After looking around, I realized no one will hire me with this big belly. Charles said with another baby on the way, we can’t afford for me not to work. It’s unfair but his pay is lower than his colleagues’ because of the race laws (we don’t have the extra expenses of maintaining a proper Aryan lifestyle since we’re used to the filth—that’s not what they say, but that’s what it comes down to). Nor does he get the extra compensation for working abroad that all the Germans get. We have to pay more in rent as well since we don’t have the right papers to live in the subsidized districts. There are extra taxes, too—the reconstruction taxes (for rebuilding our cities) and the restitution taxes (to pay for all the damage we did to their cities). Obviously the German employees don’t have to pay any of those.
Anyway, the packing plant agreed to take me back, but I’ve lost all my seniority. Still it was nice to see all my friends again and I’ll get a little time off from work for the birth. This pregnancy sure has been hard on me now financially as well as physically, but I’m sure when I get to see my little girl’s face, it will all be worth it.
The date of the birth passed without comment, naturally enough, but three weeks later Catherine made her last entry in the first book:
Had a son. Healthy. Charles named him Niklaus Adolf.
Charles named him . . . Peter took off his reading glasses and cleaned them while staring at the unfocused words. He cleaned them slowly, carefully removing every trace of dirt from the lenses, then for good measure he polished the metal of the frame. He pulled out his knife and used it to tighten the screws, then took a moment to bend the frames back into a more comfortable shape; then he checked the lenses and cleaned them again where he had accidentally touched them. He replaced the glasses and finished the gin that he had poured for himself. Sighing slightly, he picked up the second book, but without opening it he set it back down and rested a bit, laying his head back against the couch and closing his eyes.
A piece of paper: high-quality bond, clean on both sides, white as freshly fallen snow. A real find, his little treasure. It was early in his school career, he was five, maybe six? He remembered finding the sheet of paper in the schoolroom and hiding it in his notebook. At home, he climbed up the makeshift ladder of a chair on a table and took his father’s fountain pen out of its hiding place, then he clambered onto the window ledge, and looking out onto the street for inspiration, he drew a picture. It was a beautiful drawing: the street as it should have been with trees and happy people and nice houses and buildings. Horses pulled carriages, dogs chased children, the sky was littered with birds. He turned thepaper over and continued the scene with the street leading off into the countryside and a forest of animals peering out from the trees.
His mother was the first one home after him, and as he heard her heavy sigh in the hallway, he signed his name to his masterwork and jumped off the ledge in time to greet her at the door. He held out the picture for her to see as she entered, exclaiming that he had drawn it for her. A tired smile appeared on her face as she set down the bags of groceries and took the sheet into her hands. “It’s lovely,” she praised, but as she felt its quality, a look of confusion came over her face. Where had he got the paper? He explained. She turned it over and saw that both sides were covered. “Oh, Niklaus,” she chided gently as she handed it back to him, “you shouldn’t waste such good paper.” He held the paper outstretched for minutes after she had picked the bags back up and turned into the kitchen, but she did not notice: there were groceries to unpack and cooking to do, the baby had to be picked up, and the laundry needed to be collected from the roof.
The light seemed bright and he got up and turned it off, opting for a small lamp instead. Wandering into the kitchen, he put on the kettle for another cup of tea. He started with cold water, dumping the tepid water into the sink in a display of wastefulness that would have gotten him smacked as a child. Though the kettle had a whistle, he stood by it anyway, waiting for the water to boil. Once it was ready, he poured it into the teapot and waited for the tea to steep. He knew what he was doing: delaying. He was afraid of what might come next. After that brief, heartless entry that greeted his arrival into the world, he was so afraid of what he might find out. Perhaps, he reflected sadly, perhaps it was because he already knew.
He returned to the couch and picked up the second book. Carefully he dusted off its cover, held it unopened in his hands. Would the explanations lie within its pages? He opened it; there was no inscription, not even her name. The first entry was dated two days after the last. It was in German and from then on she used only that language.
I forgot how tiring babies are! I gave all the pretty dresses and clothes away, Amanda was glad to get them. I have some boy’s clothes left over from Erich, but not much, most of it I gave away after he was a baby. I guess what we have will do, and maybe I can scrounge up a few more things. Oh, God! What are we going to do with two children? It’s so crowded and I just don’t have the energy for this anymore. I feel exhausted every time I feed him, I have to run out on break and meet Mum at the plant entrance. I’m still bleeding, and standing all day hurts. Work all day and take care of the baby all the rest of the time—thank God Mum is on the evening shift. Soon he’ll be old enough to leave at the workplace care center, until then I hope Mum remains available.
It was a month later before she made another brief entry:
Shopping and cleaning and endless nappies! It is so crowded, the baby is always crying, Erich won’t behave, and Charles expects so much! God, there is just no room and I don’t get a minute’s peace. I wish Charles would help more, but he’s busy, busy, busy with his career.
