The Children's War (163 page)

34

“M
EDICAL RECORDS!”
Karl yelled as he threw down the clippings on Richard’s desk.“Medical records from a respected and disinterested source!”

Richard picked up the news items. It looked bad. Who would have guessed that Halifax had gone to a physician while he was in the NAU? Eye damage, bone fractures, scar tissue, it was all there. A history of repeated violence. “Perhaps,” Richard suggested to amuse himself, “you could suggest he was a masochist?”

“Do you think?” Karl asked, intrigued.

“It was a joke,” Richard replied sardonically. He scanned the summaries. “You know,” he said almost to himself, “we treat cattle better than this.”

“Oh, it’s blown all out of proportion!” Karl snapped in reply, eyeing his friend suspiciously.

“Yes, clearly.” Richard was still studying the clippings. “I suppose you could claim this all happened later, or earlier. Perhaps the fellow was in an accident?”

“Yes, yes.” Karl nodded enthusiastically, his worries about Richard’s loyalty apparently having evaporated. “You’re a genius!” he exclaimed, so happy with the quick solution that he did not even bother to claim credit for it this time.

“Ah, I was just inspired by your lead,” Richard reminded him with an engaging-smile.

As Karl left and the door shut behind him, Richard sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. God, he was getting careless! What had he been thinking?

It took more than four weeks for the response to the latest Reich press release to emerge. Alex had decided to take his time because the reply had been so pathetic it had almost served their purposes directly. An accident! Good Lord, how had Ryszard managed to convince that idiot to say something so transparently stupid? No question of the integrity of the records, no clever dodges, just claim it was an accident like some child caught acting naughty! The pundits were quick to pick up on that one. Starvation? They forgot to eat! Burned to death? Must have been playing with matches! Beaten to death? Uh, they tripped!

It seemed almost a pity to disrupt the fun, but now with the elections over and well won, the goal was to keep the European problems in the news, to keep the funds flowing to the cause. After three weeks the noise died down, and after giving it all a week’s break, Alex decided it was time to stir things up again. He asked Arieka to have her diplomat come forward and make himself and his recollections public.

He did. He approached the news agencies with the photographs in hand, explaining that they had been mysteriously posted to him. Once he had seen them, he remembered the incident clearly, and he thought it was his duty to come forward with the truth. He knew personally and could stake his reputation on the fact that not only was Peter Halifax in Berlin at the time that he had been there, but he had seen the man shortly after he had been brutally beaten. Out of curiosity and a sense of outrage, he had tried to engage the man in conversation at a diplomatic function, but the look in his eyes had told the diplomat that Peter knew he would be severely punished if he dared say so much as a word.

That last bit was an invention concocted by Arieka since the diplomat’s genuine recollection, that the man had seemed moronically obtuse, was not sufficiently sympathetic nor did it tally with the obviously intelligent man who had spoken up on television.

“The reason I spent so long with him,” the diplomat explained to Arieka, leaning close to speak confidentially, although they were alone, “was that I wanted to know if any of the drinks on his tray were nonalcoholic. I thought maybe my German was too accented because I couldn’t get an answer, he just stared downward like some moron. Finally, he looked up and I saw what he looked like. That’s when I asked what had happened.”

“What did he say?”

“Absolutely nothing. Just stared at me stupidly, like a subhuman.” The diplomat laughed at his command of Nazi mythology. He stopped laughing when he saw Arieka’s expression. “Anyway, at the time I thought he was just subnormal
and had gotten himself into a fight. You know, the way retards often get themselves into trouble.”

“Clearly your thesis was wrong.”

“Ah, yes. Obviously. You know, I caught a glimpse of that other guy on TV and I would have never put the two of them together. Never! At least not until you showed me this picture. He was so different!”

“I see. I guess to avoid your looking foolishly duped, you should maybe change your memories ever so slightly.”

They settled on an accurate recollection of the facts, a slight change in the diplomat’s remembered perceptions, and a few extra words of advice. Consequently, the diplomat stated publicly that not only was the photograph that was sent to him authentic, but he felt sure that every picture and every word of Peter’s story had been genuine, and he was equally sure, given what he himself had witnessed, that the videotape was sadly true as well. The Americans should face facts; they owed at least that much to the courageous man who had risked and lost everything to tell them the truth.

The diplomat was excellent. He was sober and concerned, and he even took the heat from his own government with stoic calm. “It was my moral duty,” he said, dabbing a bit of sweat from his forehead.

“Oh, that Arieka must be great in bed!” Alex commented as he watched another interview of the calm, dignified, and very believable diplomat. He wondered if Peter had any idea what he had missed.

“You don’t know she did that!” Anna responded, having decided to defend Arieka’s honor now that she knew how Peter and Arieka had spent their night together.

