The Children's War (188 page)

“Mark and I will share the bedroom, you can sleep out here.”

“No! The couch is too small and I will not sleep on the floor so that you can play house!”

“This place is bigger than my parents’ flat,” Mark interjected.

“I don’t care.” Peter remained adamant.

“Niklaus! Peter!” Barbara seemed confused. “You have to!”

“I said no.”

“You’re jealous!”

“Oh, little girl, if only it were that simple.” Peter shook his head in exasperation. He did not bother to explain the complex motives behind his refusal; instead he said, “Whatever I’m willing to put up with is irrelevant: we are a
proper German couple here and we cannot start living like the English. It would raise suspicions and I will not take that chance. That’s my final word!”

“You’re a horrid man!” Barbara seethed. She took a deep breath to arm herself-and began, “You’re—”

“Look,” Peter interrupted. “If you work with me, maybe we can arrange something. I want out of here. You want to stay. If I can get Katerina to let me return, we can concoct some abandonment story. After the appropriate period, you can divorce me; then I don’t think you’ll be harassed if you strike up a relationship with an Englishman: after all, you’ll be a lone woman with a child, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

“But it takes five years for a divorce based on abandonment! I want it quicker than that!”

“On what grounds?” Peter asked.

“Your adultery!”

“Too dangerous. You never know how they’ll react to a social crime.”

“You’ll be long gone,” Barbara reminded him.

Peter sighed. “I guess it will work. Trouble is, you’ll need proof. With me gone, and without a woman to name, I don’t know how you’ll convince them.”

“Photos. You and somebody else. We’ll just make sure she can’t be identified from the pictures,” Barbara suggested.

“Photos,” Peter groaned. He thought for a moment.“Not only would we have to hide the woman’s face, but we’d have to keep my scars out of view as well. I wouldn’t want them to link you to Halifax, after all.”

“Oh, God, no!” Barbara blanched at the dangerous thought.

“Who’s he?” Mark asked.

“Never mind,” they answered him simultaneously. A dark look came over Mark’s face, but he did not question them further.

“Perhaps,” Peter suggested, “hotel room receipts, jewelry, flowers, restaurants, you know, that sort of thing would do better.”

“I guess that would suffice.”

“It will have to. Either that, or we can drop a stack of clothes at the beach and you can get Jäger declared dead. That might be quicker,” Peter concluded while silently tabulating the number of times he had officially died.

Barbara nodded enthusiastically.

Peter ignored the irritation he felt at her response. “Of course, this is all contingent on my getting out of here. Until then, I want you both to behave. Don’t arouse any suspicions!”

“We won’t,” Barbara moaned like a teenager to an overbearing parent.

“Barbara, have you thought about what to do if you’re recalled? What is Mark going to do?”

“I’ll request a permanent assignment here. They always have trouble filling this position due to the distance, I suppose. They’ll be happy to give it to me.”

“Do you want to be stuck with a German identity, in London, for the rest of
your life? Don’t you two realize the problems you’ll have? You’ll be completely isolated. The English will hate you and the Germans will hate him! You’ll both be considered traitors.”

Barbara shrugged. “It has been done before.”

“Why make things hard on yourselves?” Peter asked with some concern. “There are enough problems in life without setting yourself into an awkward situation from the start.”

“Awkward? Look who’s talking!” she retorted.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Barbara went to a drawer and removed a piece of paper with a scribbled note. It was in her handwriting. “I received this the day before you arrived. I guess she couldn’t get the priority for voice communication or maybe didn’t want to ask. She must have thought you’d be on the receiving end. I’m sorry, but I let her finish before I said it was me on this end.” Barbara smiled awkwardly at him and explained, “I was curious.” Then she bowed her head and whispered in Polish, “I’m not quite over you, you know. Sorry.”

Peter took the note from Barbara’s hand, held it without looking at it.

“She took some risk sending it here. I guess it was important to her,” Barbara said as if he were unaware of such things.

“Before I read this,” Peter said,“just listen to me for one more minute. All I want to do is suggest that you two get coincident IDs. Leave and come back as someone else. Either have them make you English, or better yet see if Mark can’t get a German ID. That way you can at least move freely in one of the two societies.”

