The Children's War (11 page)

“What does that mean?”

“Well, as you know, when we want to break a prisoner, but keep him physically intact, we tend to use drugs,” Lederman explained, clearly relishing his role as expert.

“Um-huh.”

“The problem is, the drugs tend to leave them in a very unsuitable condition.”

“Unsuitable?” Richard asked.

“Psychotic. All well and good if you plan to keep them locked up, but it becomes problematic if there is any intention of releasing them into a more complex work situation.”

“I see. So, what are you doing instead?”

“I’m testing out various combinations of torture and drugs. Rather than simply-beating them into submission or drugging them into insanity, I’m developing a technique of changing their personalities. Or rather, erasing them. The brutal punishments keep them reacting in an acceptable manner, the drugs secure that their thoughts flow in one direction only: mindless obedience. No other thoughts allowed, none at all.”

“Impressive.”

“All I have to do is get the mix just right, then we can put them to work in any capacity for the Fatherland!”

“Ah, yes. You are a true patriot.” Richard ran his finger around the edge of his coffee cup, watching the ripples that his action created.

“I’ve worked on the one you saw for three months, and I must admit,” Lederman confessed, “I hardly expected he would survive this long, but as you can see, he’s not only still alive, he’s essentially presentable—no broken teeth, no significant facial scarring . . .”

“I noticed. It is quite remarkable. How did you manage it?”

“With difficulty. Frankly, I have trouble keeping the staff under control. We lose about fifty percent of our prisoners through their carelessness.”

“What do you mean by
lose?”

“Ach, when they get too damaged, we have to carry out their sentences. But with this case, we’ve been lucky. No unfortunate accidents, and as far as modifying his behavior, we’ve had some success.”

“Some
success?” Richard asked. “I’d say complete success! He behaved himself admirably during your demonstration.”

“Oh, that!” Lederman waved away the compliment. As no further assertion of his expertise followed, he cocked his head to the side and said, “You may be right. He does seem truly subdued.”

“No doubt the prisoners recognize your natural superiority and respond to it.”

“Do you think?” Lederman asked, stroking his mustache.

“Oh, yes, definitely. I’m sure of it. You can be proud of your accomplishments, you have a real talent. I’ll tell you what.” Richard was now on a roll and he only stopped long enough to light a cigarette. “Give that fellow some food and water, clean him up, let him recuperate for a week or so, and I bet you will be amazed at the product you have.”

“You don’t think he’ll just slip right back into his old ways?”

“With your handling? No way! As you said, you’ve erased his personality. Nothing left but a drone. Don’t underestimate yourself!”

Lederman looked pensive. “What about the way he grabbed for that water so presumptuously?”

Richard shook his head vigorously. “No, no! You misinterpreted. He was pleading, not grabbing.” He raised his hands in mock supplication. “You see? Prayer! To a superior being.”

Lederman nodded. “I see, I see. Hmm. Maybe I have underestimated myself.”

“Put him in a household.”

“A household?”

“Yes, right in the midst of society! With somebody important. That will impress everyone.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that! At least not right away.” Lederman stroked his chin.

“You must show him off. He’s such an accomplishment!”

“Well, perhaps I could find something . . .” Lederman paused, then asked again, “You really think he’s ready? So soon?”

Richard thought of that look of pure hatred and he grinned. “I’m sure of it!”

13

T
HE FOG THINNED AND
the features of a man slowly coalesced into view: a pale, thin face; half-closed, gray-blue eyes; blond hair, streaked here and there with brown. He looked down, leaned forward, and brought both hands up to his face
in a mechanical, well-trained way. Something scraped against his skin and he pulled his hands away to inspect the razor for blood. Again the ghostly image caught his eye. Who was this person? What in God’s name was happening?

The thoughts scared him and he immediately ducked back down to repeat his well-practiced maneuver. Water was running slowly from a tap in front of him and he used it to rinse the razor. Though he was not thirsty, he felt a pressing need to drink and bent down and let some of the water into his mouth. He savored its taste and swallowed reluctantly. He raised himself and was again greeted by the eerily familiar face. With both hands he reached toward it and was not surprised to feel a cold, glassy surface. His attention was diverted from his reflection to his wrists—there were no chains binding them. He brought his hands down and very carefully separated them. They moved freely apart, and he stared at his left hand as it hovered independent and distant from his right. He glanced up from his hand, along the row of sinks, then, reassured by the lack of imminent danger, he allowed himself the incredible bravery of free thought.

His brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. It had been some time now, days at least, since they had removed his chains. Water, food, those things, too, had been provided. His work had been tolerable, the time allowed for sleep . . . Dare he think it? Longer than usual? Adequate even? He rotated his head, looking nervously all around. He was alone at a row of sinks, there was a mirror in front of him and a sharp razor in his hand. The last command he could recall was that he should shower, shave, and dress in a new uniform. What the hell were they up to? Everything was so different, so impermissible! His body ached, he was awash with pain, there was no doubt about that, but as he did a slow inventory, he realized that he had not recently been hurt. Not for days at least.

He finished shaving and glanced down the long row of empty sinks and located his guard, sitting on a bench against the far wall casually reaming out his left ear with his little finger. The guard noticed his prisoner’s look and interrupted his efforts long enough to ask, “What’s your problem?”

He froze at those words, casting his eyes down to stare at the floor. There could be no clearer sign that punishment was due, yet in the time it took the thought to pass through his mind, nothing happened. Slowly he raised his eyes and looked carefully back down the line of sinks. No reaction. The guard had proceeded to clean his right ear as thoroughly as he had reamed out the left.

With a confusion of fear and hope, he returned to his cell and collected his belongings in a bag he was given for that purpose. Despite the myriad crimes he committed—hesitating, looking around, thinking—nobody came to take him away. The usual guard who paced the hall had opened his cell door incuriously and did not comment when he stepped back out with his meager supplies. The guard who had watched him in the showers led him away, taking him out of the building and to an office in a section of the complex in which he had never been.

Three other men were already there. Behind the desk sat a young bureaucrat
with a well-honed expression of disinterest, and behind him and off to one side stood the officer who had overseen his reeducation. The third man was old with wispy white hair. He wore the medals of a pensioner, a minor Party official, and a veteran and looked the sort who had earned some level of gratitude from his society. The three did not interrupt their conversation as he was brought in and left standing to one side of the desk, although the old man did give him a curious glance.

“. . . in lieu of the usual payment and with regards to the sum exchanged for the aforementioned official fees,” the bureaucrat finished droning.

“Whatever, whatever,” the old man agreed, waving his hand impatiently. “Just show me where to sign. No money, or for that matter”—he glanced pointedly around—“body is going to replace my son.” The old man sighed as the two men behind the desk looked at him with a mixture of pity and annoyance, then continued quietly, almost to himself,“But I need somebody to help out now that . . .” He sighed again, looked to the bureaucrat. “Where do I sign?”

“Here.”

“There, is that all?”

“Yes, except of course for the follow-up formalities I already explained. You did understand that—”

“Yes, yes, yes.” The old man stood up with surprising alacrity. Upon closer inspection it was clear he was not really all that old, rather more worn-out.

The officer finally spoke. “Well, Herr Reusch, we wish you luck. He has been thoroughly trained, and if you follow the simple instructions I gave to you, then you should have no problems. If, however, you do have any trouble with him, no matter how trivial, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’ll see to it personally.”

Outside in the cold sunshine, once they were entirely alone, the old man turned to him and extended his hand saying, “My name is Reusch. Ernst Reusch.”

He stared in panic at the hand. Herr Reusch seemed oblivious to his dilemma but eventually withdrew his hand as he continued, “Don’t be misled by
them.
We’re not as bad as all that. Anyway, all I want is a helper, and this is the only way they could find a . . . find, er, someone to, uh, find a replacement for my son.” A note of sadness crept into Herr Reusch’s voice. “He died, uh, tragically, in an, er, accident, I guess.” There was a moment of silence, then Herr Reusch added in a markedly different tone,“Don’t worry. We’ll treat you well. My wife and I, that is. She’s waiting at home. With supper.”

He nodded, astounded by the words. Was he hallucinating? Was this all a drug-induced fantasy? Had he, at long last, stepped over that invisible line into insanity? But it felt like reality—some core part of himself still knew the difference. He turned around and looked at the outside of the military complex for the very first time. The huge flags with their swastikas hung limply over the gates. A motto was mounted over the entrance, but he could not read it from his distance.
The brick of the walls looked no more or less terrible than any other brick walls. He turned his gaze upward to stare into the sun.

“Are you all right?” Herr Reusch asked suddenly, concerned by his silence.

“Getting better by the minute,” he whispered, looking back to earth and wincing at his momentary blindness.

“Somewhere in these papers . . .” Herr Reusch stopped.

He looked at Herr Reusch expectantly.

“I’m sure that . . .” Again Herr Reusch stopped, apparently embarrassed, then with a sudden resolve, he blurted out, “You, um, you have a name. Don’t you?”

He stared at the old man, this man who apparently now owned him. His name. His name? His lips moved but no sound emerged. He heard a number being shouted out, he heard Allison whisper something, he heard his father’s voice, but none of those were right.

