The Children's War (183 page)

“Don’t shoot,” Peter finally managed to croak as he rolled over to face them. “I’m one of you.”

A boy and a girl faced him, dirty, scruffy, poorly dressed, neither more than fourteen. The boy had an old-fashioned rifle, she a pistol and a couple of grenades slung on a belt. Both had their weapons pointed at him. The other speaker, a young man of about twenty, was a few yards away. He was armed with both a semiautomatic rifle and a pistol and was the only one of the three who seemed to be adequately dressed for the cold. He was holding a piece of cloth in his hands that Peter recognized as his armband. “This yours?” the young man asked, holding up the armband.

Peter nodded. “I was returning from a mission. I’m one of you.”

“Not with that accent, you ain’t,” the lad sneered.

Peter pulled himself into a sitting position, waving angrily at the children to lower their weapons even as they poised themselves to respond to his action. “Put those things down!” he ordered. “You’re under orders not to shoot if I’m carrying an armband. And there it is!”

“But you’re not carrying it,” the boy argued.

“I was, you idiot. Before you attacked me.”

“Disarm him, tie his hands, in front, then you two get back to the road,” the young man advised. “I’ll take him up to my position and check him out.”

The young pair did as they were told, relinquishing the captured weapons reluctantly to their older comrade, and then, as ordered, they returned to their posts.

“Kids,” the young man sighed. “Just as well I got down here in time.” He looked at the papers Peter carried. “Fakes?”

“Just the photo,” Peter answered incautiously.

“Sorry about the ropes, sir, but I can’t release you until you check out. Can you walk?”

Peter nodded and climbed to his feet. The warmth had turned into an itching sensation, and though he felt as if he were burning inside, his skin felt painfully icy. The young soldier indicated where to go, and Peter climbed wearily back up the embankment. They walked along the road for a bit and then cut off to clamber up a slope that became steeper and rockier as it headed toward a promontory. Fortunately, with his hands bound in front, Peter had no trouble with the climb; his legs did not even hurt, and he guessed they were too numb with cold to feel any pain. As they continued with their exertions, the water on his clothing froze providing some protection from the wind, and the wool of his coat kept him relatively warm despite being wet. He even began to sweat so that he felt the weird, uncomfortable sensation of being hot and damp under his coat while his extremities grew stiff and numb. They reached the top of the ridge, and the terrain suddenly flattened into a heavy pine woods. They walked along in silence, but as they emerged from the woods, they were greeted by a male voice.

“Captain Halifax—I thought you were in London. Where’s my daughter?”

Peter located the speaker, sitting with his back to some rocks, eating a sandwich. It was Barbara’s father, Ludwik.

“She’s in London, safe and sound last I heard,” Peter replied cautiously. “I’m here for the birth of my child.”

“How’s your wife doing? Heard she went missing. Do you know if she’s okay?”

“Last I heard, she’s fine. She’s had the baby.”

“Oh, congratulations! Hell of a birthday party, what?” Ludwik gestured toward the noise from the distant fighting. It had been reasonably quiet for a while, but now it sounded as if somebody was attempting an offensive.

Peter scanned the ridge, then looked back at Ludwik. “Thanks. Do you think you could get this gentleman to untie me?” Peter was shaking uncontrollably.

Ludwik smiled as though he was considering, at least momentarily, the idea
of playing a joke, but then he turned to the young soldier and said,“He’s all right. He’s one of ours.”

“You know him personally?” the young man asked.

“Yeah, my daughter works for him,” Ludwik replied, then added almost gleefully, “Not only that, but his wife is a big shot. You harm a hair on his head and she’ll have your balls!”

The young man hurriedly untied Peter’s hands. “Sorry, sir. You know we can’t be too careful.”

“No problem,” Peter lied, rubbing his wrists.

The young man fetched Peter some blankets, returned his weapons to him, and then went to join his companion on watch, leaving Peter alone with Barbara’s father.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked Ludwik while wrapping himself in the blankets. He used the edge of one of them to scrub the tiny bits of ice from his hair.

“I should be asking you that,” Ludwik responded, but then answered, “They’re down to two people up here so I was told to fill in. So, what happened to you?”

Peter explained.

“Yeah, someone back at the camp mentioned we had sent out an infiltrator and he might be back this way. They didn’t say it was you, though. I thought I spotted a lone black uniform, so I sent the boy down to intercept you. Looks like he got there just in time.”

“Just barely.” Peter huddled into the blankets and shivered as sensation returned: pins and needles jabbed at his arms and legs and his skin itched with a vengeance. He clawed at his limbs through the fabric of his clothes, and though it felt as if he were drawing blood, it did relieve his itching some.

“When you get back, make sure you report that bit about the prisoner you questioned. I’m sure they’ll be able to track down who it was and take appropriate measures.”

“Like what? Extra duty?”

“I don’t know. Rather serious, giving up his commanding officer. You’re lucky he didn’t blow you away, once he found out who you were. Maybe kneecaps.”

“Ugh! You’re not serious!”

