The Children's War (108 page)

“Never mind. It’s a good enough view here.” Ryszard pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Peter one.

“I thought that’s against policy.”

“Fuck policy.”

Peter shrugged, took one. Ryszard lit it for him and Peter gave a short laugh of approval.

“What?” Ryszard asked.

“Oh, I think the last person to light a cigarette for me was an insane psychiatrist who had just had me tortured. He tried to get my reaction to his methods. They were always interviewing me.”

“Hmm. Fascinating,” Ryszard replied without interest. What in God’s name did Zosia see in this man? he wondered. Was a passing similarity to Adam so damn important? They smoked in silence for a moment, then he said, “I need
your help. You see, my background placed me in London when I was young, and now that I’m going to Berlin, I’ll need more information about the place.”

“London?” Peter asked rather incredulous. “Why in the world did you choose somewhere so unfamiliar? Certainly it would have made sense to use somewhere you were familiar with.”

“Perhaps,” Ryszard agreed testily, “but the reasons were straightforward. First of all, there are not many Germans who could claim the Tatra mountains as their home, so wherever I claimed to come from, it would have been unfamiliar to me. I assumed the London background because around here it was almost guaranteed that no one would be able to call me on it. Now, as I move to Berlin, that is no longer true.”

“I see.”

“The name is a bit unfortunate as well,” Ryszard confided.

“Really, why? Richard Traugutt sounds like a perfect German name!”

“Oh, I chose it for the irony. Keeping my first name wasn’t risky, but Traugutt was a Polish nobleman who took over the leadership of the January Rising in 1863. He was hanged by the Russians in 1864.”

“So you think it’s a bad omen?”

“No, I just don’t think giving them hints like that is a good idea. At the time, I didn’t expect this identity to last so long. Now it’s too late to undo it.” Ryszard stopped and stared at the trees, then mentally preparing himself to feign a great deal of ignorance, said,“Now, tell me about London.”

“Well, I’ll tell you all I know, but I’m afraid that I have very little information about how the Germans of London lived since most people maintained strict racial separation back then.”

“Do you know anything about the Horst Wesel Academy, near Slau? My legend has me attending there.”

“Eton,” Peter said.

“Eton?”

“If you went there, you should know that was what the students called it. It’s the historical name. Well, at least for a part of the school. Even my Herr Vogel referred to it by that name.”

“Not to me he didn’t,” Ryszard objected.

“It’s sort of an insider’s thing,” Peter explained.

“Then how do you know?”

“I went there.”
“You?”
Ryszard responded, carefully imbuing the word with amazement.

“Yes, me,” Peter answered as though quite fed up. “Do you carry poison?” he casually asked.

Ryszard gave him a sharp look.

“Don’t worry, I already know all about it.”

“Of course I do.”

“Good,” Peter responded cheerfully.

“Me, my wife, and my elder children,” Ryszard continued darkly. “As for Jan
and Genia, we just have to hope they’ll die quickly and without being questioned. Does that satisfy you?”

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” Peter rubbed his forehead. “Now let me construct a life for you at Horst Wesel and in London.”

They talked for hours, moving now and then from one location to another to keep warm. Peter offered up a wealth of experiences, retelling anecdotes with the emotions and hesitancy of one who had actually experienced the events long in the past. Ryszard listened intently, using all his skill and experience as an interrogator, but he could hear nothing that implied a memorized legend. What he did hear was the voice of a lonely, ignored, and frequently harassed schoolboy, retelling the jokes and stories that had rebounded around him in locker rooms and the dining hall as he lived his life alone in a crowd, unwanted and invisible.

“Now, let’s see, you’ll probably want to know some of the standard insults they used,” Peter said, furrowing his brow in thought. “Those I know!”

Ryszard listened, laughing at some of the more amusing puns the boys used. Despite himself, he became interested in what Peter was saying and asked, “Why didn’t the English boys join forces together?”

“I believe most were genuinely trying to fit in. The last thing they wanted to do was mix with their own underclass. In fact, more often than not, it was some English kid trying to prove his loyalty that I had to fight. But even if they had wanted to gang together, I doubt if they, we, would have dared—we were too few in number and the retribution would have been horrific if it was perceived that we were forming our own gang.”

“It must have been pretty brutal,” Ryszard sympathized.

“Yeah, I don’t know why we feel the need to torment our children with schools like that. Maybe we think it makes them strong,” Peter responded. After a moment, he added, “Or self-reliant.” He pulled a bottle out of his coat and offered it up. Before Ryszard could drink, Peter cautioned, “It’s pure.”

Having been properly warned, Ryszard poured a few drops of the pure spirits onto his tongue and let the alcohol evaporate. The liquid left his tongue numb, and the vapors had a quick, dizzying effect. “Most people dilute this stuff,” he commented, handing the bottle back to Peter.

“It’s more efficient this way.” Peter drank some down.

They sat there for some moments. Ryszard smoked distractedly and watched as a few flurries floated to earth. The silence was crystalline and he was surprised when Peter broke it by saying, “I’m sorry about the way I acted at your house. It’s just that, it was only then that I realized that I was still a prisoner.”

