The Children's War (184 page)

They took cover rapidly, but they were in a lousy position. Ludwik and Peter and the other two picked them off one by one with virtually no danger to themselves. It was pathetic really, like one of those cheap video games he had seen in America; the soldiers should never have been sent into such a situation, but no
doubt they were obediently following orders from someone who, by virtue of his brutality or his hair color or his uncle had won the right to command them.

As Peter thought of the strategy—or the complete lack of it—that the enemy so often exhibited, he wondered: Was it possible that their reputation for invincibility was no longer deserved? Were they a much softer target than anyone had assumed? Was it even possible that disaffection with the high level of corruption and nepotism in the hierarchy might lead to deliberate sabotage within the ranks, to desertion, maybe even to rebellion?

Had any of the advisers to the governments in exile noted this? Had the timid American security agencies overestimated the strength of the German war machine? They were notoriously reliant on dubious statistics, were hesitant to actually observe firsthand, were bound by politics to discover only that which was convenient to know. Were all the warnings about avoiding any direct conflict superfluous? Outdated? Misleading? Was Europe being held captive by a puppet regime with papier-m‚chó troops?

The American advisers, the governments in exile, the concerned opinions of the rest of the world, warned against outright war. They cautioned that a failed rebellion against the regime might lead to the annihilation of the subject peoples. But they were already being annihilated! True that some had a longer stay of execution than others, but they were all in the same queue for cultural annihilation if not actual physical liquidation. And it was interesting how concerned all the external onlookers became for the safety of the subject populations in this instance, but only in this instance. The concentration camps could still grind people to dust, the executions could still claim their numberless victims, malnutrition and starvation and disease could still destroy whole populations. None of that mattered enough to raise concern. Patience, they were told, have patience. All that mattered was avoiding the dangers of an outright war.

The most cynical explanation would be that too many people would lose power if a rebellion of the subject nations ever succeeded. The governments in exile, in particular, would lose all legitimacy. There was, however, a less cynical explanation: though no one dared say it, the Americans were terrified that a desperate Nazi regime might release its nuclear weapons in a nihilistic decision to destroy everything else as it collapsed. So, to lower their own risk, they allowed others to risk everything in futile and endless petty battles that did no more than slow the slaughter to an acceptable level of violence.

Peter rolled onto his back and reloaded his rifle. How many people had he killed already? Funny, but he had lost count. He rolled back onto his stomach and mindlessly searched the rocks below for a target as he let his thoughts return to politics and revolutions and the morality of risk. Had their governments given in to blackmail, accepting the eventual destruction of their nations for the guarantee of safety overseas? Was the chance for liberation worth the risk of nuclear reprisals? Of a Soviet invasion? Of civil war? Were their lives, after all these years of occupation, worth less than the lives of the people who lived in peace across
the Atlantic? Patience, they were told, have patience. Was it possible for any of them to remain patient any longer?

The young partisan who had assumed command of the snipers glanced at her watch. “Time to move,” she announced. They all slid out of position, down the slope. Once they were shielded by the cliff, the partisan pointed to a distant escarpment. “That’s our next location,” she said, and with her companion took off at a lope through the snow. Peter was exhausted and Ludwik looked fatigued, but they took off at a run as well. The next position was well planned. It looked onto a bit of valley that was farther along and would take the soldiers longer to reach than it took the defenders to move from one bit of cliff to the other. It was also distant enough and the rock face was directed such that they would probably be safe from an aerial bombardment of their first position.

When Peter and Ludwik reached the second position, the young partisan was alone. “Where’s your companion?” Ludwik panted. Unlike the other two, neither he nor Peter had been trained for this particular assignment.

“He’s waiting about halfway back to see if they’ll use any aircraft against that spot. If so, he’ll try and take it out. Once they organize a reply to us, we have to start moving fast.”

“Is there another position after this one?” Peter asked, worried at both his and Ludwik’s lack of direction.

