The Children's War (66 page)

“How so?”

“Corrupting an officer of the Reich, seduction, perverse acts, unnatural proclivities—oh, the list could be endless. Any court would naturally assume I had provoked any illegal or immoral action.”

“Yes, it would,” Zosia agreed upon reflection. “What happened next?”

“I tried to leave, but he stopped me at the door. I remember how he put his hand on my shoulder.” Peter shuddered. “It still makes my flesh crawl. I knew I couldn’t physically resist, not with his goons ready to help whenever he called them, so I just kept trying to talk him out of it. All he did was hum the stupid piano music that was playing and go on about how wonderful German composers were.” Peter paused as if listening to something. “ ‘Das Wohltempierte Klavier.’ I can still hear it.”

He was so obviously distracted by the music that Zosia found herself listening for it as well. When she realized what she was doing, she said, “Please continue.”

He looked up at her as if hurt by her words. Distantly he said, “Finally, he stopped humming long enough to tell me I had no choice except one: it could be painful and public or it could be quick and quiet.” He turned his head to stare out of the tent into the distance. “I opted for quick and quiet.”

Zosia shifted uncomfortably, then asked, incredulous,
“You agreed?”
Peter nodded. “I knew that nothing I did would make a difference. He had overwhelming force at his beck and call, and he would use it if he had to. It would have been trivial for him to justify my murder . . .” He licked his lips as he stared silently into the distant past.

After a few moments Zosia prompted, “So?”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of his goons being there, witnessing it all. I just wanted it over with. I drank a lot of his brandy, to numb my sensibilities, and then . . . Afterwards, I walked back, feeling pretty sick. Geoff waited past curfew to ask what it was all about. I put him off with some lies.”

“He believed you?”

“I think so. I don’t really know what the others thought. Either they were oblivious or they didn’t care. Or maybe they thought it better not to notice, for my sake. After a while though, Geoff confronted me . . .”

“You mean it kept going on?” Zosia asked, her tone betraying distaste.

“Oh, yes, on and on.”

“How long did it go on?”

Peter noticed that she had ceased taking notes. “Too long. He did me favors, got me reassigned to easier jobs inside the camp, gave me stuff. It was humiliating.” He remembered the humiliation and the strange feelings of filthiness and complicity. Even now his gut ached. “Anyway, Geoff finally asked what the hell was going on, and with some prodding, I told him. It was a wake-up call. He suggested I use my position. Gain his trust, he said, then use it against him. And that’s what I did. I got myself assigned to cleaning the offices, made myself appear trustworthy so they’d leave me alone, then I looked for maps, money, anything that might be of help. That’s when I found out about my debt.

“Meanwhile, Geoff organized some of the boys into an information network. He wanted to get me the precise information I would need to make it to the border if a chance for escape presented itself. There had always been an underground network—our black market ensured that—so it was not difficult to organize them to a new task. Once they had a well-defined goal, the lads were very efficient at bringing in information. I guess they enjoyed the diversion.

“Finally, I hit pay dirt. It had nearly escaped my notice because it looked so normal, but it was a set of duplicate books. It took a while to compare the Byzantine entries of one set of books with the other, but eventually I was convinced: the
Kommandant
was embezzling.

“Now the Party might indeed be tolerant of ‘social errors’ on the part of its top officers, but when it comes to money, they’re not so forgiving. With the information Geoff had gathered and those books, I knew I could write my ticket out of the country. So, after several days of preparation and planning, it was finally the eve of the ultimatum. Me and Geoff and several trusted lads were celebrating quietly in the barracks with some booze we had got from one of the guards. No one was planning to leave except me, since they all had limited terms and homes to return to.

“Just as we were toasting my departure, I was summoned to see him. That’s when I gave him my ultimatum. He essentially agreed to my terms.” Peter smiled at that one moment of triumph. He remembered being led into the
Kommandant
’s quarters. The
Kommandant
had been in his robe—dark blue satin with gold cording—sitting in an armchair, his legs crossed, covered by the burgundy satin of his pajama bottoms, his feet shod with black leather slippers each with a gold swastika embroidered at the toe.

“Long time no see,” the
Kommandant
had leered, then coughed slightly as he set his cigarette down. Then, his tone changing considerably, he had ordered, “Pour yourself some brandy or whatever you need. Just hurry up, I’m not in a patient mood.”

Peter had done as suggested, then slowly, savoring the moment, he had walked over to the
Kommandant
and had thrown the expensive brandy in his face.

The
Kommandant
had sputtered obscenities and threats to which Peter had replied,
“You
are going to arrange my transport out of this country, and I’ll tell you exactly how and I’ll even tell you why, you goddamned, slime-covered, putrid-brained, shit-faced bastard.”

It had taken a long time for the
Kommandant
to calm down enough to stop sputtering, and Peter had not helped matters by continuing to address the
Kommandant
with every insult he could recall or invent, but finally they began to communicate, and slowly it dawned on the
Kommandant
that he had better listen carefully and do exactly as he was told.

