The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  30

  THE ATMOSPHERE IN THE room was stultifying. Not so much that there were too many bodies in too small a space, nor that the windows had not been opened despite the oppressive summer heat—that, after all, was impossible given the security considerations—nor was it even due to the ubiquitous presence of black, brown, and gray uniforms and suits. The air was simply thick with inappropriate metaphors, sleazy compliments, innuendos, and veiled threats. It was, needless to say, another useless, time-wasting, and obligatory Party political meeting.

  Richard stretched as much as he dared and discreetly yawned behind his hand. A young woman entered the room and tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him, conveying an important message that gave the lucky fellow a wellearned break from the tedium. Richard scanned the room and noticed how nearly every eye had covertly watched the woman as she walked up the aisle, bent over the rows of bored men, and talked to her boss. Even the speaker seemed momentarily distracted from his stale pronouncements, but then he found his wind and continued to drone on.

  Eventually he finished and the obedient audience applauded. At this point all eyes moved to the Führer and awaited that subtle moment when his hands approached each other to rest rather than clap. Nearly everyone caught the moment, and the applause dropped off precipitously to near silence. The one or two laggards stopped clapping and glanced around embarrassed.

  The next speaker was introduced, a Herr Schacht. Finally! Richard sat up to listen closely. Schacht introduced the prison-reform concepts that Richard had outlined only months earlier to his own staff. Richard listened as Schacht explained how there had been trials in various locations around the Reich and that preliminary results were filtering in. “It seems that given the preliminary results of these initiatives, which were introduced by . . .” Schacht’s eyes strayed into the audience, settling briefly on Richard before moving on. Richard leaned in to hear his name invoked. He had worked so hard to get someone in Berlin to listen to him, and now here was his moment! “. . . myself,” Schacht concluded,“to the Führer only several months ago, we can feel confident that things are moving in the right direction.”

  Richard grimaced. It was probably good news that Schacht felt it necessary to steal his applause; nevertheless, he grit his teeth in irritation. He continued to listen as Schacht presented the Göringstadt results, which had been handed to himonly the day before. At no point did he mention Richard’s name, at no point was there any indication that anyone else was involved in the program. It was exactly what Richard had expected, and he was perversely gratified, since he had planned accordingly. He had banked a great deal on the success of this venture and had risked a lot by publicizing his involvement in advance of the results. Furthermore, he had already organized his own minor publicity stunt for this meeting, which would get the attention he needed from the high command and make his name known and his presence desired. He glanced at his watch and counted down the minutes.

  Precisely on time a beautiful young woman stepped onto the stage from a side entrance. She took several doelike steps toward the speaker, then paused, as if stunned by the sudden glare of eyes that rested on her. She threw a heartbreakingly vulnerable glance into the audience; her eyes rested momentarily on the Führer, and a surge of sexual energy charged the auditorium. Then her eyes moved languorously across the room and settled on her father. Everyone turned in their seats to see who was the beneficiary of this glorious creature’s attention. Richard graced his daughter with a questioning half-smile, and she turned back toward the speaker and approached the podium, whispering something into his ear.

  The Führer watched Richard’s daughter intently, his chest heaving. He licked his lips and leaned toward his companion as if asking a question.

  “That is not how these things are handled!” Schacht snapped at the young woman.

  The Führer turned his attention to the speaker and frowned. The young woman apologized in an undertone and the word “emergency” escaped into the microphone.

  Schacht scowled and then announced, “Traugutt, you have an emergency and are needed at the hospital!”

  Richard rose, made his way out to the aisle, approached the stage, and extended an arm to his daughter as she descended the steps. He listened as she whispered what had brought her to interrupt the conference and saw, out of the corner of his eye, how the Führer stared at his daughter, how his gaze dropped down from her glistening brown hair to her long, sensuous legs, taking in every detail in between. Richard turned to the Führer and bowed, beginning an apology, which was preempted by the Führer’s rising to his feet and extending his hand.

  “And just how did such a lovely creature escape the attention of our security?” the Führer asked, holding her hand in both of his.

  “Oh, I was thoroughly searched,” the lovely creature replied. Richard watched how the Führer’s lips twitched. “And I had to prove my identity, I mean, my relationship to one of the attendees.”

  “And just what relationship is that?” the Führer asked, breathless with anticipation.

  “This is my daughter,” Richard explained to the Führer’s obvious relief. Richard continued by introducing himself and explaining that he currently resided in Göringstadt, that his wife had remained behind, and so his daughter had had no one else to turn to when his young son had taken ill.

  “But of course, you must tend to your family!” the Führer responded understandingly. “The family is the backbone of our Reich! By all means, don’t hesitate, your child needs you! Go sign whatever forms the hospital needs, but I do hope we get a chance to meet again later.”

  “Yes, later,” Richard agreed.

  “Yes, later,” his daughter echoed with an alluring smile.

  31

  “IT’SLATER,”KARLHISSED at Peter as the carriage doors of Frau von dem Bach’s train slammed shut. Whistles shrilled along the platform, the train began to roll, and Elspeth waved cheerily at her mother’s carriage, hoping that she would take the time to look back to see her and know she would be missed.