She immediately understood his concern and took a few seconds to explain their next two locations and the planned time interval between each. “But to work! Let’s see if we can’t finish them off here and save ourselves running again,” she concluded, and directed each of them to an optimal niche.

So, Peter lay down and prepared himself to kill again as the soldiers finally proceeded down the valley. They would proceed, he was sure of that. It had been ordered and they would follow their orders. He wondered if Geerd might be among them. Would it matter? He sort of liked the boy, and philosophically, it might have made a difference to him, but emotionally or physically or instinctively or whatever it was that governed his behavior then and there, he knew it was irrelevant. He was not a philosophical being at that point. He was defending his home and his loved ones against invasion, and he would kill whomever he had to in order to do that.

In the end, they did not have to move on from their second location. It had not even been necessary to move from the first. They destroyed the remnants of the enemy soldiers and waited for the next wave, but there was none. No more attempts, no assault from the air on their position. The four of them waited through the night and into the next day, sleeping in shifts, ever vigilant, but there was nothing. Radio communication with HQ had indicated that even though nothing more was currently expected, they should stay their ground until further orders, Peter included. So they stayed and watched and waited and chatted. But it was over. No one else came.

On the second day of their vigil, they were relieved by two more partisans.
The woman greeted a young man with hugs and kisses, and they pressed against each other intimately, unaware in their joy at seeing each other alive that the others were watching them bemusedly. The new arrivals had brought a tent and more supplies and told Ludwik and Peter that their presence was requested back at the encampment.

“We suppose you know where that is,” one of them commented, perhaps sarcastically.

“The four of us will be staying here, guarding the gates,” the other said, smilingat his girlfriend or wife. What did he care if he did not even know where the bunker was: he was at home wherever she was.

52

P
ETER HEADED DOWN
toward the bunker with Ludwik guiding the way. Once they were well out of earshot of the partisans, Peter asked, “What were the man and woman speaking to each other? It wasn’t Polish, was it?”

Ludwik panted through a few steps before answering, “No, they’re locals. Rusniaki.”

“Is it a dialect of Polish?”

“I’d say not.”

“Then what are they? Slovaks? Ukrainians?”

“They don’t know what they are,” Ludwik answered with something close to exasperation. Peter was not sure whether it was his questions or the Rusniaki that caused that response.

They moved on in silence for a bit, then Ludwik volunteered, “They moved into these mountains a few centuries ago, and they practice some sort of Orthodox religion, I think.”

“You don’t trust them?” Peter asked perceptively.

Ludwik gave Peter a sideways glance. “You do know that some of our Ukrainian buddies are pro-German?”

“Yes, or as they would put it, anti-Soviet.”

“Whatever, they can make trouble for us, and we’ve had run-ins with them in these mountains. The Lemki—”

“Who?”

“These mountaineers, the Rusniaki.”

“Oh.”

“The Rusniaki”—Ludwik pronounced the term distinctly as if Peter were rather slow to follow—“on occasions have thought of themselves as Ukrainians, and I don’t trust Ukrainians. Is that clear enough for you?”

“So, have you ever had any indication that the Rusniaki are disloyal?”

“No,” Ludwik answered reluctantly. “Some of them join us, like those two. They’re not conscripted, but all of them are taxed, naturally, as we are defending their way of life here. They’re about the only people in this land who still live life the way they did before the invasion.”

“How do they feel about a partisan army moving in on them?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s better than the fucking alternative, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Peter agreed cheerfully. Ludwik was so easy to rile, and so much fun!

They trod wearily for a few minutes in silence, then Ludwik asked suddenly, “You think it’s funny, don’t you? My opinions, my history, my worries about my daughter? You think I’m overly sensitive, eh?”

“Well, yes!” Peter laughed. Even the serious tone of Ludwik’s question was quite funny.

“Ah, you don’t look in a mirror very often, do you?”

