The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Lost what?”

  “The war. I wonder what it would have been like.”

  “Shit,” Wolf-Dietrich swore, glancing nervously around the room. “Are you nuts?”

  “I’m allowed to wonder.”

  “Pff. Well, by our own philosophy, losers get stomped on, so I suppose . . .”

  “Yeah, but if they’d won, it’d be their philosophy that would matter. I wonder what drives them?”

  “Money,” Wolf-Dietrich stated categorically. “Look what happened to us after the First World War. Shit, if they had won, we’d have been reparationed back into serfdom. There’d have been show trials to get rid of the leaders, and the rest of us would be doffing our caps to our Anglo-French capitalist lords.”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  They both fell silent again; the minutes dragged on.

  “Shit, I hope I get this job, I really don’t want to go to Hamburg,” Wolf-Dietrich intimated.

  “I don’t want to go home,” Geerd replied. “But I really have to visit. I need to see my mom and my sisters.”

  “You have leave?”

  “Yes, starting Monday.”

  “First time back?”

  “Uh-huh. First time since I left. I wonder what it’ll be like.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I hope I don’t need it,” Geerd answered.

  35

  “YOU’REHOME!” his mother said, smothering him with a big hug.

  “Ah, Ma!” Geerd responded almost shyly. He hated to admit how much he had missed her hugs.

  His mother turned to the servant who stood patiently waiting a few feet away. He wore an ugly, bluish gray uniform, and Geerd guessed that he was the Zwangsarbeiter his mother had written to him about. Unusually then, for his status, he looked Geerd directly in the eyes and his lips curled ever so slightly, as if in disdainful judgment.

  “Take the luggage upstairs!” his mother ordered, then turning to Geerd, she added in a much softer tone, “We’ve put Horst back in with Rudi, so you can have a room to yourself!”

  Geerd thanked her and, kissing her once more on the cheeks, bounded up the steps to his room. He grunted happily at the servant, who was already unpacking his bags, and removed his jacket, cap, and gun and turned to leave. At the door he stopped and reconsidered. He looked back at the pistol on the dresser and then at the servant as he removed the clothes from a bag and placed them into the drawers. He returned to the dresser, picked up the gun, and took it back downstairs without noticing the scornful smile that his action provoked.

  As he reached the bottom of the steps, he suddenly remembered something and bounded back up the stairs.“Hey, you,” he called out to the servant. “Do you know how to read?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Ah.” Geerd waited in the doorway. As soon as he saw the Underground newspaper emerge from underneath the clothing in his bag, he ordered, “Put that in the bottom drawer, under the clothes. It’s military.”

  Geerd watched as the servant obediently buried the paper, then with a happy little grunt, he left again, returning to the sitting room to chat with his mother. He had a nice long conversation with her, interrupted only by some tea and cakes that were brought in for them. When he noticed the hour getting near to the time his father would be home, he made his excuses, explaining that he had friends who simply had to be seen, and fled the house.

  The days progressed in that manner. Despite having been away a long time, he spent little time at the house. He visited old friends during the days andprowled the bars at night. His mother expressed mild disappointment, his father scowled but did not interfere: the military, it seemed, had conferred upon him a complete immunity from parental authority. Despite the uniforms and the salutes and the military hierarchy, he could say he was free for the first time in his life.

  His freedom, though, had its limits. He discovered this on Sunday morning when he had naturally assumed that he could spend the time sleeping off his hangover. Instead he was awakened by somebody gently shaking his shoulder. He looked up and saw the Zwangsarbeiter looking down at him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he grunted.

  “You must get up, mein Herr,” came the terse but polite reply.

  Geerd was not feeling well, and he was affronted by this presumptuousness. “Get the hell out of my room.”

  “I’m sorry, mein Herr, but I must wake you up. Your mother insists that you get up,” the man explained as he picked up Geerd’s robe and held it ready for him.