  No sooner had they stepped through the door of the house than Karl turned to Peter and ordered, “Into my study, now.”

  “Karl, now? There’s lots of cleaning up to do, I need him,” Elspeth protested.

  “Now!” Karl snarled as he marched off. Peter glanced at Elspeth before following obediently.

  Karl sat at his desk, put his feet up on it, and indicated with a wag of his finger that he wanted a cigarette lit. Peter placed one between Karl’s lips, lit it for him, and then retreated to the far side of the desk.

  Karl motioned for him to shut the door, then smoked philosophically for a moment as he surveyed his visitor. “You know, you confuse me,” he said suddenly. “You have such a bad attitude. Why?”

  Surreptitiously Peter scanned the room, trying to find a clue as to what lay in store for him.

  “I’ve asked you a question! Answer me!” Karl snapped.

  “Sorry, mein Herr. I thought it was rhetorical.”

  “Rhetorical,” Karl repeated as if annoyed. He removed his feet from the desk and leaned forward to speak intensely. “I don’t like your attitude, boy. It’s going to change.”

  Peter remained worriedly silent as Karl stood up, walked out from behind the desk, and strolled around the room. He approached Peter from behind and said to the back of his neck, “I planned to beat the shit out of you. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, m’n’err,” Peter acknowledged grimly.

  “In fact, I even thought of taking you down to the Ministry—let the boys have a go at you. They need practice, you know.”

  Ludicrously, Peter nodded his agreement.

  “But they can be so careless, hmm?”

  “Yes, mein Herr.” Peter felt sick with apprehension.

  Karl strolled to the bookcase. “You seem surprisingly well educated,” he said, suddenly conversational, his finger running across the volumes of pristine books on the shelves. “Where did you go
to school?”

  “The Horst Wesel Academy near Slau, m’n’err,” Peter answered, then grimaced with self-disgust at his own stupidity. Whatever had possessed him to say that? He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to work out the implications of the inconsistencies between his words and his documents.

  “Well?” Karl asked, still studying his bookshelf.

  “Forgive me, mein Herr. What did you say?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you? I said, that was my old school. Eton,” Karl barked. He used the old name for the upper school, flaunting the laws of his own government in an uncontrollable display of snobbery. “Why don’t I remember you being there?”

  “I don’t know, mein Herr. Maybe we weren’t contemporaries. So you grew up there? In England I mean?” Peter asked, trying to change the direction of the conversation.

  “Yes, I spent some time in London. My father was posted there.”

  “Do you speak any English, mein Herr?”

  “I didn’t own a dog.” Karl laughed, pleased by the wit of his rejoinder.

  It wasn’t an original. Peter had heard it numerous times before. Indeed, it was the style among the local population of Germans to speak to their dogs in English. Thus, for many of them, the extent of their English consisted of such words as sit, stay, beg, good boy, and shut up. Peter thought about the quote he had heard attributed to Charles V about only speaking German to his horse, but he decided not to repeat it. Rather, he asked, “How long did you live in London?”

  “Too long. Barren place, no trees, no parks.”

  “It didn’t used to be like that.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I had heard,” Peter replied steadily. The casual tone of their interchange was reassuring—maybe he could avoid being beat up after all. “Is your family still there?”

  “I’m asking the questions here.”

  “Sorry, mein Herr.”

  “The question is, why were you at my school? How did you get in?”

  “I don’t know. It was . . .” He had almost said that it was his parents’ fault. “I didn’t really attend,” he admitted on a sudden inspiration. “I worked in the kitchens. The orphanage arranged that for me. I used to just listen in to the lectures.”

  “So a liar as well as a thief.”

  “A thief, mein Herr?”

  “Stealing knowledge. It was clearly a mistake. It gave you ideas above your station. Well, we can remedy that. We’ll start with a simple lesson.” Karl chose a book from the shelf and returned to his seat at the desk. He took another deep draw from his cigarette, then looked at it as if it had somehow surprised him. He ground it out before continuing.

  “Here,” he said, leaning back and shaking the volume in his hand, “is knowledge.” He placed the book carefully on the desk and, leaning forward again, reached into his jacket and removed his gun. “And here,” he continued, holding the gun in the palm of his hand, “is power. The question is, which is stronger?”

  Peter read the title of the book—it was a series of readings on the development of civilization compiled by the Boys’ League for the Preservation of Fatherland Values. He swallowed a laugh.

  “Answer me!”

  “It took knowledge to construct the gun, m’n’err.”

  “But very little to use it.”

  “If you say so, m’n’err.”

  Karl did not notice the insult. “Put your hands flat on the desk.”

  Peter did as he was told. He had to lean forward to place his hands on the surface of the desk, and he stood there awkwardly, wondering what Karl was up to.

  “Now you tell me which is stronger!” Karl said, picking up the book and slamming it down on Peter’s right hand. Peter winced more from surprise than pain. Karl stood up, held the gun by the barrel, and raised it over Peter’s left hand. Peter watched in horror as the butt of the gun came crashing down toward his hand. Instinctively, he pulled his hand away. The gun smashed into the desk, denting the fine wood.

