The Children's War (115 page)

“Did she enjoy you? Did you like pleasing her?”

“I don’t need to hear this.” He went toward the door, but she did not move out of his way.

“Do you enjoy pleasing your masters?” she taunted, blocking his path.

“Get out of my way,” he said, his voice low and threatening.

“Does it give you a thrill to be with these superhumans?”

“Move!” he ordered furiously. Still, he hesitated to push her; he felt far too violent to trust himself.

She raised her hand. For some reason he was sure she was going to slap him, and without thinking he grabbed her wrist and wrenched her hand back down. “No!” he shouted. “Don’t you ever do that!”

“Oh, so only your masters can hit you,” she hissed angrily, pulling her hand out of his grasp and rubbing her wrist. “You needn’t have worried, I wasn’t going to touch you. I’m not like your precious Elspeth. Or your superhuman
Kommandant.”

“Get out of my way.”

“No.” She glared at him.

For a brief moment he contemplated simply lifting her out of the way, but she would fight him and he might hurt her accidentally, and there was no telling what she might do to him in her fury. He turned back into the room and returned to the table to stare at the unfinished whiskey.

“Did you enjoy being slapped around by them?” Zosia sneered.

“Please . . .”

“How did you do it? Did they punch and kick you to get you excited? Or did they do that afterwards as a reward?”

“Stop it,” he whispered, trying to remain calm. “How
could you
have sex with one of them!”

“I had to.”

“Had to?” she nearly screamed. “Had to? You—” She choked on her words, then spat out angrily,
“Collaborator!”

“It wasn’t like that,” he said bitterly. But how could he explain? “What was it like?”

He looked up at her deciding whether he should answer. How could he justify himself? Why should he have to? He looked into those angry eyes, searched for even a hint of jealousy. There was none. “You could at least pretend to be jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?” she asked, truly confused.

“Never mind.”

“Why did you do it? What, in God’s name, did you get out of it?”

The question sounded genuine. What did he get out of it? “A bit of peace,” he stated dryly.

“But you didn’t have to do it!”

“I really had no choice.” He tried to recall his state of mind at the time, but it was too hard to remember, much less explain.

“Men always have a choice! No one can force a man to get an erection! Certainly you didn’t have to come with her!”

“No, but she would have made my life miserable if I hadn’t shown that I wanted her.”

“I thought your life was already miserable!”

“Even more so.”

“But it was—is—completely illegal. She could hardly have turned you in or complained to Karl if you refused.”

“She had other powers, Zosiu. She had the power to make my life a living hell. As it was, I gained a few things instead.”

“Like what?” Zosia scoffed.

“Some better food. An occasional hot shower. Less punishment.” A pair of work gloves.

“Oh, so after your performance, what did she do, pop a bit of sausage in your mouth and say, ‘Good boy’?”

“Something like that,” he answered caustically.

“Ooh—you do sell yourself cheap!”

“It was the only price I could get,” he hissed angrily.

“That’s it? That’s your entire reason for sleeping with the enemy?”

“And I had a bit of human contact.”

“You call that human contact?”

“I did then. I was so lonely . . .” he began, but Zosia’s look of contemptuous disbelief stopped him. He was infuriated and a torrent of words exploded from him. “It’s so damn easy for you, isn’t it! Judging everyone from your ivory bunker here! You’ve never experienced any of the things you so thoroughly loathe. You have no idea what you ask of others! You just throw that word
collaborator
around as a catchall condemnation with absolutely no idea what you’re saying! You’re despicable.”

“And you’re a collaborator!”

“And you’re a murderer—better to fuck than to kill!”

“Those are judicial executions!”

“What about the hostages? You cause them to die!”

“If we give in to blackmail, we’re doomed. You know that!”

“But it’s always someone else who suffers, isn’t it? When have any of your precious family or friends been put on a hostage list?”

“We protect our own,” she replied evenly.

“And I protected myself!” he yelled in reply.

“By collaborating! You didn’t have to do it—you know the difference!” She sounded exasperated by his inane comparisons.

“All I know is I didn’t cause anyone’s death by sleeping with Elspeth.”

“Yeah, that’s you all right, just lie there and take it.” Zosia’s voice had dropped to a low hiss. “Let others do the dirty work so you can maintain your pristine martyr complex! Pick up a gun and fight, damn it! There’s a war on! But, no, you prefer to be beaten and fucked by your master race! You enjoyed it!”

“And you murder people and sit in judgment of me!”

“At least I don’t—” She stopped abruptly.

“What don’t you?” he asked, sufficiently furious that he did not care what she said.

“Nothing.”

“What!”

“I said—nothing!” Zosia clamped her mouth shut as if physically fighting
back her words. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The whole corridor must have heard them—just as well they had argued in English. She came over to the table, stood on the opposite side from him. In a measured voice she asked, “What about the child?”

“What about it?” he said wearily.

“Is it yours?”

“I suppose so. I can’t imagine any other reason for her behavior.” He remembered how Elspeth had always stared at him as if determining his suitability for breeding purposes.

“Would you have stayed if you had known?” Zosia interrupted his thoughts.

He nodded. “I would have had to; I couldn’t abandon my child into that world.”

“You would have been its slave.”

“I know.” He picked up the glass of whiskey, swirled the liquid around. “But I couldn’t have abandoned my child into their hands. Not after what I had seen. Maybe when it was old enough, I would have taken it with me.”

“You wouldn’t have done that. You knew it was almost certain death.”

“I know.”

“And you would not have been able to tell it who you were. That would have been too dangerous for the child.”

“I know.”

“But you would have stayed anyway?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“So I could be there. Try to have some influence. Try to . . . Oh, I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you sacrifice everything for Elspeth’s kid?”

“It would have been my child, too.” He set the glass back down without drinking anything.

“Why do men think that one sperm makes a kid theirs? If you couldn’t raise it as a father, how could you think of it as yours?”

“I just would have.”

“This baby isn’t yours, Peter. You contributed one minute of your time to its creation. You were duped. You shouldn’t feel any loyalty to it.”

“Obviously many men would agree with you. They’ll happily walk away from their ‘one minute’s contribution.’ I can’t do that, Zosia. I’m not like that.”

“So you would have stayed and served the family loyally just so you could be there for the child, just so that one day the kid could spit in your face.”

“I would have stayed. I don’t know what else would have happened.”

“You would never have left,” Zosia said rather sadly.

“Probably not.” He pushed his glass around the table absentmindedly. “You’re right, I was fairly sure I was committing suicide, and Elspeth’s pregnancy would have tipped the balance the other way. It would probably have been enough to chain me there until I died.”

They paused, both exhausted by the argument, by the emotions they had released like nuclear weapons on each other.

“Would you like some whiskey?” he finally asked.

“Yeah. I’ll get it.” Zosia went to the cupboard, poured herself a small amount, and added a bit to his glass. She stood next to him, lifted her glass. “Here’s to your fatherhood.”

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

H
E 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 she
might 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.