“Won’t work. I’ll never pass for English—I just don’t have enough fluency in the language. And you’ve heard Mark’s German. It stinks.”

“He can be
Volksdeutsch.
Have them find some relative and get him legitimized. He’ll be more useful to them that way, and you two won’t have to fight two cross-cultural battles.”

Barbara looked hard at Peter, then switching to Polish again, said, “Okay, we’ll consider it. After all, if anyone understands how to fuck up a marriage, I’m sure you do. We should at least listen to your advice.”

“I thought we were past your snide attacks,” he answered, also switching languages.

“No, as I said, I’m still not really over you,” Barbara admitted with a rueful smile.

Mark looked in linguistic confusion from one to the other. “You’re being rude, you know,” he said to both of them. They both ignored him.

“Then do you think you should be getting married in the first place?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, I think it’s the right thing to do. I won’t be disillusioned. At least not more than I already have been,” Barbara added in a whisper.

“You’re being tough on me. You must have missed me.”

Peter then retreated to the bedroom to read Zosia’s missive in peace. It was
odd seeing Barbara’s handwriting conveying Zosia’s words, but there was no mistaking his wife’s style.

My dearest husband,

Bad news, I’m afraid. I went to Katerina directly about reorganizing your assignment and she was adamant that you stay put for a while. She won’t even bring it to a vote! It seems there is a perception that I have been using my position too frequently for personal reasons. Katerina listed, among other things, my unilateral decision to interview you the night of your arrival (actually it was Marysia’s idea, but that’s neither here nor there), my getting a special hearing for your case after the vote went against you, that trip to Göringstadt, your Berlin outing—she had heard about it from somewhere—and the way I violated security to tell you about the Hamburg data. She also pointed out how she didn’t want me to go to Ryszard’s and I got to go anyway for Kasia’s baby’s birth. She even brought up the lax security on my part which led to, well, you know.

Her list went on, but I won’t bore you. The upshot was, she thinks I’ve been meddling too much, and now, of all times, she’s decided to draw the line. The old hag! Her ostensible reason is that she really is going to use you in a more active role with the British, once things have settled down here. Maybe she’s telling the truth. Anyway, I talked to Marysia and she said there was no point my trying to get her overruled. Everybody thinks I’ve been mixing my work and my personal life too much—and unfortunately, that means anything to do with you. Sorry.

I’ll let things cool down and try again later. A direct request for a transfer-from you sent through a source other than me might help. Try Konrad—nobody will accuse him of anything if he presents your request. Or even Tadek. In the meanwhile, I have a lot to think about. Not to sound grumpy, but I’m fairly annoyed by their reaction. True, I have been involved in personal issues this past year, but I have otherwise given my entire life to my work. I should think they would cut me a bit of slack. Their lack of appreciation, blah, blah, blah. You get the point.

Irena’s doing well. Her yawns are incredibly infectious. She stretches in the morning just like you! Sometimes in the night, she sobs a bit in her sleep and in my confusion I think it’s you. Then I open my eyes and see her tiny little face. She has your eyes—those English eyes, you know, with as much eyelid below as above. Poor girl, maybe with luck she’ll grow out of it. I hope you’re sleeping better now. Rest well, darling. I’m sure we’ll manage something soon. There is no need for an immediate reply.

Zosia

P.S. Ah, so you’re not there yet! I’m sure your companion will be discreet in keeping our private affairs private. (Especially if she wants to keep her commission. I am willing to meddle at least once more!)

He reread the letter several times, then just sat and stared at it for a while. So, he was on his own and in exile for an indeterminate length of time. Ironic, he was back in London and still so far away from home.

60

A
WEEK LATER,
as they finished breakfast and Peter prepared to go down to open the store, Barbara stopped him. “Here.” She shoved a small box at him. A ribbon was tied around it.

“What is it?” Peter asked as he took it in his hands. He was in a lousy mood. Despite their promises to be careful and discreet, Barbara and Mark had been spending an inordinate amount of time together. During the past week, they had taken up occupation of the bedroom for the first half of the night on four occasions. Each time Peter had had to throw Mark out in the middle of the night so that Peter could get some sleep, and two nights ago there had been a bit of a scene with a drunken Mark accusing Peter of trying to steal his woman.

