The Children's War (155 page)

“So you think it’s a code?” Barbara asked, intrigued.

“Yeah. I think it was. I think she was afraid of what might happen and wanted to leave a message for me.”

“How’s it go?”

“It’s really odd: ‘Sunny-day showers, grow exotic flowers, in places you’d never suspect; twist to the right, reach for the light, and suddenly all will connect.’ ”

“Sounds like a set of instructions.”

“Yeah. What threw me was I thought of showers as rainfall. But what about this?” Peter stepped into the smelly little room.

Barbara took a deep breath of fresh air and followed him in. “Well, the sun is shining and you’re at the shower. Now how do we grow exotic flowers?”

“Perhaps the exotic flower is my reward,” Peter guessed. “Which means I have to twist to the right and reach for the light.” He did that, reaching up toward the location where the wires of the old overhead light dangled. He stood still for a moment wondering what should connect. The wires? Seemed dangerous and not particularly useful.

After a few seconds without inspiration, he turned back toward Barbara and shrugged. “Any ideas?”

“Under the ceiling? There by the light?”

There was no furniture in the flat and the ceiling was rather high, so he lifted her up on his shoulders and she peered inside the hole left where the light had been. She reached an arm inside and felt around. “Nothing,” she informed him, disappointed.

Nothing. It had been stupid to expect otherwise, he thought.

Barbara repeated the poem to herself, going over each word. “What did you call this room?”

“The toilet. Or sometimes the bathroom.”

“There’s no bath in here.”

“I think there had been in the prewar apartment before it was all torn apart and subdivided, but, you’re right, that was a misnomer.”

“You never called it the shower?”

“No. That’s the shower.” He pointed at the tiny cubicle. “Ah, I get your point.” He stepped inside the cubicle, twisted to the right, and scanned the wall. There was no light to reach for and there did not seem to be anything to connect. Nor was there any sunshine. What could she have meant? Did he have the wrong idea entirely?

The showerhead was gone but the pipe was still there. He reached inside with his little finger and ran it around inside the pipe. Crusty mold. He tried turning the pipe, but it did not move. What had he expected, a secret wall to open up? He mentally chided himself for being silly, but still kept looking. He stepped out and inspected the sewer. Twisting it to the right only tightened it, but maybe she had got it backwards or used poetic license. He opened the sewer grate and reached down. There was no light, no connections, nothing but really foul dried muck. He retched as he pulled his hand back out. Barbara handed him a handkerchief and he wiped his hand on that. Next he inspected the faucets and the tiling. Still nothing.

He stepped around the outside of the cubicle, to the board that covered the pipes. It was low to the floor and he got down on his knees to look at it. Nicely fitted into the wall, surrounded by a fancy molding that was a remnant of a more
extravagant age: it ought to be removable, easily so since it would give access to the plumbing. He tapped on it with his knuckles. Hollow naturally, there had to be space for the pipes. And exotic flowers? He ran his hands down the molding along the edge. It had to be easy if his mother was hiding something; it had to be something she did not have to tear apart, something that would remain undetected. He found the handholds that were used to put the cover-board in place. Funny he had never noticed those when he was a kid, but then he had determinedly spent as little time in the flat as possible—
his
hiding places had been down by the river. He pulled forward, twisting the board to the right, and it slipped naturally out of its mooring.

There was nothing in the space other than the pipes and the valves to turn the water on and off. Palpably disappointed, he sat back on his heels and sighed.

“Reach for the light,” Barbara reminded him.

He lowered himself even further, but he could see nothing. Barbara went to the window and pulled down the shade, then she shut the door to the bathroom. In the semidarkness, he could just discern a crack of sunlight coming through the outside wall. Had that been there all those years ago? He reached up toward it, but his arm would not fit. He twisted his arm around the pipes, tried to force his bones to comply, but he could not reach the light. He swore and pulled his arm back out.

“Can you try?” he asked Barbara.

He moved out of her way, and she got down on the floor and reached up for the tiny shaft of light. “Got it.” She slowly pulled her arm back out. In her hand was a book, covered in dust. She handed it to him and, saying, “I’ll see if there’s anything else,” reached back up among the pipes.

Peter looked at the book’s cover. It was cloth, and the printed pattern was one of exotic flowers. What a sense of humor his mother had had.

Barbara’s arm reemerged and she held another book. “There’s another,” she said, and returning her arm to the cavity, she extracted that as well. She handed them to Peter and struggled to reach around inside the wall cavity. After a few minutes she declared, “I think that’s everything.” She stood, dusted herself off, and looked at the treasure she had recovered.

“What are they?” she asked as he blew the dust off and opened the cover of one.

The pages were filled with his mother’s handwriting. It was her diaries. He looked up at Barbara, an expression of wonder and disbelief on his face. “It’s my past.”