They were both tired and neither said anything more as they continued their journey until they parted company at the field camp. Peter retrieved and changed his clothes before reporting to Wojciech; there he requested and received permission to return to the bunker. Upon reaching his home, he entered, stripped off his equipment, and handed it all to a young man near the entrance who was tending to supplies. Peter wended his way through the halls and dropped the two levels to their abode. After all this time, home. It had been an eternity of four days. He had missed Zosia so much, had worried about her and the baby nearly every minute. His dreams had been filled with thoughts of her. Now he was back and could see her at last. He had already heard she and the baby were safe and sound, brought back by a team sent up to retrieve them the previous day, and he looked forward to holding them in his arms.

Maybe with Irena born, maybe this time, maybe they could finally get it all to come together. Perhaps Zosia had meant what she had said in the cabin—that she wanted him to stay. They could arrange a replacement for him, or even leave Barbara to handle the bookshop alone. She could do it—there was precious little to do there. They could start again, forget the bitterness, and build a life together.

He reached their door. It was open and he stepped inside without Zosia even noticing him. The baby was sleeping in a cradle on the table. Zosia had her back to him, and she was staring at something, holding it tenderly in her hands. She held it close, as though it were the most precious thing in the world. He knew what it was, and he was not surprised that as she turned and saw him, she pushed it even tighter against herself as if hiding it from him. There was an empty space where it usually hung on the wall—it was the wedding photo of her and Adam.

“Hello, Zosiu,” he said quietly.

“You’re back!”

He nodded. Was she elated or disappointed?

“What’s all that? You look a fright!” She pointed at his coat, still clasping the picture with her other hand.

“Dried blood.”

“Yours? Were you injured?”

“No. Someone tried to kill me after I left the cabin. I stabbed him to death.”

“Oh.”

He walked over to her. She threw a guilty glance downward but then looked quickly away toward the baby.

“What’s that?” he asked, indicating the frame in her hands.

She bent it forward away from her body so he could see the photograph.

Gently, he removed it from her grasp, contemplated it for just a moment, then with sudden, furious violence he flung it against the far wall. Glass shattered and the bent frame clattered to the floor. Without looking at Zosia, he went over to where it lay and tore the picture out through the broken glass. A corner ripped on a shard and he cut his hand, but he did not care enough to even stop the blood from staining the photo. Without saying a word, he crumpled the photograph in his fist and threw it down onto the floor.

He turned then to look at her. Blood dripped from his hand onto the floor. She did not react at all, staring at him as though he were beneath contempt.

“I know you want your privacy. I’ll leave for London tomorrow,” he said, and left to go and wash his hands.

Once he had left, Zosia checked the baby. Blissfully asleep. Then she got a broom and dustpan and cleaned up the glass. She straightened the frame and smoothed the picture, wiping the blood off it as she did so. It was her only photo from her first wedding day, and she stood quietly contemplating it, wiping away a tear as she looked at the damage done to it.

In the bathroom, Peter stood before the sink and carefully removed the splinters of glass from his hand. What in God’s name had he been thinking? Why did he always act so stupid and impulsive around Zosia? Did love destroy a person’s rationality? The calm manner in which he had handled Barbara’s outrage, the way he had viewed her explosion of emotion with pity and even mild contempt—she should see him now; she’d have a good laugh at him! If anyone knew how to make a fool of himself, he did.

He let the cool water run over his hand, hoping to wash out the shards and staunch the blood. His hand throbbed with pain, and it was the only thing that felt right. It was justified, unlike everything else he did. He was such an idiot! Such mindless violence was unforgivable! What had he been thinking? Where had that rage come from? It reminded him of the irrational surge of rage he had felt when Emma had slipped off her wristband. Then it had been jealousy at her relative freedom. And with Zosia? It was clear, embarrassingly so; it was simply jealousy of a long-dead husband. Truly beloved, truly missed. She had never said otherwise, and he had always known he would have to accept Adam’s memory as an integral part of her. Yet, time and again he had been driven to ridiculous behavior by his jealousy. Time and again he had tried to come to terms with Adam’s place in her heart. Time and again he had failed.

