The Children's War (20 page)

Herr Vogel opened the trunk and Peter removed his belongings, and when Herr Vogel indicated, he removed a largish sack as well. Laden with his life’s possessions, and it would seem, some food, he followed Herr Vogel toward one of the houses. It was a huge, two-story brick house, with a stylish, steeply pitched roof, surrounded by a high fence and a somewhat unkempt garden, and though Herr Vogel had parked on the street, it had a driveway, garage, and garden shed as well. As they passed through the gate into the yard, Herr Vogel gestured toward the garden, saying, “This will be one of your responsibilities.”

They approached the massive wooden door at the front of the house, and Herr Vogel rang the bell. The door was opened by a woman who Peter guessed was Frau Vogel. She looked to be in her late thirties, although she wore a soured expression that made her look, at first glance, somewhat older. Her bleachedblond hair was braided and pinned on top of her head, in the traditional fashion favored by the wives of Party officials, and she wore a flower-print dress that did nothing to flatter her figure. She had a pudgy face that looked as though it could at any moment give way to a kind expression, if only she allowed it, and her
demeanor conveyed a one-word impression: proper. She was the picture of Aryan propriety.

She greeted her husband and stepped back to let them in. Peter twisted his head to scan the hall of his new home. Fine wallpaper, rich paneling, a small table with delicate figurines, plush wool carpet running up the stairway.

“So, is this what you got us, Karl?” Frau Vogel asked. “I thought you were getting a boy. He’s not very young.”

“No, but he’s strong enough,” Herr Vogel replied.

Peter turned from one to the other as they spoke, but they ignored him.

“I suppose so. Too bad we must make do with only one . . .” Frau Vogel fingered the insignia on his uniform. He glanced down at her hand in vague disapproval, but his action went unnoticed. “English,” she muttered, then her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Green? Is he a criminal?”

Discreetly, he pulled away from her grasp.

“Technically. You know how things are, you take what comes. Better than a political.”

“Yes, at least he won’t be spouting propaganda all the time. But should we really let him into the house?”

Wondering what the alternative was, Peter looked questioningly at her, but she did not see him.

“Don’t worry, he’s quite safe, gone through a rigid training program. Besides, he’s been working for more than a year with no problems at all. His previous owners swear by him.” At this, Herr Vogel’s eyes gleamed mischievously as if he were privy to some joke. “Here are his papers and those are his first month’s rations. You’ll need to get an identity card for him tomorrow; his old one had to be turned in. Give me a call at work if there’s a problem.”

She nodded, scanned the papers Herr Vogel had handed her, murmuring, “What should we call him?”

“Peter,”
Herr Vogel answered, emphasizing the English pronunciation. “That’s what he’s been called up to now. I see no point in changing that. It’d only confuse him.”

Peter sputtered, but still they simply ignored him.

Frau Vogel nodded. “How long do we have him for?”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“Lifelong, darling. Completely ours.”

“Really!” Frau Vogel’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s wonderful! How did you manage-it?”

“Trade secret, love. I thought you’d like the surprise.”

Peter set down the bundles he was carrying and crossed his arms. Enough already! He did not like being a “surprise” for someone else, and he wanted their ridiculous conversation to end.

For the first time, Frau Vogel addressed him directly. “You will not stand like that—uncross your arms immediately. It looks disrespectful.”

He hesitated; his eyes narrowed as he debated whether he should obey. Sudden dark memories fluttered at the edge of his perception; voices echoed into a pandemonium inside his head:
the price of disobedience . . .

“I said—” Frau Vogel began.

Disconcerted by the clamor in his head, he uncrossed his arms. “Sorry,
gnädige Frau,”
he said reflexively.
A rigid training program
—so that was what they called it. To him it had been torture and the continual threat of death.

Frau Vogel accepted his apology with a brusque nod. Drawing herself up to her full height, she indicated his belongings. “Let’s see what’s in there.”

They went into the kitchen and opened the bundle on the table.

“Books!” Herr Vogel howled, looking at the three books Peter had dared to bring. “What are you doing with books? What is this trash?”

“Poems, by William Blake. Songs of innocence and experience,” Peter said, translating the title for them.

