The Children's War (127 page)

54

“A
ND
WHAT DID
you do then?” The reporter’s soft voice conveyed genuine concern.

Peter was impressed. He knew she was only showing concern as part of her job, part of the caring persona she projected on television, but she did it well. No wonder she was so highly paid despite her incredible shallowness. He answered, “What could a twelve-year-old boy do? I ran and hid.”

“Why? Certainly you were not guilty of anything.”

“Of course not, but the idea of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ is”—he wanted to say “is unknown,” but realized that would convey the wrong impression, and so he said, “is not honored by our oppressors. Of course, our people always remember their ancient human rights—the rights which our two cultures have in common and which inspired your wonderful Constitution—but what can one do in the face of such evil?”

“But you were just a
child.”

“Oh, yes, but children are not immune. Think of your own child,” he said, turning imperceptibly toward the camera, “see how innocently he or she plays and think of how you would feel knowing that they could be arbitrarily arrested or kidnapped. Stolen, enslaved, killed—you would not know which—you simply would never see your son or daughter again.”

“He’s good,” Alex muttered to Zosia as they sat off-camera watching Peter. “He never misses a trick.”

“I told you he’d do well.” Zosia nodded. “We watched hours of American shit to learn how to present his story, and he made a point of getting that reporter to like him—she’ll see that it’s well edited. We had several meetings beforehand where he turned on so much charm with her I was ready to puke.”

“Yes, she has a reputation for being tough, and here she is eating out of his hand.” Alex laughed quietly. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

Zosia nodded. “I guess it’s just one of those suppressed talents that none of
us
ever get to see.”

Alex covered his mouth to contain his laughter. Anna shushed them and Zosia whispered more quietly, “Just as well you told him not to smoke though. We had no idea Americans had such a visceral reaction to it.”

“Apparently they view it as a drug addiction,” Alex whispered. “That and drinking. Is he staying off the booze?”

“As much as possible,” Zosia replied. “He’s got some sleeping pills for the bad nights, but he swears the vodka is better.”

“Tell him to stick to the pills.”

“I will. But why is it better to pop narcotics than to drink a bit of alcohol?”

“Beats the hell out of me.” Alex turned his attention back to the interview.

“I’m going to take a break,” Zosia whispered, and she discreetly slipped out of the studio.

By the time she returned, the reporter had covered considerable territory and was saying, “I assume you’ve heard the Reich’s response to these recent accusations of medical experiments?”

Peter dropped his gaze briefly to the floor as he considered what his answer should be. He looked back up with sincere concern at the reporter and said, “I had heard some rumors there, but our news services cannot be trusted. Which experiments are you talking about?”

“A sterilization program! Our security service received detailed information
from Underground agents about it, and the Führer himself was moved to comment on the allegations.”

“And what did he say?” Peter asked warily.

“Oh, he said his own investigators had already uncovered a minor conspiracy among some low-level officials. A single laboratory was immediately shut down and the officials were dismissed. Apparently they cooked the program up among themselves.”

“You know that’s not true. Such a program would be approved at the highest level.”

“How do you feel about it? Your involvement, I mean.”

Peter shook his head slightly.“My involvement?”

The reporter had a momentary look of confusion, but then hid it expertly. “Yes, we have information that you are listed among the human subjects tested. You didn’t know this?”

“Wow, look at that!” Alex whispered. “He looks genuinely shaken. My God, he fakes astonishment well.”

“That’s not astonishment,” Zosia hissed in reply, “that’s fury!”

Into Peter’s stunned silence the reporter added gently, “I’m sorry you had to find out in this manner. We assumed you had already been informed.”

“I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .” He wet his lips and fell silent.

“You didn’t know, of course.”

“No, I never expected to hear such a thing. I . . .” He took a deep breath, his eyes briefly wandering toward the dark corner in which Zosia and her family sat.

Zosia muttered angrily to her father, “We had agreed that we wouldn’t use this angle!”

“No,” Alex explained,“we had agreed that
he
would not use this angle, but the threat that he would reveal an entire secret program, using his
own
experience, was enough to force the security service to do a preemptive announcement before he even arrived. It was a reasonable exchange, and don’t worry, he’s coping just fine.”

Zosia had to admit that he was. She turned her attention to Peter as he was saying, “. . . just shows you the utterly inhumane way in which a portion of the population is treated, and the fact that it was uncovered by Underground agents and that the program was, as a result, closed down, shows how important it is to support these people in their efforts. Some Americans have an image of the Underground as a bunch of people with rifles creating mayhem in an otherwise peaceful society, but these revelations show how wrong such images are. These are brave people who risk their lives to uncover the truth in a society of lies. Their efforts save lives and prevent untold misery!”

He continued for some time in that vein, and slowly the color returned to his face.