Marysia interrupted his thoughts as she came into the bathroom. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Yeah, piece of glass.” He backed away from the sink so she could use it and went to the cabinet to find some cloth to bandage his hand.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt, I’m just checking to see if the water’s back on. . . . How did you like Zosia’s surprise?”

“Her surprise?”

“The picture! You know, of your family?”

“What?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, she wanted to surprise you.” Marysia sounded chagrined.

“Don’t worry, I’ll act surprised. What do you mean?”

Marysia sighed. “Promise you won’t tell her I let the cat out of the bag.”

“On my honor,” Peter swore rather more solemnly than the joke he had intended. What honor? he thought.

“She said she was going to take down an old picture and use the frame to put up one of yours that she found in a drawer. By the way, I didn’t know you had any—where’d it come from?”

Oh, God, it was worse than he had imagined. He really was beneath contempt! He quickly explained about the diaries he had found and promised to tell her all about them later. Then he made his excuses, and still trying to wrap the cloth around his hand, he left.

In the corridor he stopped. It was pointless. He had said he would return to London tomorrow and she would demand he keep that promise. How could he have said something so stupid? No matter how angry he had been, how could he have thought to leave her and his newborn child so quickly? He bowed his head and wondered how he could possibly undo the mess he had made, then gathering his courage, he opened the door and waited for her reprisal.

She looked up at him but did not say anything. She raised her eyebrows expectantly, almost welcomingly; a half-smile played across her lips. Clearly she would let him dive into his typical, abject apologies, let him truly debase himself, before she bothered to slam him down for his unforgivable behavior. He snorted at that; he wasn’t going to give her that chance! Not again. Never again.

“I need to pack.” He headed toward the bedroom. As he passed the baby, he felt a sudden regret. He stopped and looked at her. He really wanted to stay, if for no other reason than to see her for just a few days! But Zosia would make sure he kept his word about leaving, and she would have him ordered out if necessary. There was nothing he could do, and he would only humiliate himself, as he had done so many times before, if he begged her to change her mind or to forgive him. He bent down and kissed Irena and then went to pack.

When he emerged, Zosia still said nothing, just looked at him as if confused. But of course she was stymied, she was not getting her usual chance to rub his face in it! He snorted at the thought, then said, “I’ll walk to a camp tonight. That way I can take my time getting out of the mountains tomorrow. I’ll have them
arrange everything from there. I imagine it will be complicated by all that has occurred.”

Zosia nodded. “I imagine so,” she said quietly.

He stopped to look at Irena again, gently stroking her face with his finger. In his heart he begged Zosia to ask him to stay, but she did not say a word, so finally he left. He did not get far. At the entrance he was told by the guard that there was no way he would be able to go into town and there was no point in his going to the edge. It was nothing personal, they were just in negotiations, and under current circumstances there were to be no border crossings. Orders.

He turned around and walked slowly back down the hallways. Damn! He would have to go back and face Zosia’s wrath. He felt extraordinarily foolish, but deep down, he was also elated. He could not leave, and she could not make him leave, at least for a while. So, he would get some time to know his daughter! By the time he reached their door he was smiling, and despite his best efforts, he had not erased the smile from his face as he stepped back into the room.

“Borders shut?” Zosia asked as if she had known all along.

“Yeah.” Peter hesitated, but could not bring himself to say more. He walked over to where Zosia had laid the crumpled photograph on the table. Gingerly he tried to smooth it. “Do you have another one?” he finally asked.

“No,” she answered without inflection. Irena began to stir, made a little sobbing noise, and Zosia picked her up and went to the couch to nurse her.

Still intent on straightening one recalcitrant crease, he asked, “Negatives?”