55
“YOU WILL NOT SEE that tramp again!” Elspeth screeched.
“Just try and stop me,” Horst yelled in response. He was dressed to impress a girl. That meant that, despite the June warmth, he was clad in his usual tight black leather pants, high black leather boots with decorative metallic clasps along the side, and a matching leather jacket. The jacket had a bit of leather fringe at the shoulders, and this made it not only magnificently stylish, but also one of the pieces of Horst’s clothing that Karl loathed the most. He opined frequently that in his day only queers would wear something like that, and they inevitably met with an unhappy and well-deserved fate. Perhaps that explained why, even on a warm night, Horst wore the jacket.
“While you live in my house, you will obey my rules!”
“I’ll live at the academy, then.” Horst headed toward the door, but Elspeth blocked his way.
“She’s unsuitable!”
“She’s pure Aryan. They have the documents.”
“Those mean nothing! She’s a round-faced peasant. She should be out there tilling the soil,” Elspeth spat.
“We are all the Führer’s children,” Horst stated calmly. “And working the land is a noble calling.”
Elspeth snorted. “I’m going to get your father to talk to you.” She turned to Peter.“Make sure he stays here.”
Peter watched numbly as Elspeth disappeared into Karl’s study. Horst smirked at Peter, turned on his heel, and left the house.
Elspeth was furious with Peter when they returned to find Horst already gone, but Karl shrugged and said, “What did you expect?” Then, turning to Peter, he said, “Whatever he said, I know he’ll be back. Make sure you’re up to let him in and see to his needs.”
The two of them retired long before Horst returned. Peter sat up and waited. His old habit had been to sit on the floor in the hallway and sleep with his head cradled in his arms, but now he found he could not fall asleep, so he passed the time staring sullenly at the wall opposite, looking for secrets in the pattern of faint bloodstains that were just barely visible.
Horst returned in the predawn hours, drunk as usual. When Peter greeted him, he did not come in, but stood framed in the doorway, grasping the doorjamb with his right hand for support, a nearly full bottle of Korn in his left. Theorange streetlights cast a surreal glow on the night mist, forming an unearthly halo behind his blond hair. He swayed slightly, then drawled, “You. Again.”
Peter stepped back to try to encourage him to enter.
“You. You, you, you . . . ,” Horst sang. He screwed up his face in an effort to focus his vision. “Only you ever stay up to greet me. Why’s that?”
Peter saw no point in answering.
Horst continued with slurred emphasis, “Do you think it’s because no one else cares? Do you? Or do you think it’s because they have better things to do? Huh?” His voice suddenly hardened. “Answer me! You”—he paused trying to settle on an appropriate epithet—“subhuman,” he concluded rather lamely.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, mein Herr!” Horst pronounced with exaggerated precision.
“I don’t know, mein Herr.”
“Of course you don’t. You don’t know anything. You’re too stupid to live! You’re, uh . . . oh, hell, well, at least you’re here when, uh . . .” Horst stumbled over his thoughts, hiccuped loudly. Suddenly an idea crystallized and he asked with surprising clarity, “Why do you bother to stay alive?”
Peter had yet to answer that question for himself and had given up trying. Inertia. Perhaps that was the most honest answer. “The alternative is illegal,” he finally answered, in jest.
Horst furrowed his brow and stared at him, trying to determine what that meant.
“Destruction of State property,” Peter explained. “I’d get the death penalty for suicide.”
Horst burped noisily. “Oh, yeah. I guess you would,” he said, apparently serious. With that question logically settled, he stumbled inside.
Peter shut the door and started to walk away.
“Come back here, you shit! I’m talking to you.” Horst sounded desperately intense. He leaned against the wall, decided that he was more comfortable on the floor, so he slid down into a sitting position. “Come here. I take it back. Come sit down here. You’re my friend. Honest. It doesn’t matter that you’re not an Untermensch —I mean, are an Untermensch , I don’t care. Come on, boy.” He whistled and motioned as though he were calling a dog. “Come on, sit!”
