The Children's War (23 page)

24

R
ELUCTANTLY,
P
ETER
OPENED
his eyes. It was still dark in the attic, but he could see a glow of orange on the droplets of dew that had condensed on the window. Judging by the sun, and he was surprisingly good at that now, it was time to start his day. He groaned, rolled over in the uncomfortable bed of old rugs and rags that he had made for himself, and began to fall back asleep. He had been dreaming of Allison, of how she would wake him by running her hands over his body, how she would grab hold of him and stroke him until he was wild with desire for her before he was even truly awake. The dream had left him with a pointless erection, and he thought that maybe he should do something about it, but then he remembered how viciously Frau Vogel had kicked his ribs the last time he overslept, and with an expressive sigh he abandoned his dreams, rose, and pulled on his clothing.

He emerged from the attic and descended the steps to the ground floor. There he paused to open the drapes and shutters in each room before descending farther, into the cellar. Though it was late April, it was still quite chilly, and he took several minutes to stoke the furnace so that the house would be warm by the time the family rose. He stood a moment watching the glow of the flames, then turned to take care of his personal needs. After washing, he ran his hand over his face to feel the stubble of his beard. Though his hair was light, no doubt the growth would be visible, so with a resigned grunt, he pulled out his miserably dull razor and began painstakingly scraping at his face. When he had finished, he ran his fingers over his face again to be sure he had not missed anywhere, then he turned to his food cupboard and surveyed the wretched collection contained therein.

He had been provided with a month’s worth of food when he had first arrived, and after surveying the paltry, rotting foodstuffs, he had dutifully stored them in the cupboard, mentally dividing the quantities into daily allotments. It had not worked. He had not had the self-control to eat only a thirtieth of his food each day, and much of it had started to spoil, so he had been obliged to eat
it quickly. Now there was hardly anything left and there were still eight days left in the month. It wasn’t fair, he had arrived a week before the first of the month and had not been given anything extra for that week, and the food had been old and insufficient and he had been used to much better, and now, now it looked as if he was going to go hungry for days!

Meanwhile, he prepared and served and cleaned up obscene quantities of food for the family, none of which he was permitted to touch—not even the leftovers, not even when they were thrown away. Of course, that had not stopped him from plucking them out of the garbage late at night, but by then the food was often inedible. Even the ducks took priority over him! He had once asked Frau Vogel if she would let him have the old bread instead of taking it to the duck pond in the park, and she had looked at him as though he had just asked her if he could strangle those adorable little ducklings and pull off their wings with his teeth.

He chewed at his thumb and looked at the food. God, he was hungry! His stomach kept cramping and he had a headache from the pain. Of course, the headache was probably not due to hunger—more likely it was from Frau Vogel’s habit of hitting him at every opportunity. Always a slam with the hand, or some handy object, right into his face. The temple, the ear, his cheek, jaw, chin—it didn’t matter where, just some part of his face. Everything that displeased her, anytime she needed to draw his attention to something—wham!—into his face. They were weak blows usually, especially when she used her bare hand, but the accumulated effect of her incessant pounding throughout the day was jarring, and by evening the bones of his face ached from the continuous abuse, and a dull roar of pain filled his head.

“Stop hitting me!” he had exclaimed once in exasperation. She had reported the insubordination to her husband, who had then dutifully reminded him of what real pain was. Since then he had learned to apologize more often, to address them both with excruciating deference and formality, to back away such that he kept a physical distance between himself and Frau Vogel to discourage her sudden temper, and since then the abuse had decreased. Nevertheless, it had not disappeared entirely, and he not only cringed anytime he heard his name screeched out, but he had acquired a despicable, jumpy nervousness anytime either of them were anywhere nearby.

He reached into the cupboard and pulled out a carrot. It had grown soft and wrinkled with age, but it was still edible and would divert his attention away from his hunger for at least a few minutes. He ground it between his teeth as he climbed the steps up to the back door. There on a peg was his jacket, but he ignored it, deciding that it was not cold enough to bother. He grabbed the packet of documents he needed for his morning tasks and went out into the brisk dawn.

He trod a pedestrian path that he knew was
nur für Deutsche,
that is, it was only for Germans. In his youth, the
nur für Deutsche
signs had been ubiquitous,
but here they were unnecessary. Everyone knew that
Gastarbeiter,
as foreign workers, including forced laborers, were so genteelly called, walked along the roads; the pristine parks and pedestrian paths were for Germans to enjoy. Strolling, relaxing, sitting on a bench—all of it, all of it was illegal for him. He had no right to leave the house except to perform work. He had no right to free time and therefore no need for any comforts. Who needed signs?

The path passed by a duck pond, and for that reason alone he often risked taking it. He liked watching them, and he used the time he gained by walking the shorter albeit forbidden path to spend a moment contemplating the still water and the quiet forms of the awakening ducks. It would be nice, he thought, to throw them some bread crumbs, but instead he found himself scanning the surrounding grass and the nearby trash bins for unused bread or any other edible refuse.

