The Children's War (113 page)

He thought of the dreams he had dared to set up for himself. They had been simple dreams—a wife and a family and a chance to live something like a normal life. He had not asked for vengeance, had not asked for fame or riches or even an answer to all the suffering. Just a home and a family. Was it too much? Or was simply daring to dream more than he was permitted? Was there some jealous god that ruled his life, who had determined that he could never rejoin humanity once he had been torn away? Was his god a Nazi?

“What are you thinking?” Barbara asked.

“I was wondering, why me?”

She looked up at him questioningly.

He smiled at her look, said, “I don’t think anybody plans to be the victim of oppression. When I was your age, I was invincible, just like you, and I knew I always would be. They had not gotten their hands on me yet, and therefore I felt sure they never would. These horrors that surround us, they were for someone else. Not for me.”

“Captain—”

“Call me Peter. You used to.”

“I, well . . . before you were, it’s just that, since you’re the colonel’s husband . . .”

“Ah.”

Barbara was silent with embarrassment, then she said, “I’ve heard that that is not your real name anyway—is that true?”

“It depends on what you mean by real. I think of it as my name, but my parents named me something else.”

“What?”

“Niklaus. Niklaus Adolf Chase,” he laughed.“My father and brother called me Klaus. I hated it. My mother stuck to Niklaus most of the time, but my friends— my real friends—called me Nick.”

“Why wouldn’t your brother use Nick?”

“Probably to annoy me. We didn’t get along all that well.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yeah, the last I heard he was. I haven’t looked up anything on him personally—they don’t like me snooping around, so I stay obediently uninformed about everything. And everyone.”

“Where is he?”

“In England. Apparently, he’s a Nazi.” Peter looked into the distance as he said,“He
frenched
me to the police as a kid, so I think he takes it all seriously.” He had translated the English slang for betraying someone into its literal equivalent in German, but Barbara seemed to recognize the verb anyway.

“He turned you in? What for?”

“Trivial stuff. A street gang. Though I doubt it was his intent, that little betrayal ruined our lives. Got my parents killed. Funny, I bet Erich didn’t even know that I had been kicked out of the gang by then.”

“Why were you kicked out?”

“They didn’t trust me anymore—not since my parents sent me to a school for German kids. And I guess they must have known or suspected that my father was a Party member.”

“That must have been awful! Why did your parents send you away to school?”

“I guess they thought I could make a place for myself as a collaborator. They at least wanted me to fit in with the Germans.”

“Did you?”

“I tried. For a time, I really tried.” He had tried, too. It had been made clear to him during his first year that he could be accepted, but it would be on their terms. Not for him just the slavish obedience to some older students; no, as an English boy, he had to pay an extra price: to take the absolute bottom rung of the pecking order, to deny his own heritage and ethnicity, to heap scorn on his own people, to prove superloyalty and admiration for all things German. They had wanted him to participate fully and joyously in his own denigration, to carry out his own humiliations to prove that he was appropriately grateful for being allowed into their ranks. It was more than he could accept and he had spent the rest of his years alternately harried and shunned.

“What did your school friends call you? Klaus or Nick?”

“The other students,” he answered carefully, “referred to me by some varient of my last name. The usual mispronunciation was ‘sha-zeh’ or sometimes ‘ shahseh’—you know, as in
schassen,
to kick out.” He remembered how they would
warn him, using his name to get his attention before they attacked. They lost nothing by giving away the element of surprise—he was always outnumbered. He had learned to fight on the streets, but he could not have prepared for the physical advantage of his tormentors. During the first months, when he had only just turned nine, he had been beaten so badly the school officials had intervened to put him in the clinic. When, even then, his parents had not visited, he had realized that he was completely on his own.

After that, he had learned to handle himself better. When there was a gang, he usually provoked a one-on-one conflict by insulting just one member’s courage. That evened up the odds a bit, though he was never given a fair fight—if his opponent was not bigger and stronger, if he showed any signs of winning, then the boy’s friends intervened to bring him down. So, he opted for a strategy not of winning, but simply of inflicting harm, careless of his own well-being. Over time, even the bigger kids learned that they would end up injured if they beat up on him, and the attacks became less frequent.

Once he had established himself as a loner willing to defend his small space, he had turned inward. He continued as a member of some sports teams, always careful to attend only official practices where he was relatively safe with an adult in attendance. Friendless, he had spent his time studying, excelling in virtually every subject for want of anything better to do. He was especially proficient in math and the sciences because it was much more difficult for the instructor to judge his answers to be inadequate or wrong. Even in his more subjective classes, he often impressed his teachers, and he was, on occasion, shown some kindness by them. But by then it was too late. He was distrustful and hurt and closed to any but the most rudimentary human interactions. If anyone had wanted to befriend him after his first year, it would have been impossible.

“Have you forgiven him?”

“Hmm?”

“Your brother, have you forgiven him?”

Peter shook his head. “I doubt he even wants my forgiveness.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said with the conviction of youth.

The raindrops began to fall more frequently, and Barbara suggested that they start walking back. They made their way out of the copse and down a steep, snow-covered slope. His right leg buckled under the stress and he began to fall. Barbara grabbed for him, lost her balance, and they ended up rolling down the slope together. They landed at the bottom, tangled in each other’s arms, unhurt and laughing, covered from head to toe in snow.