  “You swine! I did not give you permission to move your hand! Look what you’ve done to my desk!” Karl screamed. “Put your hand back there. Put your hand back on the desk!”

  Peter hesitated, weighing his options and his instincts. Finally he placed his left hand, palm down, flat on the desk and said quietly, “Please, mein Herr, please don’t do this.”

  “Oh, so you don’t want me to test which is stronger?”

  “No, mein Herr.”

  Surprisingly, Karl did not push the point. “So, you are not completely devoid of reason,” he stated dryly as he set the pistol down.

  Peter stared at it, relieved, but still he did not dare move his hand.

  “You recognize that power is what’s important, and you know, instinctively, that I have it and you don’t. That’s not the problem, is it?” Karl asked, surprisingly conversational again.

  “Mein Herr?” Peter asked, confused.

  “They taught you well enough not to disobey direct commands, and you’reclever, you learned your lessons.” Karl eyed his gun, then smiling amiably said, “If I broke your hand, it would prove nothing, nothing at all. All that would happen is I would end up shorthanded!” He giggled at his joke.

  Cautiously, Peter removed his hand from the desk. He did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

  Karl circled around the desk to him. “It’s not direct commands that are the problem, it’s your entire attitude. Sullen and insubordinate. You just don’t appreciate how good you have it here, do you, boy?”

  Clearly an answer was required, but Peter was stymied as to what he could say.

  “See”—Karl seemed to be speaking to someone else—“you can’t even answer.” He leaned close to Peter and hissed into his ear, “You’re meant to be useful to me, do you understand? You’ve failed our society once”—he tapped the green triangle on Peter’s sleeve with two fingers—“but you’ve been given a second chance. You’re a very lucky boy.”

  Karl backed away, assuming a conversational tone again. “But you don’t appreciate your luck, do you? You have a job in this life, but you don’t want to do it. You think you’re too good for it, don’t you?”

  Karl did not pause long enough for Peter to answer. “If you can’t do this job, then we’ll get you another. I can replace you, and you can do something else to serve the Fatherland. How about working in a mine? You’re strong, I’d give you six whole months there. Or how about a submarine base? There’s a lot of nuclear crap that needs cleaning up. You’d last longer and you could watch yourself dying. Lose your hair, excrete blood from every orifice. How would that suit you?”

  Peter could think of nothing less absurd to say than, “It wouldn’t, mein Herr.”

  “You’re right. You don’t really want a different job, you want to learn how to do this one right, don’t you?” Karl snapped his fingers theatrically. “I have it! I’ll send you back for further reeducation! I’m sure they’d be interested in improving your shortcomings. They could make a study of you. How about that?”

  Peter stared at the gun on the desk. He had given his answer ages ago, to that psychiatrist.

  “It’s up to you,” Karl said. “You have a straightforward choice: you can be well-behaved, courteous, and grateful and serve me here, or you can go back there. Which is it?”

  Peter swallowed, then answered, “Here, mein Herr.”

  “You want to serve me?”

  “Yes, mein Herr,” Peter whispered.

  Karl shook his head in mock sadness. “I’m sorry, you’re just not very convincing.”

  “I don’t understand, mein Herr. What do you want from me?”

  “Convince me,” Karl answered innocently.

  Peter resorted to feigning further confusion. “Mein Herr?”

  “I’m losing patience. I need proof that your attitude is going to improve. Either you convince me now, or I will hand you back over to them. Understood?” Karl pointed imperiously toward the floor.

  Peter understood a
ll too well. He knew what could be done to a human and he knew he would not face a second time. So, slowly, reluctantly, painfully, he went down onto his knees.

  32

  ADAM ROSE FROM HIS KNEES, making the sign of the cross as he did so. The candle flickered in a breeze, almost died, but then the weak flame recovered and burned steadily. “Don’t worry about Olek. We’ll take care of him,” he whispered into the gloom of the chapel.

  As was his habit, he had visited the chapel in preparation for venturing out on another mission. The job was a rather straightforward bit of sabotage that would serve little more than propaganda purposes, and he looked forward to the outing. The groundwork had been done, the villagers notified; all he had to do was lead the team that would hold up a train and then help distribute the foodstuffs to the local denizens. There was, naturally, a minor amount of danger, but that was all part of the game and it made him feel tense and alive.

  He turned to leave, but someone was in the doorway. It took a moment to recognize the silhouette as Zosia.

  “I thought I’d find you in here,” she said. “Thinking about Julia?”

  Adam nodded. “And Olek. He was so precious to her.”

  Zosia stepped forward into the gloom to give her husband a hug. “She loved her child, as you love yours.”

  Adam looked over her shoulder into the almost blinding light of the corridor. “If anything should happen to me—”

  “Oh, Adam, don’t say such things!”

  “Zosiu, it’s time we grow up and face realities. Something could happen to either one of us. What would you do if something happened to me? What about Joanna?”

  “You know she’ll be taken care of. There’s me, there’s Marysia, even Tadek would help.”