“So that’s how you got to Switzerland?”

Awakened from his reverie, Peter answered, “Yeah. He was to provide papers and a car and driver to get me across the border. I gave him a week to organize it all and let him know that the compromising evidence was not in my possession, and if anything happened to me, anything at all, no matter how accidental or unfortunate, it would be delivered immediately to his superiors. And to the local newspaper for good measure.

“He wondered how we could manage that, and I remember being quite pleased to inform him that there was no shortage of volunteers to help us out among his own men. Then I explained I would send a postcard from Geneva with an undisclosed code to someone in the camp, and only then would my men accept that I was safe. I’ve always wondered what happened, since I never managed to send that card.”

Zosia made a note, then asked, “What did he do?”

“Fretted that he could be hanged. I told him it would serve him right, but nevertheless, we would help him cover up his actions. The way he looked at me then, pouting and hurt, that’s when I realized he was probably truly insane. I didn’t want to push him over the edge, so I tried to reassure him.” Peter used his thumbnail to scrape some dirt off Uwe’s shirt. “That’s when he whispered to me that he would miss me.”

They sat silently as Zosia jotted down a few more things.

“Now, tell me about what happened in Switzerland.”

He explained about the old couple who had taken him in and their kindness, about reporting to the government office, and how somewhere in that bureaucratic maze, someone had betrayed him to the kidnappers. With devastating brevity, he told her of his terrifying return to the Reich and his brutal interrogation.

“Altogether it was about a month or more before I got to trial, and surprise, surprise, I was found guilty.” Again he stopped. It was like some weird hallucination: the strange, horrible puppet theater that had been his trial. Zosia waited patiently. Eventually he said, “Actually, I never heard the sentence of death. I was out cold by then.”

Zosia brought her hand to her mouth as though to hide the tremble of her lips. He caught the glint of a tear in her eye. She blinked excessively. Without knowing why, he asked her, “Who are you thinking about?”

Too quickly she answered, “No one, please continue.”

“At that point, instead of executing me, they reclassified me and dumped me into some sort of reeducation program. I didn’t know they did that sort of thing.”

“The reeducation?” Zosia asked as she noted something down.

“No, the reclassification. It was completely unnecessary—after all, I was a criminal convict, so they didn’t need to do that. It’s not consistent with their philosophy. It didn’t make any sense.”

She smiled indulgently. “Their philosophy is whatever suits their needs. Just read the crap they write about us. We’re Aryan in one speech, just in need of some direction, and in the next we’re fit only for slavery or extermination.”

“Well, when the only thing they have to judge things on is their idea of Aryan looks . . .”

“You mean like Hitler’s?”

“Fair point,” he laughed.

“You offended them. Your blue eyes and blond hair became irrelevant at that point.”

He nodded. “I think worse than irrelevant.”

Zosia raised her eyebrows expectantly, but he did not explain further, instead continuing his story. He told her about the Reusches and about his betrayal by them and how he had spent his years in the Vogel household. He spoke of his degradation, his pain and exhaustion, his utter loneliness. He told her about Teresa and Ulrike and Horst. He told her about the scene in Karl’s study and his humiliating capitulation to Karl’s demands, and about the months he had been leased out like a piece of equipment. He paused to collect himself, then as if he were talking about another person, someone he hardly knew, he told her about the horrendous beating he had received for his conversations with Ulrike and the months of random violence afterward. He told her about Uwe and how he had, by then, lost all track of his life and any semblance of independence. “Two madmen talking at each other,” he joked. Then he explained what had happened in the plaza and how perhaps, more than anything, the look in Teresa’s eyes had told him he had to risk leaving—that the cost of surviving was simply too high if it meant he had to stay.

When he finished, he felt thoroughly exhausted, but somehow cleansed. They sat silently for a few moments. It was growing dark. Finally Zosia broke the silence. “I need you to fill in a few details here—spellings, full names, and exact dates and places—as far as you can.” She handed him her clipboard.

Peter accepted it wearily. He did not know what he had expected, but it wasn’t that. She seemed to understand and assured him, “I believe your story. Not only that, but I think we can use it.”

“Use?” he asked, almost affronted.

She looked into his face as if trying to read his thoughts, then slowly she explained, “It’s my English, I’m sorry. I meant that I think I can convince the
committee with it. We just have to check on these details, and if they agree with your story, well, that and my testimony on your behalf should be sufficient.”

“Sufficient,” he murmured as he scanned the dates and names she had listed. When would it end? Then a thought suddenly penetrated his weariness and he asked, “You can check on these details?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“But how long will that take? It could take weeks!”

“No, we’ll know enough in a matter of hours.”

“Hours?
How?”

Zosia suddenly looked wary, then she sighed as though admitting defeat. “I’m afraid I’ve told you more than I should have.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? If you decide to trust me, you’ll have to trust me completely, anything less would be pointless. And if you decide you don’t trust me, well . . . Your secret is safe with me in either case.”