The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

Surprisingly, the walk in the frosty air made him feel somewhat better, and despite his misgivings, nothing untoward happened. In fact, other than feeling somewhat feverish, he felt essentially recovered from the unpleasantness earlier in the week. When he thought about it, from the perspective of a few days, hehad gotten off rather lightly. He had known when he had started talking to Ulrike that it was a major gamble, and he had screwed up and allowed himself to be caught. Karl could easily have taken it much further, but, if he remembered correctly, Elspeth had restrained him. Now that it was over with, now that most of his injuries had healed, now perhaps, things could settle back to normal and he could put his life back together.

  After breakfast, the family rushed around putting the finishing touches on their Sunday finery. Elspeth wore the new shoes she had bought the day before, and even Ulrike was a bit less subdued. They departed for their rally-cumreligious-service in good spirits. After quickly cleaning up the mess they had left, Peter used the opportunity to pick the lock on the pantry and sort through the food.

  After eating, he secreted the remaining items he had stolen in the attic, gathered his extra clothes and bedding, and threw everything into the washing machine. He had never asked Elspeth if this was permitted—he suspected it was not; so, he chose to remain in ignorance and only use the machine when everyone was away. He watched the water as it swirled around and rolled in the large tub. After a few minutes he drained the soapy water while pulling each item out and pushing it through the wringer into the tub of rinse water on the other side. He swished the clothes around a bit then drained the rinse water, enjoying the brief dance of the soap bubbles in the eddies as it swirled down the drain.

  Such an extravagant use of water! But it was normal here in their wealthy suburb—the supply never gave out, never gave forth that pathetic spurt of rusty sludge that was so familiar in his youth. Back then, the kids liked to drink the sludge and, on a dare, would down an entire glass. It tasted metallic and they named it tomato juice or orange juice depending on the color. Most of them had never tasted such exotica, but their imaginations allowed them to believe they were drinking the intriguing red or orange liquids they saw served in German establishments.

  The sludge was the precursor to no water at all. Sometimes it lasted minutes, sometimes days, but it always happened at the most awkward times. He remembered how his father would howl with dismay and rage whenever the water would quit on the occasions he chose to shower. Better to bathe—then the supply was guaranteed for the duration and the water could be reused, his mother would remind his father each and every time. And each and every time his father would point out that the flat had been supplied with a shower not a tub, and that the tub that they had, stored above the kitchen cupboard, was uncomfortably small for a fully grown man. So his father showered. His brother, Erich, had shown him how to break into the cellar and turn off the water, thus manufacturing a water shortage for the entire building. They did it just to hear their father bellow—like a wounded water buffalo—or so they imagined, water buffalo being fairly uncommon in the streets of London. He or his brother would clamber into the cellar to turn off the supply, and the other would wait outsidethe door of their flat for the inevitable audio extravaganza. Still giggling, they would turn the water back on within a few minutes so nobody would detect their joke.

  On the occasions of genuine shortages, he and Erich, along with all the other children, made the numerous runs, up and down the steps, back and forth along the street, to the firehouse to pick up buckets of water for the evening’s activities. They used it for cleaning dishes and bathing. His mother took the unusual step of actually purchasing drinking water—especially in the summer months. Most people did not do that, they would simply boil the water from their buckets. Of course, if the natural gas supply was low or out on those days, there was a problem, and they would drink up whatever preboiled supply they had and then take their chances with the unboiled stuff. Most of the residents also kept water standing in their flats and collected it in vats on the roof, but the main effect of these was that the roof was an excellent breeding ground for mosquitoes and disease since no one bothered to clean their vats out frequently enough. Between the roof vats of standing rainwater and the irregular garbage collection, the English sections of London became deservedly known as foul-smelling, disease-ridden, and thoroughly disorderly. Not unlike the English themselves, his schoolmates had been fond of telling him.