“No, but I’m going to send her flowers anyway!” Alex laughed. He was in a great humor. Their funding was way up, donations were rolling in. Congress was making appropriate noises, parliament was fuming, and even the Quebecois had taken time out of their feuding over Indian lands to comment. The onetime accepted status quo in Europe had suddenly become the European Question, to be debated at cocktail parties and on documentaries. They had not made one misstep in the entire plan.

Next, he thought, we’ll move it away from Peter. Keep up the heat with photographs of the camps, of the factories, sweatshops with child labor . . . Release statistics and life stories and perhaps even a book. Maybe a documentary. A movie—yes! A made-for-TV movie “based on a true story.” There would be interest now. It would be easy to get the backing they would need. He should send Peter some flowers as well. What had Zosia said, he was in London?

35

T
HE WOMAN HAD BEEN PERUSING
the glass-encased shelves for a long time, leaning over the long counter to peer at the titles. Peter was busy serving the customers and only noticed her subconsciously. He always kept a mental tally of what each customer did, and something in her behavior or her stance caught his attention. Nevertheless, he could do nothing about it for the moment; Barbara was out doing the shopping and he was busy with a steady stream of people.

Finally the miniature rush ended and the woman was left alone in the shop with him. She casually wandered over to his counter and smiled. Clearly she was a contact. He awaited the usual coded sentences so that they could carry out the ritual of her passing information on to him, but she said nothing. Instead her smile changed to a perplexed frown.

“Alan?” she asked so softly he hardly heard her.

He looked closer at her. “Can I help you?”

She looked confused.

After a moment he repeated, “Can I help you with something?” but this time he used English.

“Alan!” she said, her face breaking into a smile.

Peter surveyed her. Ungainly, slouching in that way that Englishwomen often used to launch themselves into middle age. A sort of clumsy, chummy maturity that announced: indifferent wife, tired mother, dead-end job, but a good friend to chat to over a lovely cup of tea. He regauged her age as younger than he had initially guessed, mentally subtracted two or three stone from her body, and studied the unchanging eyes and mouth and voice.

“Jenny,” he replied. “Jenny.” She was a member of the English Underground, an ex-lover, a woman with whom he had had an affair while her husband was away at the labor camp. She was three years younger than he and had at the time been quite attractive. A friendly face, a slender albeit unmuscled body that would naturally, once she had stopped actively dieting, tend to slackness. It was almost a philosophy of living among that type, a statement of settling in, a confession that all efforts at remaining pretty had been for external reasons, that there was no particular pride in appearance once life was comfortable, or at least tolerable. Retirement at thirty. He supposed that it may have been offered as a comfort to their husbands or partners, a deliberate abnegation of any attempt at attractiveness. Even their clothes advertised that they were uninterested and unavailable. He could have predicted the transition, he had seen it often enough.

The two of them had grown quite serious, or rather, she had. He had enjoyed her company, she was friendly, chatty, artistic. They had maintained a long relationship, but when it was clear that she planned to divorce her husband as soon
as he returned, Peter had ended the affair. After that, since they were not in the same group, they had seen each other infrequently and had not had much chance to interact. He had learned that she had picked up another lover not long after him, divorced her husband, and married the new man. She gave every indication of having no bitterness at all toward Peter. “A mutual misunderstanding of intent” was how she had referred to their affair. For his part, he had simply realized he did not want to spend his life with her.

“I heard you were dead,” she said softly, glancing around to see that no one had entered the shop. “But obviously not,” she added, indicating that explanations were not required.

Barbara returned at that point and they fell silent as she walked through the shop into the back room. Jenny studied her carefully as she passed by.

“I heard there was a team here and I could deal with either of you. So, she’s the other one?”

“Yes.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes.”

“She’s not English, is she?” Jenny asked perceptively.

“No, she’s not.” There was obviously no point in denying Barbara’s complicity in their network, but there was also no point in explaining any more than necessary.

“She’s not German either.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked, somewhat astonished.

“Her face. She has those high cheekbones. Some Germans have them, but it looks more Nordic or Slavic to me.”

“My little artist. You always were quite perceptive.”

“I would have killed for those in my younger days.” Jenny sighed, then she cocked her round face at Peter. “But you look different. You’ve dyed your hair.”

“So have you.” She had become a platinum blonde.

“Ah, it’s getting fashionable among Englishwomen. But I can’t believe you’ve colored your hair! It was so nice before.”

“It was unavoidable.”

She looked quizzical, but he did not explain further. She continued to study him. “There’s something else. You really look different somehow.”

“I’m older.” He smiled, not commenting on how very different she looked.

“No, no, no. It’s more than that.” She tilted her head the other way. “Your face!”

“My face?”

“Yeah, remember, I drew portraits of you; I know the lines of your face intimately, and they’ve changed.” She reached tentatively toward his cheeks; he leaned forward obligingly so she could stroke her hand along his cheekbones. “Here and here. How . . . ?” She could not find the right phrasing for her question.

“I was in prison. That’s where they would hit me all the time.”

