The Children's War (131 page)

He rolled over in his bed and stared at it. A bed. A telephone. America. It was still daylight; he must not have slept long since returning from the studio. Certainly not long enough to lose his headache. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

“What the hell happened?” Alex’s voice leapt out at him.

“Huh?”

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“What?”

“You’re on the news. That little encounter with those boys. Did you know it was filmed?”

“Hah! How could I not know? They were five meters away—those cowards!” Peter rubbed his eyes.

“Why didn’t you call us?”

“Why?” Peter squinted and blinked, trying to bring his vision into focus.

“So we could prepare!”

“Prepare what?”

“A statement.” Alex stopped short of saying,
“You idiot!”

“I think the incident was self-explanatory,” Peter responded angrily. For this his blessed sleep had been disturbed?

“But it was a great opportunity!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, you blew your chance to say something profound there, but we could still have issued a statement after the fact.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Peter! I don’t expect to hear that sort of language.”

“Then I’ll spare you.” Peter hung up the phone. He turned over to fall back asleep, but the phone rang again almost immediately. He stared at it a moment, then swearing quietly to himself, he reached over and picked it up.

“What?” he grated into the receiver.

“It’s me,” Zosia’s voice greeted him.

“Oh. Hi, darling. Sorry, I thought it was your father.”

“I’m sorry about all that.”

“Not your fault.”

“But it was a great opportunity, and now it’s gone,” Zosia chided without meaning to, having redirected her anger to something other than that she was still trembling with fear.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Look, I’m sick, I’m tired, and I really need to rest. I’m sorry I missed a great chance to turn on the propaganda machine, but for heaven’s sake, Zosia, I’m only human. Couldn’t you at least congratulate me on handling the situation?”

“You took an unnecessary risk there.” The local news program had opened by announcing, “International violence on our streets, foreign visitor greeted by mob as he leaves local studio,” and had shown a teaser of the newsclip. Only after interminable commercials and introductions had she finally seen the outcome even as her father was getting no answer from Peter’s room. When Zosia saw the gun pointed at her husband, she did not know whether he had survived the encounter, did not know as she sat there appalled, her daughter hugging her in fear, if she was witnessing his execution: he had not bothered to call when he got back to the hotel.

“I called it the way I saw it,” Peter argued wearily.

“You could have talked them out of it. You should have at least tried diplomacy.”

“I decided action was best.”

“But you should never have tried to get both at once; that was unnecessary. The guy with the knife was no threat,” she lectured like the training coach she had once been.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“What if it hadn’t? They might have all jumped you if you landed on the ground.”

“But I didn’t!” he responded angrily. Thanks for your support and advice, he thought sarcastically.

“You hurt yourself on that landing, didn’t you?”

“My knees always hurt,” he replied defensively. It was not lack of skill on his part that had thrown him off-balance; rather, both assailants had offered less resistance than one would have expected—as a consequence he had overcompensated on the force of his kick and had to absorb the unused power on his landing.

“You may have done permanent damage.”

“Zosiu, I called it as I saw it! Damn it, I’ve worked hard to overcome my physical limitations and get back into fighting form, the least you could do is congratulate me on my obvious success!”

“Congratulations.” Her voice sounded cold.

“Where’s Joanna?” he asked suddenly.

“I’ll put her on,” Zosia replied in a subdued voice.

“Hi, Daddy!” Joanna’s cheerful voice greeted him a few seconds later. Funny to think she was only a few blocks away. “I saw you on TV! You looked great! But I was scared when that man pointed the gun at you.” She spoke German to him—it was ironically the easiest language for the two of them.

“Yeah, I was scared, too, sweetie,” he responded in German while wondering if they should not switch to a dual-language communication—she could speak Polish and he would reply in English.

“Why didn’t you call us afterward?” Joanna asked. Somehow, the question was different coming from her.

What had he been thinking? “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t think you would see it. I felt so ill, I just climbed into bed and fell asleep. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“I was really proud when you knocked them both over.”

“Thanks, sweetheart, I needed to hear that.” He imagined the look of pride on her face and smiled at the image. “I love you, little one.”

“I love you, too. I miss seeing you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Will you visit us this evening?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I have another talk show to do. I’ll try and sneak over there tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay. Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you, too. And tell your mommy, I love her.”

“I will.”

“And tell her I’m sorry I didn’t call. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“I will.”