Peter closed the book and walked over to the window. As he stared out, rubbish bins and water tanks and the usual courtyard detritus stared back up at him. It wasn’t he, he reminded himself: it was a demanding, anonymous baby. She was tired, overworked, without help or comfort. Growing increasingly disenchanted with what life had to offer her, an intelligent woman condemned by society to play the fool. An ambitious woman whose only hope of advancement was for her husband, a man not quite as bright as she. A woman who took on all the burdens of household and childcare while working an exhausting job, because that’s what everyone expected of her. Still bleeding after three weeks. Was that normal or was it a sign of how much her body was stressed? And the smudged ink; was it tears?
There was a sudden clatter and two cats yowled at each other angrily. He left the window and returned to the book. There was more of the same for about a page or so, the words becoming ever more despairing, his mother’s thoughts bordering on suicidal. Her husband seemed useless, often coming home from work long after the children were asleep, or traveling to various Party functions as part of his drive to succeed within the system. Peter could hear the weariness in his mother’s voice, the dismay at how her life was slipping away into empty tasks and meaningless work.
Into the darkness of the past he whispered words of comfort to his mother, assuring her that her time had not been wasted and that he had remembered her and had taken comfort in her long after she was gone. He understood what it was to be ambitious, understood what it felt like to see every chance at making a name for oneself evaporate. He knew that no history books acknowledged the sacrifices of those who spent their time caring for a child, yet he also knew that after his long years of imprisonment, the loving trust of a child had saved his soul.
He turned the page. A series of doodles, squiggly lines, circles, and letters were run together as if only for artistic effect. It was almost as if she were trying to write but could not bring herself to say anything. The next entry was dated several months later, by which time she seemed to have come to terms with her situation as her words carried virtually no emotional overtones whatsoever.
Charles and I have decided to bring the boys up speaking German, that way they won’t have problems dealing with the bureaucracy and they’ll fit into the better part of society. We made a mistake not starting sooner with Eric
h and he’s having trouble in school now; so we’re going to start off immediately with Niklaus. We plan to use English as well—can’t help but do that since their granny refuses to speak anything else, but we want tomake sure they’re comfortable in German, so they don’t sound like street thugs whenever they’re dealing with the bureaucracy or in school. We’ll have to work up a schedule or something. It will be good for me to practice more—my friends think I’m nuts when I try speaking it to them. They always ask me if I’ve “gondoich.”
He had almost forgotten that phrase, it had been so long since anyone had used it, but seeing his mother use it brought a smile to his face, for the phrase, derived from gone Deutsch, meant “gone insane.”
Three years passed. Catherine’s entries were infrequent and often commented only on how busy or tired she was. She noted changes in Charles’s job, Erich’s progress in school, the death of a few relatives and friends during an epidemic. There were more changes in the law, more deportations and shifting of populations from one place to another; there was the codification of some established practices and the abolition of others. Another spelling reform was introduced; the names and spellings of places were changed and changed back and changed yet again. The currency was rationalized and all residuals of the imperial system were finally done away with.
About her second son, she wrote very little. There were no saved scraps of paper, no record of his early words, no celebration of his first steps. His first and second birthdays passed unremarked; she wrote about Erich’s progress and about her husband, but of Niklaus, there was next to nothing: neither good nor bad—almost as if he didn’t exist.
Tucked into the pages were half a dozen photographs from those years: Charles and Catherine, Charles receiving an award, Erich receiving some minor school award, a portrait of Erich with his proud parents, Erich and his father at an official function, Erich in some sort of uniform. Erich’s younger brother was nowhere in sight. Peter swallowed the implicit insult; presumably his mother’s lack of attention in words was reflected in her deeds, but he did not remember. Presumably it had affected him, but he did not want to think about how.
On Niklaus’s third birthday, Catherine commented:
I talked to Charles last night about having another child. He said that the two seemed to tire me out so much I shouldn’t even consider a third. He argued that nobody has three, but I told him that nobody’s husband is as highly placed as he is. His German coworkers regularly have buckets of kids and he should think of himself as one of them—not one of the common herd that surrounds us. He’s bound to get promoted soon and then I can quit work, and I’m sure soon we’ll move out of this dump into a better neighborhood, and when we do, three children will be just right! He finally agreed to apply for another permit.
Less than two months later, Catherine got her wish:
Great news! Charles got the permit! I’m going to get pregnant as soon as possible. I’ve been reading all sorts of articles about how to make sure the baby is a girl. This time I’m sure it will work.
Peter chuckled to himself. His mother always did have a weakness for pseudoscience; indeed, in that, she was no different from the mass of the population. Though there was no direct or obvious government encouragement of the practices, he felt sure that there was a great deal of subtle support. The official tolerance of all the occult bookshops and inner-strength seminars, and mystical half-religions, was sufficient testimony that they must have served a marvelous pacification and propaganda purpose. Dissatisfied? Turn to a psychic healer. Unhappy? Your astrologer will tell you it is simply fate. Discriminated against? The biotherapist will explain it’s all in your genes. Take these vitamins, use this oil, rub on this balm—your kids will be more Aryan. Life will be good.