There was nothing today. He crossed the little stone bridge over the stream and skirted around the monument to Hitler. Somebody had lain some flowers— forget-me-nots?—at the base, beneath the dates. A faint impression could just be discerned on the pavement where the pedestal had stood in earlier times before it was removed and then replaced according to the political fashion of the day. Currently, political orthodoxy was “in” and the old regulations were being reintroduced and more zealously enforced than in recent years. The “war effort” explained away anything that ideology missed.

He passed two gardeners—
Zwangsarbeiter,
naturally—carefully trimming the grass from the edge of the path. The one had been muttering something to the other, but they stopped when they heard him approach. They eyed his uniform suspiciously, deciding to remain silent as long as he was near. Once he was several yards past, he heard the muttering resume.

When he reached the bakery, no one was in line. He went up to the window and was greeted by Roman, the baker’s assistant. Roman had been forced labor since early childhood and barely remembered any other life. His uniform carried a similar set of badges to Peter’s, giving his number, identifying his nationality, and indicating that he was a
Zwangsarbeiter.
Unlike Peter, however, there was no green triangle, so he was not labeled criminal, and the yellow inset on the red stripe was missing, indicating that, though he was of an inferior race, he had not formally lost his Aryan status. Indeed, he was not being punished, he was simply working under the guidance and at the direction of his superiors to achieve a more perfect society.

“So, how’s it going?” Roman asked.

“Eh, the usual. I’m hungry.” Peter handed over the ration book. The Vogels received first-class rations, a rarity even in their well-to-do neighborhood, and their ration book was appropriately impressive.

“The usual?” Roman asked as he paged through the leatherbound book to remove the requisite number of coupons.

“What else?” Peter grunted.

Roman looked behind himself to see if any of his bosses were nearby. “If you wait a few minutes, we’ll have some fresh out of the oven.” It was an invitation to converse.

Peter glanced behind himself to be sure no police were around. “Sure. How are things?”

“Oh, not much new. We got a new worker about three days ago. I’ve been showing him the ropes. How are things there? Have you asked Frau Vogel about your rations?”

“Yeah. I pointed out to her that they were running low and it wasn’t my fault since I had come into the house before the first of the month.”

“And?”

“And she said it’d do me some good to learn some self-discipline.”

“Ouch! She’s a hard case. Do they keep the food locked up there?”

“Yeah.” Peter glanced behind himself again, then said in a low voice, “Once I get the right sort of tool, I’ll solve that problem.”

“Don’t you think they’ll notice?” Roman asked, quite concerned.

“If I were to take what I wanted, definitely. Frau Vogel’s not the trusting sort. You’re right, I won’t be able to abscond with much, but even a little will help. I could really use some fresh food!”

“Yeah, you look like hell.” Roman brought his hand out from under the counter and keeping it cupped over something reached forward. Peter pressed his hand around the offered roll and shoved it immediately into his mouth. As he struggled to chew it, Roman explained, “There’s always some clumsy clod who drops a tray here. We take it in turns, on account of the punishment.”

“Thanks,” Peter murmured, trying not to spit food as he spoke. He swallowed the last of the bread and added,“My mother would have been appalled to see me wolf down food like this.”

“I thought you were an orphan.”

“Oh, yeah. Whatever.”

“So, you’re still settling in there?” Roman asked, indicating that he had no interest in prying.

Peter sputtered. “Ach, it’s just nonstop shit: Do this, do that, why haven’t you done such and such, why can’t you read our minds!” he whined in imitation. “The kids, too. They all think I’m their personal slave.”

“How many of the kids are at home now?”

“Five. Uwe and Geerd are off to the military. I’ve not even met them. The oldestone at home is Horst. He’s the worst of the lot.”

“Is he the tall, blond kid?”

“Yeah, skinny as a rail, pale blond, pale blue eyes. He’s only sixteen, I think, but he already wants me to use
Sie
with him.”

“And he uses
du
with you?”

“Of course! He’s sure he’s destined for leadership. Too bad he’s as thick as a brick, dumber than his father even.”

Roman laughed. “I’ve heard Herr Vogel is quite sharp.”

Peter screwed up his face in thought. “You know, I really can’t tell. Sometimes he seems reasonably bright, and at other times . . . Well, maybe it’s just that he’s so brainwashed.”

“I’ve also heard he can be quite violent.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Peter sighed. “Certainly the children are scared of him. They seem to use me as a buffer. Lucky me.”

“Well, be careful.”

Peter began to say something, but he stopped as he saw Roman’s boss approaching.

“What the hell are you doing?” the boss demanded.

“I was waiting to give our valued customers a fresh batch of rolls,
mein Herr,”
Roman replied crisply.

“All our rolls are fresh!” the baker snarled. “Fill his order now!”

Out of sight of his boss, Roman made a slight face and packed a bag of rolls and croissants. “The freshest for our most valued family,” he said with a wink as he handed the bag over.

Peter nodded his farewell and headed back to the house. He started to head down the pedestrian path, but he spotted an older couple walking along, heading toward the duck pond. They were exactly the stodgy, pious sort who would fuss about his presence, and he decided to walk back along the road to avoid the possibility of trouble.