The Children's War (22 page)

He wondered why exchanging one prison for another bothered him so much, but he already knew the reason. He had fooled himself into believing in his virtual freedom with the Reusches. It had not been much worse than living as a worker in London. There were curfews and district borders and random violence, but otherwise they pretty much left one alone to live one’s life. It had been stupid to be lured into such a false sense of liberty; stupid, but also sanity preserving. Now, things would be different. Much different. He knew already that not one day would pass without his being constantly reminded by the Vogels that he was a prisoner. Not only a prisoner, but
their
prisoner.

He sighed heavily and Herr Franz looked up at him in annoyance. He apologized, then rested his head on his hands and thought about Allison, what a lovely woman she was, how much happiness she had brought into his life. He closed his eyes and remembered the years they had spent together, years that had passed wonderfully in a shared sense of purpose, in an intellectual exchange that brightened every day, in warm embraces and tender words. Her image had grown dim with time; he could no longer see the exact curve of her face or the arch of her eyebrows, but the smile, the look of compassion and love in her eyes—that was still vivid. After all these years, he thought, after all these years, she was still dead and he still missed her. Missed her terribly.

“Wake up,” Herr Franz ordered, nudging him with his foot. “Get up, it’s time to go.”

Peter nearly fell as he tried to stand—his legs were asleep and his joints ached. He hobbled stiffly across the floor as blood returned to his limbs, but Herr Franz did not even notice as he headed out the door. When they reached the front lobby, Herr Franz told him, “I have to take the tram. I don’t want any trouble from you.” He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, locking Peter’s wrists behind his back. “Understood?”

Peter nodded, idly wondering what sort of trouble was expected from him. Was he supposed to go berserk at the thought of riding a tram? Did Herr Franz expect him to try to escape? Where to? The entire country was a prison to him. Without good papers, there was no need for locked doors or chains.

Herr Franz grabbed his arm and pulled him along to the tram stop as if he were a backward child. When the tram arrived, they climbed on. Herr Franz showed his season ticket and asked the conductor what the fare was for Peter.

The conductor looked at him, saw his clothing, and bellowed, “He’s not allowed on here!”

Herr Franz cursed under his breath, pulled out a badge, and grated, “Official business.” Snapping the leather wallet of the identification shut, he did not wait for the conductor’s reaction, just dragged Peter down the aisle of recoiling passengers. Every eye followed them as they made their way to an open space. The tram was initially crowded, but a space cleared around Peter as if he carried the plague.

Many of the passengers continued to watch him, some curious, others contemptuous. A balding man a few rows in front of them pointed at him surreptitiously and whispered something into his son’s ear. The boy stared at him, incredulous—his eyes never straying until his father pulled him to get off several stops later.

Peter ignored them all. This was his first chance to get a good look at the city and the surrounding residential areas. The center of the town had been a showpiece of monumental sculptures, marble faÁades, and well-kept, albeit somewhat drab, buildings. However, the shoddiness of the outlying housing blocks was amazing. The Berlin workers’ housing was no better than that found around London. In general, it looked tidier; there was less garbage strewn about, but the concrete structures had the same cracked, damp look, and panes of broken glass and dangling electrical wires could be seen.

Here and there he spotted a playground, some occupied by children, others empty, and a few pedestrians were walking about, but, other than for the ubiquitous patrols, the areas looked nearly abandoned. Posters exhorting the people to work harder and encouraging ever greater acts of patriotism were everywhere; none of them looked weather-beaten: they must have been constantly maintained, in sharp contrast to the grim apartment blocks.

Peter looked around the tram and assessed the passengers. Most wore stylish
clothing, but upon closer inspection, he realized that the cut and quality of the cloth was almost uniformly low. A few, like his companion, wore finely tailored apparel, but the rest were arrayed in ill-fitting garments. And they stank as badly as any workers’ bus in London. The smell of old sweat in polyester was almost overwhelming. Clearly, the soap ration was as meager and the water supply as unpredictable here as in London.

After several stops, Herr Franz found a free seat and sat down with a grunt to light a cigarette. Peter remained standing near him—he knew better than to even think of sitting down. Without a free hand he had difficulty keeping his balance, and he swayed precariously at every curve in the track. After a while, Herr Franz reached out and grabbed his arm to hold him steady.

From his vantage point, Peter watched out the windows as they passed through an industrial region. The tram was apparently an express through this region. It hurried without stopping past long, orderly queues of tired-looking workers in uniforms of various shades of gray. Whatever superior attitude they had assumed inside the factories when he had been assigned to work there, they obviously lost it once they exited the grounds and were faced with the commute to their dismal homes.

It gave him a perspective on their attitudes he had never had before. Conceivably, the propaganda of a lifetime had not succeeded in making them feel naturally superior to the forced laborers they worked beside; rather, it was possible they had feigned a cruel and dominant attitude to bolster their own abysmal self-esteem. With a sudden pang Peter realized how little he actually knew about the society he and his comrades had spent their lives opposing. Perhaps with a bit more information, they could have been more effective in their efforts.

