The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  They gently tapped their glasses together, miserably silent, miserably aware of how much damage they had inflicted. How much irreparable damage.

  After he had taken a sip, Peter asked, “Is it a healthy child?”

  “I suppose; there’s no indication otherwise.”

  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll check for you.” She paused a moment, chewing on her thumb, then asked, “Do you think Karl will ever suspect it’s not his own?”

  “Not if Elspeth has been clever about it. And I assume it was planned, so I assume she was.” What had Elspeth said? There had been a man before the Polish woman. A man whom Karl, in an unexplained rage, had apparently murdered. Were Rudi and Gisela that man’s children? Had Karl stopped producing the goods before Elspeth had reached her own self-set quota? Wasn’t eight the bare minimum for a respectable Party wife?

  “I have to go. I’m already late.” Zosia sounded exhausted. She turned slowly toward the door, walked reluctantly into the hall.

  She was already gone before he said softly, “I’m sorry about what I said.”

  43

  HE STARED UP at the ceiling. Elspeth was sated; he was tired, wouldn’t mind sleeping, but there really wasn’t time. There never was.

  “Why don’t you play the piano for me sometime?” she asked coquettishly, still nestled under the covers.

  He turned his head to look at her, responded dryly, “I do believe someone said they would have my fingers broken if I did that.”

  “Oh,” she sighed exasperated, “I was just annoyed that you lied about that Chopin number you played. Calling it Schubert. Did you think I was an idiot?”

  “Your husband wouldn’t have known the difference,” he responded, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

  She did not deign to reply to that. “Anyway, I’d like you to play something now and then.”

  “I can’t remember anything.”

  “You can practice.”

  “I don’t have time to practice.”

  “You’ll make time.”

  “Uwe will hear.”

  “I’ll tell him it’s me. Stop making excuses!” she said with finality.

  “I can’t play the piano,” he replied nevertheless.

  “I know you can, do you mean you won’t?” Her tone had grown threatening.

  “No, I mean I can’t.” He leaned toward her so he could hold his hands above her face. “See? Meine Gnädigste didn’t need to have my fingers broken after all; my lady managed to destroy my hands anyway.” Funny, despite what they did together now, it still seemed appropriate to refer to her with excruciating formality.

  “What?” she asked, confused and annoyed.

  “Can’t my lady see?”

  “See what?”

  “The scars.”

  “Scars? Oh, those. Where did you get those?”

  He snorted, slumped back to stare at the ceiling. “Kind of meine Gnädigste to have noticed.”

  “What?”

  “It was that stupid factory I worked in.”

  “Oh, that. Why didn’t you wear gloves or something?”

  He glanced at her, muttered, “And they say Germans don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He did not respond. The ceiling actually looked rather dirty—smoke-stained. He should have cleaned it ages ago. Or maybe it should be painted.

  “Anyway,” Elspeth insisted, “that shouldn’t stop you; I’m sure you can play anyway.”

  That was probably true. The tighter skin, the stiffness—he could probably work around it. But he did not want to play the piano for her and was determined that she would not get everything she wanted. “No, it’s simply impossible. You’ve destroyed my hands.”

  “Me? What did I have to do with it?”

  “Oh, absolutely nothing at all.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Elspeth narrowed her eyes as if trying to work out what he was talking about. Finally she gave up and said instead, “I think you’re forgetting your place, boy.”

  “Where’s that?” he asked flippantly. “On top of you?”

  She flung her arm over and hit him in the face. It did not really hurt, but her intention was clear enough.

  “You really know how to inspire a man,” he said, sitting up and getting out of bed. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “No! Use the cellar.”

  “No, I’m showering here.” He did not wait for her response, simply walked into the bathroom and turned on the water so he could drown out whatever shemight say. As the hot water washed over him, he wondered idly what sort of price she would make him pay for this insubordination. And how would she disguise her anger? Since they had begun their liaison, she had been much less enthusiastic about enforcing a strict discipline, but she did not desist entirely. Perhaps she knew her husband would be suspicious if there were any precipitous changes. Or perhaps she did not associate his being punished with his moods and ability to please her during the week. After all, it was his natural place in life—why should he mind? No doubt he should be delighted to have the privilege of fucking an Übermensch no matter how he was treated before and afterward.

  He stepped out of the shower and pulled on Karl’s bathrobe. She was still in bed, and as he emerged from the bathroom, he leaned against the doorjamb and contemplated her. His eyes strayed to the left, to the framed portrait of the Führer on the wall, and then to the right, to the portrait of Hitler in white armor, riding a charger. Over Elspeth’s head was a brass-relief eagle, its talons clinging to a swastika. He regularly cleaned the wood of the frames, polished the brass of the eagle. Elspeth’s unnatural platinum-blond hair lay in a halo around her head; it had been so overbleached for so long, it felt like steel wool to his touch. He sighed and closed his eyes against the grotesque image of what his life had become.