Peter chose the path of least resistance and sat down by Horst on the floor in the darkness of the hallway. He stared ahead, readjusting his sight to the dim shadows as Horst took another gulp from the bottle. There was a long silence and he wondered if Horst had fallen asleep.
“She left me.” The bald statement emanating from the gray silhouette surprised Peter. He turned to look at Horst. “She left me, because she knew they didn’t like her. Thought she wasn’t good enough. Said she didn’t want all the trouble it would involve.” Suddenly, Horst turned toward Peter, grabbed him, pulled him close. “She didn’t care what I thought! The bitch!” Horst’s breath reeked of drink. “I’ll be an officer soon. My own man, but she couldn’t wait. Shit,I hate them all.” He released his grip, threw his head back, hit the wall. “Ow! Shit.”
Peter was hardly listening; he was weary and wanted to leave. There were a few moments of silence; he hoped that Horst had finally collapsed. Suddenly Horst said quite loudly, “How can anyone exist like this? Day in and day out, like a robot. I mean like you, not like me. Like you. Not me, not me.”
“Is there an alternative I’ve overlooked?”
Horst ignored him. “Do you even know what it’s like to be drunk? Go on,” he goaded, “have a drink—act like a real man!”
Without knowing exactly why, Peter reached over and gently removed the bottle from Horst’s grasp. It was a lot of whiskey for someone as debilitated as he, but that did not matter. He raised the bottle to his lips and slowly, deliberately, drank it down.
Horst only slowly grasped what he was doing. When he saw the empty bottle, his mouth dropped open in astonishment and he stammered, “You—you bastard! You drank it all! You drank all my Schnaps!”
Already Peter could feel the effects of the alcohol. He stood up, gripped Horst’s jacket and dragged him to his feet. “Come on, boy, it’s time you were in bed.”
Horst’s mouth worked up and down, but no sound emerged. Finally he managed to blurt, “How dare you!” but by then he was already being steered toward his bedroom.
After Peter had seen Horst into his room and taken care of the rudiments of undressing him, he climbed up to the attic and collapsed on his bed of rags. The drink made him feel warm and comfortable; thoughts that had eluded him emerged with stunning clarity. His mind was ablaze with emotions and memories and plans. They all jumbled together, competing for attention. It was as if a shade had been lifted and bright sunlight streamed into the gloom of his mind dazzling him with a sudden ability to perceive. It was, he realized, the first time he had felt alive in months.
As the room revolved with ideas around him, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. And overslept. He awoke with a start. Elspeth was leaning over him; he had a suspicion she had just kicked him. “What are you doing here? You should be out, it’s late!”
“Uh” was all he could manage in reply. He realized his head ached horribly and he felt like vomiting. His mouth was parched, his tongue coated with fur. He grasped at the floor to stop the sickening revolution of the walls: around about halfway, then magically back to the beginning. Right to left and back, right to left and back. He squeezed his eyes shut, wished the effect away, but even the blankness under his lids revolved. He felt like death, wanted to curl up and vanish, wished Elspeth would leave him alone, but most of all, deep inside, he was elated that he felt anything at all.
“Get up.” She kicked him again. He rolled over in response and climbed to hisfeet. He belched and
a hot brew of stomach acids burned his throat. He swallowed the foul concoction, struggling to control his urge to throw up. He needed water, and maybe some food in his stomach.
“You reek of booze. What have you been up to?”
He shook his head in response. Nothing, absolutely nothing. If only the damn floor would stop moving! After several deep breaths, he informed her, “Horst came in very late last night. I . . .” He let his voice trail off. He simply could not think fast enough in this condition to come up with the rest of his excuse. He left it to her imagination to fill in the details.
Surprisingly, she had no trouble. “I see. All right, hurry downstairs. You’ve got a lot to do.”
He stood still, concentrating on his balance as he watched her go. What did she see?
