The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  On their way home, Catherine had wondered aloud, perhaps hoping to make an excuse for their sakes, if the old man wasn’t perhaps sick or still recuperating from the shock of his transition back to civilian life.

  “Naw,” Charles had replied, “he was always like that, at least in front of us kids. He must have been a bit better before we were born, or maybe when he was alone with Mum, ’cause she seemed to have fond memories, but as far as we were concerned, well, he hasn’t changed!”

  Erich had ventured to ask, “Did you like him, Dad?”

  “Of course!” his father had answered. “He had a job, he didn’t hit us or Mum,and he didn’t drink too much. What more could a kid ask for?” Charles laughed as if he realized that perhaps he had hoped for more; that he wanted to provide the guidance to his sons that he had lacked as a child.

  Peter remembered feeling a faint guilt then that he had not only expected much more from his father but had been so willing to judge his every move and so unwilling to accept his help. Perhaps he should try to do better at school, Peter had thought, perhaps he could make a go of it. He returned that very evening to the school, determined to do his best. He worked at his classes and studied assiduously, but the constant harassment did not cease, and he soon felt as abandoned and betrayed as on the first day he had been sent away.

  At the end of term, Catherine wrote:

  I wish Niklaus would tell me about school. Before you could never shut that kid up, now he’s so silent! At least when he is home. I saw him out on the street the other day with his friends, he was joking and laughing and seemed his old loudmouthed self. I was glad to see it, even though it hurt to know that the silent treatment is reserved just for me and Charles. It’s particularly bad with Charles. He gets so little chance to see the boy, what with work and all, and when he finally finds time, Niklaus acts like he’s not even there. Charles tried to show him some models he built when he was a kid. I swear Niklaus looked ready to spit on him again, but I guess he remembered last time, because he didn’t. He just stared at his dad like he was speaking some incomprehensible language. I could see how much Charles was hurt, but luckily he didn’t get mad. He just wished him good-night and left him alone.

  His behavior makes even good news taste sour. I asked him if he had any special news or maybe had won any awards and he said no. Only when I showed him the letter the school had sent about his math award did he admit he had won anything. He said he had forgotten about it. I asked what he did with the prize money and he said, “Spent it,” and refused to say more. Such a lot of money to waste! I am so disappointed!

  The math award had come as the result of an exam given in one of his classes. The math teacher was a weird old fellow who never showed any of his pupils the slightest sign of favor. When he gave the exam, he had each student write only a number in his exam book and then write that number on a slip of paper with his name. They had made a great show of dropping the slips into a locked box, and the teacher had promised that the box would be opened only after the exams had all been graded. Naturally, no one had believed him, at least not until an assembly several weeks later when various awards were announced. The math award was announced; Peter remembered how his name was mangled as it was called out, how he had been obliged to rise up and walk down the aisle followed by the jealous stares of his classmates. He was handed the prize money and plaque infront of all the others, and the master congratulated him but somehow forgot to shake his hand.

  He knew he was bound to lose the money, and when he had looked at the plaque and seen that nowhere did his name appear on it, he knew it would be fair game as well. With that thought, he descended the steps of the stage and walked along the front row of seats where most of the gang leaders had managed to acquire places, each sitting with arms crossed, head thrown back in haughty disdain, and surrounded by loyal lieutenants. He chose one of the most powerful and simply handed the money to him, then walked a few meters along and handed his plaque to another before returning empty-handed to his seat.

  The next day he was called into the main office and disciplined for his very public display of disrespect for the school awards, but it had been well worth it. Everyone knew he had nothing to steal so he avoided numerous confrontations and as a bonus managed to foment a nasty battle between the two gangs whose leaders he had singled out. After that he made a point of never excelling on any paper and so won no more awards.

  That was the last entry in which he significantly figured for the entire remainder-of the second book; clearly, out of sight meant out of mind. His mother noted his coming home for the summer holiday and his return to school for his third year, but otherwise seemed to assume from that point on that his silence was usual boyish reticence and that no news was good news.

  She talked of Erich’s efforts in school and the government-sponsored groups that he joined. She wrote endlessly of the problems she had talking with him, how he mindlessly parroted propaganda and didn’t seem to think for himself. Peter laughed as he read that. So Erich hadn’t escaped the baleful judgments of her manic depression either! Well, Peter supposed, there was a lot for an intelligent person to be depressed about. He closed his eyes and thought about his boyhood friends. Not one, he remembered, had trusted his parents. Not one. In many ways, he and Erich had been rather fortunate in that his mother’s stress had manifested itself in such nonviolent ways, in bitter thoughts that she mostly managed to confine to a diary that no one else read. He had known some kids who had suffered a lot worse. And that included some of the elite children who had attended his school. Not unlike Geerd and Uwe and Horst, he thought. And where had Karl and Elspeth learned to behave like that? Was the entire culture, the entire Reich, creaking its way to a nervous breakdown? Was that how the sins of the fathers were to be visited down on the next generation?