Ludwik cocked his head at Peter. “They have kept you cosseted, haven’t they? Of course I’m serious! If we don’t keep these people in line, they’ll go native and we’ll have a hundred little gangs each with its own little chieftain bargaining independently with the Germans to get a separate peace for their own little fief. After all these years, the only thing that separates us from a bunch of outlaw mountain bandits is discipline and a sense of purpose.”

“Is there really no other way?” Peter asked, aware of how much his own legs hurt thanks to Karl’s sense of discipline and order.

“Got any suggestions?”

Peter pondered a moment, then shook his head. With so many innocents being hurt, why should he give a damn about one miscreant partisan?

“Here.” Ludwik offered him a sandwich. “You look hungry, have you eaten?”

“Not really. Some buckwheat yesterday morning. Haven’t slept either.”

“Oops, this is not the time to fall asleep. We’re expecting an attack anytime now.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve stayed awake longer than this before,” Peter answered around a mouthful of sandwich.

“And is my daughter keeping you awake?” Ludwik asked slyly.

“Huh?” Peter responded, deliberately obtuse.

“She’s hot for you.”

“Was,” he mumbled, trying not to spit food.

“Oh? Have you slept with her?” Ludwik asked in a studiously casual tone.

Peter wondered what in the world Ludwik thought he might say even if he had! Finally, aware that his silence might be misconstrued, he swallowed his food to reply, “No. Our relationship is entirely professional. She has a boyfriend in London, did you know?” Naturally, it was unfair to betray the privacy of Barbara’s life, but it seemed a reasonable trade to get her father off his back. The man was, after all, armed, and accidents were known to happen.

“A boyfriend?” Ludwik sounded almost angry. “An Englishman?”

“Afraid so,” Peter responded, his mouth full again. “They are fairly common in England.”

“What the fuck!”

“They’re behaving,” Peter added hurriedly. “I’ve kept my eye on both of them.” He hoped he sounded sufficiently serious and sincere, though he doubted that shoving food into his face as he spoke helped in that regard.

“You!” Ludwik squeaked his derision of the idea of Peter as chaperon, but then Ludwik seemed to bring himself under control. “Ah, well, yes, good. Thanks. She’s precious to us. We appreciate your, uh, help.”

“My pleasure,” Peter responded with indiscernible sarcasm.

“I suppose, in any case, if he’s anything like you, she’ll have him whipped into shape in no time. Are all you English so henpecked?”

“My private life is none of your business,” Peter replied somewhat too seriously. He should have laughed off the insult or returned with one of his own, but he was tired and in no mood.

“Well, it seems your life is your wife’s business, isn’t it?” Ludwik did not relent. “Of course, one would have expected that from her—they’re all alike, think they can run everything.”

“Who, women?”

“No, the nobility. Didn’t you know—her great-grandmother was a Lubomirska.”

“Ah, so it’s in the blood, eh?” Peter attempted sarcasm; nevertheless, he was disturbed by Ludwik’s comments. He did not even know the last names of
most of his great-grandparents. How was it that not only Zosia knew her connection, but that he did and even Ludwik did? Was there a subtle message being sent?

“Indeed. Goddamned magnates. Still trying to push us around after all these years!”

“Who is us?” Peter asked, hoping to move the topic off his personal life.

“The workers! The peasants!”

“Are you a Communist?” Peter asked, thinking he could return the earlier insult.

“No, but my father was,” Ludwik answered proudly. “He fled Lwów when the Soviets marched in.”

“Fled the Soviets into German-held territory?” Peter asked in amazement.

“Yes, the GPU wanted to interview him. He felt his chances were better here.”

“Better with the Nazis than with his fellow Communists?”

“He went into hiding here. He was known there.”

“One would think he would have welcomed his fellow Communists with open arms.” Peter liked using the phrase
fellow Communists.
It seemed to annoy Ludwik enormously.

“Yeah, well, those who did,” Ludwik answered quite seriously, “disappeared into Siberia. The Russians are no less intent on our annihilation. If you look at the part of our country which they grabbed, you would guess that no Poles ever existed there. Compared to the Soviets, the Nazis are rank amateurs.”

“Hey!” one of the two defenders called to them. “We need some firepower here! Both of you, quick!”

Peter grabbed his weapons and with Ludwik climbed the last bit to the precipice where the two young defenders were waiting. A young woman took automatic command and indicated where they should place themselves. The four of them then waited until the unit that had been spotted was in range.

Considering how awful he had felt about knifing the boy and the fuss he had made about not killing the two guards, Peter expected to feel a bit of hesitance at the idea of shooting, but as he saw the uniforms filter into view, he had no trouble placing one of them in his sights. He thought of Joanna and Allison and his murdered friends and his parents; he wondered how Zosia and his newborn daughter were doing. Then he thought of all those who were behind him, depending on him to defend them and preserve this last tiny vestige of their home and their independence. He waited for the others, and when they agreed they were ready, he picked off his target, ending a life, and readily lined up the next mother’s son in his sights as the uniforms below broke formation and tried to scatter to safety.