As he came down the steps, thoughts tumbled through his head. He noticed that, other than for an appalling and self-inflicted hangover, he was essentially healthy. Karl hadn’t laid a finger on him in weeks, since before Frau Reusch had apologized. Frau Reusch had apologized? She had, she had apologized! And the neighbor, the one who had taught him about gardening, the neighbor had saved him! Taking such a risk, coming over to the fence like that to distract his powerful neighbor from his frenzied anger! Elspeth, too, had been almost understanding. She had simply ignored his drunkenness. And Roman told him repeatedly that his friends missed him. He should return to them. He could reorganize his school, he could keep alert and watch for a good opportunity to escape, he had survived his deadly mistake of getting caught talking with Ulrike. He had survived!
Before he reached the kitchen, the doorbell rang. He did up the buttons of his shirt and rolled down his sleeves as he hurried to answer the door. It was a telegram. Elspeth had also rushed out, and when she saw the telegram, she snatched it from the delivery boy’s hands, read it several times, and then crumpled it. Disappointed by her reaction, the boy left and Peter shut the door. Elspeth held the crumpled paper in her fist and stared silently at the door for several moments.
Finally he asked, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” but she ignored him. She dropped the telegram on the floor and wordlessly went into the sitting room, shutting the door behind her.
It was, no doubt, a capital offense; nevertheless, he picked the telegram up and read it. Uwe, their eldest son, had been injured by a terrorist bomb. There were severe injuries to the lower half of his body. He had lost one leg and might well lose the other. He was recuperating in the hospital and would soon be transferred home. The family should make preparations to receive him and care for him.
Peter snorted: so much for loyalty! The hospitals were overcrowded and caringfor an injured man was expensive, so under humanitarian pretenses, he was being released into his family’s care far earlier than he should be.
He replaced the telegram on the floor, at a loss for what to do next. Although she had said nothing after reading it, Elspeth was unquestionably distraught. He imagined her holding Uwe as a baby. Imagined her rocking him to sleep, singing a lullaby. He imagined her concern when he was sick, her pride as she presented the baby to her friends and relatives. Had she imagined then the unceasing violence, even in their lives? For reasons he did not fully understand, he felt an urge to speak to her.
With absolutely no pretext, he knocked lightly on the sitting room door and entered unbidden. Elspeth was by the window, her back to him. She stared idly into space, rocking gently back and forth, as though in a trance. He remembered a scene from his distant past—a mother, carrying a young child who had been injured in a shoot-out between some squatters in a cellar and the police. She had hugged the child so tightly, crooned comforting words to it, as tears had streamed down her cheeks. Then as now, he had wondered, where did it all go so wrong?
“What do you want?” she finally acknowledged him, her voice devoid of emotion.
Suddenly his presumptuousness seemed foolish. Nevertheless, he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder and said, “I just wanted to tell you, I’m sorry about your son.”
She whirled around to face him; he expected her anger, was not surprised by her indignation. After all, what did he know? How could he understand! It was his sort who were responsible! How dare he touch her! He flinched expecting her to hit him, but instead she stunned him by throwing her arms around his neck and burying her head in his chest, crying, “My boy, my little boy!”
Nervously, he put his arm around her and held her as she sobbed. She continued to press herself against him, and he felt the warmth of her body as he stroked her back and soothed, “I’m sorry,” over and over.
Eventually, she pulled herself together and pulled away from him. “Get me a cup of tea,” she said softly.
By the time he returned, she had composed herself. “You had no business reading that telegram,” she stated coldly.
“I know,” he replied just as coldly. He poured the tea and left her alone with her thoughts. They would both act as though it had never happened.
56
“ISEE NO REASON you can’t join the class. Our next meeting . . .” Adam interrupted himself as he saw a sudden change of expression in the boy’s face that sent alarm bells ringing inside his head. Casually, he stood to leave the cafó, making a quick excuse as he did so, but before he could even turn, he felt someone approach and the muzzle of a gun was pressed into his back.
“Herr Teacher, don’t move,” the one with the gun said.
“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered. “They have my brother.”
