The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “So, this is all from when you were a child?” Zosia asked as if to prove she was far too old to learn.

  “No, not at all. Most of what I know is from when I worked in a restaurant kitchen. Later, in the labor camp, I was occasionally assigned as kitchen staff in restaurants or industrial cafeterias. Then Frau Reusch taught me some things, and even Frau Vogel wasn’t that bad at cooking. She said her mother had never taught her anything since they always had servants, but she learned a bit from a Polish woman who worked for them.”

  “A Polish woman?”

  “Yeah, she was temporary. Came in a few years after Gisela was born and left a month or so before I came. I guess before that they had some man.”

  Zosia made a face and Peter thought it was in response to the implication ofwhat that woman must have had to endure, but she dispelled that thought by saying, “She should have never cooperated! The traitor!”

  “Zosia! All she did was cook! Don’t be so judgmental!”

  “My goodness, aren’t we touchy!”

  “That’s because I cooperated,” he muttered.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “By your definition, I did. And,” he added, thinking of Maria, “I didn’t even have the excuse that I was raised from childhood as a slave.”

  “That was different. What you did was different.”

  “No, it wasn’t. We do what we must to survive.”

  “Offering recipes is more than surviving; it’s collaboration!”

  “Well, as long as there is no other option, we need to live as well.” His own uneasy guilt mixed in with thoughts of how Frau Vogel had sobbed on his shoulder after the telegram about Uwe, about how sometimes they would discuss the best way to work the garden, or how he had felt when Teresa had given him the Winterfest present. It was clear that if he had been more cooperative, or had cooperated earlier, his life could have been a lot better. He thought of Maria, too: she had been determined to live as happily as possible, to have needs that could be fulfilled, and to ignore those that could not. Was it so evil? Could anyone so helpless and alone really be a traitor?

  Zosia was shaking her head. “Cooperation of any sort just enables the Reich to continue. It legitimizes it!”

  “I’m not so sure. We failed to defend our liberty adequately during the war, and revolution seems unlikely now. Perhaps we can change the system from within. Perhaps evolution is the way out.”

  “Failed to defend? Failed to defend! We fought like hell! We kept our side of the bargain—rejected Hitler’s unholy alliance, took the brunt of the first attack, but you, you French and English sat on your hands! Don’t arm, you said, don’t provoke the psychopaths! Just hold out two weeks, you said, two weeks! Ha!”

  Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t even born then, Zosia.”

  “But you talk about us not defending liberty! What was it called then? The ‘phony war’? While they were murdering us here, you laughed about this socalled Sitzkrieg! Hitler’s troops from the west, Stalin’s from the east! We were being slaughtered and you did nothing! Nothing when it would have made a difference to do something! When they were weak and vulnerable, you sat there!”

  “I wasn’t even born then,” he repeated quietly. He had heard the excuses and explanations of those who were alive then, but he did not repeat them for her.

  “So now you think we can sit it out. That the way out is evolution! They’re trying to exterminate us! You can wait for the system to evolve, you English ”—she somehow imbued the word with as much tone of betrayal as any German had ever managed—“but if we wait, we’ll all be dead! No, no, that’s not the way—she should never have aided the enemy in any way!”

  He did not appreciate the way his simple suggestion had been exploited toattack his entire nation, but decided not to argue it further. It had been, after all, a rather insensitive remark given all that had happened and was still happening around them. Still, he felt a kinship with Frau Vogel’s previous servant. He understood that she had only wanted to live her life for whatever it was worth. He felt a need to justify both the woman and himself to Zosia and said somewhat deadpan, “I really don’t think handing out a recipe is aiding the enemy.”

  Zosia looked at him as though reevaluating him in light of that comment. He felt discomfited by her stare and so he added, “It’s easy to be unforgiving about things one has never encountered personally. Perhaps if you people offered us an out, then you could judge us.”

  “Who do you mean by us?” “Us. Me and that woman.”

  “I’m not judging you.”