The tram arrived at the end of the line. It disgorged its passengers into a large plaza containing a confusing assortment of bus stops, taxi stands, tram shelters, and kiosks. Peter had never seen anything quite like it. Transport in London was rather limited, and other than walking, most people never did anything other than take a company-provided bus to their place of work. He spun around, trying to take it all in and organize it mentally so he could memorize useful details for future reference.

“Don’t get any bright ideas,” Herr Franz growled, grabbing his arm and pulling him roughly toward some bus timetables. Herr Franz spent some time checking the tables, and it became obvious, despite what he had said, that the Vogel household was not on his usual route home. They spent sufficient time loitering around the posters to draw the attention of a suspicious patrolman, who wandered over and politely asked to see their papers. Herr Franz complied with his request and the patrolman promptly apologized for the inconvenience and asked if he could be of help.

The patrolman explained to Herr Franz the best bus to take and where to transfer and added that they had just missed the bus and the next would not be
leaving for another half hour. Herr Franz thanked him and, his patience exhausted, headed toward the taxi stand. He dragged Peter along, forcing him to walk sideways with a stumbling, twisted gait, then pushed him inside a waiting taxi and climbed in. The driver twisted around to stare at them and opened his mouth to say something, but when he saw Herr Franz’s face, he changed his mind and asked instead, “Where to,
mein Herr?”

At their destination, as Peter climbed out of the car, Herr Franz grabbed his arm and flung him toward the house. Fed up, Peter turned to confront him. “Damn it! Don’t take your anger out on me!”

Herr Franz walked up to him, grasped the chain between his wrists, and wrenched upward, asking, “Why not?”

Peter gasped at the pain in his shoulder and elbows. Having no quick answer to this demonstration of modern ethics, he agreed, “All right, all right.” Herr Franz released him and they continued to the house.

At the door a transformation came over Herr Franz, and by the time Frau Vogel greeted him, he was smiling and relaxed. He gave her the papers and they exchanged pleasantries. Remembering what the mechanic had said to him, Peter watched the act with grim satisfaction.

23

“S
O
THEN THE MOTHER SAYS,
‘Maria, you stay here and stir the pasta. This is a job for Mama!’ ”

Everyone was still laughing as Richard walked into the room. Til grinned and launched into another joke. “There were these two Englishmen and a Frenchman . . .”

Richard sat down at the head of the table and listened. He laughed with the others at the end, then raised his hand to preempt further entertainment. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have business to conduct.”

The men at the table groaned subtly, and though it was a measure of his popularity that they felt free to do so, it nevertheless annoyed him. They worked their way through the agenda, finally coming to the seventh point: the treatment of prisoners on remand.

“Now I realize,” Richard explained, “that once we have a confession out of them, it’s clear they are guilty. Nevertheless, we must carry out procedure and see that they get to trial. This habit of turning guilty prisoners over to the more brutish elements in our security services as some sort of toys for them must stop. We’re losing far too many prisoners that way, and the cover-ups are wearing thin. You may not realize this, but an accretion of unconvicted corpses in our jails
does
affect government negotiations. Among others, we’ve got the damn Nigerians
fussing at us about human rights, and we’re right in the middle of sensitive oil negotiations. I’m sure the pressure there is coming from the North American Union; nevertheless, we must give them some solid assurances in order for these negotiations to go forward.

“Til has drawn up an executive order which will be sent out—top secret, naturally—which, in effect, will explain this situation and require some controls within our prisons on the disposal of confessed prisoners. As section heads, it is your responsibility to see that these orders are carried out and to institute the oversight programs which will contain the situation. I’ll expect a report on the controls that you plan to put into place in each of your sections within the week. Four months from now, you will submit a follow-up report with
documented
statistics on prisoner mortality and the effectiveness of your control program. Understood?”

“No invented statistics,” Til reiterated to the group. “We will check.”

Richard nodded.

“Is this Reich-wide?”

“No,” Richard answered. “It’s an initiative to be carried out in several test regions, the area around Göringstadt being one of them. Off the record”— Richard glanced at the secretary to indicate she should stop writing—“we’re having some problems which we hope this will solve.”

“Problems?”

“Crime. Terrorism,” Til answered. “You see, we’ve made a study of other caste cultures, and though the level of violence among the lower castes is always much higher than that of the upper strata, in most cultures it is directed inward—that is, the scumbags tend to attack each other. As, for instance, in the American inner cities.

“Here, there is a difference. Our crime victims are most often good, upstanding-German colonists. We think there is a message being sent, and though we will never acknowledge it, we must do something about it. The numbers of colonizers who return to the Alt Reich is intolerable. Our people are being driven out of what should be their own lands.”

“We also have,” Richard continued, “an inordinate number of terrorist episodes, such as that explosion in the Congress Hall on its opening day. That was before I arrived, and I’ve been ordered to clean things up here. This will be our first move.”

“Isn’t that conceding defeat?” one of the section heads asked.

“Only if we call it that. What I am suggesting is strict enforcement of the law. No more extrajudicial executions—and that means no more careless torture. Understood?”

“Why only this region?”

