The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Yes, and look what mixing does. Such a shame to pollute the pure blood.” This was followed by a moan, as if the thought caused genuine pain.

  “Like the English,” Elspeth agreed. “Gemischt, like him.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement. As if also agreeing, the woman with the dark blond hair reached out to touch him. She stroked his cheek and he felt the skin tingle at her touch. He felt his heart would break from longing, and he determinedly pulled his gaze away from her and in so doing caught Elspeth’s eye; she scowled in return, clearly indicating that he should not be so brazen as to look directly at any of them.

  He focused his eyes on her midriff, and that seemed to placate her. As the ladies’ conversation swam around him, he studied the intricate pattern of multicolored swastikas worked into her dress; here and there, where the seams gathered the material together, the four arms of the Hakenkreuz collapsed into three, or sprouted a fifth. Why exactly were other races so different? he heard someone ask. The little swastika mutants marched dutifully down the length of Elspeth’s dress, disappearing into the pleats, without providing an answer. Another empty glass was set on his tray, and the last full glass of Sekt was plucked off it.

  With the tray emptied, he was released from the clutch of women to return to the kitchen. Elspeth discreetly extricated herself as well and followed him in. He heard her behind him just as he was reaching for something to eat, and he awkwardly set the bread and cheese back down on the serving board.

  “What is your problem?” she demanded angrily.

  “Gnädige Frau?” he responded, genuinely confused.

  “You! Out there! You’re so grim. Damn it, you’re spoiling the mood of my party!”

  Grim was hardly the right word, more like bewitched, but that hardly seemed a sensible thing to say to her, so he said,“My apologies, gnä’ Frau.”

  “Just get that miserable look off your face. Look at her,” Elspeth said, pointing at the girl who had just returned to the kitchen with a cheerful grin, “she knows how to serve!”

  “Yes, gnä’ Frau.”

  “Smile!” Elspeth demanded.

  “As you insist, gnä’ Frau.” He let his eyes drop down along her tasteless dress. A sardonic smile appeared without effort. It was all he could do to keep from snorting his derision.

  She slapped him.“How dare you mock my orders!”

  “I beg your forgiveness, gnädige Frau,” he heard himself say as he pulled the smile back into a reasonably serious look.

  Elspeth snorted. “Just don’t let me see you looking miserable again. You understand?” She did not wait for an answer as she swung out into the hall, her face lightening into a charming and happy expression as she went.

  Afterward, when they were cleaning up, Peter and the girl gathered the abandoned food and drink into the kitchen for later disposal. As soon as Elspeth grew tired of watching them and went to bed, they both immediately returned to the kitchen and ate and drank everything that should, technically, have been thrown away. The girl then returned to the sitting room, inspected every ashtray, and secreted any unused cigarette ends in her pockets. Peter decided to let her keep all the little treasures since he already had a reasonable supply, but he was annoyed when the next thing she did was to throw herself down on the couch and promptly fall asleep.

  He glared at her for a moment, but then decided to let her sleep and finish the work himself. Hours later, when he was done, he nudged her.

  “Get up. You can’t stay there.”

  “Why not?” she mumbled sleepily.

  “If Frau Vogel finds you, I’ll get the shit kicked out of me.”

  “How likely is it that someone will notice?” she responded, unimpressed.

  “Likely enough. Come on, you can sleep upstairs.”

  She groaned and reluctantly stood up. “Where’s the toilet?”

  “In the cellar.”

  “Oh, lucky you. Indoor plumbing.” With that, she promptly headed to the guest toilet off the hallway. He grimaced in annoyance but said nothing. He paced the hall, nervously glancing upstairs to be sure no one had observed her breach of discipline. Although it had never explicitly been stated, he was sure he would be held responsible for her actions.

  When she finally emerged, he grasped her arm and led her up the stairs to the attic.

  “Christ! It’s freezing in here!” she exclaimed.