  “Oh, fuck her. Get out of here. That’s an order.” Geerd paused, then asked in a confused tone, “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “You must get up. She insists, mein Herr.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Scram! Do I have to hit you?” he asked irritably.

  “If you must,” the man replied contemptuously.

  Geerd groaned and stretched. “Oh, well.” He succumbed to the inevitable. “What’s this all about?”

  “I believe you must attend a rally.”

  “Oh, fuck. I forgot about that shit.” Geerd yawned. “Okay, I’m up, tell Mother I’ll be down in a few minutes.” Noticing a look of distaste and indecision on the Zwangsarbeiter ’s face, he asked, “What is it now?”

  “I’m afraid, mein Herr, I’m supposed to make sure you get out of bed and then help you prepare.”

  “Really? What in the world is my mother playing at?” Then not giving the man time to reply, Geerd sighed, “Oh, all right.” He climbed out of bed, put on the offered robe, and stretched again. “Your smiling face has more than prepared me—I’ll manage to shave and dress on my own.” He waved his hand in a frivolous gesture and finished with a military “Dismissed!”

  The Zwangsarbeiter turned to leave, but Geerd called out, “Hey, you. Wait, wait! Do you have a light?” Somehow, somewhere last night he had lost his lighter. The servant obliged and Geerd said between desperate draws off his first cigarette of the day,“Now, there, ah, yes, by all means . . .”

  Again the man turned to leave.

  “Hold on. Wait,” Geerd ordered. “Rub my back, that bed has made it sore.”

  Geerd leaned back into the massage, and as the rough hands worked his muscles, he wondered why he always had a sore back when he was home. Every muscle was tense and stiff. “Ow!” he shouted. “That hurt!”

  “Sorry, mein Herr.”

  Geerd rolled his eyes. Can’t even get a decent backrub nowadays. “All right, that’s enough,” he sighed, exasperated. “You can go.”

  Geerd did not go out that evening. There really was nowhere to go on a Sunday evening, and he had worn out his welcome with the few friends he had who were still in town. No, Sunday was an evening for families, and he had to spend it wholesomely, in the bosom of his beloved family. That night he lay in bed thinking about his unit and wondering if he would still be with them or if he would be working in Göringstadt. Maybe it would be better to stay with them. They were due to move south of Hitlerstadt soon—more trouble with some locals there. Too many settlers being attacked, their farms burned. It would be good to go with them, to do something useful, to protect good German folk—people who, unlike his father, made an honest living from the land. The terrorists, or partisans, or whatever they called themselves, would be hunted down, arrested, and suitably punished. Order would be restored. He would be bringing peace to a troubled land. He did not even mind the danger to himself that it would involve.

  He felt restless and decided to get up. At the base of the stairs he noticed the Zwangsarbeiter sitting morosely on the floor in the hallway, staring at nothing.

  “How come you’re still up?” Geerd asked.

  The man continued to stare tiredly at the wall opposite. It took ages before he deigned to reply, “Your brother is still out.”

  “So?”

  “So I wait up to see to any needs he might have when he returns.”

  “Why?”

  The man glanced up the stairway, toward
Geerd’s parents’ room. “Orders,” he sighed.

  “But I was out late every night this week. And you were . . .”

  “There to greet you every time,” the Zwangsarbeiter finished. He finally brought himself to look at Geerd directly. “Did you think I was an insomniac?”

  Geerd shifted uneasily.“No, I just didn’t think about . . . I . . . It wasn’t . . .” He stopped, confused. Somehow the man had made him feel guilty for doing nothing more than having a good time. He resented the man’s rudeness, yet, on the other hand, he felt kind of bad that he had not noticed the unintended consequences of his actions. “Do you want a cigarette?” he asked suddenly, reaching into the pocket of his robe to find his pack.

  The Zwangsarbeiter glanced up the stairway again. “Sure, why not.” He stood, accepted the proffered cigarette, then grabbing the crystal lighter that stood on the hall table, he lit Geerd’s and then his own. They continued to stand there, smoking in silence, Geerd leaning casually against the banister, the Zwangsarbeiter staring nervously up the stairway.