“Are you all right?” he asked, trying to control his laughter.

“I’m fine,” she giggled in reply, and unexpectedly kissed him. It lasted longer than a friendly kiss, and suddenly they both pulled apart. Barbara looked away, back up the hill.

“I’m sorry,” Peter breathed. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s all right,” she said without looking at him, “it was my fault.” She paused,
then still looking up the hill as if trying to determine where they had stumbled, she said, “If your news . . . if Colonel Król . . .” She stopped and they sat in silence for a moment.

He studied her profile; she was a very pretty girl.

As if exasperated, she suddenly blurted, “If you need me, I’m here.” She paused, obviously embarrassed, then sighed and added, “Colonel Król is a very lucky woman.”

Tenderly he brushed a bit of snow from her hair. “Yes, and I’m a very lucky man to have her. And to have a friend like you. Whatever’s been done to me, given what I have now, I consider myself a very lucky man.”

Barbara nodded, turned to him, and asked matter-of-factly, “Shall we go?”

He nodded and they stood and brushed each other off. He put his arm around her, happily using her shoulders to steady himself as they continued their descent. When they approached the entrance, he requested that she and Olek please keep the information they had discovered a secret until he had told Zosia. “I mean a real secret, not even gossip. And tell Olek not to tell Stefi either.”

“No problem. I’m sure Olek will keep his mouth shut. Especially around Stefi.”

“Why especially?”

“Haven’t you noticed?”

“No, are they on the outs?”

“No! He’s just mortified of her seeing him with his face all pimply! He’s been avoiding her like the plague.” Barbara giggled.

He laughed, “Ah, the unsolvable problems of the world.”

41

H
E RETURNED TO
their flat and poured himself a drink. It was still quite early, Zosia would not be back for hours from her interminable meetings, and Joanna would not be back from her classes for another hour or two. He drank the whiskey and poured himself another. What if Zosia decided she could not bear this latest revelation? What if she decided that she wanted someone who could father a child, someone who had not been defiled by medical experiments? Could he blame her? He finished the glass of whiskey and went to see Marysia.

She was not home yet, but as he was writing a note asking her if she would watch Joanna for the evening, she returned. She greeted him with a kiss, then exclaimed, “Good Lord! Have you been drinking again?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not a drunk.”

“One would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.”

“There’s a reason.”

“There always seems to be.”

“If you feel that way, why not have the Social Welfare Committee sanction me?” he suggested caustically. “Cut off my supplies.” They had indeed already issued an unofficial warning, or as they called it, a “friendly suggestion.” He had efficiently dealt with their concerns by supplementing his ration with expensive, bootleg vodka made in some of the villages to the south.

“I don’t want that. Come on, I’m just trying to help. You know alcoholism is a problem in all the Undergrounds. Didn’t the British have antialcohol campaigns?”

“All the time,” he sighed, exasperated. “Preached at us continually. Sort of ironic since drug-running was one of their major sources of money. But you know, it’s not alcohol or drugs that’s the problem, they’re just the effect. The problem is stress, you know that.”

“I know,” Marysia agreed. “And I know how devastating its effects are, especially on you young people. You children of the war are stress junkies. Addicted to killing, drugs, alcohol . . .”

“You forgot sex.”

“How in the world you’ll ever establish a stable society . . .”

“I seem to remember when we first met,
you
held me at gunpoint, forced me to strip, searched me, marched me bound and barefoot through the woods, and threatened to kill me.”

“Those were all necessary precautions!” Marysia objected.

“So is preserving our sanity any way we can. Now, if you don’t mind, can we drop the bogus philosophy, I’m not in the mood for this right now. I just wanted to know if you could watch Joanna for me this evening. I need to talk to Zosia alone.”

“Fighting again?”

“Not yet.”

Marysia gave him a critical look. “What is it now?”

“I think Zosia needs to know this first, before anyone else.”

“That bad?”

“Could be.” He turned away so she could not see his face. How could they have done that to him? How could he have not even suspected? “Could be.”

“Oh, Peter. What is it?” Marysia asked, suddenly very worried.

He shook his head. “I really have to talk to Zosia.”

“All right. Bring Joanna over whenever you want, she can stay the night here.”

“Thanks.”

“And, son . . .”

“Yes?”

“Lay off the whiskey. If you’ve got something serious to discuss, you should stay sober.”

He nodded and almost laughed. “All right, Ma.”

He returned to their rooms and decided to follow her advice, capped the
whiskey, and put it back into the cupboard. He paced a bit, tried to read, looked around to see if anything needed doing. All to no avail. Barely an hour had passed. Continuously the thought pounded his mind: What if she did not want him anymore? Finally he gave in and went back to the cupboard to pour himself a drink. Before he began to pour, though, Joanna returned from her classes. She bounced into the room full of her usual stories and smiles, and he hugged her in greeting. His dear, wonderful daughter—Adam and Zosia’s child.

“Are you all right?” Joanna asked perceptively, squirming uncomfortably.