  As the rinse water drained away, he put the laundry through the wringer a second time to squeeze out the excess water, then grabbed the resultant sodden mass and took it to the attic to hang it out to dry. It was cold and damp and he doubted the laundry would dry by nightfall, but he had little other option— there was no place by the furnace where he could spread it. In any case, he did not need the extra set of clothes immediately, so they could hang for a day or two. As for the bedding, he would either do without it for the night or sleep with damp covers.

  The next thing he did, he knew, was strictly forbidden, and that was to use the family’s bathroom to bathe with hot water and good soap. He gingerly washed the remainder of the dried blood from his hair, then thoroughly rinsed away any lingering scent of the soap—not that they would notice with all the perfumes they used. He trimmed his hair using good scissors, then shaved with a sharp razor, carefully cleaning the blade and placing it back into the packet when he was done. After that he washed and dried all the surfaces so no one could tell the room had been used. With that done, he returned to the sitting room, and using one of the couch pillows to cushion his head and a blanket to cover himself, he lay down on the sitting room rug to sleep. That, too, would of course be forbidden if they knew he did it. The thought did not disturb him at all, and within seconds he was sound asleep.

  Initially, he had taken his naps on the sofa, avoiding the bedrooms so he could stay near the door and hear them if they came home early, but after he had worked on the armchair, he had taken to napping on the floor rather than have his brief sleep disturbed by the death screams of women—their heads shaven—as they asphyxiated in poison-gas chambers labeled as showers. He knew it was superstitious nonsense: the inanimate furniture was no more a part of the crimes committed decades ago than the land upon which the blood had been spilled. The criminals themselves had walked freely, lived richly, run an empire with brutal efficiency, promulgated racial laws, and been received as civilized representatives of their regime. They had been and still were beyond his reach, and whatever had happened, he could not undo it. In comparison to the enormity of the suffering the furniture represented to him now, his simple gesture of mournful respect seemed pathetic and pointless, but it was all he could do, so he did it nonetheless.

  When he awoke, he checked the time—about twenty minutes yet. No point even thinking about going out. In theory, he could use the time to get a start on the day’s work, but he had never actually done that: there really was no point since they always manufactured more. Sometimes he used the brief respite from the family to read, but aside from his lacking the time, there was not much of interest in the house. He considered for a moment perusing the week’s newspapers to see if he could sift any news out from between all the self-congratulatory nonsense, but decided he was too tired and his eyes ached. No, better to return to sleeping and get some much needed rest—especially if he wanted to finally put that horrible night behind him.

  The thought brought him up short. In a disarming feat of denial he had up to that moment managed to entirely forget Karl’s words that night as Elspeth had at long last placed a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “All right,” Karl had agreed, “I’ll finish with him on Sunday.” Sunday, the day when household and family matters were dealt with. Sunday, a day that was infinitely in the future back then. Sunday. Today. The idea dismayed him, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was to dismiss the vague memory. The anger of that night would not be enough to sate Karl’s need for revenge or justice or whatever he wanted to call it.
There was still a price to be paid.

  He debated for a few minutes what he should possibly do. His eyes strayed to the door. The time to leave would be now, before they returned. He could don one of Karl’s suits, steal a car, and take his chances on the road. How long would he last? Without papers, maybe an hour or two. Arrested, convicted a third time. He shuddered at the prospect. Perhaps walking. It would be easier to avoid having his papers checked that way. Maybe a day or two. Then what? He realized he was trembling, and he pointedly turned his attention away from the door.

  His options seemed rather limited, and he realized that, short of a suicidal escape attempt, there was nothing to be done. Nothing but wait. It made him laugh a bit as he realized that his entire defense system had collapsed to simply hoping for the best, and he rubbed his temples and marveled at the pathetic creature he had become.

