The Children's War (179 page)

“Oh, when they move off patrolling, they often become couriers or handle operations in the towns and villages: sabotage, theft, extortion, information, supplies. You name it. Sooner or later they get caught out. Not many make it to thirty.” Zosia stroked the baby’s cheek. The infant opened her mouth and Zosia guided her to the nipple. The baby latched on and began sucking.

“Look!” Zosia exclaimed.

Peter watched as the child finally took nourishment. He smiled at the peaceful-image of the two of them, fascinated by the bond between mother and child. He walked to the window and looked out at the snow and sunshine. Incongruously beautiful. The noise of battle was still distantly discernible. Local artillery, probably in support of troop movements. It would be singularly ineffective against a guerrilla enemy concealed by the vast forests. No carpet bombing, nothing nuclear. Clearly, though determined to make a statement, they were still afraid of the deterrents, afraid of escalating retaliations. Yet, somebody had felt obliged to be seen to be doing something. Never mind if it was ineffective or costly; they were doing something: hacking at a thorn in their side with a machete. What would it take to make them stop?

“I should get going,” he said at last.

“Be careful,” Zosia replied from her seat. She was still absorbed in watching the child nurse.

He pulled on his coat, put his knife in its scabbard.

“Do you want my gun?” Zosia asked, looking up at last to contemplate what might be her last view of her husband.

He shook his head. “No, I’d rather you had it, but thanks for offering.” He kissed her, kissed his child, and headed for the door. As he reached for the handle, Marysia’s words came back to him and he returned to Zosia’s side.

“What’s up?” she asked. “Somebody outside?”

“No, not that,” he answered uneasily. He swallowed as he tried to find the right words to say. He lowered himself to his knees, ostensibly so that he could
reach out to the baby more easily, but it was really so that he would not have to look Zosia in the face as he spoke, and perhaps as well because kneeling seemed appropriate.

“I wanted you to know”—his voice quaked—“I want you to know how very sorry I am about Joanna.”

“What?”
Zosia’s voice betrayed something close to anger. “Why are you talking-about that now?”

“I never said I was sorry. I know deep down you blame me, there is no other realistic response to—”

“I don’t blame you!” Zosia snapped angrily.

Peter stroked the baby’s cheek and said carefully, “But if you were to blame me, I want you to know I think it’s only natural, and I would understand, and we could deal with it together. I
am
sorry, Zosiu, the guilt is tearing me apart, and it would be a relief if you did blame me, because then I’d know you understand what I feel.”

He leapt up, kissed her, and added, “I really must go. I love you, I love you both dearly. Take care.” He was out the door before she could say a word.

47

H
IS SKIS MADE A QUIET SHUSHING SOUND
as he sped along in the direction of the bunker. The soldiers had been on foot and had marched along the compressed snow of his and Zosia’s ski trails. That was a nuisance—he might well catch up with them; yet the alternative of leaving the trail to avoid them was not really possible as he did not know the terrain well enough to find his way back any other way.

He did indeed stumble across the German patrol; their bodies lay on the side of the trail. Three had managed to run some distance, the rest had fallen where they were. Each body had been stripped of its weapons—including Peter’s gun— and other useful items including their coats and boots. The sergeant and another had only been injured in the initial ambush and had had to be executed at short range. All of them had been repositioned on their back with their eyes closed and their arms folded across their chest. Someone had taken valuable time to do that. Probably, Peter thought, somebody had said a prayer as well.

He looked at the sergeant and felt a sudden sorrow. He wondered if the sergeant had guessed he himself would so soon be dead when he had spared them their lives. Would that act of impulsive mercy weigh in his favor in the great beyond? Peter scanned the distance to see if he could find their killers, but there was no sign of them. Not two kilometers farther he met up with an AK patrol. They called for him to halt and skied out of the woods to inspect him. They were
partisans who were unfamiliar with the bunker, but they knew his name and recognized him as one of their own. Peter noticed that several of them wore German army overcoats, their insignia still intact, blood and bullet holes defacing the wool. He told them about Zosia back in the cabin and asked them to return with him to help her travel to the bunker. The leader among them opined that she was safer where she was for the time being and promised to relay the information. “I’ll send someone over to check on her as soon as possible,” he promised.

“Can’t we get her to the bunker?” Peter insisted. “I just need the help of one or two of you.”

“We’re not sure it’s safe there. If she’s in the cabin, she should stay put for now. Don’t worry, she’ll be all right. Besides,” the leader added hesitantly, “we’re not cleared for Central. We’d all risk court-martial—you for showing us the location, and us for going where we’re not supposed to be.”

Peter nodded his acceptance of their logic. Zosia would never tolerate such a breach of security and would under the circumstances refuse to move. He asked about the German positions, and they told him what they knew, wished him luck, and escorted him some of the distance toward the bunker before parting company.

Relieved that someone else knew about Zosia and the baby now, Peter continued toward the bunker along a slope. The trail was level, but the woods rose steeply to his left and dropped to his right. The surge of relief brought with it a matching surge of fatigue. The sleepless hours were beginning to catch up with him, and the brilliant sunshine on the snow was taking its toll on his eyes.