He released her. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to squeeze you, sweetie.”

“Is Mommy yelling at you again?” Joanna asked, pulling back so she could see his face.

He shook his head no, wondering why everyone seemed to think they fought all the time.

Joanna was looking at him questioningly. “Do you want me to go to
Busia
’s tonight?” she asked with a calm maturity that both he and her mother seemed to lack.

He nodded. “If you don’t mind, honey. I have something important I need to discuss with your mother.”

“Shall I go now?

“No, let’s wait until your mother gets home. She’ll want to see you first.”

Zosia seemed annoyed that he had arranged a tÍte-·-tÍte for that evening, especially without warning her first; nevertheless, she sat at the table as he requested and waited as he set out two glasses and began to pour drinks.

She waved hers away. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until Joanna was asleep?” she asked impatiently.

“I found out something today. Olek and Barbara already know, so it’s only a matter of time before the entire place knows about it. I just wanted to make sure you heard it from me and not from whispers.”

“What already?”

“You know the lists that we acquired from the lab—the medical experiments to induce sterility?” he said carefully.

“Yes.”

“We’ve been translating them in the office, and Barbara found some with human subjects listed.”

“Human subjects?”

He nodded.

“If we could find one of these people, they could talk about their experiences, and they wouldn’t be connected to us,” she said, thinking aloud. “We’d be off the hook! That’d be . . .” Her eyes lit up. “Great!”

He nodded noncommittally, looking down into his glass. “I guess so.”

She looked more closely at him, tilted her head in anticipation, but he did not break the silence. “So what’s the problem?”

“I’m on the list,” he answered without looking up.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and then repeated much more softly, “Oh.”

“What do you want to do?” he asked after a moment had passed.

“What do you mean?”

“I might not be able to father a child, Zosiu. We haven’t managed it yet.”

“Oh, that—we haven’t even tried!”

“It’s been months without success,” he argued forlornly.

“Not really—we’ve been busy all this time with the wedding and Joanna. Hell, we’ve certainly not gone at it every day. We probably just missed the crucial days.”

“Probably?” he asked, astonished that she wouldn’t know.

“Well, definitely.”

“Definitely? Zosiu, I thought you wanted a baby. Have you been deliberately avoiding getting pregnant?”

She glanced around the room as if looking for something.

“Zosia?”

“Well . . .”

“Well what?”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for a reasonable period of sobriety on your part to coincide with fertility on my part.”

“Sobriety? I don’t get drunk!”

“No, your tolerance is phenomenal, but you do drink a lot.”

“You know why.”

“Yes, I do, and that’s why I haven’t said anything. But don’t worry, if you abstain and we really try, I’m sure I’ll get knocked up.”

“What if you don’t? What if they succeeded with their little test?”

“Was there any indication what was tested?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe Olek or Barbara found something out since this morning.”

“Well, then, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Zosia!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Peter. Why should we panic now?”

“I was experimented on!”

“I know, darling, and I’m sorry, I’m terribly sorry.”

“But what do you want to do? I mean, if they have succeeded? If I’m . . .”

“I don’t understand what it is you’re asking me. What
can
we do?” she asked in confusion. “Do you want me to track them down and assassinate the bastards?”
“No! I want to know! Will you want a divorce?”

“A divorce?” She stopped and shook her head slightly. “A divorce?” She stood, pulling him to his feet. When he continued to look down, she gently placed her hand beneath his chin and lifted his face until he looked into her eyes.

“I thought I would lose you.”

She embraced him, held him close, stroking his hair affectionately. “No,
you’re not going to get rid of me that easily,” she whispered soothingly. Then she maneuvered him to the sofa and they sat down together. She stroked his face, ran her fingers through his hair, kissed him gently. When he seemed calm enough, she asked, “Do you have any idea what was done?”

“No. I remember being injected. I don’t remember if I bothered to tell you about it. I told the physician, and he said they had not detected anything unusual in my blood.”

“Yeah, you told me about it. It’s one reason I set up the appointments for you with the doctors in the first place.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you were an unknown quantity then,” she explained, her hand trailing gently along his chest. “I didn’t want you introducing some deadly diseases into our community.”

“Oh, I thought those exams were for my benefit.”

“That, too,” she comforted, her fingers tracing an indiscernible pattern as she spoke. “Anyway, as far as we know, they could have been testing just about anything. There’s no reason to suspect they were successful.”

He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps not, but with my experiences, I’m not exactly an optimist.”

“I’ve noticed,” she agreed somewhat sadly. “Anyway, one thing we can do is get you tested by the physician . . .”

He did not respond.

“Or,” she added suggestively as she began undoing his buttons, “we can do our own tests . . .”

He smiled at her with a glimmer of lust.

“. . . and let nature take its course.” She paused as he reached up to touch her face. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “However, there is one thing we should do in any case.”

“What’s that? Assassinate someone?” He had been touched by her earlier offer. She was thoroughly professional, and the fact that she had offered to kill his tormentors, illegally and against all her military training, had moved him— though even in the depths of his despair he had recognized the extremely black humor of such a valentine.

“Well, if you want. But what I was thinking was that we should make your adoption of Joanna legal.”