Ryszard turned to look at Peter, but Peter did not meet his gaze. “Don’t worry,” Ryszard found himself saying, “you’ll get used to it.” He wondered at his own words as he added, “I did.”

37

A
LEX AND
A
NNA
ARRIVED
in February, a week before the wedding, saying they wanted to spend some time with their daughter and granddaughter and old friends before absconding across the pond. Everyone knew that contrary to their plans and promises, they would probably never return. No one ever did. Of course, the first plan—the one that was trotted out as the most likely—was that the Third Reich and the Soviet Union would be overthrown, a new Poland would be established, and the government in exile would be able to return home in triumph. Just a couple of years. A decade, maybe two at the most.

After everyone dutifully agreed that they would, of course, see each other again on that triumphant day, the conversation always turned to the next line of defense: even if things progressed more slowly than they all hoped, the departing couple would return in the line of duty or on business or even perhaps just to visit. There was no way they were going to be separated for the rest of their lives. No way. The exorbitant cost of travel for a government that had to beg every penny of free currency, the danger, the impracticality—none of this was mentioned. And the cultural changes that ómigrós underwent—the way they began to view the war and their homeland as a political playground, as a distant and unseen fantasy world—these things were not mentioned either.

Peter observed the little theater, the glib reassurances and the unspoken misgivings, and mused about the likelihood of Alex and Anna ever returning from the land of milk and honey, the land of peace and prosperity, to their homeland—a shattered corpse that lay decaying under the Nazis’ heel. The wedding, he realized more and more, was just an excuse for a great gathering of the clan— the marriage ceremony itself seemed rather tangential to the family gathering, to the farewells being said to Alex and Anna, to the fond wishes for Ryszard and his family as they headed to Berlin. This did not annoy Peter—indeed the changes in their lives were far more disruptive than what he and Zosia planned, and he did not begrudge them their family reunion. However, he was slightly perturbed by the interactions of the group at large. It was so obvious to an outsider—one such as he—that they had been surviving for too long in isolation, that the Underground society might well collapse under the accumulated weight of preserving itself against the Nazi regime that surrounded it and threatened it with death at every turn. They had learned to cope with the most extreme of circumstances, but they were losing every other aspect of themselves as a result. The children’s chants at his adoption of Joanna returned to haunt him. How long could a people survive surrounded by murder and mayhem and still hope to maintain a semblance of normalcy? Could it continue even ten more years?

“In any case, my dear friends,” Alex was saying quite loudly, “I know I’ll get to
see my youngest daughter here and my granddaughter quite soon since I’m sure they’ll be accompanying Peter on his visit!”

“What?” Peter responded in alarm, unable to reconstruct whatever had gone before.

“Ah, yes, the dear boy, he’s going to speak on our behalf! It will be a great coup!” Alex did not address Peter directly, but aimed his comments at the crowd of well-wishers.

“What are you talking about?” Peter yelled over the heads of the crowd between himself and Alex. He was being set up, it was clear, but he saw no way out except to walk into the trap and try to get out the other side. The room fell quiet, and everyone turned to Alex to hear his answer.

“Alex!”
Katerina warned.

“You!” Alex enthused, pointing at Peter. Alex winked at Katerina, then continued, “You’re the perfect piece of propaganda. A living, breathing example of the tyranny visited upon our two lands! Your experiences, your fluency in English—it will all go down wonderfully there. And because you’ll be serving the purposes of the Brits as well, they’ll foot the bill for getting you there!” Alex smiled broadly. “We’re thinking of August. Good time—just before the Canadian elections. And the USA will be into election fever as well! Hot though. Hot as hell then.”

Alex had spoken German to be sure Peter would understand every word. He did not miss the implication: he was being offered the chance to help the cause in front of everyone so he would have no opportunity to refuse.

“Father! You promised to be subtle,” Zosia chided.

So she knew. And she had not warned him! He bit his lip as he considered his reaction. He noticed Wanda’s scowl, saw how Ryszard spoke into Katerina’s ear as they both studied him. It was unclear to him all the subtleties of what was going on, but one thing was clear: it was too late to ask for privacy—whatever debate took place would have to take place in front of everyone, and they were all
Alex’s
friends and
Alex’s
comrades and
Alex’s
relations.

“Ah, subtle.” Alex waved away the objection. “We have a dire need—I’m sure your future husband has no objection to doing his bit!”

“He might have less objection,” Peter said evenly, “if he were granted the courtesy of being told exactly what ‘his bit’ is.”

“Captain”—Alex used Peter’s military title quite deliberately—“all you have to do is come to the NAU, talk a bit about your experiences to various groups, and help us in the election campaign.”

“That’s all,” Peter responded sarcastically.

“Yes, it’s not asking much.” Alex chose not to notice the sarcasm.

“Is it an order?” Peter asked carefully.

“I can’t imagine why it should have to be. Surely you want to help. You must have heard how bad things are getting there.”

Peter shook his head; he had heard, but he wanted to hear Alex’s version of events. It would give him time to think.