For the more practical-minded, there were Party memberships, sports associations, genealogy societies, and scholarships to good schools. There was that tantalizing possibility of belonging, of being one of the new Aryan aristocracy. All the old guard had been swept away—the top was open to any, well, almost any, who wanted to belong. Blond hair and blue eyes were optional! Just salute the flag, swear allegiance, speak the language of command, obey all orders without question, and you, too, could be one of the leaders of society!
For the remorseless cynics, there was an endless supply of gin and cigarettes. Weedy from alcoholic malnutrition, trembling with nicotine overdoses, they worked their dead-end jobs and cursed their conquerors, they bemoaned their impotence and remembered the glory days of empire until they dropped dead of cirrhosis or lung cancer.
It did not take long for Catherine to get herself “knocked-up,” and she wrote how some friends expressed amazement at this turn of events and how others advised her on effective birth control, the most direct being her boss, who told her that it was all right to say no to a man, even a husband. Catherine, however, was pleased by her pregnancy, and as her condition grew obvious, she walked proudly with husband, two children, and the third on the way, and only three days after Anna’s birth, she wrote:
A little girl! I have a daughter! Oh, and she is so beautiful! Her name is Anna and she is the sweetest little thing! I feel fairly exhausted, but oh so happy! Now our family is complete. I sent the boys over to my mother’s for the past couple of days. Erich will come home tomorrow so that he can go to school. I’m going to let Niklaus stay with his grandmother for a while longer. He seems happy there and my mother thinks he’s marvelous. She says he’s not difficult at all, just intelligent, and that intelligent children are always a challenge. Well, whatever the reason, they seem to get on together.
The diary detailed little Anna’s progress. Again the pages were filled with details of the baby’s every move, of the noises she made, of her progress toward crawling, then walking. There was a record of her growth and there were snippets of paper with scribbles and dabs of paint. There was a photograph of Catherine and her daughter, dressed primly and posed solemnly, another of Anna alone, and yet another of Anna with her parents. Peter scanned them quickly, unsurprised, but the last photograph caused him pause.
It was a picture of his parents with Anna and Erich. He looked at the four of them, his father’s dignified, calm demeanor, Anna cuddled in his arms, Erich standing proudly mature in front of his father, his mother’s indulgent smile as she gazed down at her two children. The perfect little family. Where was he, he wondered, where the hell was he?
It was a Sunday, he could tell that from the clothing. He was probably at his grandmother’s; they must have gone for a walk, stopped on a whim by a photography studio. It was just a whim, that was all. A sudden impulse to take a photograph, and he, quite by chance, had not been around. In fact, it had almost certainly been his decision not to be there. He had always preferred visiting his grandmother to those tedious Sunday walks. That was all there was to it. Carefully placing the photograph back in the pages, he read on.
With Anna’s birth, Catherine’s mood improved considerably, and she even began to accept her second son’s presence as something other than a burden. She wrote glowingly of how he cared for his little sister, of how Erich and Niklaus played so nicely together, of their progress in school and in the local youth groups. She even reported how perceptive and caring her second son was on at least one occasion:
I guess I must have looked tired the other day or maybe I had been complaining out loud. Niklaus came up to me when I plopped down in a chair and asked if he should go live with Grandma permanently. He spends a lot of time there—I admit it’s convenient dumping him on her and she seems to enjoy the company, but still I was surprised. I know a lot of people do that, and I thought about it but decided that I don’t want her raising him—she has such ideas! So, I said no, he should stay at home and we’d find room for everybody. But it was so genuinely considerate of him to ask, I just had to hug him. And do you know what? When I went to put my arms around him, he just froze, as if he didn’t know what I was doing. Have I never hugged him? Funny, but I can’t remember.
He really is quite lovable despite being so rebellious and independent; he’s such a happy kid, always laughing and telling jokes and trying to make us laugh. He’s especially good with Anna; he takes her outside to play on that little patch of grass and they go for walks to the river and he teaches her all sorts of stuff. He seems to think she’s his special responsibility. Funny, I would have never guessed he’d be so caring. She absolutely adores him, too. He’s just turned seven, yet he’s so bright, he’s alreadyexplaining things to me and reading books I haven’t got around to reading yet! It looks like his hair might stay blond or at least light brown, and he has nice blue eyes as well. I think he might do really well—we’ll just have to give him a push in the right direction.
One thing I’m going to do is try and teach him how to play the piano. He has a good ear and I think he’ll be able to do well. Now all I need to do is find the patience and the time to teach him! And a piano, of course. Charles says there isn’t room for one, but we’ll make room! I wonder if it will require a permit?
The Children's War Page 134