The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  Peter laughed out loud as he read that last question. Permits had ruled their lives. Queues at government offices, arguments with bureaucrats, forms that had to be filled out time and again, journeys from one office to another, surly replies and shrugs of the shoulder. Snapped commands, silent peremptory points of the finger, the ubiquitous experience of having waited, hours usually, in the wrong line. Don’t point out the sign over the window—it’s no longer valid or you’ve misread it. You’re in the wrong line. The counter has closed. Come back later. Those forms aren’t valid anymore. Are you trying to make trouble?

  Handfuls of money dropped accidentally behind counters, filing cabinets that magically came unstuck, tears and shouting and vicious arguments over nothing. A rubber stamp with the word DENIED written entirely in capital letters. Red ink that could spill over from the application form onto your identity documents if you weren’t careful. Do you want to make trouble? Do you want us to look at your job performance? Is your ration book too high a priority? Do you want your child to lose his place in school? Go to the end of the queue. Don’t make trouble.

  Peter got up and put on the kettle for another cup of tea. Barbara had gone to bed already, and only when he washed up the plate his sandwich had been on did he realize she had made it for him. He walked over to the bedroom door and peered inside. She was curled up on her side of the bed, the blankets off her shoulders. She looked chilled, so he went over and touched her shoulder. It felt cold and he pulled the blankets up and tucked them around her. He spent a moment watching her sleep and then, as the kettle whistled, returned to the kitchen to pour the tea.

  With the pot refreshed, he sat down to continue reading his mother’s history. The little family continued its journey through the bureaucratic maze and the political confusion. Catherine reported on the progress of her children, now apparently proud of all three of them. Charles’s career continued to prosper. Their ration booklets were upgraded once again, and there was even some chocolate available to slake Catherine’s addiction. There was also a nice photograph of the three children tucked into the pages: Erich standing and Niklaus sitting with little Anna on his lap. All three smiling broadly. Peter looked at the date; not much time left for the three of them, soon Anna would be dead.

  29

  CATHERINE DID NOT NOTE the epidemic at its beginning. It was just another wave of disease through the poorer sections of town, weeding out the homeless and the weak. This one, however, was worse—the winter was colder and wetter, the harvest had been bad, and following the five-year plan, the export of crops had been increased. The population was hungry and weary and weak, and the influenza spread from the poorer sections into the middle class and even into some of the German districts. When it hit the German population, there was a rush to the hospitals, and suddenly, with a shortage of beds and food and coal, a rationing system was instituted that gave overwhelming priority to the ruling class. The Nur für Deutsche signs that had been falling into disuse were dusted off and placed over door after door. Segregation was again strictly enforced, and the gemischt population was effectively excluded from government services and well-stocked shops as long as the pure Aryan population was in need.

  The Underground, which had struggled to survive in the face of apathy and exhaustion on the part of the populace, had a sudden change in fortunes; recruitment went up, activities were reorganized, and a new long-term plan of attack was established. It was clear that there would be no quick changes, no revolution and overthrow of the conquerors in the near term. It was also equally clear that the minor concessions and rights that the native population had won through compromise and collaboration would be withdrawn as soon as they proved even a minor inconvenience to the government. The occupiers had shown their hand: the English would never be granted full equality. The leaders of the Underground smiled and began to lay their plans. They were in for the long haul, but now at least a part of the population understood the reason why the fight was necessary.

  For the Chase family, the epidemic brought personal tragedy. Catherine wrote how Niklaus succumbed first, probably having contracted it from one of the lower-class English children that he was always hanging around with. She berated herself for not having forced him to stay indoors, but it was too late, the enemy was in the door. Anna and Catherine were simultaneously next. Catherine made a quick entry in her diary at that point, but wrote no more until well after Anna’s death. Between her family’s and her own illness, there was no time to write, no strength in her arms. After Anna’s death and everyone else’s recovery, she wrote about the events, concluding with:

  As I saw her little body taken away, wrapped in its shroud and placed tenderly in the truck that would take her and all the others to be buriedoutside the city, I thought to myself how I’ve lost my beloved daughter. I’m too old and tired to have another child—she’s gone and I can’t replace her. Erich and Charles were too sick to come out, and I was only barely back on my feet. Niklaus was recovered, and he held my arm and walked me down to the street so I could wave good-bye to my little girl. He was the only one who was well and he had been absolutely wonderful taking care of everything. Fetching supplies and preparing food and everything. He was particularly good with Anna and I think it really hurt him that his efforts were all in vain. I guess it’s the first time that he realized that sometimes sheer effort is not enough to get what you want. If it were, he would have saved her.

  When we were climbing back up the steps—I took a long time— Niklaus asked me if I thought it was his fault for bringing it into the house. I felt so bad when he said that, I just hugged him and then of course I assured him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was everywhere and sooner or later it would have hit us. I hope I sounded convincing.

