“Pay him,” Alex ordered as he greeted his friend. “I don’t have any money.”
The friend shook his head and paid the fare. By midafternoon Alex was on the fourteenth floor of a midtown building, trying to convince a disinterested young man to take a closer look at the materials he had smuggled in.
“I don’t know why they sent you to me,” the youth admitted while his eyes scanned the ceiling of his office as if looking for fairies. “I’m sure there must be someone else who has a better grasp of this, uh, history stuff.”
“It’s not history!” Alex harrumphed.“Look here, young man, this is footage of executions that take place nowadays in the camps! They’ve claimed those places have been sanitized, but I have proof to the contrary!”
“I don’t know . . .”
“People risked their lives—paid with their lives!—to get this footage.”
The young man touched the film canister. “Is this stuff even compatible with our machines?”
Alex sighed. “Yes, it can be translated . . .”
“Are there any, you know, like sex scenes?”
* * *
Three days later Alex was having no better luck with a wizened old producer. “I’m sorry, old boy, this stuff is just old hat. I mean, we can show it, and all that happens is we get a protest from the German delegations that we’re defaming their culture. Everybody else is not interested. They’ve seen it all. Much worse in fact. I mean, how many times can you watch someone getting shot? Hmm?”
“But this is politically important. The government is trying to normalize relations! Don’t you think the people should know the cover-ups going on?”
“The people couldn’t give a shit about cover-ups. Hey, the U.S. has an election coming up, and have you heard about the sexual shenanigans of the vice presidential candidate?”
“Yes, I know, he’s supposed to be a closet homosexual,” Alex agreed tiredly.
“Not just! Now we have the hate groups organizing against him, we have denials from the candidate, we have his wife describing their ‘luscious’ sex life, we have queer groups asserting that he should be proud of his leanings . . .”
“How, in the end, will this affect world policy or the standing of the United States as a world power?”
“Huh? Oh! Not at all, but that’s not the point. The point is, we’re in this business to make money, and that”—the producer pointed at the film—“won’t make a cent. End of story.”
“What about your commitment to public service?” Alex indicated the plaque on the wall behind the producer’s desk. “Won’t this help fulfill your quota of public-interest, not-for-profit stories?”
The producer leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Just between you and me, old boy, in theory it would, but”—and here he lowered his voice even further—“it seems there has been some pressure from the government to put a lid on this sort of stuff. Seems it fouls up negotiations on certain key things.”
“They’re selling them arms and equipment, huh?”
The producer waved his hands and pursed his lips in determined silence.
“Better the Nazis than the Communists, huh?”
The producer shrugged.
“I thought this was a free and independent city, beholden to no national government.”
“Yes, in theory, but we have many legal ties with the continent. It’s complicated.”
“I thought you had freedom of the press enshrined in your Constitution.”
“We do,” the producer sighed. “We could run with this, or anything else for that matter. But it won’t make money, it won’t make the government happy. . . . What’s the point? I mean, we have to get our license renewed, we have strong competition out there. Have you seen the sort of stuff that’s aired nowadays? Sex, violence . . .”
“This is violent,” Alex tried one last time.
The producer laughed. “That’s a good one. Wrong sort of violence, old boy. Not personal enough.”
“It was for the people who died.”
“Ah, well, they don’t subscribe to our channel, now, do they?”
Alex stood. “Thanks for your time. Sorry it was wasted.”
“Ah, no problem! Hey, take your film directly to Congress, maybe you’ll find a subcommittee that’s interested.”
“I have an appointment in D.C. tomorrow.”
The producer laughed.
“It’s not that the congressman is not sympathetic to your concerns,” the suave young woman assured him, “it’s just that he really does not have much power on the committee. We’ve tried several times to introduce this sort of evidence into the record, and each time we’ve been stymied.”
“People are dying,” Alex said.
“People are dying everywhere. If we took time to fixate on every detail of the internal runnings of every podunk country, I’m afraid we wouldn’t have time to conduct our own affairs.”
“How can you be so callous?”
“I’m not.”The woman stood and closed the door of the office before reseating herself. “Personally, this is one that bothers me. But I work with other people who are worried by famines or crime or child abuse. Each and every one of them has the right to think his or her problem is the most important. We try our best to steer the government in a direction that would be beneficial to your people, but we are a large country, with many interests. It’s difficult making a case for the importance of a bunch of foreigners who have been at each other’s throat for centuries. Among some of our colleagues, it’s even said that we should be glad that the Europeans are only slaughtering each other currently, and if we were to free them from their current predicament, they’d go off and create mayhem in some innocent corner of the world.”
“Innocent?”
“I’m quoting. Look, we’ll make a copy of the film, and I’ll do what I can to see that it is used as evidence in some committee or other, but the prospects aren’t good right now.”
“Why not?”
“Politics. The current majority wants to dispense with this whole human rights stuff. Caring about foreigners is a vote-loser, and nobody wants to lose votes.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Alex asked in desperation.