  He opened his eyes to see the glass of whiskey in front of him. He drank it down and stared at the empty glass. With that woman he had produced a child. Oh, God, what had he done? Would a son be driven into madness by Karl? Would a daughter follow in her mother’s careless, vicious footsteps? Could he have in any way influenced the child if he had stayed? Or would it, after a lifetime of seeing him ordered about and hit, have spit in his face?

  Oh, God, what had he done?

  “Do you really think I’m a murderer?” Zosia’s low voice made him jump. She was standing in the doorway, tears in her eyes. She must have left the meeting early, or perhaps she had not gone at all.

  He shook his head, speechless.“No, no,” he replied quietly.

  “I know hostages die. I’ve known it all my life,” she said as though he had not answered.

  “I’m sorry, Zosia, I didn’t mean it. I was just angry.”

  “They come to me in my dreams. I hear them in my sleep,” she said, staring down at the floor.

  “I didn’t know that.” He had never thought to ask; she seemed so sure of herself, so confident, he had never thought to ask! “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said, I was just hurt.”

  “When I read the lists—do you know they put children on the lists? When I read the lists, I think to myself, And how many of these people are going to die because of me?”

  “Zosiu, it’s not your fault. It’s not you.”

  “You said it was.” She did not look up at him.

  “I was hurt. I didn’t mean it!”

  “But you thought it, so it must have been in your mind all along,” she replied to the floor.

  “No. It’s not your fault. They’ve made it a dirty war, but we’ve got to fight. I know that. We can’t stop fighting just because they’ve made it brutal. That would justify their methods.”

  “But you think I’m a murderer. You think I don’t feel anything.”

  “No, I don’t,” he breathed. Why in God’s name had he said such awful things! “I know they’ll kill people no matter what we do. I know the mass murders that happened, I know those
weren’t hostages. They kill because they kill, not because of you. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean it!” He wished she would look up at him. He had an urge to walk over to her and lift her face so that he could look into her eyes, but he knew from experience that would be a mistake.

  “You think I’m a murderer.” She still did not look at him, just continued to stare grimly at the floor.

  “No! I just said whatever I thought would hurt you! I wanted you to stop what you were saying—you were hurting me so much! Of course I don’t think you’re a murderer! I mean, do you really think I’m a collaborator?”

  There was a silence that stung him worse than anything she could have said. He waited a moment to see if she was just trying to form her words carefully, but the silence lingered. He gave her a few more moments, desperate to hear something, anything. Even an accusation. But there was just silence.

  Finally, when the silence had lasted too long to deny, he said in a measured tone, “I’ll have the housing staff find me a room somewhere. Until then, I’ll stay with a friend.” He turned to go into the bedroom to gather a few things, then added, “I’d like to see Joanna every day. You won’t stop her from seeing me, will you? You won’t take her away from me, will you?”

  “Peter.”

  He stopped in the doorway, unable to turn around and face her contempt.

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “You can’t live with a collaborator,” he responded bitterly. He went into the bedroom and shut the door. He grabbed the satchel he had stolen from Karl and began to stuff his clothes into it. One word. One word stood between them. Ah, but such a word! A word he had battled all his life. Everything he had suffered could have been avoided if only he had not feared that word.

  What had he said to Emma? Remember to love yourself. Don’t blame yourself. If they commit indignities, it reflects on them, not you . Yet the woman he loved with all his heart did not love him. She felt the indignities committed upon him reflected back on him. Not just Elspeth, all of it. He was tainted by what they had done to him: he had let them do it. He had lost everything in his life so many times, had had it all torn away from him because he would not collaborate, because he could not play by the rules they had set. And now he was losing it all again.

  He stopped packing and looked at the jumble of clothes he had shoved into the bag. He was losing it all again. Unbidden, his hand reached into the narrow side pocket and extracted the matted hair he kept there. They had lost everything as well, and they had not even been given the choice, nor had they been given the chance to start again. Where there is life there is hope . What a ridiculously trite sentiment! But he had lived by it for all those awful years; he had believed that if only he could stay alive, he could recover the things that made life worth living. And he had done it! A home, a woman he loved, a daughter, and another child en route. And he was losing it all.

  But why?

  This time no one was tearing him away. He could not blame the nameless, faceless them who had destroyed so much of his life. It was by his own choice: his pride could not stand what Zosia had said to him.

  Could he give up everything for pride?

  Zosia had said he did not need to go. What would it look like to Joanna if he just walked out of her life now? If he gave her up, gave up everything because of something her mother had said. Because of a word.

  Had he collaborated? Or had he simply responded to human need?

  A different image of Elspeth came to mind: the look on her face as she had read the telegram about Uwe, the way she had sobbed in his arms, the way she had sometimes interceded with Karl on his behalf. He remembered one time they were together—they had already been doing it for about three weeks. He had done what he could to satisfy her, but his fantasies had not been up to erasing the experience of that morning—Karl had responded violently to a trivial provocation, and as a result, he was still in some considerable pain. He had thrown himself off her and sighed with exasperation; he had managed to do just enough to leave her resentful and himself frustrated. And now she would be able to throw impotence in his face. He had known he should act quickly to rectify the situation and try to satisfy her in other ways, but he had felt so frustrated that he could only lie there stupidly with his eyes shut.