Abruptly he paused in his stride to take a rest—just long enough to close his eyes. A bullet whistled past his face. He immediately overcame his astonishment and leapt down the embankment to his right even as he heard a second shot. He tumbled out of control for a second, then rolled to a stop and clambered to his feet. His left ski had dutifully popped off, but the right was still attached to his boot, and he reached down and released it. He heard someone scrabbling down the other slope and crossing the trail as he scrambled to climb up the embankment under the cover of the trees.

The soldier skidded to a stop at the edge of the trail and pointed his rifle at his victim. Peter’s eyes were level with the soldier’s boots, and he lunged forward and threw his arms around them, bringing the man toppling down onto him as the rifle went off uselessly into the air. The rifle flew out of the soldier’s hands and skidded down the slope out of reach of the two of them as they rolled together in an impassioned embrace of murderous intent.

The two were well matched: the strength of a terrified youth alone in hostile territory, intent on gaining clothes and skis that might see him safely back to the front, against the savage power of a new father determined to see his child again. They fought their battle of unequal goals with ferocity. The soldier freed a hand, pulled out his handgun, managed to point it at his adversary’s face. Peter pushed the gun away, aware that he was in danger of losing his hand to it. They both
struggled to control the weapon, each one’s hand wrestling with the other in a contest of brute strength. Peter used his other hand and removed his knife and stabbed upward into what he hoped was the soldier’s chest. The knife plunged into a soft belly. The soldier gasped in pain, realized what had happened, and in a surge of angry strength regained control of the gun. He brought it around to fire, but Peter had removed the knife and plunged it into the soldier’s back. The blow sent the soldier forward onto him, and the gun fired harmlessly to the side.

Peter stabbed the soldier again. He could not reach upward with the weight of the soldier’s body on top of him, but he managed to hit something crucial. The soldier gasped and choked and ceased to struggle. Still holding the knife, Peter shoved the body off himself, sat up, and spared a moment to catch his breath. The soldier was still alive but critically wounded; he tried to roll away to safety, but he was stuck against a fallen tree. He would freeze or bleed to death if left alone.

Grimacing at his lack of choices, Peter rose to his knees and plunged the knife up and into the boy’s chest cavity, into his heart. Gasping for breath, he held the knife there as the body jerked convulsively, as the boy drew his last breath. When the movement stopped, Peter removed the knife. Panting with his exertion, he paused a moment, then checked to be sure the boy was dead. It was the first time he had looked at his enemy’s face, and he realized the boy had been one of the two who had stormed into the cabin, a survivor of the massacre Peter had encountered earlier. He wiped away some clotting blood and read the boy’s name: Neufeld.

Peter grabbed the pistol from where it had fallen and put it into his holster, then he washed the knife in the snow and stuck it back into its scabbard inside his coat. He moved a few feet away from the body and rested, breathing deeply, trying not to think about what had just happened. He wondered how Zosia was doing, thought of the little girl nuzzling her to get milk, and smiled at the thought. Then his eyes strayed to the wrecked body next to him. Poor sod must have been absolutely mad with terror.

Once Peter had regained his composure, he clambered down the incline and recovered the rifle. He slung it over his shoulder and climbed back up to the body. Keeping with what was apparently a tradition, he removed the soldier’s identification and valuables, then arranged the body lying flat and folded the arms across the chest. He pushed the eyelids shut and placed small pebbles on them to keep them closed, then stood to climb back up to his skis, but somehow the ritual seemed incomplete. Groaning at the irrationality of it, but unable to restrain himself, he knelt on one knee by the soldier’s body, made the sign of the cross, and said one of the short prayers Joanna had taught him. He finished with another sign of the cross, then stood, muttering to his nonexistent God, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

48

“I
HOPE YOU’RE SATISFIED,”
the Führer sneered as he tapped angrily with his riding crop at the mapboard posted on the wall of his office. “Look at this mess! Just look at it!”

Schindler paused on the threshold, shifting uneasily from one leg to the other; he glanced at the roomful of men, sparing a scowl for Richard, then pulled the door shut behind himself.

“They were prepared, they’re fighting back, they’re well supplied, and we’re taking losses!” the Führer fumed.

Composing himself, Schindler strode across the room to the map, studied it a moment, then pointing at a section, said, “We’ve pushed forward here and here.”

“And lost territory here!” the Führer howled. “You said they’d never see it coming. You said we’d go through them like a hot knife through butter! Well, you were wrong!”

Schindler shrugged. “It’s not my section of the country. Ask Traugutt. He’s the one who is so knowledgeable about that area.” He turned toward Richard. “Why have we allowed these criminals to gain such strength? Hmm? We don’t have this sort of trouble in my sectors!”

“No, you just have Englishmen going on television in America,” Richard replied snidely.

“I had nothing to do with that!”

“Can’t control your own people?” Richard asked. “Maybe it’s because you spend your time poking your nose into places where you have no knowledge, no expertise, and no business!”