“Make it a vote-winner,” she said simply.
“How?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.”
28
“YOU’LLNEVER GUESS WHAT!” Elspeth bubbled as soon as Karl came through the door. She surged forward to hug her husband, nearly tripping on Peter as he took Karl’s things and handed him a cigarette.
“You’re right,” Karl said without interest, “I haven’t a clue.” He looked tired.
“Mother’s coming to visit! For two weeks. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Ach, is it that time of year again?” After his cigarette was lit, Karl moved toward the sitting room, with the obvious intent that Elspeth would join him, but she waved her hand at him.
“Can’t rest now, there’s so much to do. Peter, come! There’s more cleaning upstairs. Hurry up.”
As Elspeth rushed off, Karl caught Peter’s eye and muttered, “Better you than me,” with something like bemused pity.
On the morning of Elspeth’s mother’s arrival, Peter carried her bags into the guest room that had been so meticulously prepared for her and, as ordered, unpacked their contents. As he unfolded her clothes and placed them into a drawer, Frau von dem Bach came into the room. She was somewhat taller than average for her age, and she carried herself with an aristocratic arrogance that her daughter could never hope to achieve. Her hair was a natural chestnut with streaks of gray, and she wore it on top of her head as if to emphasize her height. She looked around appreciatively at the neatly made bed, the fresh flowers in the vase, the odor of cleanliness. Everything and everyone had been rearranged to make sure she had a suitably furnished guest room, and as a result the room sparkled.
She complimented the room, then turned to watch what he was doing. “No, no, that goe
s down there,” she said, indicating that she wanted some clothes in the bottom drawer, “and those go in there.” She pointed to the wardrobe.
He nodded, finished unpacking her luggage, and turning to leave, asked, “Will there be anything else, gnädige Frau?”
“Come here.” Frau von dem Bach beckoned with a finger. “I didn’t get a good chance to look at you in the station.”
She had seated herself in the chair near the bed, and he came to stand by her. She eyed him for a long moment, then regally ordered him to turn around for her. After he had complied, she observed, “You’re as tall as a German, that’s unusual. Most of the working English I’ve seen are little runts. Why’s that?”
It wasn’t clear whether she was asking why he was tall or why most English weren’t. He didn’t even agree with her observation, but he chose to answer, “Malnutrition can do terrible things to people.”
“So you think they’re malnourished?”
“I think the island produces too much for export,” he answered obscurely.
“You don’t think your people are treated fairly?” It was less a question than a statement.
He hesitated, then said simply,“No.”
“I wonder what the people in India would have to say about that.”
“I have no idea.”
“Alas, it is the age-old complaint of all colonial regions. I suppose your BritishEmpire would have known about that; you know, like when Ireland was exporting food during the potato famine,” she commented slyly.
“Yes, that was emphasized in history class.”
“The invincible British Empire! Ach, and now the tide has turned against you.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Apparently,” he answered, unsure of what she wanted from him.
“So where do you think all that food goes?” she asked with no obvious intent.
He hesitated, then deciding to throw caution to the wind, stated dryly, “Your son-in-law seems to manage to consume a fair amount of it.”
She released a controlled little titter. “Yes, he has grown in recent years! He used to be quite trim—handsome, even. I think his work is less strenuous than it used to be. I gather, from what I hear, he used to keep in shape by beating people up. Now”—she studied her fingernails—“he uses his brain, so he does absolutely nothing at all.”
Peter did not smile.
“Ah, yes”—she noticed his lack of response—“but I don’t suppose you find that very humorous, do you?”
“No, gnädige Frau. Is that all, gnädige Frau?”
“Not quite. Let me see your papers.”
He handed them to her and watched as she perused them.
“Your history begins with your criminal conviction?”
“Yes, gnädige Frau.”
“But you existed before that.”
“One would assume so, gnädige Frau,” he answered with subdued humor.
“So where is the rest of your documentation?”
“With Herr Vogel, gnädige Frau. In his study.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, tell me, what does it say? Do your parents know what you’ve been up to?”
“I was a foundling.”
“An orphan?”
“Yes, gnädige Frau.” He stopped himself from saying that at least that was his current story.
“I’m surprised you weren’t adopted, what with your hair and eyes and all.”
He shrugged. It was not up to him to explain the machinations of the SS Lebensborn, the SS division that abducted and Germanized suitable children from inferior races.
“But they certainly taught you good German in any case.”
“All the orphanages use only German, gnädige Frau.”
She continued to study the pages. “Still, they had no intention of you ending up like this, did they?”
“We were raised to serve the Fatherland, Gnädigste. I can only hope I am doing that now,” he replied ironically.
Frau von dem Bach sniffed her amusement, then tapping the documents, said, “It’s not in here. What’s your name?”
“Peter, gnädige Frau.”
“I meant your last name—and I don’t mean Vogel.”
“I used to be called Halifax.”
“Halifax? As in Lord Halifax?”
