The Children's War (19 page)

19

“A
NY
WORD OF
J
ULIA?”
Cyprian asked as he entered their apartment.
“Hello to you,” Marysia replied somewhat miffed. Her cat, Siwa, shifted uneasily in her lap.

“Well?”

“You know I would tell you as soon as we heard anything. Maybe just once you could greet me with something other than that question.” Marysia ran her fingers over Siwa’s soft, gray fur and breathed deeply.

“Has the Council assigned anyone to track her yet?”

“I told you, that’s not going to happen. Zosia’s been using her spare time to
comb through the Berlin police files, but she hasn’t found anything yet.”

“Spare time?”

“She’s using every minute she has. She says she’s having trouble getting access to some of the files—some of their data has been misentered, plus it seems the computers in Berlin have been crashing with some regularity, and for once that has worked to our disadvantage.”

“Shit. We should have someone there. This is ridiculous!”

“So far Julia’s papers haven’t turned up, nor is there a body matching her description. There was one female floater from the Spree with long, dark hair, but the estimate of how long she’d been in the water makes it unlikely to be Julia. Though, I suppose they could be wrong.”

Cyprian glowered at his wife’s callous wording.

“We’re going to have to conclude that she just ran off,” Marysia suggested glumly.

“Never! She wouldn’t do that! And she would never leave Olek!”

Marysia shrugged.“Maybe she’s on a bender.”

“If she has left, it’s your harping on her that’s driven her away!” Cyprian fumed.

“Don’t try and blame me! If you hadn’t always defended her, maybe she would have brought her behavior under control!” Marysia retorted angrily. “I’m fed up with your insinuations, I’m fed up with—” A knock on the door interrupted them.

Nonplussed, both stared at the door, then Cyprian went to open it. Olek came in looking dejected.

“Olek, you don’t have to knock! Our place is yours!” Marysia soothed.

“I heard you from the hall. It was about Mama, wasn’t it?”

Cyprian sighed. “We’re sorry, son. I’m sure your mom will be back soon.”

“Come have some dinner,” Marysia insisted as she let Siwa down and stood. “I have duck for you.”

Olek smiled his appreciation. “And what are you two having?”

Marysia and Cyprian both waved their hands impatiently. “Don’t you worry about us,” Cyprian assured him. “We have some cabbage and noodles that are just right for us.”

“You can’t keep wasting your meat rations on me.”

“Who says it’s a waste?” Marysia chided. “We never used it up before. We’re old, we really don’t need all that much. You’re growing. Now come, I’ve made a nice sauce for the duck. Come on, sit, eat!”

They were at the table eating when Zosia poked her head in the door. “Knock, knock, anyone here?” She bustled into the room carrying Joanna and a bag of baby supplies. “Can you watch Joanna for me? Adam’s out and I want to spend some time . . .” Zosia threw a glance at Olek as Marysia accepted the baby from her arms. “You know.”

“Have you found anything, Aunt Zosia?” Olek asked plaintively.

Zosia shook her head.“No. I’ve accessed everything I could in the police files. I thought I might look at the Travel Bureau’s records next.”

“What?” Cyprian asked.

“She kept a good set of papers; maybe she got a passport to somewhere.”

“Are you saying you think she left the country?” Cyprian accused. “That’s stupid! She left everything at the pension! Why would anyone travel like that!”

“She left her equipment and all but one identification—exactly the sort of things one is better off not carrying around the countryside. Besides, I was thinking she may have applied for an internal passport. I didn’t figure she could get an external one that quickly.”

“Which name did she keep, Auntie Zosia?” Olek asked.

“Hoffmeier, honey. Julia Hoffmeier.”

“She left all her clothes!” Cyprian yelled.

“We don’t know that,” Zosia answered coolly. “All we know is she left some
clothes there. She sent Romek on his way saying she had some business to take care of. To me that sounds like she was planning something.”

“But what?” Marysia asked. “Do you really think she’d leave without saying anything?”

Zosia shook her head. “If you have any better ideas . . .”

A light rap at the door caused them all to turn their heads. Zosia was closest, so she went to answer it. She disappeared into the hall, a quiet, young voice said something to her indiscernible to the others, and then she returned holding a note. “This just came through from Communications,” she explained, clutching the note. “It suggests we look into the Paris police files.”

Two days later Olek bid his grandparents farewell, shouldered his pack, and left for patrol. Within five minutes of his departure Zosia showed up at Cyprian and Marysia’s door. “Is Olek gone?” she asked.

Cyprian glanced down at the sheaf of paper that Zosia was holding and turned white. “What is it?” Marysia asked.