  He shrugged away his urge to indulge in profound distractions and picked up where he had left off. Catherine took to walking in the early morning before her job began and simply observing the state of the city around her. She alluded to some political discussions at work but disdained to explain further, perhaps out of fear. Peter could not discern what had created the crack, but it seemed that her general dissatisfaction with all those around her, and her overwhelming dismay at the lack of hope in her life, finally found a focus. Her eyes were slowly openedto the reality around her, to the relevance of what had happened to others. It was not a smooth transition; for long periods she flew into a rage at the thought of “those terrorists” and chided the people who would still not work to make a peaceful society. Then at other times she would mention how odd it was that she should feel obliged to hide her diaries, how she felt she had the right to question the status quo, how it was unfair that women automatically got shunted below men in all jobs and in education.

  Why am I still in that packing plant? Why haven’t I moved up one notch? I’m just as smart as Charles, yet his career moves forward and here I am stuck on the shop floor. I’ve tried to become assistant manager, but they wouldn’t even accept my application. I’ve looked for other jobs, but nobody wants to hire a woman, especially a married woman—we should be at home taking care of the family, we shouldn’t be taking good jobs away from the men! Of course that’s easy for the German women, their husbands get enough pay! It isn’t fair that Charles can’t get any further in his job just because he was born here. He should get equal pay, after all, he does as much work (if not more). The extra taxes for us aren’t fair either. Where does all the money from the Reconstruction tax go? Nothing ever seems to get done. Why are we still paying Restitution taxes? Aren’t we all one country now? They bombed us, too! I’ve even heard they started the war, that they staged that Polish provocation. We didn’t ask for their bloody invasion, why are we still paying for it? It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.

  There are things I’ve heard that worry me. I always thought it was just anti-Nazi propaganda, but there is so much talk, it’s hard to believe it is all made up. They (the government, I
mean) don’t help by making so many damn rules. They keep tearing down buildings! God in heaven, they move people around like they were cattle. Whole areas get uprooted and relocated. They’ve invented some new factory towns and they simply notify people that their job and their residence has moved! It is unnerving.

  There’s that horrible prison they put in Green Park. God, all the trees have been left to die. The city is an absolute mess. Why do we have segregation? Charles keeps trying to get us a better flat, but we always hit some roadblock. Do you know what one official said? He said, stop making so much noise if you want to stay out of trouble! All we were doing was asking for the new forms to apply for new housing! He called that “making trouble”!

  The third year of school passed, Catherine’s son grew another year older and another year more distant from everyone and everything. Erich was drafted in the spring, and when Niklaus returned home for the spring break, with both Anna and Erich gone, he found himself the center of attention for the first time in his life.

  Niklaus came home again for break. I really don’t look forward to seeing-him anymore. It’s a terrible thing to say about one’s own child, but he is so sullen when he is here, he spoils everybody’s mood. If he’s not out and about with his friends, he just sulks at home. Charles keeps trying to talk sense to him, but he just acts like he doesn’t hear. Or even worse, sometimes he “toes the line” acting like he agrees and mouthing all the right words to Charles. He does it without a hint of sarcasm, and more than once Charles has been fooled into thinking Niklaus is agreeing with him. It breaks his heart when all of a sudden Niklaus just laughs at him and walks away.

  Who knows what that kid is thinking? I don’t think anybody will ever get inside his head. Were we this hard on our parents? He’s just a little boy! I wonder if a daughter would have been different. It’s really quite odd, but I can’t look at him anymore without thinking of my poor little girl. Sometimes, God forgive me, I wonder what life would be like if we had lost Niklaus, rather than Anna.

  Peter read those words several times, refusing to allow any feeling to disrupt his thoughts. Eventually, a small smile crept across his face. So what else is new, he thought, and turned the page to continue reading. Several pages later his mother wrote:

  With Erich gone, I’ve been trying to talk more to Charles about my feelings, but he doesn’t want to hear it. I’m not sure what to do. I think we’ll have to do something to cheer Niklaus up. I’ll see if I can’t find something he would like.

  And a few days after that his mother made a short note:

  Really strange several days. Two days ago Niklaus came back early, well before dinner, and he did not go back out again. He just sat in a chair all evening and read the German dictionary like it was a book. I guess he was teaching himself new words. Then yesterday, he spent the day at home. I stopped home during the lunch break to drop off some groceries (Margot took the morning off and stood in the queue and let me join her at my break) and there he was just sitting in that same chair reading the English dictionary this time. I tried to chase him out to go get some fresh air, but I don’t know how long he stayed out. He was home when I returned from work and did not go out in the evening. Today it’s the same—I’m writing this in our bedroom because I can’t get him out of the house. I swear if it’s not one extreme, it’s the other with that boy.