“I’m not a teacher,” Adam said. “You have the wrong man.”
“You’re under arrest,” the voice behind Adam said.
Adam dropped his head slightly so he could see a bit behind him. There were at least three of them. One with the gun in his back and one on either side of him, out of reach. “I said, I’m not a teacher. Look at my papers, you’ll see, I work in the textile mill.”
The one holding the gun laughed and jammed it into his back. “I’m sure you do, and in the evening you meet with your little group of traitors and spread your lies in your swinish language. Now, come with us.”
Adam went with them and was led to a car. He was seated in the back, with a policeman on either side. His fingers picked worriedly at a bit of loose thread in the fabric of the car seat as his mind worked feverishly trying to weigh up his situation. No handcuffs, that was a good sign. They seemed to believe his cover story; that was also probably good. So far it looked like a simple betrayal of a teacher by a student. That meant, of course, that they would not know he could be ransomed and so they might be careless with him; on the other hand, they were unlikely to ask dangerous questions. If they did not realize how much he knew, they could not tear the information out of him. Better safe than sorry, he decided, he would hold with the cover story as long as it lasted and hope that the Szaflary team could locate and rescue him without his tipping them off.
“What’s the matter, teacher? You look worried,” one of his guards taunted.
“I’m not a teacher.”
“It’s a capital offense, you know, teaching unauthorized classes.”
“I realize that. I’m not a teacher, though.”
The guard on the other side of him snickered. “I bet you’ll admit it soon enough.” He boxed Adam lightly on the face. “They all do.”
Adam nodded. He felt sick to his stomach.
In the police station his papers were inspected and he was searched.
“You didn’t take this off him right away?” the burly sergeant asked, holding up the workman’s knife he had found in Adam’s pocket.
One of his guards shrugged and said,“No big deal.”
They took his shoes and his belt and led him to a cell that had three cement walls and a fourth wall composed entirely of bars. The old village lockup for drunks. Adam sat on the cot and rested his head on his hands. So far so good. They did not suspect the cover story; he had been appropriately dressed and unarmed; they had treated him with a minimal courtesy. He wondered
how long it would take Szaflary to notice his absence. Maybe he could talk his way out of the whole situation before that; after all, they apparently had only the word of one scared boy. Maybe, too, he could get a quick conviction and get his sentence commuted to a concentration camp. There he could hold out for quite a while until an escape was organized.
He rubbed his chin and thought what his textile worker would do. Deny it,deny it all. Besides, a conviction would mean a confession, and that would mean they would want the names of students. It was information that he did not have and could not give them. His students were vetted and registered by people he never met; at the last he gave his final personal approval and admitted each into his class by telling them where and when the next meeting would take place. He had no names, no addresses; all he had were code numbers and the nicknames that he himself assigned to his students. The true names of his students were registered, along with their code numbers, with the government in exile in the free city of Manhattan, thousands of miles away, safely out of the Reich’s reach. That’s where the information about their scores was sent, that’s where their records and degrees were kept. At the end of the course, he left their grades at a dead drop, where he did not even meet the courier; after that, all the students kept was an anonymous certificate, a somewhat innocuous document that they could use as temporary proof of their education. He kept nothing at all.
He stood and went to the small window and looked out at the faint image of the stars against the bright night sky. Joanna would be looking at the same stars. He smiled and thought how he would tell her all about the bad men who had stopped him from coming home on time. Maybe there would be an exciting escape or some clever trickery in the story. She would clap her hands anytime something went right; her face would freeze with fear anytime he mentioned danger. Later, years later, he would repeat the story to her children, embellishing a bit here and there to make it more exciting, drawing out his words as he explained who these people were who had long ago been thrown out of their land and why they were so evil. Then he would take his grandchildren out for a walk into the peaceful night; they would climb a hill together, without passes, without papers, without inspections. There on the hilltop he would point out the stars and explain how he had looked at them through a tiny prison cell window, and how he had known then that everything would come out all right.
The Children's War Page 47