  “Yes, you are.” Or was he simply judging himself and blaming her? “Well, what are we supposed to do? We’re fighting for our lives! Do you mean we don’t do enough?”

  “I mean for all your activities, I never once heard of something like an underground railroad to free forced labor. You didn’t even free Tadek’s wife, did you?”

  “You know I didn’t agree with that decision.” She did, though, understand the logic: if they had not only let Tadek live, but had taken the risk of trying to free his wife as well, they would have opened themselves up to a deluge of refugees and requests.

  “So, once they take someone, that’s it, isn’t it?”

  “What are we supposed to do?” she asked, clearly angered. “We can’t feed and house everyone!”

  “How about smuggling them out to America? Or somewhere else?”

  “Do you have any idea what that would involve? And do you realize how few countries are willing to accept refugees? Just try and get into America! For all their big words about freedom, they’ll throw you right back out if you show up destitute at their border!”

  “I’m not judging you; I know what you’re up against. I know you can’t go saving-every poor fool like me who ends up in their hands; though I do think you could be a bit more willing to accept those of us who do make it out on our own.” He said this without bitterness, but he had not forgotten the humiliating experience of having to defend his life to the Council. Though they were ignoring it, it was the anniversary of that as well.

  Zosia frowned slightly but said nothing.

  He continued, “But still, I’m not judging you, and I don’t expect you to judge me either. I’m not proud of everything I did, but I know it kept me alive and sane. If you aren’t there to offer help, then don’t offer condemnation.”

  “I wasn’t even talking about you!” she moaned plaintively. She watched him cook for a few minutes in determined silence, then finally ventured, “It’s nice that you learned so much. Is this a recipe from the restaurant?”Joanna put down her book to come and stand by them; though she could not understand most of their English, her curiosity had been piqued by the varying tones of their conversation. Peter plucked a piece of tomato off the counter and handed it to her to eat, then answered Zosia in German so that Joanna would understand. “I’m just making this one up as I go along, based on the ingredients at hand. Since I’ve come here, I’ve learned to improvise—out of necessity—to keep from starving.” He gave Zosia a fleeting, hopeful smile.

  “Are you complaining?” she asked lightly.

  “Not in the least. I couldn’t be happier.” He leaned toward her and kissed her, then picked up Joanna and kissed her as well. He spun Joanna in his arms so that she could do a handstand, held her there as she giggled, and then let her gently down to the floor. “You have no idea what a joy it is to eat the food I’ve prepared rather than watch hungrily as someone else wolfs it down.”

  “Didn’t you at least get to taste the leftovers?”

  “Pff. You must be kidding! I wasn’t even supposed to touch what they threw away.”

  “But you did?” Zosia asked, trying unsuccessfully to hide her revulsion. Joanna, back up on her feet, wrinkled her nose but remained quiet.

  “Of course I did!” He tasted a piece of chicken; it was done, but he needed to correct the spices. When he was satisfied at the balance, he scooped up the chopped peppers and toma
toes and tossed them into the pan. “No, my rations were, as Frau Vogel would say, completely separate. That is, when I got a chance to eat them; there were really no concessions to the possibility that I had human needs.” He fell silent, then added softly, as if to himself,“None at all.”

  Zosia studied him as a distant look came into his eyes, but she said nothing to interrupt his reverie.

  He caught her look and explained, “Sometimes I’d only manage to find time to eat early in the morning and very late in the evening. Near the end of the month, it was often half-rotten, as well. Still, I suppose that was nothing compared to . . .”

  “To what?” Joanna asked.

  He looked at her, aware for the first time that she had been listening to him. The words he had been about to say died on his lips. The memory had come upon him so suddenly, so casually, he had almost spoken about it in front of Joanna! How could he speak such obscenity in her presence? He grit his teeth to force himself into silence as it played through his mind. He shut his eyes, wishing it away. He felt himself shaking uncontrollably.

  “Daddy? Are you all right? Daddy?” Joanna’s sweet voice penetrated the horror.

