The Children's War (182 page)

“All I want is someone to explain to me what the hell we’re doing here, fighting-some bandits over a bunch of useless rocks. Politics, if you ask me. Pure politics—and that makes bad strategy.”

There was no response and Peter imagined Schweig was reduced to nodding.

“Have you seen the orders we’ve been getting?” the commander asked his friend. “First one plan, then another, then back to the first, like we’re dealing with some sort of schizophrenic.”

“Or too many bosses,” Schweig agreed.

“For all the decisions I make,” the commander sighed, “I could be a robot. The couriers are tripping over each other trying to get orders in here, then we get that clown from Breslau, and now this joker from Berlin . . .”

Peter smiled and entered the tent; they both glanced up at him guiltily. Before they could say anything, Peter said, “I want to take the prisoners to the nearest mountain stream. Where’s that?”

“What? Whatever for?”

“In this weather, standing in a foot of water can be extremely painful,” Peter explained without telling them he knew from personal experience. “It will make them more likely to talk,” he finished, ignoring the commander’s look of disgust.

Schweig walked to the entrance of the tent and pointed to the left. “About a half a kilometer, that way.”

“I’m not sanctioning this sort of thing,” the commander said with surprising courage.

Peter scratched his head. “That was an interesting conversation I interrupted, but I’m having trouble remembering it all.”

The commander glared at him, then after a moment of silence conceded, “Fine. But just take one, we don’t want you to have difficulties.”

“There won’t be any trouble,” Peter assured him. “I want them all to witness everything: torture the weak if you want the strong to talk, that’s what we always say back at home office.”

“I can’t spare more than two men,” the commander said, trying a different objection.

“I don’t need anyone.”

The commander looked disappointed; he changed tack slightly. “They’re my prisoners, they’ll be watched by my soldiers, understand? Besides, as you so clearly pointed out, I’m responsible for your safety. You will have two soldiers accompanying you.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Just the officer from Breslau. He’s an expert, after all. He and I can handle them alone.”

“I won’t have interoffice rivalries played out in my camp. Lederman remains here and you will be accompanied by two of my men, otherwise you will be denied access to these prisoners. Understood?”

Peter hesitated, then deciding that he could push the commander no further, he gave up on revenge and gave in. “Fine. Two men. I’ll take them now.”

51

T
HE UNWIELDY DOZEN
made their way out of the camp and to the stream. They stopped in a small woods near the banks of the stream, and there Peter singled out the strongest-looking captive, ordering the other eight to sit on the ground. He told one of the guards to remain with them, and then taking the selected prisoner and the other guard with him, they set off a short distance around a rocky outcrop and out of sight.

“Hold him for me,” Peter ordered as he shoved the prisoner toward the guard. As the guard held the man from behind, Peter approached to face him. The man winced in expectation but said nothing. Suddenly Peter drew his gun and held it to the man’s head. “I don’t have time for any nonsense. Tell me everything you know.”

“It’s not me you want,” the prisoner volunteered. “It’s the other one—the short man with the black hair. He’s a group leader, he’s got information. Question him!”

Peter felt disgusted by this unexpected response, and for a moment it threw him off his stride. He backed away as if contemplating the information, then stepping behind the guard, he grabbed the barrel of his pistol and swung it with full force into the back of the guard’s head. There was a sickening crunch, and as the man crumpled silently to the ground, Peter wondered if he had not hit him too hard.

“What the hell?” the prisoner stammered.

“I’m from Central,” Peter said as he drew his knife and began cutting the man’s bonds. “I want you to take me hostage, then we’ll go back and free the others. Hold the gun on me and I’ll order the other guard to drop his weapons, then place me behind him and I’ll knock him out.”

“Why not just shoot him?” the man asked, overcoming his surprise.

“They’ll hear the shot.”

“You have a knife.” The man made a motion with his finger across his throat.

“No! I want to keep my cover; if they remain alive, they can corroborate that I was not involved in your escape. They’ll think we were attacked by a partisan here, then when I disappear with you all, they’ll think I was taken hostage.” Peter chose not to add that he was loath to add another couple of corpses to the mangled body of the boy he had slain.