“Songs?” Frau Vogel asked. “I thought you said poems!”

“It’s in that illogical, polluted pig-language,” Herr Vogel remarked, paging through the book. “The Americans speak that crap. A gangster language, that’s what it is.”

“Is it pornography?” Frau Vogel asked, glancing at one of the reprinted plates.

“It’s trash,” Herr Vogel asserted, and set it aside. “He can throw it in the fireplace tonight.” He set the other English-language book, a set of short stories, on the same pile. He then picked up the third book and opened its cover. “At least this is in German!” he said, then squinting his eyes at the pages, he asked, “Mathematics? Do you understand this?”

Sensing danger, Peter answered, “No,
mein Herr.
I just noticed it among some junk in the stockroom and asked if I could have it.”

“Why?”

“I liked the funny-looking characters.”

Herr Vogel sniffed. “You shouldn’t have such things. I’ll put it in my office.”

Once they had finished picking through his meager possessions, discardingor confiscating this and that, Frau Vogel ordered him to follow her. “Bring that stuff with you,” she added, indicating the depleted pile and his rations, and they began a tour of the house. They went through each floor and for each room she listed daily and weekly tasks she expected to be carried out. The house consisted of three floors and a cellar. The ground floor had a reception area near the front door with a wardrobe for coats and a stairway off to the left. Behind the stairs was Herr Vogel’s study. On the right was a sitting room—the television was in that room; currently the title sequence for a documentary about crime in America was playing. Next to the sitting room was the dining room, and across the back of the house was the kitchen, with a large pantry that contained all the food cupboards as well as the refrigerator. Peter noticed that all the cabinets and doors had locks and that Frau Vogel, in keeping with tradition, carried the keys. A back door in the kitchen led outside
to the back garden, and beyond that was an alley where the garbage was put.

A stairway led from the kitchen into the cellar. The cellar contained two rooms: the one with the stairway was used almost exclusively for storage and a workbench. The other room, at the front of the house, was divided in two: to the right was the furnace and the coal bin with a chute leading up to street level; to the left were storage cupboards, a toilet, and a laundry area including washbasins. He was told to leave his rations in this area; presumably, none of his food was fresh enough to need refrigeration, though Frau Vogel did advise him to store it in the cupboard and not on the floor, to discourage rats. As Frau Vogel continued to detail his work assignments, Peter opened the cupboard. Inside he found a single electric coil for cooking, several utensils, a chipped plate, a bowl, a tin cup, and a couple of dented tin pans. If his mood had been a little less bleak, he might have laughed. It was so predictable: Where in the world did they get these things? He realized that since a washbasin was down here as well, he would have no need to use the kitchen at all. So, not only his food would be separate, but every aspect of his life would be kept scrupulously apart from theirs. Clearly, though he was clean enough to work for them, he was too filthy to live his life in their presence.

They worked their way back upstairs. Already the numerous jobs he had been assigned were swimming in his head. He doubted that he would remember everything and was hard-pressed to care. The first floor consisted of bedrooms. There was a family bathroom and a separate room for the toilet, and the master bedroom had its own bathroom suite. Frau Vogel mentioned repeatedly how important it was to keep the bathrooms and toilets scrupulously clean, implying that this would be no once-a-day task, rather more like a vocation.

They continued up to the second floor, under the roof, which was split in two. There were two more bedrooms for the younger children in one half, and the attic occupied the other half. As they looked into the attic storage area, Frau Vogel spoke for the first time without enumerating a job or a restriction. “You can sleep in there. I think there are some rags about which you can use to make a bed. You really shouldn’t be under the same roof with us,” she fretted aloud, “but there isn’t anywhere else right now.”

As she spoke, he wondered idly if she was referring to some sort of manual, thinking that it would be amusing, but not surprising. Even with the mild weather he noticed that the attic was considerably colder than the rest of the house. It obviously was not insulated and would be an uncomfortable residence at the best of times.

He set his bundle down inside the attic as Frau Vogel consulted her watch. “The children will be home shortly. We have to get dinner prepared. Come on.” She turned on her heel and strode away without looking back. Peter fought back
a crushing sense of despair and, after giving the attic room one last glance, followed her down the stairs.

