The Children's War (42 page)

45

T
HE
D
ECEMBER
SNOW DRIFTED
slowly to the ground, giving the world a silent covering of isolation. Peter watched the flakes through the kitchen window as he chopped onions for Elspeth, his thoughts straying to Allison and times long past. Elspeth sat behind him in a world of her own, a cup of tea untouched in front of her, the radio playing a
Winterfest
speech that she ignored, completely immersed in the romantic novel she was reading, her head bowed forward, her lips moving ever so slightly, her fingers gripping the edges of her book.

The snow was sticky, it clung to everything, gathering in clumps, then falling suddenly to the ground. Not gratitude, he thought as another powdery bomb released itself from a tree limb. It wasn’t quite gratitude anymore. The groveling thankfulness had dissipated over the months since his release from working at the factory; still, something in his attitude was alien to the person Allison had known. He finished chopping the onions, dropped them into a bowl, cleaned the board, and started on the green peppers, all without taking his eyes off the snow that drifted so carelessly down to earth.

What would Allison have called it? Submissiveness? Cowardice? Fatigue? Whatever she would have thought of him now, it would have been far kinder than anything he himself would have said. Arrogant and judgmental as he had been, he would have hated the person he was now. Hated, mocked, scorned, pitied. He sighed and glanced down at the fresh green pieces of pepper. Where did they get such things in midwinter? They had been essentially unavailable in London, at least in the stores the English were permitted to use. He eyed the food enviously. Wherever it came from, it was still unavailable to him, at least most of the time. Sometimes he took liberties, or rather, sometimes he gambled, gambled on Elspeth’s disposition.

The rules of the game were fairly clear: she wavered, unpredictably, from benign neglect and indulgent good humor all the way to petty vindictiveness; he simply guessed her state of mind and took liberties accordingly. If he won, he could supplement his grimly bland diet or speak his mind or manage in some other trivial way to assert his humanity. If he lost, well, then he paid a price at her discretion. In this way he formalized the disconcerting randomness of being at another’s whim and so managed to pass his time and while away his life.

Without obviously moving his head, he glanced at Elspeth and then discreetly shoved a handful of the chopped peppers into his mouth.

“I saw that.”

He turned to look at Elspeth, half smiling to beg her indulgence.

Without even bothering to look up from her novel, she commanded, “Spit it out.”

He did, throwing the half-chewed handful into the compost bowl with more than a hint of exasperation. As he washed his hands, Elspeth stood and, placing her book upside down on the table so she would not lose her place, walked over to the shelf on which she kept her little book, the one in which she noted his misbehavior.

“I’ve told you a thousand times not to do that,” she admonished, writing something down.

Lost that round, he thought grimly. He was angry that he had so badly miscalculated, but aware that he could do nothing to stop her from recording a punishment, all he said was, “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Unforgivable,” Elspeth muttered. She shook her head in dismay. “You’re behavior is just getting worse and worse. I thought you had finally settled down, but now . . .”

“I’m terribly sorry,
gnä’ Frau,”
he said with convincing sincerity.

“You are hopeless!” Elspeth sighed as if exasperated, though she sounded amused.

“I won’t do it again.”

Nevertheless, two days later he was carrying some sherry into the kitchen to use in a recipe. Thinking Elspeth was still in the kitchen, he mindlessly took a swig from the bottle while still in the hall.

“Peter!” Elspeth nearly screeched.

“Oh, fuck,” he blurted.

“Peter!” Elspeth did screech.

He was beside himself. How in God’s name could he have behaved so carelessly? Caught out twice in as many days!
“Gnädige . . . ,”
he began lamely.

“You’re not going to try and say you didn’t just drink straight out of our bottle,-are you?”

Abashed, he answered quietly,“No.”

Elspeth shook her head in exasperation. “You’re beyond belief! What in the world do you think you’re doing?” She brushed past him on the way to her book; clearly she did not expect an answer.

His thoughts tumbled over each other as he tried to get past having acted so stupidly and to rectify his situation. As Elspeth picked up her pen, he said on an inspiration, “I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I was just feeling happy and at home here. Feeling the spirit of
Winterfest
and . . .”

The way Elspeth glanced up at him encouraged him, and he added, “You know, like part of the family.”

Elspeth set her book back down and sighed. “That really is a disgusting habit. You know, you’ve ruined that entire bottle for us.”

“I’m terribly sorry. But look”—he held up the bottle and smiled sheepishly— “there’s not much in there anyway.”

“All right. You may as well keep the rest for yourself. Go fetch the new bottle.”

“Living in an asylum would be less confusing,” Marta opined when Peter told her about the incident. She snuggled closer to him under the mess of old blankets and rags he used as a bed. He felt the warmth of her naked body and shivered with anticipation. “Did you get a present this year?”

