The Children's War (142 page)

Tadek shook his head in disgust at Peter’s silence and had already turned to walk away by the time Peter found his voice. “Tadek . . .”

Tadek stopped, sighed heavily. With his back to Peter he snapped, “What?”

“Tadek, do you remember the day I arrived here? When you pointed the gun at my face?”

Tadek turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised in expectation. “What about it?”

“If you had killed me then, Joanna would still be alive today.”

Tadek opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it.

“You should have pulled the trigger, Tadek. You should have done it.”

Tadek said nothing for a moment, then he slowly shook his head, turned, and walked away.

9

R
ICHARD STOPPED BREATHING
at points. If he just stopped, did not actually hold his breath, it seemed to take only thirty seconds to begin to feel uncomfortable— so much so that all else became irrelevant. That was good—it was the only way to show absolutely no emotion. If he was diverted to wondering at the involuntary resolve of his lungs to grab for air, then he would not have to think about Joanna’s brave little voice speaking off camera. Nor was Peter’s suffering easy to bear. He had no particular fondness for the man, but his agony was obvious, and knowing what he must be witnessing, Richard could empathize. Could, but did not dare, not here, not now.

Karl had already filled him in on the details of Peter’s escape from the hospital-in Neu Sandez. The idiots apparently thought he had managed it alone or something. God, they were stupid! How in the world had they managed to conquer so much land? Was mindless brutality enough? Or had they grown stupider with success? Was their repressive system finally reaching the point where only idiots were promoted? Idiots promoting ignoramuses?

Clearly that was the case with Karl. He had gloated about the escape; even though it had robbed him of the opportunity to know that Peter had been suitably punished, he had gloated. The reason was simple—it vindicated him wonderfully. If the goddamned security service in Neu Sandez couldn’t hold Peter when he had offended the Führer personally, who in their right mind could blame Karl for letting Peter slip away when he was nothing more than another forced laborer? Who could blame Karl now?

Richard had heard Karl go on and on about it. Richard, his friend whom he trusted, had heard it all. That English traitor!
Volksverräter,
Karl had said, all of them! Why had we ever thought they would be of any use? he had wondered. I don’t know, Richard had truthfully replied. That cripple, Karl called Peter. Knowing the answer, Richard had once asked what had crippled him—was it some accident? Karl had shrugged as if he truly did not remember, then answered that he supposed it was simply genetic inferiority. Yes, of course, Richard had replied.

Now Richard had the wonderful opportunity of personally viewing the tape that Karl had acquired at great cost. Richard sat, grunting occasionally with amusement, snickering at Karl’s comments, suppressing an overwhelming urge to strangle the oaf as he sat there giggling next to him. Richard did not think of his sister, he did not dare. He did not think of his parents—they had to be pushed out of his mind forcefully. And he did not think about Joanna—his dear little niece who had romped so happily through his house such a short time ago. As the fatal few seconds played, he did not even, despite a strong urge to do so,
mentally list the mistakes that they must have made to allow Joanna to get into such a terrible position. Mistakes were inevitable—the only hope was that they were not fatal. No, he knew better than to look for fault anywhere but exactly where it lay: in the hands of their Nazi government.

What he did do, to distract himself, was plot. His own efforts to stop the murder-had come too late. After a painful series of phone calls just to determine who had any authority in Peter’s case, after the delays in the long-distance exchanges, after he had cobbled together a convoluted excuse for wanting to see Halifax alive and unharmed, he had cheerfully been informed that the prisoner would indeed be transferred shortly to Berlin, and, oh, by the way, the girl was dead.

Richard swallowed the gall that the memory produced; it was time to move past that. How exactly could he get this tape from Karl? How could he get it copied? How could he get it distributed? How could it best be used against them? Karl would never believe he owned a videocassette player: they were like computers and facsimile machines—not the sort of thing one would find in a person’s home. So, what excuse could he use to borrow the tape? Stealing it seemed impractical, borrowing would have to do, but under what pretext?

Karl stood up and hit the stop button on the machine. It only took him three tries to find the right one.

“Why’d you stop?” Richard asked.

“Oh, well, I saw it before and, well, not much happens now.”

“No?”

“No, he just sits there, looking stunned and sick. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything. Well, I’m wrong there, he sheds some tears. Doesn’t make a sound, they just roll down his face—proves his weakness, if you ask me. But otherwise, boring.”

Richard wondered momentarily what they had thought Peter might say or do. A soliloquy to the camera? A mea culpa? They’re idiots, he thought once again.

“I heard the Führer was furious when he viewed the tape,” Karl said.

“Oh, why?”

“Well, you heard it: if they hadn’t killed the brat, they could have got him to do all sorts of stuff. It would have been unique. I mean, you heard him, cut himself with a knife, maybe he would have gouged his own eyes out!” Karl laughed. “But they blew it. Following orders, I guess, but I mean, you have to show some initiative now and then. They should have consulted with someone about his suggestion.”

“Yes, that was definitely a mistake.”

“They blew the whole thing. Hell, he was much more amusing when I had him out cold on the cellar floor,” Karl gloated, reminding Richard of his previous triumph over Peter.

