The Children's War (43 page)

“Why not,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Why not what?” Ulrike asked, thoroughly confused.

He quickly assessed the situation and deciding it was safe enough asked, “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes!” she answered, impressed by his seriousness, but then added, perplexed, “Know what?”

He walked to the door, glanced down the hallway to be sure no one was listening. He did not want to scare her by beginning with the list of crimes that constituted recent history; in any case, she probably would not believe him, and he had no proof. Rather, he decided to try to gently persuade her to raise her own questions, to overcome a lifetime of brainwashing and propaganda. Satisfied that they would not be overheard, he began by carefully explaining that he had a different version of events: a version that she had never heard before—one that made the world a different place from what she thought it was.

He began by carefully debunking Nazi mythology about their Aryan origins, explaining the origins of people and their movement across the planet. He explained the development of races, tried to convey to her the equality and dignity of all humans and their complex and rich history. He interrupted himself frequently to walk to the door and check the hall, but their illicit conversation remained undetected. He paced back and forth nervously, speaking quietly so that she had to strain to listen. Sometimes she asked questions in a voice that was painfully loud to him. He struggled to answer every question without breaking the flow of his narrative. A sense of urgency drove him, there was so much to tell her.

She looked puzzled by his constant vigilance, but she did not ask about it. She searched his face for an explanation, but he gave none. He continued to speak in an intense, almost rushed whisper until he was interrupted by a summons from the sitting room. He headed for the door but stopped in the middle of the room and stood still, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turned around slowly and scanned her countenance. Was she really so innocent?

“Don’t tell anyone about what I’ve said here,” he pleaded.

“Why not?” she asked, suspicion creeping into her voice.

“I don’t have time to explain now. Just don’t.” He paused, then added, “Please. At least, not yet, okay?”

“All right,” Ulrike agreed reluctantly.

“Your word?”

“You have my word.”

He winked at her and left.

“What took you so long?” Elspeth asked as he entered the sitting room.

“Sorry,
gnädige Frau.
Your wishes?” he replied without answering her question. It sufficed. Tossing the keys to the liquor cabinet in his direction, she commanded him to pour them some brandy and so he did.

Over the weeks his conversations with Ulrike continued, and he covered a range of topics from a perspective she had not even guessed existed. He never got around to explaining why she should keep it all secret, and she did not bother to ask again—it slowly became apparent to her that his worldview could be considered dangerous. Certainly it brought the natural social order into question, and because of that, one evening, she shifted the conversation to a more personal level.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re supposed to be a criminal—that’s what your uniform says. What did you do?”

He smiled. What hadn’t he done? In Nazi society, it was so easy to run afoul of the law. But she seriously expected an answer, so he explained, “In England, there is a requirement for all men to serve the Reich.”

“Oh, yes, we have that, too. Two years’ military service for men, or four years’ nonmilitary service. Of course, everyone chooses the military. For women— there is two years’ civic service when they’re eighteen. That is, if they’re not married. Many girls get married then, but I won’t! Not for that reason!”

“Well, in England, it’s six years, usually abroad, and definitely not military.”

“Why not?”

Could she really be so naive? Or was she joking?

“I don’t think they trust us with weapons,” he responded dryly. This was not exactly true, for there were prisoner battalions scattered across the various fronts. There were also, of course, the collaborators, who saw the military as their best hope of career advancement and redemption from an unfortunate choice of parentage, but such details would complicate the matter unnecessarily, and in general, the choice of two years in the military was not an option.

“So?” she asked.

“So?”

“What about you? You haven’t answered my question.”

“Ah, yes, well, I was doing my time in a camp and one day we got a new commander, who was a sadist. Do you know what that means?”

She nodded.

He wondered if she really did.“He took a particular dislike to me.”

“Did he mistreat you?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Didn’t you tell the authorities?”

“No,” he sighed.“He was the authority.”

She looked blank.

“Trust me. There was no one I could tell.”

She stared at him, unbelieving.

“Poor little sweet Ulrike. There are things in this world about which you have no idea. Haven’t you been listening to all I’ve said? It’s not abstract history—it’s what is really happening to people. Believe me, I had no one to turn to. The only way to avoid his . . . to avoid his”—he paused, painfully aware that memories were in danger of flooding back—“to avoid him was to leave. So, I escaped. I fled the camp and the country.”

Ulrike stared at him, fascinated. “What happened then?”

“Then I was captured and . . .” Again he struggled to suppress images of horrifying darkness; a suffocating tightness threatened to strangle his words. “I was brought back.”

“And then?”

The room grew unfocused as he stared into his past. “Then, I was brutally tortured for months.” He licked his lips, his eyes remained fixed on a distant point. “And then released so I could work, as I do here.”