  Peter remembered the source of that behavior, remembered it all too well. It was the day he had gotten “the word.” He had been walking along the street andhad spotted one of his mates, who apparently did not see him. The next time he called out to a friend and was ignored, he knew something was up, and he took off at a run and caught the fellow by his shirt. “Can’t talk to you,” his erstwhile friend had screamed in terror. Peter had let him go and had searched out some older member of the gang. He found one—a boy named Dennis, who promptly grabbed his arm and immediately marched him to one of their cellar hideouts. There was a meeting of the leaders—all boys of about fifteen. Most of them were engaged to be married, most only months away from conscription. The little coterie of pseudo-adults looked up from the business they were conducting with something like alarm.

  “He needs to hear it from us directly,” Dennis announced. “We owe him that much.”

  So they told him. He was exiled, shunned, out. He had asked why and they had said he could not be trusted, that he was being corrupted by the school he was at, that it was a violation of their security to allow such collaboration. He had protested his innocence, had explained how much he needed their support, had literally begged, but the decision was final. If he mixed with any of the members or was seen at any of the gang locations, he would be treated as any rival gang member or German would.

  He had continued to beg—they were his only lifeline. Didn’t they know what it was like for him all alone in that horrid school? At that point one of them rose threateningly from his seat, ground out his cigarette, and looked ready to personally enforce the banishment. At that point Peter had switched pleas. He no longer begged to belong or to mix freely with them or to be associated with any of their actions, he just pleaded that one or two members who were his close friends might be allowed to speak to him occasionally on the street. Nothing much, but they had been close friends, were unavoidable neighbors—just a few words now and then?

  The leaders put their heads together and agreed. They allowed the exile to name two of his closest friends who could talk to him occasionally without being sanctioned. The rest would shun him completely, and he was advised on pain of severe punishment not to try to initiate any contact with any other member. He had nodded his agreement, shaking with fury at the unfairness of it all.

  Dennis had walked him out of the meeting, draping his arm over his shoulder. Once they were on the street, the elder boy had said, “Sorry, kid, bloody unfair. Now off with you,” and had given his young companion a shove in the direction of his home.

  It had, in a way, been a relief. The growing distrust of his friends had been undeniable, and now the situation was clear: he knew there was nobody in the world he could turn to. The ache of his parents’ betrayal, the sorrow of his grandmother’s ever-increasing confusion, the pain of the growing distance between himself and his friends, the utter loneliness of his existence at school— they could all be turned off. If he did not care, then he could not be hurt. If hedid not show his pain, then they could not enjoy his suffering. He thought of himself as a human machine, an organism that had to live in a hostile environment and would play whatever game was necessary to do that. He was precious to no one in the world, and so he could ignore everyone and concentrate on simple survival. All the emotional land mines, all the efforts at pleasing, all his determination to belong—all of it was irrelevant.

  He became more studious after that, branching out into subjects that were neither required nor encouraged by his school, his grandmother often supplying him with old books. He read and studied; he practiced the piano as if driven; he took long, lonely walks; he observed and analyzed and thought. At school he had to continue to fight to maintain his position, but as he withdrew from everything and everyone around him, as he often did not even hear the provocations that at one time would have led to a fistfight, he was more often than not simply left alone. He lay in his bed at school as the morning light warned him that another day was beginning and would murmur to himself: Alone, alone, alone. It was both a plea and a statement of fact.

  His mother detected his change in behavior and made occasional notes in her diary accordingly. She was not overly concerned; after all, he was by all standards, at last, behaving himself, but she did puzzle over it a bit. Finally, at the end of his third year, she saw fit to ask him directly if there was anything wrong. She recounted the conversation in her journal.

  Today before Charles came home from work, I asked Niklaus about things at school. He’s been home for a week and nothing has changed from the last time he was home. Still studious, quiet, well-behaved. Practices on the piano a
lot and he’s getting really quite good. He treats his father with respect now and even, sometimes, asks his opinion or advice. It really pleases Charles, it’s so good to see the two of them acting like father and son. No fighting about language. When we speak German, he is well-spoken, uses proper grammar and a very good vocabulary (much better than mine). As a reward to him, we sometimes speak English now. His accent is remarkably improved (none of that street slang) and he doesn’t swear anymore.

  After he went back to school last time, he even started sending letters home. They were filled with the usual stuff: good news about grades, gossip about school. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say everything was simply wonderful. But it is so unlike him, and such an abrupt change, and when he’s not actively engaged in conversation, he looks so distant, like he’s on another planet.

  I really didn’t know what to ask him, I mean, how can a mother say, “My boy, you’ve been behaving, giving us no trouble, your reports from school are good—what’s the problem?” yet I felt I had to find out if something was going on. So I talked with him. I really tried hard to find out what’s going on in his life, what things are like for him, how he’s gettingon with his friends. He just kept assuring me everything was wonderful. He fretted about why I was quizzing him. Wasn’t I pleased with him? Had he upset me in some way? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Either everything really is fine or he’s a consummate and shameless liar.