  When they had finished, Geerd pulled out the pack of cigarettes again. He looked at it for a moment, then on a sudden impulse, he held it out to his companion, saying, “Here, you keep it.”

  The Zwangsarbeiter gave Geerd an inscrutable look as he reached for the gift. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  Geerd heaved a disappointed sigh. Somehow he had expected more enthusiasm at his largesse. “Well, I guess I’ll go back to bed,” he said, but as he turned to climb back up the steps, he somehow felt that something more needed to be said. He hesitated a long time. The Zwangsarbeiter had already reseated himself and was back to staring at the same point on the wall directly across. Still Geerd hesitated. Why did he feel the need to say something? It was stupid, weak even. The man had been quite surly, hardly even thankful for the cigarettes. He should just climb the stairs and go back to bed. Yet he couldn’t.

  This was exactly the sort of thing his father harangued him about all the time. “Weak!” his father would call him. “Manipulable! Emotional! Soft!” The insults would follow him the rest of his life. “Spineless, indecisive, pathetic, inferior.” He knew them by heart. He looked at the Zwangsarbeiter. Would anything he said make a difference anyway?

  “You know,” he began, trying to decide what he should say, “I didn’t know . . . I’m sorry about keeping you up all week.”

  The man cut him off with a sharp look, his eyes narrowed as if he considered Geerd beneath contempt, and those lips curled in that familiar look of disdain, but then, slowly his look softened and a resigned smile replaced the sneer. “It wasn’t your fault,” he finally said, switching, disconcertingly, to familiar speech. “It’s your father’s orders.” He turned his attention back to the wall, adding, “Children are not responsible for the actions of their parents.”

  Geerd was so shocked by the man’s sudden lack of deference that he barely heard what had been said. He opened his mouth several times to say something like I’m a full-grown man! I’m not a servant! I’m an officer! He finally decided on “Good night.”

  “Good night,” the Zwangsarbeiter replied without looking up. “Sleep well, child.”

  Only on the train back to his unit did Geerd really hear what had been said to him. He replayed the words over and over in his mind and wished that he had said something more in return.

  36

  SHORTLY AFTER GEERD’SDEPARTURE, the family went on their summer holiday to a Baltic resort town that had been built by the government as a spa for Partyofficials. Peter accompanied Elspeth and the children on the train while Karl drove down and met them there. The spa was a miserable affair of well-ordered Gemütlich shops and neat rows of concrete-block cottages, all a short walk from the sea. Little flags, strung along lines that stretched from one building to another, fluttered incessantly in the wind, and each cottage had a concrete swastika, done in relief and then painted black, on its peak.

  Peter found himself sleeping on the floor of their cottage, keeping everything in order and tending to the needs, wishes, and whims of the entire family. They were depressingly ever-present in the small house, and their petty desires seemed to multiply with the sea breezes. It was made abundantly clear that he was not on holiday—he was present solely to see to their needs—and so he was never taken with them on their walks along the beach nor was he permitted to explore on his own. Elspeth had him accompany her into the town to shop once or twice, but the cold waters of the Baltic remained unseen.

  Driven by the maddening scent of salt, he tried, several times, to leave the confines of the cottage’s fenced-in yard but each time was immediately turned back. On his fourth attempt, the patrolman recognized him and threatened to arrest him. He pleaded to be let off with a warning. By this time he knew how to restrict himself to simple words, how to accent his voice, how to shuffle and flinch and avert his gaze, and the young patrolman took pity on the poor, ignorant, inferior being and, tossing his papers onto the ground, let him go. As Peter scrambled after the valuable scraps before they scattered in the breeze, he decided not to press his luck any further and thereafter confined himself to fulfilling his duties and remaining at the house.

  At the end of the family’s stay, he was ordered to scrub the cottage from top to bottom to make sure it was clean, orderly, and welcoming for the next family that would arrive shortly after the inspection. As they returned to Berlin, it was, he realized, the first time that their suburban house looked welcoming. Anything to get away from the terrible claustrophobia and unending demands of that horrible seaside resort!

