The Children's War (30 page)

“It was always part of Germany,” Elspeth corrected. “We took back what was ours.”

Frau von dem Bach was undeterred. “Of course, some saved themselves by proving they were, after all, ethnically German—
Volksdeutsch
—but still there were those brave, romantic souls who refused on principle, or those who had uncooperative officials handling their case, or those who were swept away in the firestorm before they could even react. Oh, it was terrible! Whole noble families wiped out! Those whom the Nazis didn’t kill, the Soviets liquidated by executing en masse in their anonymous forests or by sending to their deaths in Siberia.”

“You are not comparing us with those Communist beasts are you?”

“For my parents, your grandparents, it was rather too close for comfort, but then it was too late for them to withdraw their support from the regime—you
see, they had made quite a profit out of it. So they were obliged to accept the slaughter as an unfortunate fait accompli.”

Elspeth yawned.

“Don’t you see?” Frau von dem Bach pleaded. “But for an arbitrary border, barely twenty years old, it could have been us!”

“Nonsense.”

“They were destroyed for their class! It was class that mattered. It still does. Your husband and his ilk despise us as a class! You watch, they’re going to try and destroy us!”

“Oh, Mother, don’t fret. Germans are the natural master race; the Führer won’t ever allow harm to come to us. Now that we’ve purified the land, we can live in everlasting peace.”

Frau von dem Bach grimaced with frustration. Patiently she said, “The question, Elspeth, is who will be considered polluted next? You don’t realize how many
Germans
were slaughtered to make way for your New Order. Look at how many Jews fought for the Fatherland in the Great War. Look at how many ran industries which kept our economy on the cutting edge!”

“They weren’t proper Germans.”

“One day, my dear, you might wake up to find you’re not a ‘proper German’ either.”

“Nonsense, I’m completely loyal! I do wish you’d stop talking such rot. Especially in front of . . .” Elspeth nodded her head at Peter as though not invoking his name would be sufficient to prevent him from understanding all that had gone before.

Frau von dem Bach said something in French, which he guessed, using what little he knew, meant that they could always speak in a language he did not understand. Elspeth looked completely blank and he bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Frau von dem Bach rolled her eyes in exasperation, then she addressed him directly in German: “Get me another cognac—a really large one.”

After the women retired for the night, Peter cleared up the drink glasses and finished his other work from the day. He then went into the cellar and looked at his supplies. There was a bit of sausage left; he sniffed it and wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was hard keeping meat during the summer months: even the coolness of the cellar was insufficient to prevent rot. He wiped off the mold and decided to boil the meat for a while. He knew he had plenty of time since Karl would not be back until very late and he was obliged to stay up until then.

Once the meat had boiled, he inspected the greasy water and decided it would serve as a reasonable base for soup the next day. No point wasting all those wonderful globs of fat—the calories were precious. He decided to prepare the soup then and there since he had the time, and he chopped some onions, a
carrot, and a bit of cabbage and even diced up some of the meat to add to it. He was running low on salt and decided to pilfer some from Elspeth’s pantry. While he was at it, he decided to borrow a few spices and a bit of barley as well. That would give the soup some flavor and body. It was a good time to pilfer—what with Frau von dem Bach in the house, Elspeth was too distracted to notice such things.

After he had added the extra ingredients, he set the coil to its lowest setting and went upstairs to eat his meal in the relative comfort of the kitchen. When he was finished, he returned to the cellar, turned off the coil, and covered the soup. A rat ventured out from the shadows, and without thinking, he killed it by slamming the edge of his heel on its neck. Grasping it by the tail, he picked it up and spent a moment contemplating it. They must be edible, he thought; certainly cats eat them. The rat swung unappetizingly back and forth, blood filling its mouth. Of course, it would have to be cooked thoroughly. Really thoroughly. Some sort of recipe was lurking in the back of his head—something he had heard in his youth. Scald it, then use cold water, then defur and gut the thing. Then something about soaking it in brine and spices. Hammer the muscles into steaks, dry for a day, and then cook.