58

T
HE LATE-NIGHT TALK
show was live, and so it was dark when Peter left the hotel to walk to the studio. A few reporters from tabloids and one magazine reporter greeted him at the entrance of the hotel. Ever since they had discovered where he was staying, it had been that way—a small coterie of journalists plying their trade.
Peter had woken up feeling much better, had eaten a good meal in his room, and had left for the studio a half hour early so that he could stop and answer questions en route. He laughed and joked with the reporters and explained about the earlier encounter with the Nazi sympathizers. He extolled the virtues of the reporters’ free society where political opinions could freely be expressed without fear, then pointed out that the boys had shown exactly the tendencies that on a large scale were used to rule a continent.

“Don’t be fooled by the diplomatic efforts and conciliatory rhetoric of the Nazi government. They are simply lies used by people whose base philosophy is just like that of those young men: hatred, intolerance, and violence,” he lectured into the tape recorders.

“Of all the insults they hurled at you, you responded to only one,” a reporter asked, “and that was being called a traitor. Why was that? Did it strike a chord? Do you feel you are betraying your government?”

“I don’t accept those gangsters as a government, and I certainly feel no loyalty to the murderers who have claimed power over my people. The reason I was intrigued by that insult in particular was that my entire nation has been labeled ‘traitors of the folk’ because of our lack of support for and active opposition to Nazi doctrine. I was curious to see if the young man was aware of that and was referring to my being English, or if he was just hurling a random insult.”

They continued chatting with him even as he decided it was time to start walking to the studio. They walked along with him, holding out their recorders or jotting down notes. Peter felt relaxed and friendly and did not bother to insert much in the way of propaganda or appeals into his answers. He just responded as truthfully as he could, feeling that in some ways the truth was the most eloquent appeal that he could make.

His mood remained good as he stepped into the studio and was introduced to the crew.

“We’ll provide coffee for you during the show,” a young man explained. “Since it’s a late-night show and we want everyone to be relaxed and cheerful, we offer the option of spiked coffee. Which would you prefer?”

“Spiked?” Peter queried.

“With whiskey. It’s called a Manhattan coffee by the people in the USA proper. Most of our guests prefer it.”

“I guess I’ll have to go with the spiked. I wouldn’t want to break any traditions.”

“Right-o.” The young man made a note on his clipboard.

There were three guests, and Peter was the last to be brought on. He could not discern if that was a place of honor—save the best to last, tease the audience with promises—or whether it was simply a filler for the late-night gap. Whatever the situation, he received an enthusiastic welcome and a cheerful greeting from the host and his other two guests.

The host’s name was Winston—a name that no one who knew him dared to contract to any nickname. Good-natured and humorous, he made his place on late-night television by never covering a serious topic on his program, and he had no intention of doing so that evening either.

“Well, Mr. Halifax, or rather, is it Dr. Halifax?” he began jovially after shaking Peter’s hand.

“Call me Peter, please.”

“Ah, good. First off, I wanted to explain that you have quite a serious message to convey to the American audience, isn’t that right?”

“I think they are aware of the seriousness of the situation overseas.”

“I mean, we’re talking a pretty messy business here, and I don’t want to give the audience any misimpressions. Among other things, you were, I believe, interrogated by the Gestapo?”

“Among other things.”

“I’ve heard that’s worse even than an IRS audit. Am I right?”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “Well, I must say, I’ve never been audited by your tax service, so it’d be hard to compare.” He thought of a phrase he had heard only the day before. “In fact, I’ve never filed taxes, so I don’t know what it’s like to be a wage slave, just an unwaged one.” The audience laughed, pleased at the humble, humorous response.

“Ah, yes,” Winston continued, “but they are also aware that you’re only human, and for once you might like to just relax and chat to us a bit and show us the less serious side of life in the Reich.”

“Yeah, the place is an absolute barrel of laughs,” Peter joked, and sipped the coffee provided.

“Maybe we should start with something easier—like your impressions of America. Certainly something about this country must have surprised you.”

Peter laughed as he thought about his afternoon experiences. Then he quite judiciously launched into a series of anecdotes concerning his adventures in the NAU. In order not to mention Zosia or anyone else, he happily incorporated all the humorous stories he had ever heard about first impressions of America as his own.

He talked about being stranded at the crossing as the other pedestrians streamed across the street against the light, wondering where the toilet was when all the signs indicated some sort of employee lounge or “rest room,” watching an
insanely brave tourist actually
voluntarily
approach a patrolman to ask directions, getting service from a store employee—who might even apologize for not having been more prompt! The list went on. There were the ubiquitous telephones with their direct connections to anywhere, the inexplicable gadgets, the laser scanners and exotic fruit. And there was the incredible wealth of choices. Peter retold a story he had heard about buying a razor.