“But what was your crime?”

He brought his gaze back to Ulrike’s face. “That was it. I wanted to be free. I didn’t want to be mistreated.”

“I think you should have told the authorities. I’m sure they would have handled it.”

“Perhaps. It didn’t seem possible at the time. Maybe I made a mistake.”

“But imagine! An officer of the Reich mistreating people! It’s hard to believe. Are you sure you didn’t give him cause?”

“I don’t think so,” he sighed.

On the following evening he was kept busy and did not have time to talk when he brought her evening drink. She wanted to say something, but she did not know what. As he set her drink down, his face betrayed no emotion. He left before she had a chance even to try to express herself.

She stared after him. He had looked tired. How did they manage to keep him so busy? When did he eat? Or sleep? She knew he was up early in the morning; sometimes she heard him moving about as she lay warm and comfortable in her bed, and he stayed up until the last person was in bed, sometimes longer—she had heard him late at night finishing whatever job was still unfinished. Did he have
any
time to himself?

She felt a sudden cold chill. Why had she never asked herself these questions
before?
If he were not a lesser being, if he were just like she was . . .
The thought made her uncomfortable. She sipped her cocoa, turned her attention back to her schoolwork, but that night, as she lay in bed, her thoughts returned to him. To the hollowness of his expression sometimes. What did life mean to him? Would he live with them until he died? What would his old age be like? Would they take care of him if he became ill? Would he never have a life of his own? Or a family? What if he had aspirations? Had he really done something so evil that he could never have a life of his own?

Or were some people truly destined at birth to always serve, to never, ever have anything else in their future? If so, couldn’t they, shouldn’t they, make him part of the family? Acknowledge his feelings? But even Ulrike knew that his feelings were that he wanted to leave, to be anywhere else but in their control. What should be done about that? Was it moral to keep him there? She felt her thoughts were driving her into a trap, and subconsciously she searched for a way out.

She turned over in bed and rearranged her pillow—somehow it had suddenly gotten-lumpy. After a few pounds, she found it still did not feel right. She got up and paced the room a bit. She went to the window and listened to the cold rain drumming softly against the pane. She felt chilled and the bed beckoned. She crawled back in and tried to snuggle under the covers, but after a while she felt driven to get up again.

Quietly she pulled on her robe and slipped out into the hallway. Her parents’ door was closed—they would be asleep by now. She slid past their door and up the stairs. The door to the attic was open; that surprised her, but then she realized that he would leave it open since it would be warmer that way. Oh, if only her parents knew, they would be furious at the wasted heat! Her intention never to tell them made her feel like a conspirator.

She hesitated, then plunged into the darkness. Even the coolness of the hallway felt warm compared to the chill inside the attic room. She stood for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dark, and after a moment she spotted him against the wall amid a bundle of old, worn blankets and rags. Really! Couldn’t they even afford a mattress?

She went up to him, found his shoulder buried among the rags. She was taken aback to feel bare flesh, wondered why he did not wear clothes to keep warm, but then realized he probably did not want to wear the same clothes day and night if he could avoid it. Somehow, the feel of his warm, bare skin excited her in a way she had not expected. His shoulder felt hard and muscular; she wondered what the rest of his body felt like. She suppressed an urge to find out and instead shook his shoulder lightly.

“Peter,” she whispered.

He groaned and murmured, “Allie?”

Ulli. He had called her by a nickname. So gently! And in his sleep! What could it mean? She struggled to restrain her excitement.A little squeak escaped her lips anyway.

“Peter!” A little louder this time.

He tried to turn, mumbled, “Allie,” again. Suddenly he awoke, looked at her blearily.

“Ulrike.” His voice was completely devoid of emotion. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Where are your parents?”

“Asleep.”

“Oh, Ulrike, go back downstairs. Now.”

“But I just want to know some things.”

“Please leave. If your parents find you here now, they’ll be furious. They’ll send me to a concentration camp. Please, Ulrike. Please leave. Quietly.”

She felt slighted. Is that all he could think about? She hadn’t meant to seduce him, the thought had not even crossed her mind, but she was only wearing a robe and her nightgown, and she was not unattractive! Certainly he should have noticed! He should have hesitated, looked at her longingly, stroked her arm, and then . . . She let the daydream slip away. It was stupid of her to have come into the attic, but then again, he had called out her name in his sleep!

He was staring at her. “Please leave, we can talk tomorrow,” he insisted, then added quietly, “It’s worth my life.”

“Just tell me one thing, and I’ll go,” she bargained. Maybe he
was
different: surely a German man would never have been so indifferent to her! Or maybe she wasn’t attractive. Either way, she felt irritated with him.