27

B
ARBARA PACED NERVOUSLY,
checking the hall and windows repeatedly as Peter sat against a wall inspecting his treasure. He opened the first of the diaries, read the simple inscription:
Catherine Sinclair Chase.
She must have written that later because the first entry was before she had married. The handwriting of an inexperienced girl filled the page:

Oh, I am so tired of war! We can only hope that the government—now that they’ve completely fled the island—will make peace and let there be a peaceful laying down of arms. There are so many who say they will refuse and that they will fight at any cost, but it is such nonsense! Why are we defending that corrupt social order? Why do miners fight for royalty and privilege? The workers die to defend the castles and estates of the rich while the factory owners flee to Canada! The National Socialist German Workers Party may be German, but they are for the workers. They are not fighting for their aristocracy. Maybe if we work with them, we will find out that we have so much more in common than we were led to believe. Maybe we can make this a green and pleasant land of peace and prosperity for all—not like the class-ridden system they have overthrown but one of equality and justice. I don’t believe all the propaganda against them! I’m sure that it is just the American Capitalists trying to prolong the fighting. What do they care if we die? They sell arms to both sides!

The entries were fairly irregular, and years passed within pages. Each time Catherine mentioned the invasion or their new government, she talked of peace, of getting along, of starting again. There were quotes from propaganda posters and the “reactionary” opinions of the people she knew. About a quarter of the way into the book her future husband gained an entry:

Edmund White and Charles Chase have returned from internment. They’re sending back the youngest ones first, which is odd, since they don’t have wives or children. But maybe it makes sense—after all, they had the least to do with all the resistance. They were both only fifteen at the time. I can’t believe so many years have passed—they look so different. Anyway, it’s good to see some of the boys come back. Or, I guess, they’re men now.

Ed had some news about Tom—says he’s been writing to another girl. I guess that explains why I’ve heard so little from him. He could have been a bit more honest! I know we didn’t have anything special when he joined up, but still.

Charles has grown so much I hardly recognized him. I didn’t really know him all that well before. He seems really nice, though he looks so terribly pale. He says he wasn’t mistreated. He says he saw some other blokes who had it much worse, but that those who cooperated were usually treated fairly. He said that the terrorists (he actually used that word!) back home made it rough for them all over there and that they should just give up fighting and accept defeat gracefully.

After several pages the entries became more frequent albeit still irregular. Sometimes Catherine wrote daily, sometimes there were gaps of months, many were undated and Peter only guessed they were made at different times because the ink was different. Apparently she only wrote when the mood struck.

Charles says that he has had enough—that he is tired of this perpetual fighting. He says that the Underground violates international law—that they are nothing but terrorists who don’t want to give up the power that they have finally, rightfully lost to their military superiors. Sometimes he seems a bit harsh in his judgment of them, but I respect his opinion. I just wish he would be a bit more careful what he says to others—lots of people think he is a traitor. He isn’t—he’s just a realist. And he is so handsome! I’m sure he’s going to ask me to marry him soon.

Peter skimmed the pages: his father’s charms were detailed, his mother’s hopes were laid out. Her handwriting tightened a bit as though conserving paper, but it still carried the excess of loops and curves that made it difficult to read.

Mum expressed concern about my political opinions. I should just avoid the topic with her altogether. Ever since Dad was killed, she hasn’t been herself—she blames the Germans for his death, but it was the war and now that is over. She’s part of the old order—she’ll never understand that it is time for good, decent, honest folk to stand up for themselves and take what is rightfully theirs. We really must clear out the scum—they’ve driven this country to ruin. We need to return to the old ways—the young people see that. You can tell that there is a lot of support among the young for the new ways (I mean, of course, returning to the old ways!) because there was a rally in Trafalgar Square (they pushed the debris out of the way) and it was attended by lots of young people. They’re sick of war, they want peace, they want justice, they want a home for their future. Speaking of futures, guess who asked me out for tomorrow night!!! Very solemn— do you think???

The next entry was made the day after that and bore out his mother’s suspicions:

Well, I’m going to be Mrs. Charles Chase! I’m so excited and happy. Charles says that he is going to work with the system—that we’ll be able to be well-off and get housing and even a car. I hope he’s right. There’s a lot of resentment in the population—I’m afraid if we’re seen to be conciliatory, there might be trouble. On the other hand, the Germans are rather slow to accept us—I think they are afraid of terrorists. There are so many jobs and positions not open to us right now, but that will change, they say. I’m sure with time they will see that there are those of us who are willing to try and work things out. It was so horrible all that happened here, but I’m sure it was horrible there, too. War is like that. I’m sure there were atrocities committed against them as well—we really shouldn’t fixate on the massacres here and there—they are just isolated incidents and the perpetrators will be punished. Anyway, it’s all in the past. The people who keep talking about the horrors of occupations in other countries are just troublemakers. I mean, all those strange places have always been rather barbaric—I’m sure once order is established there it will all settle down. It won’t be anything like that here.

Peter felt a sudden surge of nausea. He slammed the diary shut, and Barbara turned around from her lookout in surprise. “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned by the look on his face.

He nodded. “Do you think we can spare five more minutes?”

“Sure, no problem.” She turned worriedly back toward the broken window and the view of the rubble-strewn street.

He opened the book a number of pages beyond that last entry.