“Your name?” Herr Reusch repeated. “Certainly you don’t want me to use this stupid number, do you?”

It was an invitation to rejoin the world, but what was the answer? What was it? He sifted through his memories, through aliases and legends, and with an effort focused on one. That was it, the one written on his papers the day of his arrest. “Peter,” he said quietly, fascinated by the sound.

“Peter?” Herr Reusch repeated, overemphasizing the English vowels.

Peter nodded. “Yes, Peter.”

“Good. Let’s use that, then. Is that okay?”

“As you wish,
mein Herr,”
he heard himself reply. He was adrift in a sea of confusion. Too many things were going on in his mind: thoughts, memories, perceptions he had not had for . . . How long? An eternity. “Could you tell me just one thing,
mein Herr?”

Herr Reusch nodded agreeably.

“What’s the date?”

“March.” Herr Reusch sounded momentarily confused as he summoned up the exact date. “The twelfth of March. Why, did you forget?”

“Yes,” he answered distractedly, “yes, I forgot.”

That afternoon, he was registered with the local police and the district police. He watched with detached fascination as his old wristband was removed and another indicating his new status was affixed to his arm. He noticed that, though his number and Reusch’s name was on the band, his own name was not. He was also issued identification papers, which duplicated the information on the band but included his photograph and the details of his current life.

After that, Herr Reusch introduced him to his new home. Everything he had gone through left him thoroughly unprepared for the Reusch household. They did, indeed, simply need someone to help out. Herr Reusch ran a small shop near a huge housing complex, and he needed someone to mind the store while he took care of the accounts or other business. Peter’s job consisted of serving
the customers by helping them locate items, stocking the shelves, unloading and unpacking deliveries, taking inventory, and even occasionally using the cash register. At night he slept in a back room of the shop and served as a guard against crime, which, of course, did not officially exist. He found it strange that Herr Reusch could trust him in such a capacity and even stranger that he wanted to be worthy of that trust.

The shop was in an ugly, squat building constructed of gray cinder blocks; it had a flat gravel roof and tiny, useless windows along the sides. A huge window at the front of the shop was permanently darkened by posters, banners, displays, and the inescapable red-and-black flags. Around the shop loomed giant residential towers, blocking out most of the sun. The estate seemed to stretch endlessly with identical towers scattered at odd angles in some absurd attempt at
Gemütlichkeit,
the monstrous forms interrupted only by the shop, an elementary school, a bakery, and a few service buildings. The surrounding grounds were landscaped with packed mud, weeds, and a few hardy patches of unmown grass. Nearby was a highway, and a sheet-metal bus stop seemingly provided the only contact with the outside world.

Despite their frightful ugliness, the apartments were in fairly good shape, and he was not too surprised to learn that their residents were considered to be rather well-off. Most tenants had apartments with two bedrooms, so the living room did not have to convert into a bedroom, and some even owned cars, which were kept in a storage parking lot on the other side of the complex awaiting the rare days their owners had enough petrol ration coupons to take them out for a drive.

There was a bakery on the far side, but other than that, the shop was the only one in the complex and was consequently constantly busy. Herr Reusch even, occasionally, kept it open after normal shop-closing hours in order to provide his customers with essentials. This bit of illegal courtesy made him well-beloved and respected, and because he treated his worker with respect, his customers followed suit and did likewise.

In the back room of the shop, Frau Reusch had prepared a private space for Peter with basic furnishings, and after expressing surprise at the paucity of his worldly goods, she immediately set about providing him with various personal possessions. He ate his breakfast alone in the shop, but was usually invited up to the Reusch apartment for dinner and was provided with a nicely packed supper by Frau Reusch before he returned to the store to reopen for the afternoon. She also provided him with books and magazines to keep him amused during his off hours and placed a small television in his room so that he could watch that as well.

The shop could only be locked with a key from the outside, and so initially, when Herr Reusch had closed for the evening, Peter had effectively been locked inside. This apparently did not seem strange to Herr Reusch, and Peter hesitated to mention how disconcerting it was. Within days, he solved the problem for
himself by disabling the alarm and the lock on the emergency exit and using that to come and go freely in the evening. In his spare time, he wandered about the housing estate and even enjoyed the tiny duck pond he found near its edge. He had no reason to leave the estate—it was essentially surrounded on three sides by industry and on the fourth by a highway—so the legal hindrances to his movements off the estate did not really impinge on his sense of freedom. Also, the local patrols knew him, and although they occasionally issued the usual dire threats about walking around without a pass or a purpose, they generally left him alone. He strolled along the residential paths, watched the children playing near the school, chatted to the customers in the shop, and conversed at length with the Reusches, Frau Reusch in particular.