The rat continued to swing, ticktock, ticktock. Probably his method of execution had sprayed the rodent’s guts throughout its body: it was probably totally inedible. And, he decided with a smile, he wasn’t that hungry yet. Maybe in a year or so he would establish a rodent-meat assembly line: little rat steaks hanging out to dry in the cellar. Wouldn’t Elspeth be horrified! It would be worth doing just to see her expression. He went up the steps and tossed the cadaver into the back garden. It was too risky stepping outside at night; he would bury it tomorrow. He returned to the cellar, spent a few minutes washing and shaving, and then decided he should probably return to the ground floor. It was one o’clock in the morning—Karl might well be back soon. He rubbed his face in irritation: he was tired and had to get up in a few hours to fetch the morning bread, but he could not go to sleep until Karl returned home.

Upstairs, he opened the front door and looked out into the well-lit night. Still no sign of Karl. The air was warm and humid, and the division between inside and outside seemed obscured; it all looked so normal, so peaceful. It struck him as odd that if he walked out the door and into the street, he could be arrested or shot; it was past curfew, and nothing but an emergency could explain his presence out of doors. It had been that way all his life: always some boundary, always some curfew. He closed the door and went to the drinks cabinet. He had carefully obscured Elspeth’s view when he had put the whiskey away so she would not know how low the bottle was, at least not until she had a chance to check when her mother was not around. Since she was a great believer in the power of locks, he could usually pull out a shot or two with no problem; now, with her mother visiting, he estimated that he could easily pour a tumbler without her
noticing. He pulled out his pick and opened the lock and, pouring some whiskey into a glass, drank it down in several gulps. It felt good going down, burning him with the sensation of a genuine life. He poured more and, keeping his ears open for Karl, savored it. When he finished, he rinsed and replaced the glass, then went into the hall and sat down on the floor near the door so he could hear Karl arrive.

He felt quite worried about what Karl would do to him since their little interchange that evening. He wished that the ladies had let Karl take whatever revenge he needed then and there, in the sure knowledge that Karl would have controlled himself in their presence. Now, however, he was not sure what to expect. From his position on the floor, he reached up to the little hall table, the one with all of Elspeth’s stupid glass figurines, the ones that needed to be cleaned all the time, and opened the cigarette box and grabbed one. She usually counted them, but again, with her mother in the house, he doubted she would be able to keep track of each and every one. He grabbed the little crystal lighter that sat next to the box and lit the cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, listening carefully for Karl as he took what pleasure he could from the cigarette, but he need not have worried as Karl did not return until nearly four. He awoke from a deep sleep when he heard the car door slam and only managed to get up just in time to open the door. Karl staggered in, nodded toward the cigarettes, and Peter nervously lit one for him. Karl blew a stream of smoke into Peter’s face and then told him to fetch some whiskey.

“Frau Vogel is asleep,
mein Herr,”
he protested gently.

Karl did not reply, rather just looked at him with that don’t-make-merepeatmyself look.

Resigned, he climbed the steps to Elspeth’s bedroom, rapped lightly on the door, and went in when she responded.

“What is it? What time is it?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Where’s my husband? What do you want?” She sounded dazed.

“Herr Vogel is in the sitting room; he wants the keys to the drinks cabinet.”

Elspeth sighed heavily. For a moment she seemed about to engage in a longdistance debate using him as the go-between, but then decided better of it. She removed the small key she wore on a ribbon around her neck and opened the drawer of her bedside table.

“Here,” she said, flinging the entire ring of keys at him. “Tell him to serve himself; you should be in bed already.”

He raised an eyebrow at the ludicrousness of her suggestion, but did not comment. He returned with the keys to the drinks cabinet and poured the whiskey. He waited, standing tiredly, as Karl drank that, and then Peter poured another and waited some more. Karl smoked and drank and stared at him but did not say a word. Eventually, Karl had enough and, checking that the cabinet was locked, took the keys and headed toward the bedroom. Peter followed,
helped Karl prepare for bed, and then, utterly dispirited, climbed the next flight of steps to his own attic room.

30

T
HE ATMOSPHERE IN THE
room was stultifying. Not so much that there were too many bodies in too small a space, nor that the windows had not been opened despite the oppressive summer heat—that, after all, was impossible given the security considerations—nor was it even due to the ubiquitous presence of black, brown, and gray uniforms and suits. The air was simply thick with inappropriate metaphors, sleazy compliments, innuendos, and veiled threats. It was, needless to say, another useless, time-wasting, and obligatory Party political meeting.