“I wanted you to see this first so you could break the news to him,” Zosia said as she held out the papers. “I’m sorry.”

Cyprian took the papers from her and Zosia left. He looked down at the words, but could not bring himself to read them so he handed them to his wife and went to sit on the couch. Marysia found her reading glasses and sat down, then began to read the police report from Paris.

The nearly naked body of an unidentified woman in her thirties had been found in the Bois de Boulogne early in the morning about two weeks after Julia’s disappearance. Investigators estimated that she had been killed sometime the night before, probably between 2 and 5
A.M.
The woman had sustained severe injuries to her head, wounds on her wrists were consistent with her having been handcuffed. While still alive, she had been sexually assaulted with extreme brutality, beaten, and stabbed with a shallow knife—the sort carried by boys in the Hitler Youth. Cause of death was strangulation. The body had been dragged, but not a great distance, and the investigator assumed her murder had happened within the park.

The report noted the physical characteristics of the corpse, and Marysia recognized each and every one of her daughter’s traits. The report also noted that the victim had been intoxicated, and based upon that and the fact that her disappearance had not been reported, it was assumed that she was a prostitute. The report conjectured that she had attempted to rob her client and had been attacked in retaliation. No identity papers or any other personal effects were found. Inquiries were made in the red-light district, but no one recognized the victim nor was any information forthcoming. There were no suspects and no further action had been taken on the investigation.

Marysia finished the brief, gruesome document. She covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes as a wave of nausea spread through her. When she
had gathered her courage, she opened her eyes and turned the page. The following report was from the coroner and detailed the damage done to the victim’s body. Marysia scanned it quickly, looking only for clues and refusing to think about what the words meant otherwise. Like a detective story, she told herself. She started to retch before she had finished and turned the page, deciding that she could search for clues later.

She turned to the next document and read a completely different report of an attempted break-in at a hotel in the area just south of the Gare du Nord. Using the key to the street doors, a man had entered the hotel without ringing the bell after the night staff had retired and had attempted to remove a room key from its hook. The night manager, who had been resting in an adjacent room, heard noise and preempted the thief in his attempt. The man fled without taking anything. The night manager was unable to describe the intruder other than to say it had been a well-built man. The night manager reported that only one guest was absent that evening and that she had not picked up her key in more than three days. He was afraid that the guest had skipped out without paying her bill, although her room still contained all her belongings. Police decided to investigate and had the room opened. Within the room they found clothing, the usual personal effects of a traveler, and some travel documents indicating she had come from Berlin. They also discovered a large stash of American dollars. Reports varied as to how much money was there, but the amount turned in was over six thousand American dollars. A separate investigation was initiated to determine if that was the entire amount of money found at the scene.

Marysia grunted and rubbed her forehead. She could just imagine the intense negotiations that had been carried out in that hotel room by the staff and the investigators.

“What’s so funny?” Cyprian accused.

“Nothing.” Marysia turned her attention back to the report. The room had been registered to a Julia Hoffmeier, who had traveled there from Berlin and was a resident of Göringstadt. Using the photograph on the travel documents, the investigators were able to identify the body they had discovered three days prior as hers. The police attempted to locate someone to identify and claim the body, but they discovered that the victim’s Berlin address was a complete fake and that nobody claimed to know of her at the Göringstadt address given in her papers.

With the combined information of the body and the break-in, police theorized that the victim had been attacked by someone who knew of the money in the victim’s possession. He had apparently assaulted her with a blunt object, inflicting the head injuries, then when the victim was helpless, had bound her hands. He then tried to beat her into handing over the money. When that failed, the victim was murdered, possibly accidentally, since many of the injuries inflicted on the victim were consistent with frustrated rage. The assailant then rifled through the victim’s clothes and purse looking for either a room key or an indication of where the money might be and, finding the street-door key to the
hotel, decided to attempt a robbery of her room. Caught in the act, he had fled empty-handed.

A few more documents were attached, follow-up reports and other useless details. Marysia scanned them quickly, then dropped the pile onto the floor. She closed her eyes and saw the image of her little daughter bringing her flowers from the field, her clothes covered in mud, her hair in a tangle, a wide grin on her face. Her little Julia.

“What’s the report say?” Cyprian’s voice came out of the distance.

“Julia’s dead.” Marysia bent down and picked up the papers and put them on the coffee table in front of her husband. “If you want the details, read it yourself. I can’t repeat it.” She got up from her seat and left the room. She emerged from the bunker into the autumnal chill and went for a long walk in the woods.

20

“Y
OU
CAME FROM SOME
sort of training camp before you arrived here, didn’t you?” Frau Reusch inquired of Peter one day out of the blue.