  He opened his eyes and saw her wide eyes, the soft curves of her tiny, delicate face. Daddy. She had called him Daddy. He shook his head. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” Zosia asked gently. “You’ve gone as white as a ghost.”

  He nodded. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “How have your headaches been? You haven’t mentioned any recently,” Zosia asked, carefully changing the subject.

  “They’re much less frequent. I still get them and the blurred vision, but not as often.”

  Zosia grabbed a bit of meat out of the pan; she was about to pop it into her mouth when Joanna tapped her and pointed to her own mouth. Like a mother bird offering up a juicy worm, Zosia dropped the meat into Joanna’s mouth and they both giggled. Then Zosia said to him, “You have one now, don’t you.”

  “Yes, how did you know?” He was annoyed that he had not been able to hide the pain more effectively, and annoyed that his head ached in the first place: it was like someone screaming at him continuously. He lowered the heat under the pan and in a separate bowl mixed some flour into sour cream.

  “Oh, I just guessed. You know, your tone of voice, the way . . .” Zosia waved her hand vaguely.

  He ran through a mental inventory wondering if there was any red wine to be had. White perhaps. Were the spices too heavy for that? If he had thought of it earlier, he could have compensated for that. If only he didn’t have this goddamned throbbing in his head. It took him a moment to notice that Zosia had not finished her sentence. “The way what?” he prompted.

  “It’s just that they seem to be quite coincident with certain topics of conversation.”

  “I’m not making them up!”

  “I didn’t mean it that way! Really, you’ve got to stop being so sensitive!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And I wish you wouldn’t apologize so much.”

  He had to force himself not to apologize for that. She continued, “You’re allowed to disagree with me. I won’t be offended!”

  “Really? You seem to get so worked up.”

  “That’s just your interpretation. I like discussing things with you, I like that you have different opinions from me, but I don’t like the way you take everything so personally.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said without thinking. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I? Sorry!”

  Zosia giggled and he laughed as well. The laughter felt good and he said, “At least you’ve managed to clear up my headache.”

  “So, I’m good for something?”

  He beheld her for a long, silent moment biting his lip as if to contain a torrent. Finally he nodded and agreed, “Yeah, for something.”

  10

  THE LITTLE PARTY was a great success. Marysia even brought along her cat, Siwa, since the feline had taken such an obvious liking to Peter. Siwa’s affection was not lightly given, he had been assured, and this had delighted him—all the more so when he had learned that she had not been fond of Adam. Now she sat curled on his lap purring as he scratched the fur between her ears.

  All the guests had enjoyed the dinner and, winking at Peter, complimented Zosia on her culinary efforts. They then clustered around the sofa, sipping vodka and waiting for him to open his presents. He was amazed that everybody had managed to bring one, even though, as Marysia noted, it was no great accomplishment finding something for the man who had nothing. He received some tools from Konrad, who laughingly pointed out that now Peter would no longer have to borrow his when he fixed something for Zosia, and Tadek gave him a Polish-German dictionary dating from the 1920s—one of the few that had escaped being burned after their language was declared illegal, Tadek noted. He almost said more, but Zosia fixed him with a look that kept him judiciously silent.

  Finally, it was time to unwrap Marysia’s present—she had insisted on saving it until last, obviously convinced he would be pleased. From the shape, he knew it was a book, and that alone pleased him. When he finally removed the cloth in which she had wrapped it, though, he was speechless. It was a volume of poems that Zosia’s father had given Marysia upon the engagement of her son to his daughter: not only were the poems in English, but the beautifully bound volume was William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and of Experience .

  Marysia saw his expression and explained, “Zosia told me.”

  He read the inscription that Zosia’s father had written, and below that another that Marysia had written to him. Finally he stammered, “I can’t accept this, it’s too much.”

  “Yes, you can. Nothing can be brought out of the ashes, but some things, at least, can be replaced.”

  He nodded. “Thanks, Marysia.” He couldn’t say more, but he did not need to—she could see the gratitude in his eyes.