21

M
ARYSIA SAT BOLT UPRIGHT
in bed. Julia, her poor Julia. Always the same dream, always the faceless assailant attacking her little girl. She turned to look at her husband, hoping to gain some comfort from him, even as he slept, but in the dim light she could just barely make out that his side of the bed was empty.

She cursed quietly, climbed out of bed, and crept silently into the other room of the small apartment. Olek was asleep on their couch; no one else was in sight. She spent a moment contemplating her grandson as Siwa purred and rubbed herself against her legs. Marysia decided against waking Olek; it was better they kept as much from him as possible. He already knew too much for one so young.

After pulling on some clothes, a coat, and a pair of boots, she headed outside. After about an hour of tromping through the woods, along a difficult path that ran next to a rivulet, she began to hear the sounds of the waterfall. A sentry greeted her and, without her asking, pointed out where her husband sat.

“It’s always the same,” she acknowledged wearily. “Could you give us some privacy?”

The sentry withdrew some distance and Marysia approached her husband. He was sitting on a rock, staring into the pounding water, holding his knees and rocking slowly back and forth. Marysia sat next to him and waited silently. She could hear his moaning, a soft, rhythmic sobbing, like the weak cry of a child inured to long suffering.

“Cyprian,” she said at long last, “please come back to the flat.”

He did not answer her.

“Cyprian. This has got to stop. I miss her, too, but we have a life to lead here. You have two grandchildren, a son who needs you . . .”

“None of you cared about her. You drove her to it.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Always harping on her. You could never accept her the way she was.”

“Cyprian. It wasn’t my fault!”

“And Adam! Always making her feel worthless.”

“He didn’t do that. Don’t lay this on him. God knows, it’s difficult enough without you—”

“He and that harlot wife of his, leading Olek astray . . .”

“Stop this! I know Julia was your favorite, but for God sakes, don’t destroy
everything else because you’ve lost her! Adam is your son, don’t do this to him. He doesn’t need your accusations. None of us do.”

“None of you cared.”

“Well, then, show that you care. Snap out of this! Care for her son! Olek needs you!”

“He doesn’t need me. He’s his father’s son.”

“What? His father? We don’t even know who his father is!”

“But we know his father killed her.”

“We don’t know that. We don’t know who she saw in Paris.”

“The boy has his father’s blood. He’s a Nazi.”

“Cyprian! Have you gone mad?” Marysia asked, horrified. She was going to say more, but then she wondered if her question should be taken seriously. Had her husband gone mad? Very carefully, as if handling a poisonous snake, she asked, “What is it you want?”

“I want out of here.”

“We’ve discussed that. I’m not leaving,” she stated firmly.

“I want out of here.”

“How are we going to do without a cryptographer?” she asked, hoping to ignite his sense of loyalty.

“I want out of here,” he said as if he had not heard her.

“Would you train someone to take your place? Before you go?” she asked, turning to the practical difficulties of his demands.

“I want out of here,” he chanted.

“Where would you go?”

“I want out of here.”

“Do you care?”

“I want out of here.”

“Okay. I’m staying, but I guess that doesn’t matter to you . . .”

“I want out of here.”

“I’ll take it up with the Council.” Timidly she placed a hand on her husband’s back. “We’ll take care of you. We’ll find you a place, far away from here.”

Cyprian stopped his chant. They sat in silence for a moment listening to the waterfall, then suddenly he said quite calmly, “I’m not mad, my dear Marysiu. I just want out. I can’t stand any of you anymore.”

“None of us?”

Cyprian shook his head.

“Not me? After all these years together?”

Cyprian continued to shake his head.

“Not your son? He’s done you no wrong.”

Cyprian shook his head.

“What about Olek or Joanna?”

“No! Neither of them!”

“Your friends?”

“I have no friends here. I have nothing here. I want to go. Let me out.”

Marysia stood. “I’ll do what I can.” She was going to leave, but stopped. “I just want to tell you one thing, dear.”

Cyprian looked up at her as if he were listening.

“I loved her, too.” Marysia walked off thoroughly disgusted.