Still holding the cup of tea she had given him, he stood and walked over to the apartment window. A cold spring rain slapped against the glass, and the air was so misty he could barely make out the roof of the shop far below.

“Peter?”

He sipped his tea, then decided to answer. “Yes, your husband was there, perhaps he’ll describe it to you.”

“I’m not interested in the externals. Was it”—she paused, searching for the right word—“was it unpleasant?”

He sniffed at her choice of words. “You could say that.”

“How so?”

He shrugged. “It just was.”

“Was there”—she paused again, as if the word itself were painful—“torture?”

The rain was coming down in sheets now. Everything disappeared into a blinding grayness.

“Were you tortured?” she asked more explicitly and a bit louder.

The sheets moved like curtains in the wind, up and away and then back, pounding violently against the window. Water dripped down the edges and puddled on the narrow metal sill.

“I said . . .”

“I heard you,” he answered.

There was a long pause, then she asked quietly, “Why did they do it?”

“Why indeed,” he echoed. He thought about how obvious it had seemed then; one was tortured, what else was there to it? It was another world, contained
within and tolerated by the one he and Frau Reusch now lived in. Frau Reusch looked hurt by his reluctance, as if she believed he did not trust her, so finally he answered, “To teach me to view the world with fear.”

She cocked her head as if confused. “But why?”

“So I can be easily controlled. As I let you control me now.”

She ignored the implications of that, asking instead, “Do you think that was unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“I mean, do you think you were just unlucky, or was this sort of thing to be expected?”

“The latter. Look, could we just change the subject?”

She persisted. “What about, well, if you hadn’t come here, what kind of place might you have expected? I mean, what other sort of jobs were possible?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Surely you must have had some idea.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he admitted. “I really was rather surprised that I ended up in a place like this—I mean a household. Usually one would have expected an able-bodied man to be assigned to some industry. Who knows, maybe there was a shortage of domestic laborers at the time. Maybe it was somebody’s idea of a joke. I’ve never been able to find any logic in your system.”

“My system?”

“The system, I meant.”

“What were the industrial jobs like?”

“They vary considerably. There are the worst sort—one doesn’t last long in those.”

“What do you mean by ‘last long’? Do you mean you get reassigned?”

He laughed at that. “No, no.” He spent a moment bringing his laughter under control, then suddenly deadly serious, he said,“No. People die. Worked to death, radiation sickness, killed in industrial accidents, beaten to death: you name it.”

“Oh.”

“I really didn’t think I was in for much of a reprieve from my death sentence. I should thank you for making my life so tolerable.” Should, but couldn’t, he thought. He was, after all, still a prisoner.

“So working in a household is the best you could have hoped for?”

“Yes, as long as I didn’t hope for my freedom.”

She suddenly changed tack. “I’m going to visit my sister, the one who lives near München, for a few weeks.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

He nodded.

“I’ll miss you, Peter,” she said, standing up and coming over to him. Something in her stance seemed odd. Suddenly she surged forward and threw
her arms around him; it was the first time they had ever touched and he was stunned by her action. “You’ve been like a son to me. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” he responded awkwardly.

The next morning he saw her waiting for the bus and watched from the door of the shop as she climbed in. She glanced at him but he did not wave for fear the neighbors might notice and wonder at such familiarity. As the bus drove off toward the city, he turned back into the shop to continue his work stocking the shelves.

Later that day they took their meal as usual, in the apartment. Peter politely chewed his way through the unidentifiable concoction set before him and then magnanimously offered to make the following day’s meal. Herr Reusch sheepishly accepted, and after that they ate fairly well. On the third day, as Peter was preparing to open the shop, Herr Reusch appeared and asked him to come up to the apartment.

Wondering if he was going to be enlisted into making breakfast as well, Peter followed Herr Reusch up the steps. The door to the apartment was ajar and he was surprised to see a man inside. As they entered the apartment, he took a closer look and recognized the visitor as a stranger who had come to the shop about a month back.

“Here we are,” Herr Reusch announced. “Peter, this is Herr Vogel and—”

“This isn’t a garden party, and I don’t do introductions with an
Untermensch!”
the man snapped. He was in his forties and roughly the same height as Peter, perhaps a bit shorter. He was a heavy man with dark blond hair that looked to be natural and clear blue eyes. In his youth he was probably well built, but now he was clearly tending toward fat.

Herr Vogel turned to Peter and ordered, “On your knees. Hands on your head.”

Peter glared at him. He was just deciding to refuse when Herr Reusch pleaded, “Peter, do as he says. Please.” So Peter relented and carefully went down on his knees and clasped his hands on his head.