“Well, in the last local elections in the USA, the Republicans swept the polls. You must know they’ve been running on a platform of isolationism. They rant that there are too many problems at home, that they can’t afford to be the world’s policeman, blah, blah, blah. And they want to pull out of the NAU or at least trim back their role in it. They want to cut all funding for socalled overseas adventures—that’s us, you realize—so they can balance the federal budget and give tax breaks to everyone. As if we were genuinely a bigticket item!” Alex waved his hand in annoyance. “But that’s neither here nor there. The amount they spend is irrelevant—it’s their outlook. They want to abandon any role in our future. They want to begin talks; they’re working their way toward a treaty with the Germans, and they would just give us all away as a lost cause.

“The situation in Canada is just as bad—the Nationalists want to pull out entirely—and they’re leading in the polls. Any party that bothers to speak up for us is taking a hammering. They say all our claims are just hype—that the regime here is just not that bad. Statistics are meaningless to them, they can’t understand numbers. They’re dealing with emotions and that’s the way we have to fight them. With emotions. With you! You’ve experienced everything we say happens . . . well, short of being shot”—Alex laughed—“of course, but, anyway, there you are—winning smile, blue eyes, blond hair—the perfect American image of his European brother. They’ll identify with you, with your youth, your ability to speak English. They’ll adopt you as their own, then you’ll tell them what happened to you, and they’ll feel that it has happened to one of their own. Their son, their husband, themselves. You have to do it—you are in a unique position and we need every bit of help we can get.”

“And do you think this will influence an entire election?” Peter asked to gain more time. He glanced at Zosia to try to gauge her feelings, but she was looking raptly at her father. Peter was on his own, that was clear.

“Not really, but that’s not our goal,” Alex answered. “We’re just one tiny issue on an entire election platform; all we have to do is remove this issue from the agenda. Make isolationism a vote-loser!”

“Or at least not a vote-winner,” Anna inserted.

“Yes, yes,” Alex agreed. “It doesn’t matter who wins the elections in either place—they’re all the same—we’ve just got to change the attitude of the voters on this one issue, make the pollsters find out that abandoning us is politically unacceptable. Make the whole concept seem immoral. If we can do that, then there’s a chance this item will get dropped from the agenda, and we can work with these clowns the way we usually do.”

“How could they do a turnaround like that and save face?” Basia, Joanna’s teacher, asked.

“Yeah, if I understand you, Alex, they’ve already put a lot of effort into promoting this idea,” Konrad added.

Alex, Anna, and several of the other, older members laughed. “Don’t worry,”
Anna answered once she had contained her laughter, “if they find out that something is unpopular, they’ll forget it overnight. As if it never happened.”

“Don’t the people press them about such lack of conviction?” another voice inquired.

“No,” Marysia answered. “No, they forget as fast as the politicians—if they even bothered to know about the issue in the first place. Generally, the pollsters tell them, by asking the right questions, what they’re worried about, and they tell the pollsters which way the wind should blow that day. The politicians happily oblige. When a new issue comes along, it displaces the old one and everyone forgets about it. Even if voters were concerned about a particular but unstylish issue, they often have trouble determining where the politicians stand. So in general, they just pick and choose according to whatever issues are spotlighted.”

“And our goal,” Alex picked up the thread, “is to spotlight this issue, but differently from the attention it has been getting. We have to humanize it. Make sure that those sums of money which seem all-important now suddenly seem trivial when faced with the human cost. Once we’ve done that, we can let them quietly forget that they ever wanted to dump us, and they can fight the election about other things—like whether or not the vice president really did have an affair with his male secretary.”

“So you see,” Anna chimed in, looking directly at Peter,“we really need you to come over. And it will be a great experience for you. You’ve never been there, have you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled!” Alex stated.

“No, it isn’t,” Peter replied with deceptive calm. He was so furious at the way he had been ambushed that he could not possibly think clearly about the implications of agreeing to this venture, nor could he rationally judge the likelihood of its success. All he knew was that he felt an uncomprehending terror growing within him. That and an overwhelming sense of being utterly alone.

“What? But of course you’ll go!” Anna said. She was followed by other voices.

“Peter, how could you not?”

“Yes, it’s so important!”

“We need to convince them—”

“Stop it! Just stop it!” Peter snapped angrily at all of them.

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I’m not a show animal! I’m not for sale!” he replied to no one in particular. Where was Zosia, why did she not come to his defense?

“He shouldn’t go,” Wanda stated without emotion.

Peter was surprised by her defense of his position, but before he could say anything, several other voices interjected, “Yes, he should!”

“It’s a great opportunity to serve
your
country and
ours!”
Tomek said with a definite emphasis on the distinction.

“If you had had your way, Major, I wouldn’t be alive to carry out this great
service,” Peter retorted. “I do remember you voted to have me shot!” Peter saw, out of the corner of his eye, Barbara’s sudden, angry look in Tomek’s direction.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Katerina roused herself, “this is all classified! Enough!”

“And my life isn’t? How dare you all just sit here like vultures making decisions for me!” he said, gesturing around the room. Then, turning to Alex, he said, “And how dare you try and blackmail me like this! Why couldn’t you just ask?”