“Ah, yes, when you brought him to heel.” Richard wondered if Karl noticed the logical inconsistency of complaining about Peter’s escape after he had supposedly been brought to heel. Probably not.

“Yes”—Karl smiled proudly, pleased that Richard remembered—“that goddamned cripple learned who was boss.”

“Clearly,” Richard answered obscurely. “Anyway, the tape . . .”

“Oh, that. Well, as I said, not much more on it.”

“Ah, but I’d be interested in seeing the rest anyway.”

“You would? Whatever for? There aren’t any more laughs in it.” Karl motioned in the air with the cassette.

“Yes, but there is so much you can tell about the
Untermensch
mentality if you study their facial expressions. It is a hobby of mine. I’d really like to view this at some length.”

“Oh, I see. I just thought they looked stupid,” Karl joked.

Richard laughed. “Yes, but still there is something under all that stupidity—as you know, they can be quite treacherous. It really is an understudied field. I’m thinking of initiating some research projects in that direction with funds from . . .” He nodded his head upward in the usual manner. “Very hush-hush right now. But with your experience—especially with this fellow—well, I’m sure we’ll find your insights very, very valuable. And it would put paid to all those nasty, nagging questions . . . you know.”

Karl nodded enthusiastically. “I’d love to help, but I’m afraid I just don’t have the time to sit and watch this now. I have a meeting I’ve got to get to! Maybe we can arrange a later time?”

“Oh, you don’t need to stay, just give me the tape and I’ll get it back to you as soon as I’m done.”

Karl made a face. “I’m not supposed to let it out of my sight,” he moaned, “and I’ve got to get it back to my source by tomorrow.”

Richard shrugged expressively. “Oh, well, if you don’t want to help . . .”

“It’s not that! It’s just that . . .”

“If you don’t trust me . . .”

“No, of course I do, it’s just that . . .” Karl grimaced. Handing Richard the tape, he whined, “Just don’t tell anyone! And make sure you keep it very safe!”

Richard smiled. “You can trust me, Karl.”

“Oh, I do, Richard, I do!”

“Oh, and Karl?” Richard asked as Karl headed toward the door.

“Yes?”

“How long did you book this room for?”

“Oh, I just booked this hour, I didn’t know you’d want to stay . . .” Karl grinned, unsure what to say at that point.

“No problem, I’ll just stay until someone comes in. Have a good meeting.” Richard dismissed Karl in his best management voice—the voice and manner that had given him so much illusory power. With people like Karl, it always worked.

Once Karl had left the room, Richard contemplated the videocassette player. There was no way to make a tape from another tape—he would need
two machines. Tucking the tape into his jacket, he left the room and went to another well-equipped conference room. Nobody was inside and the hallway was quiet. Praying for a bit of luck, he pulled out his lockpick and opened the door. Using a handkerchief so that he did not touch the machine directly, he quickly unplugged it from the television and other equipment attached to it, and with a brazenness that was his only answer to having no real plan, he picked it up and carried it out of the room. He used the handkerchief on the underside, taking most of the weight on one arm, and only used the fingernails of his other hand to steady the machine as he carried it. It was unfathomably heavy. What did they put in these things? Lead?

A secretary passed him in the hall and deferentially stepped aside. Then he met up with a junior officer. “Can I help you, sir?” the younger man asked.

Richard swore to himself. Damn, a witness. “No, thank you,” he replied, willingthe man to move on and forget Richard’s presence there. Finally he reached the second conference room, and kicking the door shut behind himself, he dropped the stupid machine down next to the first and hurriedly attached the wires. As his hands fumbled with the connections, he feverishly thought of any excuse he could use if someone walked in while he was making the tape copy. Once the machines were connected, he realized, with a sudden dismay, that he did not have a blank tape. Swearing at himself for his stupidity, he left the two machines connected and walked to the nearest secretarial office.

The woman looked up as he leaned in.
“Mein Herr?”

“Pen’s just gone out,” he said, mixing boylike helplessness with a charming smile.

“I’ll get you another,
mein Herr.
” She made a mark with her pencil on the document she was typing.

“Oh, no, no—just point me toward the cupboard,” Richard said, already en route to the supply cabinet.

“In there,
mein Herr.
”

He disappeared into the cupboard, found the locked cabinet, and hurriedly unlocked it. The secretary called out, “Is there a problem,
mein Herr?
”

“No, just found them now,” Richard replied happily as he quietly opened the cabinet and removed one of the empty tapes with his handkerchief. He stuffed it into his jacket, closed and locked the cabinet, and grabbing a pen from the shelf, stepped out into the outer office. “Had trouble finding a blue one,” he explained with a sheepish smile, “one as blue as those eyes of yours.”

The secretary blushed.

“Put it down on Vogel’s account,” Richard said, indicating the pen. “It’s his fault,” he added with a wink.

Richard left the office, and the secretary dutifully accounted for the pen under Vogel’s name, smiling at a brief fantasy of marrying that kind, goodlooking, high-ranking official, whatever his name was.