A little laugh broke free at that. He shook his head and bit his lower lip to try to control his expression.“No, as in Manchester, Coventry, Leeds, Halifax.”
“Cities?”
“Nuclear cities.”
She cocked her head in confusion.
“They named foundlings after the nearest city. I guess I was found near Halifax.”
“I see, so you’re the product of a nuclear dump. Hmm.” She dropped his papers onto her lap as if they were useless and studied his face as if searching for traces of his history. “Working class?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t know. As I said, I was found abandoned.”
“That’d be my guess, despite your height,” she continued as if talking about the lineage of a racehorse. “Just my daughter’s type. She has a weakness for peasant strength, just like that husband of hers.”
He did not know what to say to that.
“You know what the problem was,” she said as if he had asked a question, “the British got rather untidy about keeping track. So many upstarts from the lower classes! Democracy—what a mistake it was! It started this whole messy business. Now, everything’s turned around, the leaders follow and the followers lead!”
He remained silent.
“Tell me,” she said, suddenly changing tack, “you were convicted for a relatively minor offense. What was it, leaving the Reich without proper authorization?”
“Yes, gnädige Frau. That was my second criminal conviction.”
“Ah. What was the first?” she asked, her head tilted with interest.
“Draft-dodging.”
“What did that get you?”
“Twenty years,” he answered without betraying his bitterness.
“And this second conviction merited a death sentence?”
“Yes, gnädige Frau.”
“And the permanent markings.” She nodded at his arm.
Realizing that he was in violation of Elspeth’s rules, he rolled down his sleeves. In answer to Frau von dem Bach, he said, “Yes, they indicate I live under a stay of execution.”
“Interesting. So no retirement for you?” she asked, referring to the tendency to release forced laborers into society to fend for themselves when they were no longer able to work.
“No. When I cease to be useful, I will be shot, gnädige Frau,” he stated with calculated bluntness.
“A rather draconian punishment,” Frau von dem Bach commented as she fanned herself with his papers.
“People have been killed for less, gnädige Frau. Much less.”
Frau von dem Bach smiled at his brazen innuendo. “I don’t think we bothered to convict them of anything.”
“I guess not, gnädige Frau.”
“Anyway, we don’t talk about that, do we,” she intimated, taking yet another step in their intricate pas de deux.
“Apparently not, gnädige Frau.”
Frau von dem Bach shifted in her seat. “So rather than kill you, they reinvent you. What a very efficient use of bodies.”
“If you think my labor is being used efficiently, yes.”
“You don’t think lighting my son-in-law’s cigarettes is gainful employment?”
“I wouldn’t dare to comment on the methods of my superiors.”
“Wisely so.” She glanced back at his papers. “Not only a condemned convict, but also, quite conveniently, of inferior blood. Don’t you find it odd that they can magically discover after all those years that you are, and presumably always have been, subhuman?”
“I have never attempted to understand your justice system. Or whatever you want to call it.”
She sighed, signaling that she had finished amusing herself. “Neither have I
,” she admitted, handing the documents back to him, “neither have I.”
“May I go now, gnädige Frau?”
“Yes, of course.” She winked at him. “I think I’ll nap a bit. Come and get me for dinner.”
29
“TWO WEEKS, YOU SAID?” Karl moaned.“Hasn’t it been two weeks yet?” He set down his empty glass and pointed toward it meaningfully. Peter refilled it with whiskey, then resumed standing by the wall.
“She’s not leaving until Sunday, dear,” Elspeth answered patiently. “Do try and be polite until then.”
Karl sputtered, “She’s an arrogant old cow with stupid, old-fashioned, and impractical ideas! Her and her stupid society!”
“You thought highly of our connections when you wanted to marry me.”
“Lot of good that did. They cut us off completely. Investigating me like that!”
“I know,” Elspeth soothed. “But they couldn’t understand us. They thought I was deceived by your blond hair and pretty black uniform.”
“They were angry I was landless. Called me a nobody!” Karl snarled. “As if my political background was worthless!”
“Well, to them it was, dear. Anyway, it was a long time ago. They were just concerned for my welfare.”
“That’s not what you said at the time!”
Elspeth eyed Peter as if wondering whether she should continue their conversation in front of him. He ignored her, staring blankly at the minute hand on the mantel clock as it slowly approached twelve. It would chime then and their inanity would be drowned out for a few blessed seconds.
“I was angry, yes,” Elspeth admitted to Karl, clearly deciding that Peter was sufficiently inanimate to not merit further consideration. “But now that Daddy is long dead, and we are married, isn’t it time to let bygones be bygones?”
“Dying like that! He cheated me out of my revenge!” Karl fumed. “He was so bitter at our marriage, I bet even the damn maggots can’t stomach eating his sticky white remains.”
“Karl! That’s disgusting! Whatever you thought then, it’s time to let it go. Mother has tried to rebuild the bridges—can’t we work with her?”
Karl sputtered again. “Why should we?”
The Children's War Page 25