They’ve enacted new racial laws. It’s all very confusing. They used to say it was just a matter of clearing out all the troublemakers and inferior sorts and then we would be united with the Deutsche Volk. Now it is much more complicated. I’ve heard that they’ve had so much unexpected trouble that they figure the population must be corrupt. I think maybe they’re mishandling people and getting their backs up. The new scheme is going to divide everyone up. We all have to go in for an interview and answer questions about our parentage and our views. I guess they already have some information on file, so if one lies, they’ll know it and the punishments are severe.

Charles told me we have nothing to worry about. There will be the highest classification, which no one here will get because that will be pure German. Then there will be the immigrant Germans, those with partial German blood, and finally those with Germanic attitudes. I guess the latter means that you have to prove you are pure English and loyal to the regime. I’m really scared of the interview, I don’t know all the details about my great-grandparents! Charles said I shouldn’t worry—that they’re mostly checking one’s attitude, and we should be fine.

I think we shouldn’t have all these classifications! I mean, after all, what is the point of overthrowing the old order if we have another class system thrust upon us? Charles says we can use these classification schemes to our own benefit. He wants me to find out from Mum if I have any German relatives, but I don’t think she’ll take well to my asking.

Heard about more executions today. I wonder if they’re true. I hope not. I’m sure things aren’t as bad as people say. The laws will be made fairer soon—it’s just leftover effects from the war. The conscription is worrisome—no one seems to know what is going on. They won’t say when the deportees will be allowed back.

Maybe I should start hiding this diary.

Several pages further she wrote:

Three days ago Charles and I were married. Finally! Different offices kept demanding different bits of paper from us. We had to prove that none of our great-grandparents, grandparents, or parents were Jewish (or Gypsy or some other things, like West Indian)! Luckily we managed to find baptismal or marriage records for everybody, but what about when the records are lost or were destroyed? The ceremony was odd, too. It was in English, but all the paperwork was in German. All that funny Gothic script. I have no idea what I signed—I’m not sure the clerk even knew. Well, it only took this long to get married because they had such a backlog handling all the new regulations. I guess we could have gone to the church to have a religious ceremony, but neither of us saw the point. My mother was disappointed, but I told her we were lucky to get the official clearance when we did and that we had better not complicate matters by trying to get a church service.

We’ve moved in with Charles’s mother—her flat is a bit larger and in better shape than Mum’s. Charles’s brother still lives here so it is a bit crowded, but he got orders yesterday to report for conscription on the Continent, so we’ll have a bit more space soon. There’s no indication of how long he’ll be gone, but I hope we have a place of our own before he comes back. God, we need space! Had to climb over a family sleeping in our doorway today—gave me the creeps! I wish the government would take care of these people and put them in a camp or something. I heard they put the Gypsies in special camps so that they’re not annoying people anymore. They ought to do that with all the homeless. It feels so unsafe having so many people just hanging around—they look jealous and angry. They scare me, I wish they’d go away.

Promised myself I’d learn German—there are so many signs and papers and things that are in that language, it seems the only sensible thing to do. There are classes being held at the school a few blocks away. They’re free and I heard that if you test well at the end, you get extra food
ration coupons! I’d use mine to get some chocolate—I’m absolutely dying for some.

Peter smiled at that last line. His mother always had a passion for chocolate. He remembered his dad once surprising her with an entire box of chocolates for their anniversary. She was ecstatic and inundated them all with kisses.

Charles got a job at a government office! It’s really low level but there are possibilities! His knowledge of German really helped and he has been studying and taking courses, so he’s even better at it now. Oh this is great news—he’ll have priority for housing and we’ll get a better ration book. If things go well, we might even get permission to have a child soon. Lots of people are going ahead and having kids without permission, but I think that’s a mistake. They’re realizing it as they get dumped off the housing lists and find their rations cut. Sometimes the kids are even taken into custody if the parents are deemed to be so irresponsible that they are unfit parents. That seems a bit harsh. I know it’s irresponsible to flout the regulations, but still. Anyway, there are so many orphans that it hardly makes sense to make more. They’ve pretty much given up on trying to track the relatives of the foundlings—especially in the neighborhood of the nuclear zones. I guess they’ve just started giving the kids the names of cities. More and more keep turning up—you’d think with the cessation of hostilities that things would have settled down! Someone at work (did I mention I found a job in a packing plant!) mentioned that parents are abducted if they are suspected of political crimes and that’s where the orphans keep coming from, but I don’t believe that. I bet that their parents were just irresponsible and can’t afford to feed them so they just dump the baby near an orphanage. The cold-blooded monsters!

Or maybe their parents get arrested and they go foraging for garbage, Peter thought angrily. How could she have been so naive? Or was it simply that she was full of endless hope, always waiting for the brave new world that would never materialize? Just a kid weary of war and desperate to believe that the end of fighting was the same as peace. A page later she wrote:

Maggie said she was held up at knifepoint yesterday. There really should be something done about all the criminals. All they took was her groceries. She went to the police, but they said they could not issue her new ration coupons—so she and the kids will just have to do without! It’s so unfair. That horrible criminal! Absolutely hateful! He should be hanged!!!