“It really is quite remarkable. I brought nearly everything with me since I don’t have any real money, but somehow I forgot my razor. So, I went into a store and asked if they had a razor. Now, the answer one would get back home is yes or no. If the answer was yes, you would purchase said razor; if it was no, you might try again in a week or so. Of course, if you hear no three times in a row, you might check to see if razors had become illegal or needed a permit or ration card, but in general, the procedure is fairly straightforward. Anyway, I asked at this store here and this fellow behind the counter points to a display and there it was—a wall of razors! It took me half an hour to sort through the selection. I bought a disposable, and I must admit, I was quite proud when I got back to my room and discovered I really did have a razor. And not only that, the next time I went into the store, I was able to purchase a razor in less than three minutes!” The audience laughed. “Of course, I had studied beforehand and had notes in my pocket just in case I panicked.” They roared their approval.

Peter continued his stories, often taking in humorous comments and observations from his fellow guests or the host. They added their own stories and impressions—one of the guests was an ómigró—and the evening flowed smoothly aided by the Manhattan coffees they all drank.

“When this thing started wrapping itself around me in the car, like some sort of snake, I nearly panicked.” Peter was laughing at the memory of a friend of Alex’s story. “It struck me as a particularly odd way of arresting someone. Or was it an abduction? Just as well I didn’t attack the driver! Thought I had gotten nabbed by the Gestapo or something. You understand”—he turned to address the audience—“nearly anything that happens to us, that is our first assumption: you know, girlfriend dumps you, must be the Gestapo! Et cetera. So there I was—”

“So you don’t have seat belts there?” the host interrupted.

“No, and I never even suspected they existed! For me, a restraining device in a car meant being handcuffed to the steering wheel.”

“What?” Winston looked stunned.

Peter explained the rules about his chauffeuring the family, then added, “I think I was the only one in the Reich who had to follow that rule.”

“What purpose did it serve?” the host asked. One of the guests, an artist named Itto, was making odd motions as if trying to work out exactly how he would steer around a turn with such a restriction on his movements.

“I haven’t a clue,” Peter responded bemusedly as he watched Itto’s attempts. Peter did know though: it was humiliation, pure and simple.

“Isn’t it dangerous without seat belts?” Winston asked with practiced naÔvetó.

Peter laughed again. “I suppose it would be if the cars ran, but since they spend most of their time on the sides of the roads, it’s not really a problem.” The audience laughed and Peter decided to repeat the old joke. “In fact, do you know why they put rear-window defrosters on Volkswagens?”

“Why?” Itto asked, giving up on his pretend driving.

“So that you can keep your hands warm when you’re pushing the car.”

That got a good laugh, and Peter continued repeating all the VW jokes he could remember. It was the “people’s car,” Hitler’s pet project.

They took a break finally, and when the cameras were back on, the host asked, “Jokes aside, what about
your
life in the Reich? Is there anything you could tell us about that?”

“You’re looking for humor?” Peter had expected that but was still undecided about exactly how to handle this turn of events.

“Well, something other than doom and gloom.”

“I suppose if you find stupidity funny, you’ll love hearing about my previous owner.” Peter had made his decision. He needed to remain human in the audience’s eyes, he needed them to think of the victims of the oppression as human as well. If it took humor to do that, then he would find humor for them.

“Now, you say
owner
—what do you mean by that?” Winston asked.

“I mean the guy who owned me,” Peter replied impishly.

“You mean like bought and paid for you?”

“Precisely.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? I mean, you just said
owner
the way I might say
boss.
Like it was a completely neutral concept.”

“Oh, at first it bothered me. I guess it still does, deep down, but there is only so long that you can play pretend. After that, you have to face facts, and eventually, I realized that he was the one who should have been ashamed. Not me.” Peter’s words were bolder than his true feelings—he did feel ashamed and he knew that Karl never would.

“So, like, what were you called; I mean, was there a job description?”

“Yes, quite funny, but they seemed rather reluctant to call me what I was. That’s one reason I’m here; I feel the populace there is uncomfortable with the system they have and might well overthrow the wretched edifice if given half a chance.”

Peter expected them to follow that line of thought into social upheaval and resistance, but instead Winston asked again, “So what did they call you, then?”

“Hmm, that’s difficult.” Peter closed his eyes and tried to think of a suitable translation for the cumbersome phrases in his documents without mentioning the word
criminal.
“Something like ‘subhuman, life-sentenced, privately maintained, domestic forced laborer on trial term available through the largesse of the department of internal affairs and in the end responsible and returnable to that department.’ ”

“What!”

“It’s a clumsy translation, but you get the gist.”

“Wow! You sort of lose track of the fact that you’re talking about a person.”

“Indeed. In fact, my name appears only incidentally in their files. Everything about me is registered either according to my number here”—Peter tapped his sleeve—“or under my owner’s name. You know, like you’d register a dog or a steer.”