“No, not this year,” he answered with a twinge of regret. “I’m surprised you remembered that I got one last year.”

“Oh, you seemed so impressed by it then,” she teased.

He felt embarrassed but did not say anything.

“What time is it?”

“I would guess around three,” he answered, yawning. “We finished early tonight.”

“What time do you have to get up?”

“I could push it back until seven tomorrow. What about you, should I wake you up?”

“Yes, please. Mistress wants me back early to prepare for her party tomorrow night,” Marta answered.

“Ugh. Poor baby, you don’t get any time off,” he commiserated. He draped his arm over her and stroked her back. “You feel good.”

“Ah, that feels nice.”

“Your skin is so smooth,” he commented as his hand gently massaged her back.

“Ha!” Marta laughed. “You’re just randy.”

“Even so, your skin is buttery smooth,” he assured her, leaning over to kiss the small of her back.

“Not my hands,” she argued, turning slightly so she could extend one to him.

He caressed it and kissed the veins along the back of her hand. “So delicate!” He traced a pattern along her fingers. “Women’s hands are so incredible to me, so delicate yet so strong!” He kissed each finger in turn and then playfully ran his tongue along the length of her index finger.

“I gather you’re not sleepy.”

“How could I be?”

Afterward she joked, “I guess, what with this being the second year in a row, you could say we have a long-term commitment.”

“Maybe we could make it more frequent than once a year. I could find my way over to your place once in a while.”

“No!” she gasped. “Don’t!”

“I’m sorry. Is there someone else?” he asked, trying not to show how hurt he was by her reaction.

“No, not that. You might get caught and then we’d both be punished.”

“I’d never tell them your name.”

“They might guess it! Promise me you won’t do anything foolish like that! Promise!” she whispered urgently.

“I promise,” he said sadly.

“I’ll see you next year,” she said to console him. “Really. We’ll see each other next
Winterfest!”

He pressed his head against her and murmured, “I look forward to that.” And it was the truth.

As he served drinks to the family the following evening, it finally hit him. Next
Winterfest!
Elspeth and Karl sat with their eyes glued to the television, and he carefully placed their
Glähwein
on their respective side tables. Next year, Marta had promised. Next year! He climbed the stairs to deliver Ulrike’s cup of cocoa to her in her bedroom. Next year, Marta had said. And he had said he would look forward to it. He
did
look forward to it! God in heaven! He fully expected to still be in this household a year in the future. When, he wondered, had he made that decision?

Ever since he had started working in that factory—when was that? April or so? Ever since then, he had done absolutely nothing with his life. Even when it had ended, he had been too . . . what was the word? Traumatized? No, not that. Fearful? Submissive? Grateful? Yes, grateful. He had been too grateful to have had a single rebellious thought, had not dared to take one independent action. He had not even resurrected his clandestine meetings. He had used excuses: exhaustion, too busy, the holidays. He had congratulated himself on the silly games he played with Elspeth, thinking that somehow that was a sign of his unbroken spirit. Yet he had done nothing, nothing at all. Josef’s teasing words,
you’ll be saying that twenty years from now,
came back to him. Oh, God, were they right? It had to stop! He had to do something to regain his sanity and reclaim his rights as a human being!

“Peter,” Ulrike said almost shyly.

He blinked in confusion at her.
“Fräulein?”

“Do you know anything about history? I really wish someone could explain this stuff to me!”

The question surprised him. “I know a few things,” he finally answered, “but I don’t think I could help you very much.”

“Why not?” she asked, her eyes straying back to her book.

“We have different histories.”

She gave him her full attention. “How so? History is history. Certainly if you know about it, you could tell it to me!”

He smiled and chewed his thumb, wondering at the naÔvetó of her question and what he should say in reply. Of course, the safest thing to do would be to agree that what she was taught was the truth and then leave as quickly as possible, but, he wondered, what was the point in safety? And he thought of what Konstantin had said to him. Ulrike was one of the ruling class. Maybe he could influence her? Of course, it’d be better if she were a man. As a woman she was essentially powerless, but maybe, one day, she might influence her husband, or
even her children. It was a tenuous connection to power, but starting somewhere was better than doing nothing at all.

Her expression had grown puzzled at his silence. Still he hesitated. This would not be like the little games he played with Elspeth where the consequences of a miscalculation were sometimes painfully felt but otherwise irrelevant. Nor would it be like his secret meetings with his friends. This would be crossing that invisible line that separated the life and actions of a lesser being from a member of the ruling class. This would be a violation of the sacred barriers erected within their very house. This would be unforgivable. And if something went wrong, say for instance Ulrike told a teacher what he had intimated to her, then he could easily face deadly consequences. It would be treason, or more precisely, given his status, perfidious treachery. It would be, in any case, a capital offense. He wondered how he could possibly justify risking his life like that, but then he almost laughed as he realized how little was at stake anymore.