“Open it, you’ll see,” Barbara replied elusively.

Peter untied the ribbon and removed the lid. Inside on a bed of cotton lay a solitary slip of paper. On it was written an address. “What is it?” he repeated warily.

“It’s sort of an apology. Go to the address. You’ll see.”

He handed the box and paper back to her.“No,” he answered simply. “I’ve had enough of your games.” He turned to leave.

“No, wait! It’s not a game. It’s your brother’s address!”

“My brother? Where’d you get it?”

“It took some finding,” she said, not answering his question. “He’s phoneticized his name.”

“Huh?”

“Chase. He spells it T-s-c-h-e-j-s-s.”

Peter made a noise of disgust, then asked again, “Where’d you get the information?”

“I had Mark ferret it out,” Barbara responded proudly.

“So he’s in on this, too? What else have you told him?” The other night, Mark had not failed to invoke Peter’s subhuman classification as justification for his drunken accusations. It still irked that something Peter had revealed in an attempt to warn the boy away from danger had so quickly been used against him.

“Don’t worry, nothing. I just had him get the address for you. Your brother’s address!”

“Why would I want that?”

“Don’t you want to see him?”

“No.” Peter shook his head. He realized by the look on Barbara’s face that she was serious and that her gesture had been well-intended. As he headed for the door, he added apologetically, “Thanks for letting me know he’s okay. That’s information enough.”

“He has four children.”

Despite himself, Peter stopped in the doorway. Erich had been married but childless the last time he had checked on him. Four children. Still he could not bring himself to ask.

“Two girls and two boys.”

“How very loyal to the Reich,” Peter replied sarcastically. It would be stupid to hope that somehow a family could make a difference. Pointless. Asking to be hurt. Stupid.

“Their names are Katerina, Anna, Karl, and”—Barbara paused dramatically—“Niklaus.”

Peter remained silent, his back still toward Barbara.

“Don’t you get it? He’s named them all after his family, including you!”

“I can see that, I’m not an idiot.”

“He wants to be forgiven.”

Peter shook his head, but the motion was too slight for Barbara to notice. She grabbed his arm and turned him around. “Take it,” she insisted, shoving the slip of paper back into his hand. “Take it and go see him.”

He closed his fingers around the scrap as she pressed it into his palm.

Peter waited in a misting, cold rain outside the Technical Institute, where his brother worked. He wrapped his hand nervously around the identification wallet that he carried and scanned the workers as each left the building. When he saw his brother emerge, he approached him, snapped the official-looking identification open and shut in front of him, and said, “Herr Tschejss, may I have a word with you?”

Not surprisingly Erich blanched, but nodded his agreement.

“This may take a bit of time,” Peter informed him. “We can talk over in that public house there.”

“That’s English,” Erich cried as he followed Peter’s gesture.

“Are you saying, Herr Tschejss, that we would not be welcome there?” Peter asked in his best obtuse, official accent.

“No, I, er . . .” Erich waved his hand randomly. “No, of course, we’d be welcome anywhere.”

“Good, come with me,” Peter ordered, and crossed the street in the direction of the pub.

They entered and Peter scanned the crowd. It was a popular place, noisy and large. When Peter spotted Barbara sitting at a corner table, he headed casually in that direction. She simultaneously chose to relocate to join her friend at a nearby table, nodding ever so slightly to reassure Peter that the surroundings had been
checked. Jenny and her husband occupied a table close to theirs, and several of Mark’s friends sat at the only other nearby table.

Peter and Erich took the vacated seats, and Peter waved peremptorily at the waitress who took the orders of customers who did not bother to order directly at the bar.

“May I ask what this is about?” Erich prompted after Peter had finished ordering beer for both of them.

“I assume you drink beer,” Peter replied.

“Yes. Thanks. Now, could you tell me what this is about?”

“I’ve come from Berlin to pursue an investigation,” Peter finally answered.

Erich fell silent at the name of that city.

Peter took the opportunity to look directly into his brother’s face. He could easily discern the cocky sixteen-year-old he had known in the features of the man opposite him. “I have some questions concerning your family.”

“My family? Is something wrong? Are they okay?”

“I’m talking about your parents, and”—Peter paused slightly—“your brother.”