Schindler turned abruptly away from Richard and said,
“Mein Führer,
the day is still young. We have hardly begun. Give our troops some time. You don’t want to be precipitous. You must persist, otherwise you will be perceived as weak! You’ll see, we’ll send them scurrying like rats! We’ll break these terrorists once and for all!”

The Führer stroked his chin. “Yes, yes, perhaps you are right.”

“You will make your mark in history!” Schindler insisted. “Finally clearing this largest nest of rats!”

“And how do you think the Führer should publicize this great achievement?” Richard asked pointedly. “The populace is unaware that we have tolerated these isolated enclaves. Should we announce their existence before we trumpet our victory over them?”

Schindler groped for an answer but was saved by a knock at the door. A messenger was admitted to the office and personally handed the Führer a note. After he had left, the Führer looked around the room questioningly. “What’s the
meaning of this? A weapons laboratory in Breslau has been destroyed! We’ve been warned that another site in Berlin will go up within the hour!”

The men in the room looked at each other, some confused, some merely silent.

“Well?” the Führer demanded.

Richard lit a cigarette then stated coolly into the silence, “They are retaliations for our actions in the mountains,
mein Führer.
They will not stop until we do.”

“Retaliations? Retaliations! We allow this?” Schindler screeched.

“We have no choice,” Richard explained. “After our last unsuccessful attempt at an invasion, they claimed to have planted deterrents in our cities and military installations and vowed to use them if we ever again violated their borders. Apparently, they meant what they said.”

“Then we’ll just nuke them back to the Stone Age!” Schindler suggested. “Teach the bastards a thing or two!”

“No!” Richard barked. “They claim to have nuclear weapons planted in our cities! If you do that, none of us would be safe! Not even you!”

“Where in the world did they get the idea they could do that?” the Führer asked with surreal naÔvetó.

“They learned it from us.” Richard laughed. “Though, since they have never yet struck against an innocent civilian population, I guess they have some way to go before they can compete with us in the terror stakes.”

A number of surprised glances were thrown in Richard’s direction, and he wished he had not said that last bit. It had been his anger speaking: Stefi, Pawel, and Andrzej were all under direct attack, and he not only felt helpless to defend them, he had to stand here and praise the means and methods of the Reich!

Fortunately, the Führer seemed too preoccupied to have noticed the gist of Richard’s remarks. He was studying the map of the territory that had been pinned up on the wall, holding his riding crop behind his back. There was another knock at the door and another messenger was admitted. The Führer read the note. “Frauenfeld! What’s the meaning of this?” he barked, turning toward the head of Communications security.

Frauenfeld read the message. “Our communications security has been breached.”

“I can read the damn message!” the Führer spat. “What I want to know is why, how, and what do you plan to do about it!”

“Mein Führer,”
Frauenfeld sighed, “I don’t know why, but you can rest assured that there will be a thorough investigation and we will correct any flaws and punish those responsible. In the meanwhile, the corrupt lines will have to be abandoned and some orders to the front will have to be sent by courier.”

“Better to send attachós,” Schindler suggested. “That way we can be sure to maintain Party control over what the army does.” He smiled. “This actually works to our advantage. Sometimes the army tries to get its head in these sorts of
situations, better to keep them under a watchful eye as we run them through their paces.”

The Führer nodded. “Günter, you stay, I want to discuss this some more. The rest of you, out of here!”

Richard scowled. It was the worst possible outcome. He would have to try to return later and turn the Führer’s mind away from whatever nonsense Schindler had planted, but for now there was nothing to be done. For the next few hours at least, the fighting was sure to intensify, and the retaliations would be stepped up accordingly. He collected Stefan in the outer office, and together they made their way out of the Führer’s residence.

“You may as well go home,” Richard sighed once they were outside. “Try to enjoy the rest of your Sunday. We may be back later this evening, I’m afraid.”

Stefan nodded. “Do you need a bodyguard?”

“No, go home now. I’ll be careful about the route I take.” After advising Stefan to stay away from obvious targets, Richard hailed a taxi and headed home. En route he thought about how he had mishandled the meeting. He should never have let Schindler take control of the Führer’s attention! He had made a mistake and let his emotions speak for him, and after that, he had lost the initiative. Unforgivable!

He rapped on the door when he reached his house. Kasia herself opened it. From her expression, he knew instantly that something serious had happened, but he waited until she had closed the door before asking, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Andrzej,” she sobbed, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his coat.“He’s dead.”

“Andrzej? Dead? How?” he asked, too confused to feel any pain.

“We don’t have all the details yet,” Lodzia answered from where she stood a few feet away. Kasia continued to sob uncontrollably into his chest. “We’re sorry, sir,” Lodzia added, speaking for herself and her husband.

“Dead,” Ryszard repeated, his mouth twitching. “Dead. Oh, dear God.” Gently he pulled Kasia away from him and handed her to Lodzia. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ve got to go back before it’s too late, before Schindler talks him into something even worse.” He looked at Lodzia and ordered, “See that Stefi is sent back, whatever it takes. I need her here as soon as possible. I have to get access to him. I have to make him stop this madness. It has got to be brought to a halt!”