desire to return to Vienna, never understood his father’s speaking German to him at home. “Didn’t you grow up speaking Polish?” he had once asked his father.

  “Yes, and Yiddish, too! So why do you moan so much learning just one other language, huh? Speak German. When you can do that, I’ll teach you Polish.” He never did teach his son, though; events overtook him.

  The plane dropped and Alex’s stomach grew queasy. He was nervous about this trip—it was so important to stir things up, yet so difficult to arouse any interest anymore. He tapped his fingers on the notes he had prepared and wondered, not for the first time, if this would at last do the trick.

  The airport weapon scanners were even less obtrusive than last time, and this time there were no bomb-sniffing dogs. Automated, Alex guessed. He greedily eyed the computerized scanner that examined his documents. The surly immigration official removed the documents from the machine, opened them by hand, and compared Alex’s face with his picture.

  “Swiss?”

  “That’s what it says,” Alex answered.

  “You’re all fucking Swiss, aren’t you?” The official seemed to object to the whole hypocritical procedure, but that did not stop him from stamping the word admitted on Alex’s documents.

  “Thank you,” Alex said with distinct courtesy. He caught a cab and headed to the home of a friend.