They disarmed and tied the unconscious guard and returned as Peter had planned. The other guard looked up questioningly as he saw the two approach, then in alarm as he realized what was happening. Before he could raise his gun, Peter ordered him to set down his weapons. When Peter saw his hesitation at obeying such dubious orders, he added, “We have their word they won’t harm us.”

“Their word?” the guard asked.

“Yes. Now do as I’ve commanded.”

The guard set down his gun and Peter sighed his relief. The partisan who was holding him hostage ordered him to stand by the guard and he did so. The partisan began speaking, and as soon as the guard’s back was to Peter, he struck him a hard blow across the back of the head. The two of them began hurriedly freeing their comrades, immediately detailing someone to keep an eye on each guard to make sure neither awakened and raised an alarm. There were quick explanations and a debate about the fate of the two guards. Peter was adamant that not only was it strategically important the two remain alive, but that he had also given his word, and eventually his argument prevailed over the bloodlust of several of the captives.

Or so he thought. However, just as they set out into the woods to make good their escape, he saw two of the freed captives circle back, and he guessed that they had decided to take matters into their own hands and “finish the job.” He chose not to risk following the two, instead staying with the larger group so that they could provide cover for him and help him back into the mountains when his officer’s uniform became a liability.

They trampled over the snow through the barren trees, heading away from the camp and toward the front. The two men who had initially veered off did not rejoin them, and over the next twenty minutes, as they made their way deeper into the disputed territory, he lost another three of his companions as they melted away to different destinations. The speed at which they chose to abandon the group worried him, and as yet another slipped off, he stopped to confront the remaining three.

“What’s going on?” he demanded, but none of them answered. He had kept the sidearm of the attachó and one of the guard’s semiautomatic rifles for himself, and now he noticed that all three remaining were weaponless and eyeing his guns. “We’re not through the front yet, why is everyone splitting off? You’re
safer with me—if we meet up with a German patrol, I can pass you off as my prisoners.”

“There would be safety in numbers,” a slack-jawed woman agreed. “Don’t you think you should share those weapons?”

On an instinct Peter shook his head. “What’s the problem? I’ve just freed you, we’re heading home, I’m unfamiliar with this territory, I assumed one of you would guide me back.”

The three of them looked at each other guiltily, then finally a young lad spoke. “We can’t, sir. We don’t know who you are, and if we take you in, then we take responsibility. None of us wants to take that chance.”

“Dammit! I took a hell of a chance for you. It’s because of that little charade I’m not returning by the route I planned! The least you could do is get me back inside,” Peter hissed angrily.

There was an uncomfortable silence. The slack-jawed woman shook her head. “Whoever you are, you’re a sitting duck in that uniform, and I, for one, don’t want to be anywhere near you when they start shooting.” She turned and walked off. The other two shrugged and followed her. Peter watched them for a moment thinking that he could simply follow, but it would be difficult and there seemed no point.

He sat on a rock and closed his eyes, breathing deeply to try to rest. Fucking ingrates! He should have left them to their fate. He thought of how that boy Dennis had given him a shove in the direction of his home after he had been thrown out of his gang, then sighing, he stood, took his bearings, and started off again.

He followed an icy rivulet upstream. It ran through the middle of a combe, and the slopes on either side protected him from the wind and, he hoped, from snipers. As he progressed, the valley narrowed until there was only a few feet of space on either side of the water. The ground became slick with the icy spray from the stream, and soon he found himself constantly slipping on the rocks. His third fall hurt, and his foot slid into the water, wetting his boot but luckily not soaking through. He stopped to rest and reconsider his strategy.

Though there was ice forming on the water, it would never be enough to support his weight. Meanwhile the farther up he climbed, the narrower and steeper the valley became. It was getting nearly impassable, and in his present state he feared he might well injure himself and freeze to death before anyone found him. He would simply have to risk traveling along the top of the valley. He scaled the bank and emerged on the top of a narrow ridge. He glanced around nervously. There was no sign of anyone, and though he was not sure whether that was good news or bad, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He sat down and rested his head against a tree. God, but he had not realized how tired he was! Two nights without sleep and this almost constant movement. His muscles ached, his feet were sore, and his eyes burned. The wind was harsher up on the ridge, and he noticed how the side of his face that was exposed to it
was growing hot. In fact, as he sat there, he felt flushed with warmth. He closed his eyes and thought about the paradoxical warmth, then he thought about Zosia and their tiny little baby. He hoped they were all right and imagined little Irena wrapped in warm blankets snuggling into her mother’s arms, her face pressed against Zosia’s warm, soft, tender breasts . . .