  When it was nearly time for the family to return, he went and sat on the floorin the hallway by the door waiting to hear their footsteps. When he heard them approaching, he got up to open the door and take their coats and help them settle in. After he had served them their lunch, the family gathered, as usual, in the sitting room to handle the week’s affairs. When called, he came in from the kitchen, sleeves still rolled up from cleaning dishes, and took his assigned place. It was clear the children had not yet been dealt with—the week’s events had obviously disrupted the routine. They sat in their usual places, their faces taut with anticipation; Ulrike was pale, her jaw clenched. They all looked miserable; even Elspeth, taking her place in the armchair, looked somewhat unhappy and pensive, as if she had disagreed with Karl about something. Only Karl was oblivious to the unpleasant mood; he stood up and moved into the center of the room, relishing his powerful position.

  “So, we’re all together now,” he announced uselessly. “I think you all realize that this week has been somewhat unusual due to, uh, certain circumstances.” He threw a scripted look at Ulrike, who, in response, lowered her eyes, as would be expected. “Now, as for you, little ones,” he continued, looking at the three youngest, “you’ve been very good this week. Our beloved Adolf would have been proud of you. You can go outside and play now.” He nodded in response to the unspoken question in their surprised faces. He winked at the two youngest as they tumbled with astonished relief out of the room and smiled benevolently after them. Teresa stood up slowly from her seat, gave her parents an odd look, and then left without saying a word. Karl then turned toward Horst and assumed a businesslike manner. “You, too.” He nodded toward the door.

  “But, Father!” Horst protested.

  “No, Horst, it’s not your business.”

  “It is, too! I should know what goes on in this family!”

  “Horst,” Elspeth interjected softly, “go.”

  Horst whirled around, wanting to stare her down, but her determination was evident. He glowered at his parents for a moment, then stomped angrily out of the room.

  “That boy certainly has a well-developed sense of Schadenfreude,” Elspeth muttered.

  Karl nodded, then shifted his gaze to Ulrike. She sat alone on the sofa, looking for all the world as if she wanted to disappear. Her whole body was pulled in as if she could achieve this goal if only she made herself small enough. She did not look at her father, so he said, “Ulrike,” to get her to look up.

  She did, frightened.

  “Ulrike, child, I don’t think you understand yet what dangers you’ve been playing with.” Karl looked at Elspeth, then back to Ulrike. “We feel responsible for that. We haven’t been careful enough. When we brought him into this household, we should have made it clear to each and every one of you how important it was to maintain our separateness. We are naturally superior, but even superior folk can be corrupted. Don’t you know what his people are guilty of? Rassenmischung! Decadence! Corruption! Weakness! Betrayal! They are Volksverräter! Not to be trusted! They are a sick people!”

  That last comment caught Peter’s attention, and he stifled a sputter of derision, desperately turning it into a cough. Karl was not deceived and whirled around to confront him, almost shouting at him, “And they are evil!”

  If there had been a chance for mercy, Peter knew he had lost it then.

  “Evil,” Karl repeated, bringing himself under control. “Evil. But they’ll be around to do our work for us, and we must learn how to control them and maintain our own high standards. We are superior and stronger in every way, and once you realize that, it’ll be easy for you to learn to keep them in their proper place.” Karl stopped and let his words sink in. Then he turned toward Peter and hissed, “And as for you, even with your limited abilities, you should have known better. Spreading your poison in my family. Endangering not only yourself, but all of us! Are you so stupid you don’t even understand selfpreservation?”

  “Papa,” Ulrike begged to be heard, “it was my fault, I asked him.”

  “Nonsense!” Karl spat. “There is the weakness,” he said, pointing at Peter, “and you must learn to command it! You must learn not to trust them, not to view them as human, not to let slip your position in society! That is your responsibility as an Übermensch! Do you understand?”

  Ulrike nodded unconvincingly.

  “Now I will show you how to be a strong, true Aryan!” Karl said, then he turned away from her and, grabbing Peter’s arm, thrust him toward the door, ordering, “Move!”

  “Karl,” Elspeth finally found her voice, “do you think it’s really necessary?”

  “She must see.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Elspeth said. “It’s just that . . . You already, on Tuesday, you know . . .”

  “We’ve already spoken about this. My anger on Tuesday was just that. This is . . .” Karl eyed Peter. “This is necessary, if we want to prevent such things from ever happening again. There is no place in this household for ingrates and malcontents. He must learn!”