Altogether the interview lasted over six hours, far longer than anyone had expected. Afterward the reporter thanked Peter for his cooperation. “You understand
that this will all be edited down to a twenty-minute segment.” She sounded as though she wanted to avoid his being disappointed.

Peter smiled graciously. “I’m just pleased that I have had this opportunity to tell my story. I’m sure that your expertise will ensure that the twenty minutes will convey the essence of my message.”

The reporter blushed, assured him she would do her best, and took her leave of them all. Peter kissed her hand in farewell. Out of sight of the reporter, Zosia rolled her eyes. Once the production crew was safely out of earshot, Zosia asked, “The Brits don’t kiss hands, do they?”

Peter did not answer her question, just said quietly, “See if you can’t get me a bottle of whiskey from somewhere.”

The taped, edited interview was to be shown on a popular current-affairs program in two days’ time. The day before the airing, Alex received a call from one of his comrades. As Alex cradled the phone, he turned to Zosia and Peter, who were relaxing in the living room, and said, “It looks either really good or really bad.”

“How’s that?” Zosia asked.

“The network is advertising the interview as an hour-long special. They’re canning the other segments to highlight his story”—Alex nodded toward Peter—“for the entire hour.”

“Good Lord! That must be good news,” Anna inserted.

“Unless they’ve discovered something awful and they’re going to spend the hour destroying his and our reputation.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” Peter said with a calmness that surprised the others. He could not find it in himself to get particularly worried. He had done his best and there was nothing more that he could do. He had made the complicated journey out of the Reich and into the NAU, had been given a few days to adjust and absorb the cultural atmosphere, and then he had given what was probably the most important interview of his visit. It was done and he felt nothing but an overwhelming relief. It was up to the editors and propagandists to make something of his words.

He checked his watch, indicated that it was time they should get going, and the four of them left for that evening’s appointment: a brief lecture at a university followed by a question-and-answer session. Peter traveled with Alex and Anna; as usual, Zosia traveled separately and remained well out of sight of cameras and curious reporters, and Joanna remained at the apartment with a trusted friend.

They need not have bothered; the lecture was well attended but drew no obvious media interest. Still, it was successful as a fund-raiser. Numerous checks were signed then and there, and even more names were added to the list of prospective sponsors of the freedom fighters in Europe.

“You’re good at this,” Zosia commented to Peter as they casually met during
the cocktail hour afterward. Or rather, the diet-soda and decaffeinated-coffee hour.

“Pleased to meet you. Um, what was the name again?” He grinned at her.

“Oh, call me
Interested.”
She leered at him, running her tongue over her top lip in mock seductiveness. “From what I can see, I wouldn’t be the only one called that here. You’re obviously a handsome, exciting man.”

“Kind of you to say so, miss. Interesting, isn’t it, how years of violence and misery can be summarized as ‘exciting,’ don’t you think?”

“Oh, it’s not their fault. Too much TV, I think. All that violence where nobody ends up hurt—unless of course they end up cleanly dead, but then, that only happens to the bad guys.”

“Yeah, just like real life.” He sighed, looking at the watery brown beverage they called coffee. Decaffeinated. What was the point? “God, I could use a real drink!”

“How about if we accidentally meet in the bar across from my parents’ apartment? Ten o’clock okay?”

“It’d be great, but where are we going to get the money to buy anything?”

“I’ll cajole my dad.”

“Aren’t you a bit old for an allowance?”

Zosia shrugged. “What can I say, it’s either that or go without.”

“Good point. Right, meet you then. I’ll be the one with a rose in my lapel.”

“Okay, we ought to separate before anyone notices us.” Zosia looked around nervously.

“Yeah, love you. Miss you.”

“See you later.” Zosia motioned a discreet kiss in his direction and then melted back into the crowd. Peter pasted the smile back on his face and went to do his duty as a guest speaker and fund-raiser.

55

T
HE NEXT DAY
nothing was scheduled, and Peter and Zosia took the opportunity to look around the city together. In what seemed an excess of caution, she wore a wig, makeup, sunglasses, and borrowed clothing that was completely different from anything she might wear on the job back in the Reich. Even though it was the fourth month of her pregnancy and there was an unmistakable swell to her abdomen, when they met at the corner of Fifth and Sixtieth, Peter did not even recognize her until she stepped up to him and said hello. He looked her up and down, smiled at her American-girl-style outfit, and greeted her with a kiss. Though she was admirably unrecognizable, their precautions seemed unnecessary; he had generated no particular interest, and there were no paparazzi willing
to snap his photograph on the street either with or without a mystery woman by his side.

They had a great time. So many things that they had heard or read about were so different in reality. Peter was amazed by the pedestrians, who blithely ignored traffic signals. Zosia stared almost stupidly at lasers used simply to read prices. “This is military technology!” she whispered. He replied by pointing out the discreetly placed detectors near the door—clearly the merchandise or something was being monitored. They both had fun finding out that real coffee was available, as was a full selection of wines, beers, spirits, and cigarettes, although the fact that customers had to register their purchase of such was a bit disconcerting. Summoning up his best foreign accent, Peter asked the clerk about it.