“Oh, I am sorry! I didn’t think! That was rude of me, wasn’t it?” Jenny was overwhelmed by embarrassment. She obviously wanted to know more, but did not dare to presume to ask.

“It’s all right,” he responded with a shrug. “It is what it is.”

Barbara emerged from the back room. Obviously she had seen Jenny stroking Peter’s face, and she came directly over to the two of them. Skirting around Jenny to go behind the counter, she went up to Peter and kissed him.“Hello, darling.”

“Hi, love,” he responded dutifully, then waited in silence for Barbara to give him the privacy he obviously wanted. She made a pretense of sorting some things under the counter, straightened a shelf, then finally gave up and walked a short distance away.

“How did your new marriage turn out?” Peter asked once Barbara was out of earshot.

“Oh, him.” Jenny laughed. “Long gone. I’m on number three now.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. With you it would have lasted.” Jenny smiled winningly, then too embarrassed to hear his response, she continued, “So, you’re still in the game.”

“Yes, and you, too.”

“Not really. I just run messages now and then. I can’t really afford the time with two kids.”

“Two?”

“One from number two and one from number three. What about you?”

“Ah, one en route, another—my adopted daughter—was killed.” For some reason he felt compelled to tell her the truth. Maybe for old times.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How did it happen?” Jenny asked while scanning Barbara, looking for hints of the pregnancy.

“It’s complicated,” he demurred.

Something in his tone caused Jenny to look back at him. She studied his face as if remembering something, or comparing a mental picture with what was in front of her. Then she nodded and said quietly, “You’re him, aren’t you?”

“Who?”

“That Halifax fellow. I read an article about him. Was that you?”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“Was what you said the truth?” she asked, suddenly aware of the meaning behind his obscure answers.

“Essentially. I’m surprised you heard about it.”

“How could we not? Well, I suppose the general populace here didn’t hear much, if anything, but those of us with connections—well, let’s say, you made quite an impression.”

A customer entered, and Barbara went over to assist and keep the man away from the two of them. Jenny lowered her voice still further. “What you did there was really brave, and you should know, it really helped. Not just funding, but it
helped our morale here. To know somebody was speaking out about what is going on, telling them that things aren’t settling down or getting normal.”

“Thanks. You know, it cost me my daughter.”

Jenny’s face conveyed a look of unspeakable shared sorrow. She shook her head and let her eyes drop to the floor, probably in some mistaken and typically English belief that she had put her foot in it by expressing her gratitude for what he had done. Eventually she found the courage to glance up at Barbara again and ask, “Is that the mother?”

“No. She’s not really my wife, that’s just our cover. The child was the daughter of the woman I’m currently married to. She’s”—he sighed—“back home.”

“Good Lord!” Jenny exclaimed quietly. “You’re in love, aren’t you! With your wife! You of all people!”

“Why of all people?”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Is that why you’re here? I should think you were too valuable to be in this position normally. Is it like a sabbatical?”

“You could call it that.” He was rather embarrassed that the appropriate word was more like
exile.
“I’m supposed to be making better contacts with the British Underground eventually. We need more coordination between our two groups.”

“I’ll say! Whoever you’re with now, we could use more help. That’s the problem, they’ve got us so divided that we’re conquered. Who, by the way, are you with now? The French? The Scots?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, come on, you can tell me! After all, whoever is sending the message I’m carrying already knows!” Jenny then glanced at Barbara again. “Norwegians? Poles?”

He smiled at the correct answer and Jenny laughed quietly. “The Home Army, of course. How in the world did you ever get hooked up with them?”

“I stumbled into their midst and asked them nicely not to shoot,” he replied nearly truthfully.

“We could use some closer ties with them. They have a lot of resources for infiltration—fluent German speakers and whatnot. Proximity to Berlin. Absolute dedication,” Jenny said excitedly. Something of the youthful woman was reemerging, and she sounded as though she had not renounced her role in the Underground as willingly as she had initially implied. “What are your orders? Have any meetings been arranged?”

“None yet.”

“Well, why don’t we circumvent all the bureaucratic nonsense? I’m in contact with some people and I’m sure we can arrange for you to meet with them and discuss things of mutual interest.”

Another customer entered the store, then another.

“Look, I better pass this on and get out of here before it’s too late.” She handed over a book that she had been holding in her hands. “Standard. One twenty-seven, third para.”

Peter nodded, memorizing the numbers.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days, see what I can arrange by then. All right?”

“Yes, I’ll have the book repaired by then. Thank you for coming, ma’am.” He watched as she clomped through the shop and out the door.

Barbara and he tended to the customers and were kept busy and separated for a time, but as soon as there was a break, Barbara headed directly toward him and wasting no time at all asked, “Who the hell was that?”

“An old lover.”

“What? Her?” Barbara sputtered her astonishment.

“Yes, her,” Peter confirmed unapologetically, smiling with fond memories.