“It’s not just this region. It’s being implemented in several regions, and in each, crime rates and terrorism will be monitored and compared to control regions. I will be making periodic reports to Berlin on the effectiveness of the
new rules on prisoner mortality and popular morale. Once they have had time to be effective, I will report again on the overall effect of the program, and based on my evidence and that of the other test areas, a ruling will be made as to whether or not to institute these changes Reich-wide. We are on display, gentlemen, and it’s up to you to make sure we do the job right.”

One of the group raised a tentative hand. “What about convicted prisoners? I mean, the ones convicted of capital crimes. Sometimes they go astray in our system before we get a chance to carry out their sentences.”

Another piped up, “Yeah, the boys need something! If you take this away from them—”

“Enough!” Richard grated. “If ‘the boys’ need to vent their aggressions, they can always transfer to a camp assignment or work in interrogation. There will be no more extracurricular executions in our prisons, understood?”

“I understand about the ones on remand, but I don’t understand why we should exert ourselves to keep the convicted ones in good health.”

“There’s a policy shift there as well,” Til answered for his boss. “There are many jobs which are obviously beneath German dignity, but the alternative of importing foreign waged workers is considered destabilizing. Witness the riots in Leipzig last year or the dark-skinned areas of Hamburg with all their strange smells. These foreigners bring too many weird ideas with them, and we’re better off without them polluting our culture.

“If we use our own people, we can keep them under control. With the labor shortage such as it is, however, this puts pressure on our workforce—for instance, we can’t afford to recruit domestic workers at the expense of our industrial workforce. There’s a program to alleviate the problem by retraining condemned, nonviolent convicts. We’re having fairly good success with the program, so except in unusual cases, those convicted of capital crimes will be given the opportunity to be recycled into the workforce.

“This has an added advantage,” Til continued. “For if unemployment ever shoots up again, these people can be easily removed from the labor pool, simply by terminating their contracts and carrying out their original sentences.”

After a minor amount of debate about the advisability of the program, the meeting moved on to the next point and finally, after two more hours, concluded. Til, told a few more jokes, lightening everyone’s mood, and then the group broke up, leaving only Richard, Til, and the secretary. Til and Richard conferred with her for a few minutes to clarify what should appear in the minutes, and then the two of them walked back to Richard’s office together. There Richard sorted through some papers, while Til went over to the liquor cabinet.

“Want a drink?” he offered while pouring himself one.

“Yeah, the usual,” Richard replied, distracted because he seemed to have lost a sheet of paper. He sat at his desk and methodically checked the drawers.

“Your wife is
Volksdeutsch,
isn’t she?” Til asked, setting the drink he had poured down on Richard’s desk.

“You know she is,” Richard answered, looking up from his paper shuffling.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Til said, swilling his drink around pensively.

“No. There are many Germans who were outside the old Reich boundaries, and we’ve welcomed each and every one into the fold.
Heim ins Reich,
you know.”

“There is this interesting thing, though,” Til intimated. He spotted a piece of paper on the floor and casually picked it up and handed it to his boss. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Yes, thanks,” Richard answered, shoving it into his briefcase.

“Her family isn’t.”

“Whose family isn’t what?”

“Your wife’s. They’re not
Volksdeutsch.
Isn’t that odd?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only met them once and then very briefly.” Richard stared at his desk for a moment before adding, “We don’t exactly get along.”

“Ah, then you wouldn’t know that several members of her family are in the Underground.”

“No. If that were true, I wouldn’t know about it,” Richard answered without looking up.

“And it wouldn’t affect you. Wouldn’t even hold up your brilliant career?”

“Probably not,” Richard grated. “After all, I have no contact with them whatsoever. Neither does my wife.”

“So you wouldn’t care if they were arrested and brought up on charges of terrorism?”

Richard lowered his head farther and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Because, after all,” Til continued, “that would be the patriotic thing to do.”

Still looking at his desktop, Richard said, “You know, arresting innocent people-can be very . . . It’s not—”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Til rushed to assure him. “They’re not innocent. The evidence is very strong. Very strong.”

Finally Richard looked up. “What do you want, Til?”

Seating himself on the corner of Richard’s desk, Til smiled. “I’m not a rich man, you see. There’s the house, and the children. And my wife, she has expensive tastes . . .”

Richard closed his eyes as he listened.

“. . . the salary of someone in my position. It’s low, you know. It doesn’t reflect my true usefulness. I try to get ahead, but you know, it’s a jungle out there, and the opportunities for one such as me, are, well, rather limited. As a loyal lieutenant, you understand, I don’t have the freedom of movement you do, I can’t take advantage of the opportunities that arise, I—”

Richard opened his eyes. “Would a bonus of five hundred thousand be of help?”

Til smiled broadly. “Initially.”

“Initially?”

“I’ve been your right-hand man for years, Richard. I can call you that, can’t I?” Til asked, then without waiting for an answer, he continued, “And I’ve learned from the best. Don’t worry, I won’t ruin you. Take your time.” Til stood and, after carefully downing his drink and setting the dirty glass down on Richard’s desk, walked toward the door.

“I really wish you hadn’t done that, Til,” Richard whispered to the departing figure of his amusing subordinate. He rested his forehead on his hand and closed his eyes in sorrow.