“Oh, for cigarettes, we can only sell those to registered addicts. As for the other stuff—it’s rationed so that nobody buys too much. We type your registration into the computer, and that references your previous purchases—if you reach your limit in a month, then you’re out of luck.”

“But we bought stuff in a bar the other night without registering it,” Peter risked admitting.

The clerk shrugged. “Yeah, that’s not controlled. I guess they figure the bar prices will slow you down. Anything for those with money,” he added somewhat bitterly. Clearly, despite the fact that his income and quality of life would be considered extravagant by working-class Reich standards, he did not consider himself well-off.

“Oh, so can we buy some whiskey?” Zosia asked.

“I’ll need to see your ID.”

Zosia pulled out the passport she had used to enter the Union. The clerk shook his head. “Sorry, you’re not a registered resident.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“You need to be a resident to buy booze,” the clerk explained patiently.

“Then what am I supposed to do if I want some?” Zosia asked with growing impatience.

“I don’t know. The legislation doesn’t cover illegals and foreigners.”

Zosia seemed prepared to argue, but Peter gently pulled her away. “It’s all right,” he assured her, “I’ll manage without.” They left the shop wondering at the ubiquitousness of idiotic legislation in the name of concerned government and headed down the Avenue. “Just as well I brought cigarettes with me,” Peter commented as he lit one. “I thought they’d be expensive, not unavailable!”

“In any case, make sure you don’t smoke when you’re in the spotlight,” Zosia reminded him as she waved the smoke away.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Wasn’t I a good boy all day yesterday?” he muttered while scanning the shop windows.

“Yes, very good. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do it when I’m around. You know it’s not good for the baby.”

“Not even outside?” he asked, incredulous.

“If you don’t mind.”

“All right, all right,” he groaned as he stopped to extinguish the cigarette on a stone wall. Seeing a trashbin nearby, he ceremoniously went over to it and threw away the end. “There! Satisfied?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes, you’re a dear,” Zosia answered seriously. “Thank you.” She grabbed his hand and placed it on her abdomen to soothe him, and he smiled sheepishly in response.

A short distance along they found a computer superstore, and the two of them wasted several hours drooling over the computing power readily available to the hoi polloi. “Kids write their school reports on these!” Peter whispered to Zosia, repeating the information he had learned from a salesclerk who had assumed he was shopping for his child.

“Well, I heard that I’m supposed to want to put recipes on them!” she giggled in reply.

“Shit. What a fucking waste. We could use this stuff!” he moaned while fingering one of the fantasy-world price tags. Twelve thousand Union dollars. It might as well be a trillion.

They left to get lunch. There was such a profusion of restaurants and cooking styles to choose from that they took some time before they settled on Chinese. Afterward they had dessert in another establishment, and Zosia declared that she was in love—with hot fudge sundaes.

“Decadent,” she muttered between mouthfuls. “Sinfully decadent and depraved.”

Peter laughed and used his napkin to wipe off some of the fudge sauce that dripped down her face. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I could get fat and happy here.”

“Don’t do that! I like your lean and hungry look.”

The bar that served the desserts had alcoholic drinks designed along some pseudo-European patriotic lines, and when they saw the fanciful names, neither could resist the temptation to try one. Peter nearly retched on the sickly sweet mixture that they called a Union Jack, while Zosia was absolutely enamored of the vodka, cream, and coffee combination that was called a White Eagle.

They emerged from the bar and counted their money. The five hundred Alex had given them was disappearing rapidly. Back home, it would buy several years off an automobile waiting list; here it was a good day’s outing.

Their next stop was a clothing store. There was nowhere outside the NAU that they could wear anything they bought—imported clothes would immediately be noticed within the Reich, and the style in the bunker was, to say the least, rather casual, so they simply browsed with the intention of learning about the fashions of the country.

Nevertheless Zosia held up a pair of blue jeans and suggested Peter try them on.

“No fucking way,” he replied rather more rudely than she had expected.

“Oh, come on, contrary to rumor, they’re nothing like what you wore. The
color’s much nicer, and there are all these double seams and extra pockets and these quaint little rivets here.”

“I know, and I’m pleased by that.”

“Then why not?”

“The material—it’s too similar for comfort.”

She was however insistent, and after a bit of back and forth he conceded, “I’ll try on a pair of black ones if you like, but not those.”

“You’re obsessive,” she replied, but did not press further.

Once he had dutifully tried on several styles and they had discovered the right size, Zosia insisted that they spend their dwindling supply of cash to buy the jeans. “They look smashing!” she exclaimed.