The man got up from the couch and walked around as if inspecting him. “Please,” Herr Vogel whined, mocking Herr Reusch. “Please?” He stopped his circuit behind Peter, stood there silently for a moment. Peter felt a wisp of his hair being lifted; he shuddered but managed not to move otherwise. The strand of hair was dropped, but still the man remained silent behind him.

“I guess he’ll do,” Herr Vogel finally pronounced.

Do for what?

“Get up,” Herr Vogel commanded. He came around to face Peter once he was standing and said, “You’re coming with me.”

“What? Where?” Peter did not even attempt to keep the incredulity out of his tone. He looked to Herr Reusch to put the man straight, but Herr Reusch had wandered over to his desk.

“What are you talking about?” Peter finally asked the man directly.

Herr Vogel backhanded him. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me!” he snarled.

Before Peter could overcome his surprise, Herr Vogel had walked over to Herr Reusch. Herr Reusch was grimacing, but he said nothing about Herr Vogel’s violent outburst. Instead he handed Herr Vogel the packet of documents that Peter recognized as his papers.

“You have to go with this man now.” Herr Reusch spoke quietly, but his voice conveyed a sense of urgency that Peter was unused to.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“Silence!” the man hissed at him.

“What is going on?”
Peter insisted, ignoring the angry glance from the man.

“Herr Vogel here has purchased your indenture,” Herr Reusch finally explained. He must have seen a look of total incomprehension on Peter’s face because he felt the need to explain slowly, “I’m afraid you’ve been sold.”

Sold?
Sold?
Peter found himself still questioning the concept even as he was led down the stairs of the apartment to the shop to collect his things, then out into the street and over to the man’s car. He had stood in numb silence as the last bits of paper had been exchanged and signed; he could not read them from where he stood and had not even tried. He had silently obeyed when told to gather his things, painfully aware that they stood right outside the door to his room, giving him no privacy, no time to think, and now he was walking out of one life and into another. Just like that. He threw several questioning glances at Herr Reusch, but they were determinedly ignored. Sold?

He remained at a loss, standing by the door of the car, as Herr Vogel went to the back of the car, opened it, tossed Peter’s belongings in, and removed handcuffs and a long piece of black cloth.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Herr Reusch opined naively. “It’s the law,” Herr Vogel asserted. “Certainly, you don’t violate the law, do you?”

“No, of course not. I only meant—oh, never mind.”

Peter gave Herr Reusch a look bordering on panic.
What have you done to me?

Herr Reusch shrugged guiltily. He looked confused, as if things were different than he had expected. As Herr Vogel snapped one of the rings around Peter’s wrist, Herr Reusch ventured, “If you have any problems, just let me know. I’m . . . uh, maybe we can arrange something else.”

Herr Vogel had already twisted Peter’s arm behind his back and roughly pulled the other arm back to meet it. Without pausing, he stated, “There won’t be any problems,” and snapped the second ring shut. Using one hand to guide Peter’s head, Herr Vogel pushed him into the backseat of the car. Peter climbed in, looked back at Herr Reusch again. This time he had abandoned any attempt to get an explanation; he just wanted to convey as much anger and disgust as he could through his expression. Still holding the cloth, Herr Vogel went to the back
of his car, to close it. Herr Reusch grabbed the opportunity to lean inside the car and say, “Peter, I—”

“Go to hell,” Peter hissed.

Herr Vogel returned to Peter. “I almost forgot!” he laughed, waving the black cloth. He reached inside the car, pushed Peter’s chin to face away from them, draped the blindfold over his face, and tied it behind his head. Peter felt the cloth press against his eyes and fought back an inchoate fear. Herr Vogel nudged his shoulder to indicate he should lie across the seat, saying almost jovially, “Be a good boy, nice and quiet, and I won’t have to put you in the trunk.”

Peter immediately slumped down as Herr Vogel had indicated. He lay in obedient silence as Herr Vogel started the car, letting nothing more than a small sob of fear escape his lips. In the time it took for him to be shoved into a car, he had lost everything and everyone. The whole thing had taken so little time, Herr Reusch would not even be late opening the shop.

“Get out!” Herr Vogel ordered, tugging on his arm. The handcuffs were removed, and without asking permission, Peter immediately reached up and pushed the blindfold off his eyes. He stood unsteadily, blinking at the painful glare of daylight, and surveyed his surroundings.

He stood on the curb of a well-kept, tree-lined street of detached houses each with its own fenced-in garden and many with garages. The street was quiet, but there were cars parked along its length. And such cars! Not the small, cheap, domestically produced machines available to the ordinary German working class after a twenty-year wait on the priority list. No! These were expensive, new, imported models, sleek and shiny, with polished chrome gleaming in the sunlight.