“Daddy?” Joanna called out to him. “Daddy, are you awake?”

He started awake. His hands and feet had grown numb. He wondered how long he had slept as he struggled to get to his feet. Only a light dusting of snow had accumulated on his windward side, and he guessed that he had not dozed for more than a minute or two. Nevertheless, that he had unintentionally fallen asleep scared him, and he began walking, stumbling on his numb feet until the blood and sensation returned, determined not to stop until he had reached some sort of safety.

He reached deep into his coat pocket and extracted his armband. Wave it, Bolek had said. At the time he had not thought to point out how impractical that was. He could mount it on the end of his rifle and wave that as he walked, or he could stick it on a branch, but it really wasn’t much like a flag, and besides feeling ludicrous, it would prevent him from using his hands to help keep his balance when he was clambering over rocks and branches. He closed his fist around the cloth and decided he was still on the wrong side of the front to use it.

About twenty minutes later, the ridge path he had followed widened and joined a road. The mountain stream still burbled below him, though now the drop into the valley was rather precipitous and the area around the stream was too narrow to walk. Though he felt much more exposed on the road, he welcomed it nonetheless for the ease of walking, and also with the thought in mind that perhaps if he was spotted from far enough away, they would give him time to surrender and explain himself.

Thus, when he thought he heard a branch snapping, he immediately waved his arms to draw attention to himself and his armband. The grenade landed about three meters in front of him. It took a second for him to register its presence and decide what to do, and it exploded even as he threw himself over the edge of the road. He tumbled out of control down the slope and crashed through thin ice into the mountain stream. The bitterly cold water sent a shock of pain through his body and he scrambled desperately toward the bank. The stream was not deep—not more than two feet, but the bottom was slippery and as his muscles contracted in uncontrollable spasms, he slipped and stumbled back into the water. He crawled out, grasping at frozen tufts of grass to pull himself up the bank, then lay gasping on the snow-covered slope.

Seconds passed. It felt so good to lie still! His brain told him to move, quickly, but as he lay there, he could feel warmth spreading in a pulsing sensation through his body, almost as if a torch were being passed over him. Move, he told himself, but then again, whoever had thrown the grenade was likely to shoot at him if he moved. He knew he should stand and shake the excess water from his
clothes before more seeped through, but still he lay motionless except for the shuddering of his entire body. Move and be shot or don’t move and freeze, he debated. Move or don’t move?

“Don’t move!”

It took a moment before he realized someone had actually spoken. He could hear the sound of boots skidding down the bank toward him.

“It’s not going to move, it’s dead,” a different, rather young voice opined, this time in Polish.

“Don’t fool around, shoot it,” a female voice advised. She also sounded quite young.

“It’s dead already,” the first voice answered. They were close now though he could not see them.

“Why don’t you just shoot it anyway, to be sure?” the girl’s voice asked.

“He doesn’t want to ruin that pretty uniform,” the second voice guessed.

Peter remained still as he listened. Both the boy and the girl had a slurred accent that made them difficult to understand.

“Kill it,” the girl insisted.

“Shut up, you bloodthirsty little whore!” the first voice grated. “What the hell did you waste a grenade for like that!”

“Yeah, wasting grenades!” the other male voice joined in as an adolescent might.

“Fuck you,” the girl responded angrily.

“You’re supposed to use some common sense.”

“Yeah, common sense,” the boy’s voice parroted, then asked, “What do we do now?”

“If he’s who I think he is, you’re in deep shit. Keep him covered, I want to look around, I thought I saw something,” the first voice said.

“Look, he’s alive, he’s shivering,” the girl said.

A foot prodded him in the back; he tried to speak but the words froze in his throat.

“Wait, look—there it is!” the first voice called out.