  He remembered feeling her lips brush against his: she had kissed him! She never kissed him! He had opened his eyes in surprise and saw her looking down at him sympathetically. “Did he hurt you?” she had gently asked.

  He had nodded, reddening with irrational shame as he did so.

  “Sleep here a bit,” she had said as she climbed out of bed. “You look like you could use some rest. I’ll get you up in plenty of time.” And with that she had left him alone to sleep.

  Was it collaboration?

  Did it matter what name it was given? Was it enough to cost him everything he had now?

  He realized he was shaking his head. He could not do it; he would not lose it all again—not by his own actions. He unpacked the clothes while thinking about what he should say. By the time he had finished, nothing had come to mind, buthe decided to step out of the bedroom anyway. Zosia was still there, sitting on the sofa. She looked directly at him but did not say anything.

  “I’m not going,” he said.

  She nodded, then her eyes strayed to their wedding photo on the wall, the one they had placed next to the picture of her and Adam. He wondered briefly which photo she was looking at as he sat down next to her and reached for her hand. She put her hand in his, and they sat next to each other in silence for a long, long time.

  Eventually Zosia broke the silence. “Why?”

  “I was scared,” he answered simply. “I knew how badly I could be hurt, and I didn’t want it to happen again.”

  “So she threatened you?” Zosia had lowered her head to look at her belly, continued to stare downward as she rubbed her hand over where she knew their child was developing.

  Peter watched her actions as he answered, “Not really. She didn’t need to.”

  “No threats? What, just a suggestion? Sort of a ‘Hey, sailor’?” Zosia imitated a leering prostitute’s voice.

  “Please don’t mock me.” He explained the circumstances of Elspeth’s first approach, explained what they had both known at the time: that she did not need to say anything at all about the consequences if he did not accept her proposal. Her anger and resentment would have been sufficient to make his life miserable, whether it was her intention or not.

  “Realistically,” Zosia argued, “what’s the worst she could have done?”

  “Oh, she might have told Karl I had propositioned her. I know that whatever else he might have done at that point, he would have been certain to beat me to a pulp.”

  “But you could have told him the truth! That she propositioned you!”

  He grunted his derision at that suggestion. “Then he would have beaten me for propositioning her and again for lying about it and again for impugning his wife’s honor. No, my word was meaningless and what she said was, by definition, the truth.”

  “But couldn’t you have—”

  “Face it, Zosiu, she owned me,” he interrupted bitterly. “That’s what it means to be owned: you do as you’re told if you want to survive. You don’t get to pick and choose which commands you’ll obey. Millions of people have learned that lesson over the centuries, and I learned it, too.”

  Zosia kept her head down and did not say anything. She was avoiding looking at him again, as if she could not bear the sight of him.

  His heart ached at this sign of her rejection.“Zosiu, I told you what I was! You knew how I spent those years. Did you think it was just a party game? Something I did so I could go on American TV and talk about the Nasties?”

  She shook her head slightly but still neither looked up nor said anything.

  “This society condones slavery! That’s one of the reasons we fight them, oneof the reasons we claim they are immoral. It’s not an abstract concept either—
it’s done to real people. Real people with real feelings and”—his voice grew increasingly unsteady—“your husband was one of those people and he did everything they required of him. Everything. From slopping out Uwe’s bedpans to polishing the car to servicing the wife. It was all degrading, it was all humiliating, and it was all unavoidable as long as I wanted to live.”

  He paused to steady himself. “That was the only real choice I had: to live or to die. I chose to live and perhaps that was wrong, perhaps that was collaboration, but it was a choice that you knew about long before this. A choice that you accepted as reasonable that first night that we met. This thing with Elspeth changes nothing.”

  “Yes, it does! It is different.”

  “It’s no different than”—he bit his lip, turning his head away to finish—“than the Kommandant. You knew about that, and you accepted it.”

  “But it is different from that! When you made that baby, you proved that you had gone from victimization to active participation. To collaboration!”

  Peter shook his head violently but could say nothing.

  “That was the one thing she could not force from you, Peter! That’s the one thing I don’t understand. How could you do that? How could you be her lover!” Zosia pounded her fist against her thigh to emphasize her last sentence.

  He sighed. “It’s complicated. Human beings are complicated. No matter how many rules and regulations there are for how Übermensch and Untermensch are supposed to interact, when you put two people that close together for that long, there are going to be complications. She couldn’t live by her strict philosophy, and I certainly had no desire to reenforce her prejudices!”

  Zosia did not react, so he decided to emphasize his point. “I lived day in and day out with her for two and a half years. We interacted every single day, and sometimes she treated me decently, sometimes like dirt. But however she acted toward me, she was virtually the only person I saw; if I ceased to react to her as a human, then I ceased to be human. I simply couldn’t spend every moment hating her or being bitter about her treatment of me—that would have destroyed me faster than anything!”