  She hugged him, said quietly, “Welcome home.”

  At that point, it was decided by consensus that they had been somber for quite long enough and the party lightened up considerably. Vodka flowed, languages spilled out in a babble as each conversational group chose whichever seemed the appropriate tongue, and eventually they all got drunk enough to convince each other to sing bawdy folk tunes. As the last guest stumbled out the door, and Peter crawled into his bed, he was still giggling from the last joke, feeling well-fed, happy, and at home.

  He awoke with a start from a completely different world. The small light that Zosia left burning cast comforting shadows; still he could feel his heart pounding furiously. It had been the usual dream—the one where Karl had just knocked him down the steps. He tumbled endlessly feeling his neck snap, his back break, his teeth smashed by granitelike protrusions. He observed his destruction with an odd detachment, felt no surprise when at the bottom of the steps, he could climb to his feet. Overwhelmed by pain he was unable to escape: his feet dragged as though his legs were of lead; he could not catch enough breath to move; his hands grasped uselessly at objects too far away to reach. By sheer force of will he tried to get his body to move; in response, his legs inched forward. To the right was a door—escape, he knew—but inexplicably he always turned to the left. Karl was somehow in front of him now, armed with a club. Karl swung at him, beat at him mercilessly. And Horst. And Elspeth. And others: faceless tormentors, dead friends, his parents . . . He felt his flesh pulverized beneath the blows, every bone of his body snapped like dry twigs, the sharp fragments jutting grotesquely through his skin. On and on it went, he could not move, could not scream. He turned toward the door, toward escape, and always, always it was Allison who stood there, blocking his path. She stared at him unseeing, expressionless. He reached for her, but she drew back. Her eyes were white—no, no, they were on fire. She held a club as well—he screamed at her to recognize him, to stop, but his voice caught in his throat. Unrelenting, she swung the club at him and his body shattered to bits; he collapsed into a heap
of blood and pain—nothing left, unable to move. And then, always, he awoke.

  He swung his feet to the floor, sat for a moment in the dark with his right hand pressed against his mouth, taking comfort in the solidity of his jaw, the unbroken line of his chin. He always woke racked by pain, and he wondered aimlessly if the pain caused the dream or vice versa. His hand moved up to touch the skin over his cheekbones where the doctor had indicated there was subcutaneous scarring of the muscle tissue. What had he said? It changes the shape of your face slightly. Not shattered to bits. No, not that simple. They had left their mark in other ways: it changes the shape of your face slightly . Gently, he touched where so many others had felt free to brutally slam. His hand trembled as his fingers traced a line along the ridge of bone under his eyes.

  Quietly, so as not to awaken Zosia and Joanna sleeping in the next room, he went to the cupboard and pulled out the Scotch. It was a present from Zosia. An officer supply train had been raided, and some single-malt Scotch whiskey had been among the luxury goods on board. He smiled at the thought of how much Zosia must have wrangled to get him a bottle; she had presented it to him shyly, said maybe it would make him feel at home.

  He poured himself a glass and sat in the underground gloom, contemplating what he should do with his life. What could he do to stop being afraid of his dreams? Would time heal all wounds? He felt that he needed more than time, he needed a direction. Never before in his life had he had the opportunity to makechoices for himself, to have a direction to his life. But where to? He began by examining his desires, replaying boyhood dreams, imagining anything he fancied irrespective of the logistics or likelihood of fulfillment. His mind wandered. Should he return to England? No, there was no particular attraction in that idea. Seek revenge? There were prospects there. But a life goal? No. He could not devote his life to or find his purpose in vendettas. Politics? He smiled at the image of himself, a world leader, rousing the NAU to action, ridding his land of the Nazi scourge, bringing peace to the world. He shook his head, rejecting the image. Maybe he could do something, but even in his wildest dreams, the image of himself as a charismatic leader was ludicrous. If he had ever possessed the sort of fire that such a person needed, then it was long ago extinguished.