  “I know. We’ll have to sleep together. There’s not enough bedding. Anyway it will be warmer.” It was not necessary to add that if they wanted, this was also a good time to indulge in personal relations. He had managed a few one-night stands in this manner, but he suspected that this girl was not going to be one of them.

  She gave him a critical look, and he added, “Don’t worry, you’ll be safe. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.” That did not seem to satisfy her, and he realized it was probably the thought of bedding with a lower class that bothered her. Tough, he thought, and without bothering further with her, he lay down fully dressed and wrapped himself in his blankets. He awoke later in the night to find her huddled against his body; she felt so cold that he pulled the covers up over her and wrapped his arm around her, then fell back asleep.

  In the morning he carefully extricated himself from her and left to carry out his usual morning duties. By the time he had returned, she was in the kitchen standing with cheerful respect by the table where Elspeth was sitting, writing out the pass that would allow the girl to walk back home. As she left, Elspeth sighed, “They’re lucky to have such a well-behaved servant.” She looked critically at him and added, “You should be more like her.”

  “Yes,” he agreed tiredly, “I should.”

  He had a pounding headache—probably caused by the wild mixture of alcohols and foods he had consumed the night before—and he wished Elspeth would leave the kitchen so he could get on with his work.

  “Where are the leftovers from last night?” Elspeth’s voice grated on his headache.

  “They were locked away, gnä’ Frau. Before you went to bed. Remember?” he answered between throbs, wondering if he could continue to suppress the urge to vomit.

  “Not those! The others, the food that had been left lying around.”

  “There wasn’t much of that, gnä’ Frau. What there was, was composted,” he said, moving closer to the sink, just in case.

  Elspeth walked over to the pot used to gather compostable foods. When Peter had initially suggested creating a compost pile for the garden, she had had her suspicions even then. Now she looked into the collection of wilted carrot shavings, coffee grounds, and eggshells with a growing conviction that her suspicions had been right. “I don’t see anything in here.”

  “They’re outside, gnädige Frau,” he answered as he eyed the drain.

  “You took them out last night? In the freezing cold?” she asked, forcing him to dig himself in deeper.

  “Yes, gnädige Frau.”

  “But you left this?” She indicated the pot.

  “Yes, gnädige Frau. I’m afraid I forgot about that.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No, gnädige Frau.”

  “You know we can go outside and check the compost heap.”

  “Yes, gnädige Frau.”

  “The more you lie, the worse it will be for you.”

  “Forgive me, gnädige Frau.” It was not as much of an admission as it sounded. They had carried out this routine before, and whether or not he was telling the truth, he invariably apologized at this point. Determining the truth was rarely Elspeth’s goal; rather, she was simply asserting her authority over him and the reason for his apology was generally irrelevant.

  Unusually, Elspeth pursued the subject. “I talked to the girl before she left. She said she saw you steal the food that was left out. Is that true?”

  Despite a surge of anger at the girl, he knew it was pointless implicating her as well. Reluctantly, he replied, “Yes, gnädige Frau.”

  �
��You realize, this can’t go unpunished.”

  The hangover wasn’t enough? he wanted to ask, but all he said was, “I understand, gnädige Frau.”

  The eldest son, Uwe, was unable to be at home—this was the first time he had missed the Winterfest, and Elspeth carried off the nearly obligatory worriedmother act admirably. That afternoon, Geerd arrived home on leave, and she made up for Uwe’s absence by absolutely inundating her second son with kisses and hugs. Geerd accepted the attention with good-natured impatience, greeted his father cordially, and kissed and hugged all his sisters enthusiastically. Gisela, in particular, absolutely bubbled over upon his arrival, and Peter found himself smiling, quite naturally, at her happiness.

