Fatherland

generals: Student-Strasse, Reichenau-Strasse, Manteuffel-Allee. March was always confused. Was it right off Model into Dietrich? Or was it left into Paulus, and then Dietrich? He drove slowly along the rows of identical bungalows until at last he recognized it.
    He pulled over in the familiar place and almost sounded the horn until he remembered that this was the third Sunday in the month, not the first—and therefore not his—and that in any case his access had been revoked. A frontal assault would be needed, an action in the spirit of Hasso von Manteuffel himself.
    There was no litter of toys along the concrete drive, and when he rang the bell, no dog barked. He cursed silently. It seemed to be his fate this week to stand outside deserted houses. He backed away from the porch, his eyes fixed on the window beside it. The net curtain flickered.
    "Pili! Are you there?"
    The corner of the curtain was abruptly parted, as if some hidden dignitary had pulled a cord unveiling a portrait, and there it was—his son's white face staring at him.
    "May I come in? I want to talk!"
    The face was expressionless. The curtain dropped back.
    Good sign or bad? March was uncertain. He waved to the blank window and pointed to the garden. "I'll wait for you here."
    He walked back to the little wooden gate and checked the street. Bungalows on either side, bungalows opposite. They extended in every direction like the huts of an army camp. Old folks lived in most of them: veterans of the First War, survivors of all that had followed—inflation, unemployment, the Party, the Second War. Even ten years ago, they had been gray and bowed. They had seen enough, endured enough. Now they stayed at home and shouted at Pili for making too much noise and watched television all day.
    March prowled around the tiny handkerchief of lawn. Not much of a life for the boy. Cars passed. Two doors down an old man was repairing a bicycle, inflating the tires with a squeaky pump. Elsewhere, the noise of a lawnmower ... No sign of Pili. He was wondering if he would have to get down on his hands and knees and shout his message through the letterbox when he heard the door being opened.
    "Good lad. How are you? Where's your mother? Where's Helfferich?" He could not bring himself to say "Uncle Erich."
    Pili had opened the door just enough to enable him to peer around it. "They're out. I'm finishing my picture."
    "Out where?"
    "Rehearsing for the parade. I'm in charge. They said so."
    "I bet. Can I come in and talk to you?"
    He had expected resistance. Instead the boy stood aside without a word and March found himself crossing the threshold of his ex-wife's house for the first time since their divorce. He took in the furniture—cheap but good looking; the bunch of fresh daffodils on the mantelpiece; the neatness; the spotless surfaces. She had done it as well as she could without much to spend. He would have expected that. Even the picture of the Führer above the telephone—a photograph of the old man hugging a child—was tasteful: Klara's deity always was a benign god, New Testament rather than Old. He took off his cap. He felt like a burglar.
    He stood on the nylon rug and began his speech. "I have to go away, Pili. Maybe for a long time. And people, perhaps, are going to say some things to you about me. Horrible things that aren't true. And I wanted to tell you . . ." His words petered out. Tell you what? He ran his hand through his hair. Pili was standing with his arms folded, gazing at him. He tried again. "It's hard not having a father around. My father died when I was very little— younger even than you are now. And sometimes I hated him for that."
    Those cool eyes . . .
    ". . . But that passed, and then—I missed him. And if I could talk to him now—ask him ... I'd give anything ..."
    ... all human hair cut off in concentration camps should be utilized. Human hair will be processed for industrial felt and spun into thread.
    He was not sure how long he stood there, not speaking, his head bowed. Eventually he said, "I have to go now."
    And then Pili was coming toward him and tugging at his hand. "It's all right, Papa. Please don't go yet. Please. Come and look at my picture."
    The boy's bedroom was like a command center. Model Luftwaffe jets assembled from plastic kits swooped and fought, suspended from the ceiling by invisible lengths of fishing line. On one wall, a map of the eastern front, with colored pins to show the positions of the armies. On