Erich stiffened. “That was all cleared up ages ago. I am completely loyal!”

“Ah, we feel there is further need for investigation. First I’d like you to tell me, what happened to your brother?”

“He ran away from home at twelve, or I guess thirteen. Drowned himself in the Temms.”

“Suicide? Was he emotionally unstable?”

“I would say so. He was a spoiled brat, did nothing but make trouble for our parents.”

“You named a son after him.”

“He was my brother, even if he was troubled,” Erich huffed.

“And your parents? What happened to them?” Peter asked somewhat disappointed that he had used his only edge so quickly and unwisely.

Erich stared gloomily into the crowd. “Certainly you must know, they were arrested. I never saw them after that.”

“Why were they arrested?”

Their order arrived and they fell silent. Half of Erich’s beer had already been spilled on the waitress’s tray, and the glass that held Peter’s beer was obviously dirty. Before she could place the sticky glasses on the table, Peter waved her away. “Get rid of those,” he ordered, annoyed by the interruption. He stood and, telling Erich to stay put, went to the bar. He dove into the scrum, out of sight of his brother, and using English, ordered two pints of bitter from the bartender. He returned with clean, full glasses, set them down, and as he seated himself, repeated, “Why were they arrested?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No! I, um, there was . . .”

“There was a warrant for your brother, isn’t that true?”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“You were the informant of record. You turned him in, didn’t you?”

Erich did not look up from his beer. He sighed. “Why are you asking this?”

“Herr Tschejss, it is in your interest to cooperate.”

“All right, yes! I mentioned to the
Kommandant
of the camp where I was interned that I thought my brother was engaged in some sort of illegal activities. I had worked my way up to a position of some authority in the camp and had the
Kommandant
’s trust.”

“Ach. The
Kommandant
was your mentor?”

“I guess.”

“Did you say your brother was in the Underground?” Peter studied his brother’s face for a clue to his thoughts.

“Not exactly. I wasn’t really sure. I just knew he was up to no good.”

“Is that why your parents were arrested?” Peter asked, hoping to edge Erich into an act of contrition.

Erich misinterpreted. “Yes! I don’t doubt he got them involved in something without their knowing it! He got them killed!” Erich snapped angrily, but somewhat unconvincingly.

Peter stared in silence across the room. He didn’t really know where to go next with the conversation; it certainly wasn’t going the way he had expected. Finally he said, “What if I were to tell you that your brother, at that time, was not involved in anything; that to the best of our knowledge neither was your mother or your father.”

“Huh?”

“That’s what this investigation is about, Herr Tschejss,” Peter continued, adlibbing. “You see, I’m from the Bureau of State Security and Oversight. We’re trying to track what we believe is police misconduct which may have stemmed from political motivations. Your father may have been the victim of a vendetta, and you, with your petty denunciation, provided the flimsy excuse needed to carry out what was, to all intents and purposes, a political murder.”

“A vendetta?”

“Do you know what happened to your parents after their arrest?”

“No.” Erich shook his head slowly. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Your father died within days, under interrogation. He was beaten to death.”

Peter saw how Erich’s muscles tensed as he clenched his jaw, but his brother remained silent.

“Now that, for a prisoner of his status and considering that he was, at least officially, only a secondary arrest—that is, he was suspected of providing your brother with an escape and an alibi—that, as I was saying, is very unusual. Very unusual. Do you get what I’m saying?”

Erich shook his head in confusion.

Slowly, as if speaking to a moron, Peter explained, “Somebody killed him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Herr Tschejss, let me be blunt. Your father was a Party official taken into custody because of minor suspicions about his son. There is no reason for him to have been investigated that brutally; ergo, his death was not an accident.”

Erich looked utterly blank.

“Don’t you understand? He was murdered!”

“What happened to my mother?” Erich asked quietly, apparently unable to take it all in.

“She was sent to a labor camp, probably to keep her quiet. If they had released her, she would have doubtless made some noise and stirred things up. She was, by all accounts, a strong-willed woman.”

“Yes, she was.”

“So, she was left to die of disease or starvation or overwork. Officially, I believe it was typhus,” Peter finished coldly.

“Just to keep her quiet,” Erich repeated softly.