Richard stretched as much as he dared and discreetly yawned behind his hand. A young woman entered the room and tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him, conveying an important message that gave the lucky fellow a wellearned break from the tedium. Richard scanned the room and noticed how nearly every eye had covertly watched the woman as she walked up the aisle, bent over the rows of bored men, and talked to her boss. Even the speaker seemed momentarily distracted from his stale pronouncements, but then he found his wind and continued to drone on.

Eventually he finished and the obedient audience applauded. At this point all eyes moved to the Führer and awaited that subtle moment when his hands approached each other to rest rather than clap. Nearly everyone caught the moment, and the applause dropped off precipitously to near silence. The one or two laggards stopped clapping and glanced around embarrassed.

The next speaker was introduced, a Herr Schacht. Finally! Richard sat up to listen closely. Schacht introduced the prison-reform concepts that Richard had outlined only months earlier to his own staff. Richard listened as Schacht explained how there had been trials in various locations around the Reich and that preliminary results were filtering in. “It seems that given the preliminary results of these initiatives, which were introduced by . . .” Schacht’s eyes strayed into the audience, settling briefly on Richard before moving on. Richard leaned in to hear his name invoked. He had worked so hard to get someone in Berlin to listen to him, and now here was his moment! “. . . myself,” Schacht concluded,“to the Führer only several months ago, we can feel confident that things are moving in the right direction.”

Richard grimaced. It was probably good news that Schacht felt it necessary to steal his applause; nevertheless, he grit his teeth in irritation. He continued to listen as Schacht presented the Göringstadt results, which had been handed to him
only the day before. At no point did he mention Richard’s name, at no point was there any indication that anyone else was involved in the program. It was exactly what Richard had expected, and he was perversely gratified, since he had planned accordingly. He had banked a great deal on the success of this venture and had risked a lot by publicizing his involvement in advance of the results. Furthermore, he had already organized his own minor publicity stunt for this meeting, which would get the attention he needed from the high command and make his name known and his presence desired. He glanced at his watch and counted down the minutes.

Precisely on time a beautiful young woman stepped onto the stage from a side entrance. She took several doelike steps toward the speaker, then paused, as if stunned by the sudden glare of eyes that rested on her. She threw a heartbreakingly vulnerable glance into the audience; her eyes rested momentarily on the Führer, and a surge of sexual energy charged the auditorium. Then her eyes moved languorously across the room and settled on her father. Everyone turned in their seats to see who was the beneficiary of this glorious creature’s attention. Richard graced his daughter with a questioning half-smile, and she turned back toward the speaker and approached the podium, whispering something into his ear.

The Führer watched Richard’s daughter intently, his chest heaving. He licked his lips and leaned toward his companion as if asking a question.

“That is not how these things are handled!” Schacht snapped at the young woman.

The Führer turned his attention to the speaker and frowned. The young woman apologized in an undertone and the word “emergency” escaped into the microphone.

Schacht scowled and then announced, “Traugutt, you have an emergency and are needed at the hospital!”

Richard rose, made his way out to the aisle, approached the stage, and extended an arm to his daughter as she descended the steps. He listened as she whispered what had brought her to interrupt the conference and saw, out of the corner of his eye, how the Führer stared at his daughter, how his gaze dropped down from her glistening brown hair to her long, sensuous legs, taking in every detail in between. Richard turned to the Führer and bowed, beginning an apology, which was preempted by the Führer’s rising to his feet and extending his hand.

“And just how did such a lovely creature escape the attention of our security?” the Führer asked, holding her hand in both of his.

“Oh, I was thoroughly searched,” the lovely creature replied. Richard watched how the Führer’s lips twitched. “And I had to prove my identity, I mean, my relationship to one of the attendees.”

“And just what relationship is that?” the Führer asked, breathless with anticipation.

“This is my daughter,” Richard explained to the Führer’s obvious relief. Richard continued by introducing himself and explaining that he currently resided in Göringstadt, that his wife had remained behind, and so his daughter had had no one else to turn to when his young son had taken ill.

“But of course, you must tend to your family!” the Führer responded understandingly. “The family is the backbone of our Reich! By all means, don’t hesitate, your child needs you! Go sign whatever forms the hospital needs, but I do hope we get a chance to meet again later.”

“Yes, later,” Richard agreed.

“Yes, later,” his daughter echoed with an alluring smile.