  Catherine did not write again for a long time after that. It was a time of conflict for the family. Niklaus had grown convinced that his parents were wrong in working with the system, and the epidemic and its aftereffects only confirmed his beliefs. Meanwhile Catherine and Charles seemed even more determined to work their way out of the mire of English London and into the rarefied atmosphere of the ruling elite. They turned their attention toward Erich and Niklaus, determined to make them into proper little mock Germans. Erich seemed happy enough with their plans, but Peter remembered how he had grown more and more angry and ever more determined to maintain his separate English identity. His grandmother had abetted him in that, passing on history and language and culture to him. He had also turned increasingly toward the street gangs, and his casual association became a full-fledged membership. Catherine noticed the change and remarked accordingly.

  Worried about Niklaus. He is such a bright lad with such promise, yet the way he speaks! I can’t believe some of the words that come out of his mouth! Such language. And such a low-class accent! Where in the world did he learn to speak like that?

  Ever since Anna’s death, he just rebels against everything. I think he’s in one of those gangs. They’re awful—some stupid patriotic (i.e., English) name, lots of slang and jargon. I don’t know what else they do. Vandalism, dealing drugs, theft? I heard anytime they get a German boy on his own, they beat him. God only knows what would happen to a girl! Luckily the patrols usually stop it, but I’m afraid someone could get really hurt. What if Niklaus is caught doing something like that? They could put him in juvenile detention or worse. How are we ever going to get him back under control? He’s just a little boy!

  His mother was right, the gang did all those things and more. It was rare, but when they found some German kid who had dared stray into their neighborhood without protection, they would jump him. He remembered how, as a new member, he had protested, feeling that somehow things weren’t quite right. Later though, after some of his buddies had been badly beaten by either German gangs or by the police, after some arrests, after a few executions, after the epidemic with the signs Nur für Deutsche over most of the hospital doors—after all that, he simply stood aloof, unable to participate but also unw
illing to offer any aid or defense to the victims. Anyone who was stupid enough to be caught out alone deserved his fate. It was, he realized, an easy, childish rationalization that haunted him as a self-condemnation throughout most of his life: he had been caught out alone and he had paid the price for youthful arrogance.

  He read further and came across another entry where his mother bemoaned his behavior.

  Niklaus is driving me nuts! Why can’t he be more like Erich? He moans continuously—like some little English propaganda machine. Where does he get all this stuff? Sometimes I just want to throttle him for making so much trouble. It’s “bloody this” and “fuck that” all the time. He pretends that he doesn’t understand us when we speak German. I know discipline and punishment are all the rage now, but Charles and I just believe there has to be a better way than beating a kid into submission. Still, I wonder if we aren’t spoiling him by being so tolerant. I think he gets some of his worst ideas from my mother. She really is a bitter old cow. Maybe we should keep him away from her. If only we could make him see sense somehow. In any case, Charles and I have decided—no more English at home. Not a word, not until he admits he’s fluent in German. And no dinner either.

  Peter remembered that time well: it was a battle of wills that he was fated to lose. His mother only purchased enough food each day for that evening’s meal, his brother happily wolfed down the extra portion of rations that went begging at each mealtime, and his friends rapidly grew tired of him asking them for food. They all knew his father’s ration card was far superior to their parents’, and they resented the imposition. Finally, a friend, well, actually a gang leader, gave him a way out. “Know thine enemy,” he had said philosophically between draws on his cigarette, thus giving implicit permission and a justification for caving in. After that, it did not take long to admit defeat.

  At last! A breakthrough. Guess who today finally asked if he could join us for dinner! He not only asked in German, but he agreed to converse throughout dinner. Thank God, the kid has some sense! I’ve saved some coupons, I’ll buy some of his favorites and make a really nice meal for himtomorrow to celebrate. We can tell him our news then. I hope he takes it well.

  The news was that they had obtained a place for him in the Boys’ Academy. Needless to say, he did not take it well. It took several minutes before his shocked horror had subsided enough for him to realize they were not only serious, but thought he should be pleased. He begged, he pleaded, he tried to bargain, but all to no avail. He was going to be dumped in a good private school, one intended for the sons of German bureaucrats and officers. Three days after breaking the news to him, his mother made her next entry.

  Niklaus is still furious with us. Calls us traitors, swears at us using English phrases he certainly never heard at home! At other times he argues with us, trying to change our minds and cajole us—he even uses German then. I just don’t understand it, a good education will make sure he has a fighting chance in this world, but instead he acts like we’ve betrayed him. I’m so desperate to get him out of this neighborhood and away from the influence of these gangs, I wouldn’t even care if it were a bad school, but it isn’t, it’s the best in London!

  Charles really had to work to get him a place, and the fees will bankrupt us! He didn’t even manage to get Erich in, only Niklaus’s scores on that aptitude test and a lot of favors pulled it off. He really exerted himself to get Niklaus this opportunity and he has gotten no thanks at all for it. In fact, Niklaus actually spat at him yesterday. Charles was so surprised he swung at him and knocked him right off his feet. Luckily, he was controlled enough to leave it at that. Niklaus just sat there on the floor utterly silent. What did he think? That he could spit at his father and get no reaction? Where in the world does he get his ideas? I never imagined an eightyearold could be so difficult. Erich was never like this. He must be getting his ideas from somewhere. It must be those kids on the street.