  Peter’s limbs grew heavy with dread. Was survival really worth so much? He eyed the front door again. He could just walk away from it all. Just walk out the door. It wouldn’t take long after that. It would be so easy! It would all be over. To give up, after all this time, after all he had endured. To give up any hope of freedom, to give up his life, to just give up.

  Karl pushed him. Making his decision, Peter went in the direction he was shoved, down the hall toward the kitchen and away from the door. Ulrike got up and reluctantly followed them out of the room, leaving Elspeth sitting alone in her armchair, stroking her chin thoughtfully.“More work for me,” she said to the empty room. “I’ll have to do everything myself today. Does he ever think about that?”

  Karl crossed the kitchen to the cellar door, pushing Peter through it, with an impatient “Go on.” Once the three of them were in the cellar, Karl ordered Peter to remove his shirt. As Peter complied, Karl wandered off to the storage cupboard and sorted through the electric cables and wires, eventually selecting one with a grunt of satisfaction.

  Ulrike remained close by the stairs as if ready to flee at any instant. When she realized what her father was doing, she looked to Peter, panic in her expression, but he did not see her, he was watching Karl. His expression betrayed no emotion. He looked so calm, Ulrike wondered if he felt things the same way they did.

  Peter’s dispassion hid a tumult of emotions: fear, outrage, a ridiculous sense of guilt, but most of all he was trying to determine how much danger he was in and weigh his options accordingly. Karl’s care in selecting his weapon was reassuring. Both of them were experienced, in their different ways, in torture, and he saw that Karl had selected as his whip a cable which would cause more pain than injury. A moment later, though, a sudden chill ran down his spine as he saw Karl unlock his tool cabinet and remove a pair of handcuffs. Handcuffs? The muscles of his face twitched as he continued to scrutinize Karl’s every move.

  As Karl stood in front of him, grabbing Peter’s left arm to affix the manacles, he came to a decision and forced himself to say, “Please, mein Herr.”
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  Karl closed the metal ring around Peter’s wrist and looked up with mild interest.

  “Mein Herr, I beg you to forgive me. It was a mistake, I understand now,” Peter pleaded. Struggling to master his expression, he forced himself to look contrite and continued, “Please believe me. I won’t do anything like that again. Please, I am slow and stupid and undeserving of your mercy, but I have learned. Please, this isn’t necessary. I have learned. Please don’t hurt me. Please have mercy on me.”

  Karl looked him up and down meaningfully, then answered, “I am being merciful, and one day you may understand that this is for your own good.”

  Peter realized that he had made a mistake by not going down on his knees, but it was too late. Karl turned away, pulling him by his bound wrist like a dog on a leash. They came to a stop, and Peter looked up to see a sturdy pipe running along the ceiling and attached to an overhead beam with two closely spaced supports. He stared at the thick pipe and the solid bracing and knew that it would, without a doubt, hold his full weight. He was still marveling at how Karl had walked right to the spot, as if it had been preselected, as his left arm was pulled upward and the loose ring of the handcuffs was threaded through the gap between the pipe and the ceiling. Then he remembered the rumors of a previous Zwangsarbeiter, one who had died suddenly. A sick feeling came over him as Karl grabbed his right wrist and shackled that. Had he made a deadly mistake? An uncontrollable instinct caused him to jerk his arms violently downward against the hard metal of the handcuffs, as if trying to free himself. The sharp edges of the rings bit painfully into his skin, and a trickle of blood traced a crooked path down his arm. He heard Karl snicker at his useless effort.

  “Mein Herr, please. Please don’t—”

  “Shut up!” Karl snarled.“Not one more word, or I will kill you! Understood?”

  Peter nodded mutely and stood there trapped with his arms not quite fully extended above his head. Karl walked away from him, but he dared not look to see what was going on. He tried to prepare himself for the inevitable, but there did not seem to be much he could do. He looked up at his bound wrists, then dropped his head to stare grimly at the floor as he waited.