  And back to his school, for that’s almost what it was now. Elda was progressingmarvelously, and his newfound friend, Konstantin, had asked if he could bring a young coworker along the next time they met. After enthusiastically agreeing, it had especially irked Peter that he himself had then missed every possible meeting since. First Geerd’s late nights out, then the family holiday. But now, at last, he could try to meet them. If only they haven’t given up on my ever coming back, he thought.

  They hadn’t. In fact, Roman was there as well. Having ferried messages of cancellations and apologies to the students, he had become intrigued and wondered if he, too, could attend.

  Peter paced the small storage room that Konstantin had shown him and Elda after discovering them under the train platform. He scanned the faces of his foureager students, cleared his throat, and began. “With all of you at different levels, and with, I gather, different expectations, I think we’re going to have to organize this a bit.” He stopped and studied the laden shelves of the room. “What exactly is all this stuff?” he asked Konstantin.

  “Oh, it’s some of the equipment we use to fix tracks when we find something wrong with them.”

  Peter made an appreciative face. It was rather more complicated than he would ever have expected, if he had ever given it any thought. “They trust you with a lot of stuff here.”

  “Ah, that’s just because of my exalted status as a Pflichtarbeiter!” Konstantin joked.

  “Not like us true lowlifes,” Roman inserted.

  “Yes, maybe my first course will be on caste systems throughout the centuries,” Peter suggested with a little laugh. “And how they are almost always supported by the people just above the bottom rung.” He stopped to light a cigarette and noticed how the boy whom Konstantin had brought along stared at the insignia on his shoulder. “It was a joke,” he explained to the boy, then added somewhat sourly, “And no, I’m not really a criminal.”

  “Then what did you do?” the boy dared to ask.

  “I hacked some guy to death,” Peter answered deadpan. Then, into the boy’s astonished silence, he added, “For staring at me.”

  The boy immediately looked away, his eyes nervously settling on Konstantin.

  “That, also, was a joke,” Konstantin reassured him. “My friend here has a rather weird sense of humor.”

  Peter laughed good-naturedly. “He’s right. Don’t worry, kid, I was guilty of
nothing. Now, let’s begin.”

  After about an hour Elda had to leave. The boy and Roman left shortly after that, and as Konstantin secured the door behind them, Peter returned to his pacing, musing, “I think I can steal sufficient paper from Herr Vogel’s office, but I don’t see how I’m going to take four or five pens without him noticing.”

  “I could buy two or three,” Konstantin offered. “I am, after all, paid something.”

  Peter nodded. “That would help.” He continued to pace worriedly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The boy. Are you sure we can trust him?”

  Konstantin nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. He’s a good kid.”

  “Why did he act so strangely?”

  “I think he’s in awe of you. I don’t think he’s ever met anyone—I mean, one of us—who’s so obviously educated.”

  “Ah.”

  “How do you know so much? I thought you said you never went to school.”

  “I lied,” Peter answered. He sighed. “I have my reasons for not being entirely honest with everyone.”

  “You were in an Underground?”

  Peter stopped pacing and studied Konstantin for a moment. An Underground press had gotten Konstantin into his current predicament. He had done nothing more than live in the same building in which the illegal newspaper was printed. He had claimed, as had all the other residents, that he had known nothing about the activities of the terrorists in the cellar. He had, nonetheless, been found guilty of conspiracy and sentenced to ten years labor. So, now he served out his time as a track inspector, walking the lengths of rails from early morning until sunset, inspecting them and keeping them clean. He only had four more years until he’d be free. Did he resent Underground movements? Peter wondered.

  “I take it that means yes,” Konstantin said laughingly. “Is that what you plan to go back to? I mean, once you get out of here?”

  Peter nodded. “Sort of. I mean, I can’t go back to where I was, but maybe I can find somewhere where I can carry on my work.”