“They’re hot,” he protested as sweat streamed down his face.

“Oh, come on. You don’t own anything, and Adam’s clothes are getting worn. Buy them, you look great!”

He decided not to pursue her referring to his wardrobe as Adam’s clothes and instead argued, “It’s stupid to spend this much on something I can buy back home for marks.”

“You can’t buy these. Oh, treat yourself. Treat me! I like you in them. And besides, you can wear them for your next interview. It’ll be an investment. We’ll charge the Brits.”

“They’re too hot to wear here, at least in August.”

“They’ll have air-conditioning,” Zosia answered, and that was the final word.

Once they were outside the store with the package under her arm, he leaned over to kiss her. “Thanks. I’m glad you think I looked nice in them.” It was a deliberate effort on his part to accept the purchase gracefully and was completely contrary to what he actually felt. He had indeed found her attention quite flattering, but it had also been disconcerting to him, since the last person who had fussed over him in any way had been Elspeth. Little presents and worrying about how he looked had taken on an ominous significance in his life, and it was not easy to forget the price that he had always paid for her attentions.

Next they visited a music store. Peter stood, entranced, for more than an hour in the shop listening to one recording after another at the little machine that played selections. The depth of feeling expressed in the music did not seem to match the cheerful materialism of American society, the lives without trauma. Perhaps, he thought, there was distress and pain even in a free society; even without tormentors, there seemed to be torment. Indeed, the very stability and generally peaceful nature of the society around them seemed to give voice to music and musical poetry that cut to the quick of his soul. They were the missing themes of his life—somebody else sang of his alienation, of his loneliness, of the desperation of his soul.

Zosia tugged on his sleeve a number of times, bored once she had examined all the technology, and he finally detached himself from the earphones. She promised solemnly that if he came up with a list of recordings, they would find
the money and the wherewithal to smuggle them back, and with that promise she was able to entice him away and farther down the Avenue.

Their next stop was a huge bookstore with a coffee shop and comfortable chairs and couches scattered about. After scanning the popular fiction and political sections, they both naturally gravitated toward the science, mathematics, and technology section. Zosia found an incredible selection of documentation on computers—too much in fact. After spending a moment gathering her courage, she selected an apt title and seemed intent on reading and digesting the book then and there. Peter left her to her research and began inspecting the titles farther along. He found a sealed three-volume series on cryptanalysis that left him cold. It was humiliating. According to the table of contents listed on the back cover, the first volume summarized everything he had spent years risking his life to learn. In the second and third volumes was information with which he was only partially familiar. He had scrambled desperately to get his hands on the latest research, had risked the lives of smugglers to get research papers and books into the bunker, and there it all was for 450 Union dollars. Algorithms, protocols, codes—everything publicly available to anyone with the money and the time to read it.

Freely published in a free society. His complete admiration and respect for America’s First Amendment took a momentary backseat to his utter rage at the damage that would be done. Of course, Nazi agents in the NAU would get their hands on these books, and of course they would use the information to their advantage—even their bloated and corrupt regime would eventually see its value. Meanwhile, when Alex had, upon his request, tried to set up some sort of liaison with the American Security Agency, they had completely refused any contact. “Not if he’s going back,” they had said. Alex had pointed out that someone who was bravely willing to risk his life to take the best analysis techniques back to where they would be the most useful should be rewarded with equipment and information that would make his job easier, but they were adamant. Even assurances that Peter would not survive long enough to betray any information at all if he was ever taken into custody had not impressed them. What did they care about suicidal courage? They would not compromise their security and that was that.

Peter turned pointedly away from the books. He did not have enough money to buy them now, and in any case, it would take some effort to smuggle them back. He looked around and spotted a book on computer-generated musicle compositions. He paged through and smiled. What a thing to do—use mathematics to derive music; what a marvelous way to waste one’s life. He replaced the book and walked down the aisle to the next section, labeled
sociology,
presumably located there because it was alphabetically after
science and technology.

A treatise on child abuse caught his eye, and he picked it up and perused it. It was a depressing little work, detailing the lifelong implications of a violent upbringing. Peter felt a wave of sorrow for its unnamed victims and a twinge of guilt at his
preoccupation with his own troubles. He looked at the forward to learn why the author had written the book, and there the author explained that the effects of violence on children were so profound that they would affect not only the child but also society for the rest of the victim’s life.“How can we expect anything else when they have no basis upon which to reconstruct a normal life?” the author asked.“The silent killer of personality” she called it and added that “even adults, who come armed with other experiences and strongly held beliefs, often cannot cope with systematic violence directed against them.” At this point, she quoted a survivor of Nazi terror to support her supposition: “Anyone who has been tortured remains tortured. . . . Anyone who has suffered torture never again will be able to be at ease in the world. . . . Faith in humanity, already cracked by the first slap in the face, then demolished by torture, is never acquired again.”