  Niklaus claimed they’d kill him at the school. I told him he’d fit in just fine, but he swore it wouldn’t matter. Then Charles assured him that the school authorities would make sure he was okay. I don’t think he believes us. It wasn’t like him at all, he seemed genuinely scared, not one of his usual stunts. He begged not to have to go—promised that he’d do better in all his subjects and promised solemnly to speak German all the time. I almost changed my mind then, but then I asked if he’d quit his gang and he said there was no gang!! Erich laughed then. I wonder if he’s in one, too? He’s mad at us as well. Says we spend all our effort on “that little ingrate.” What did we do to get such children?

  There followed a lot of entries that dealt with the trivialities of life. One mentioned that Charles had been inducted into a proper level of the Party—no longer an associate member. After that there was a mention of taking their son tohis new school and the tears Catherine had shed on the way back home at the realization that her little boy was growing up.

  Over the following weeks, Catherine seemed to make a determined effort to pay more attention to Erich and to detail his accomplishments, but then there was a disturbing little entry:

  School authorities said Niklaus fell down a flight of steps. They said no reason to visit and that everything’s being handled. I had Charles call from the office and they assured him that a visit from us would only embarrass the boy.

  A flight of steps! Peter felt chilled and read on quickly, determined not to remember those first horrible months as he had tried to establish himself. His mother wrote about how he was getting along: joining sports teams, doing well in classes. Her entries had a note of forced cheerfulness, as though she herself was unsure of them. Just before the end of the first year, she wrote:

  Curfew has been changed again. It’s later now but you still need a special pass to go out and the old ones are no longer valid. Such a nuisance. Well, there’s not much reason to go out anyway. The crime seems to be only getting worse. You would think with so many soldiers and patrolmen on the street . . . What am I saying, I’m sure they’re doing their best. The bombs don’t help—they can hardly do their proper job when they have to spend all their time cordoning off areas and tracking down the terrorists.

  Niklaus has been injured during a football practice. They say he’ll be okay but he’ll look a little beaten up when he comes home in a couple of days. Poor boy, I should make something special for his homecoming dinner.

  Peter almost laughed aloud at that. Yes, it had been football practice, but it was in the locker room, not on the pitch. One of the times that the verbal harassment had turned nasty. Six on one: he hadn’t stood a chance. They had finally scattered when the coach had entered the room, predictably that bit too late. Peter remembered sitting on the floor, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, unable to say a word when asked what was going on. Answer me! Are you deaf, what’s wrong with you, boy? Still he had remained in stubborn silence. They knew and they chose to do nothing, so why should he endanger himself by seeking their worthless protection? The coach had shaken his head in nameless disgust, pulled him to his feet, and walked him to the clinic. Football practice, indeed!

  Catherine’s next entry was after the end of the school year.

  I am absolutely furious with Niklaus. He hardly ate any of the special foods I prepared. He’s never home, but when he is, he just stares sullenly. He hardly speaks, in any language! I asked him about his sports injuriesand he just stared at me like I was nuts. Didn’t say a word. What a brat! I could throttle him.

  Yesterday, he and Erich skulked off together, I heard them laughing in the hall. It’s good to see the boys getting along, but I wonder what they’re getting up to. I do worry about them. There are so many bad influences out there. Some of the stories I’ve heard at work . . .

  Oh, some good news—more detainees released. I guess these were the problem cases. I can’t imagine any other reason why they should have been detained so long. Maybe Charles’s father will get to come home soon. His mother still reads those ratty old letters he
wrote from years ago. I guess they cheer her up after she’s read one of the recent ones. I’ve read some and I must admit they are quite odd, completely devoid of feeling. Just little reports on his life there. He’s working in some canning factory. I don’t know what he’ll do when he comes back. Of course, there are no jobs or housing for any of them, maybe that’s why they were kept away so long. It will be tough on them coming back to nothing. It’s hard to imagine so much time has passed. So little has changed. The streets are still filled with rubble. I’m still working in the packing plant. The shortages never seem to stop, and instead of building new housing, they’re always knocking something down.

  Peter remembered when his grandfather had finally been allowed to come home. It was after the beginning of his second year, and Catherine made a short note in her diary but did not otherwise comment. Peter had received special permission for a Sunday trip home just so that Charles could take his family to meet his father. There, in his grandmother’s apartment, they stood in a row, he, his mother, and brother, as if on military inspection. Charles’s father, prompted by his wife, walked across the room with a funny, stooped gait; he stood in front of them and confronted them with a look that seemed like disapproval. Charles had smiled at his father and introduced each member of his family, explaining that there had been a daughter as well. The old man had stared grumpily at the wife and two boys, grunted his greeting, and then had returned to sit down in an armchair. He asked if Charles had a cigarette for him and he smoked it in silence, listening to the radio, nursing a single beer, and not saying anything for the rest of the visit.