  The following evening was the Bescherung, the traditional exchange of presents. It was a quiet affair—no guests, just the family itself. After dinner, everyone retired to the sitting room to munch pastries and sip Glähwein or, for the three youngest children, hot cocoa. The television carried a series of heartwarming messages from the Party leadership and an occasional “Hi, Mom, and hail to the Fatherland” from one of the troops who could not be at home. Elspeth kept an eye on the screen during these short intermissions, sure that Uwe would be waving his hello at any moment. Peter stood uneasily near the door, regularly returning to the cauldrons in the kitchen to refill their glasses, and watched silently as the elder members of the family slipped into drunkenness. His feeling of isolation was amplified by their boisterous good humor, and he found his eyes wandering time and again to the flames that leapt up the chimney in the fireplace. If only she had lived. If only it had been different . . .

  Horst told an off-color joke about Rassenmischung —he had finally returned from visiting friends just a few minutes before dinner, much to Elspeth’s annoyance—and Ulrike giggled uproariously and promptly spilled the remainder of her wine. It was the first time she had been permitted to join the adults in drinking, and she was flushed with excitement.

  Elspeth broke into Peter’s reverie, snapping at him to clean up the mess. He looked around, vaguely shocked by his surroundings, then gathering himself, responded to her order before she could get angry. After the spilled Glähwein was cleaned and everybody’s glasses refilled, Karl announced it was time to open the presents. It was somehow quite clear that Peter should not leave the room even though there was no real reason for him to be there; so he remained, uselessly standing by the door. There had been no time since breakfast for him to eat, and unlike the previous parties, it had been almost impossible to snag food at this gathering; he stood, hunger cramping his stomach, an intense loneliness preying on his soul, watching as if from a remote distance as each member of the family gave and received gifts. There were presents from absent relatives, from friends, from colleagues, and especially underlings. There were the happy shrieks from the children, the disappointed sighs, the quizzical expressions. Allof it slipped into a general background roar as his eyes were drawn, once again, to the flames.

  The fire required another log, and he absently attended to that as the exchange continued. He prodded and poked at the wood somewhat longer than necessary, taking a private enjoyment in the warmth that buffeted his face as he built up the flames. Not until Teresa tapped his shoulder was he aware that she had approached.

  “It’s for you,” she said, holding out a small package.

  His mouth fell open in surprise; he hesitated to take the package, noticing instead that Karl was beginning to rise from his seat, a look of suffused anger on his face. Karl begin to snarl, “What the hell—” but Elspeth, who was sitting on the arm of his chair, placed a restraining hand on his shoulder and said something in a low voice. She nodded at Teresa, who had looked back questioningly, to reassure her.

  “As long as it’s not too much,” Karl conceded, and sat back in his chair with an avid look on his face.

  “It’s from all of us,” Teresa assured Peter rather improbably.

  Peter had remained throughout in the crouched position he had used to tend the fire, and now he looked up into Teresa’s sincere face and smiled slightly. He took the package and opened it quickly. Inside was a box with three white handkerchiefs. They had a white, embroidered pattern of artistically linked swastikas worked into the material, but were otherwise unadorned.

  After they had seen the gift, everyone’s eyes turned expectantly toward Karl. He motioned imperially for Peter to bring the box to him. He rubbed his chin as he inspected its contents, looked meaningfully at Peter as if to indicate just how gracious he was being, then finally muttered, “All right.”

  Peter turned and smiled broadly at Teresa, took in the other children with his eyes, then again looked at her directly to say, almost in a whisper, “Thank you.” His voice nearly broke with emotion as he repeated, “Thank you.”

  39

  LIGHT SPLINTERED OFF the crystals of the chandelier and danced, fairylike, on the flowers of the flocked wallpaper. The huge, spotlessly clean windows looking out into the cold winter night reflected the merrymakers in their finery. The strains of the string quartet mingled with the rustle of dresses, the clink of glasses, and the low murmur of conversation.

  “Is this really and truly the last of these things?” Zosia whispered into Adam’s ear. “If I hear one more stupid joke about—”

  “Calm down, sweetheart. Smile. We’ll be through soon enough,” Adam said,smiling into the crowd of partygoers, his head tilted ever so slightly toward Zosia.

  Zosia sipped her drink and scanned the crowd milling around the large hall with its marble columns and period furniture set discreetly against the walls. Huge heroic works of art filled one wall entirely; another was taken up by the floor-to-ceiling windows hung with heavy velvet drapes. Servants scurried around offering drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Women chatted in gowns that glittered, men smoked pensively wearing uniforms and ceremonial swords. Zosia herself was clad in an emerald green, formfitting, off-the-shoulder dress that bespoke wealth and power sufficient to allow her to stand out in a crowd. “Poor Ryszard. I don’t know how he does this year in and year out!” she whispered gloomily.

  “Neither do I,” Adam agreed. “But we’ve done really good work. I swear everyone in Berlin is now my great good friend and everyone knows about my father’s naval career, my mother’s wealth, and my lifelong friendship with your brother.”

  “Just don’t overdo it,” Zosia advised.

  Adam laughed and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Ninety percent of the histories told here are false. Why should mine be any different? Naw, Wanda’s consulted extensively with Ryszard, and she and I discussed this ad nauseam. The only important thing is for them to know he’s connected and he existed long before his sudden appearance in Krakau twenty years ago. All the rest is window dressing.”

  Zosia nodded. She felt somewhat left out by her brother’s working through Adam, but that was typical. Ryszard had been immersed in the male-dominated, hierarchical Nazi culture for so long, it was second nature to him and he had probably not meant to slight his sister. His little sister. Their age differences were such that he would probably never take her seriously. Doubtless that had a part in it as well.

  Zosia threw a tiny kiss in Adam’s direction. “I’m going to wander.”

  “Good idea, we’re not here to talk to each other, after all.”

  She walked over to a servant holding a tray of champagne, deposited her glass, picked up a new one, then looked around for someone to talk to. She decided to make her way toward a collection of older-looking men in uniforms. As she approached, she expected a slight parting of the group, but their shoulders stayed determinedly close together, and at the last minute Zosia veered away to save herself embarrassment. She ended up in a group of women discussing local affairs.

  “. . . but the new government store will have all that!” one was enthusing.

  “I like the local shops. They’re Gemütlich. These huge stores, they’re horrible,” another said, shuddering in response.

  �
�They destroy the fabric of our culture. The government should not allow them!”

  “But it is nice to get imported items. You can’t get those in the local stores.”

  “What, in heaven’s name, do we need imports for? We produce what we need here!”

  “What about fresh fruit in winter?” Zosia suggested. “From the south?”

  “Our grandmothers made do without fancy fruits from Lebanon!”

  The conversation dragged on. Zosia perceived the pecking order of the husbands’ jobs or wealth by virtue of each woman’s willingness to bully her companions. Though relatively young for the group, Zosia decided that she would insert herself quite high into that hierarchy and aggressively debated every point that came up.

  Eventually one of the ladies was sufficiently annoyed to turn to her and ask, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve ever met!”

  Zosia drew herself up and haughtily announced her own and her husband’s name. She threw in a terse biography, emphasizing important names with such vigor that all the ladies nodded their familiarity, though each and every one of them was a complete invention. Then, when she was convinced they were all sufficiently impressed, so much so that none dared admit her own ignorance, Zosia casually threw in her brother’s alias. One or two of the women seemed to genuinely recognize Ryszard’s name, and they smiled with their knowledge of being comfortably close to power.

  “But you are new to Berlin?” one of the more confident women asked.

  “Yes, I’m used to sunnier climes,” Zosia hinted. “My husband is here temporarily, working with . . . Oh, I guess I’m not supposed to say.”

  The confident woman was understanding and tactfully ignored the faux pas. “How do you find our fair city?”

  “The air stinks,” Zosia declared undiplomatically.

  “Where do you live?” one of the ladies asked sympathetically.

  “Schönwalde. Supposed to be a favorite with Party members, but I think the name is misleading!”