The Children's War (202 page)

72

“D
ON’T
TELL
ZOSIA
UNTIL AFTERWARDS,”
Ryszard said quietly, eyeing his sister as she sat nursing Irena on the other side of the room.

“Why not?” Peter asked.

“I don’t trust her temper.” Peter nodded. He had a higher estimation of Zosia’s professionalism than did her brother, but there was no need to betray Ryszard’s confidence. Peter would wait until afterward to tell her. Both her and Olek.

“How did the rest of it go?” Ryszard asked.

Peter looked at him, mildly surprised. “You mean me with the Council?”

“Yes, did you get a seat?”

“Yes. I got exactly what I wanted. And without a patron.”

Ryszard raised an eyebrow as if preparing to say something, but then he
seemed to change his mind. His eyes returned to the little family tableau of Zosia handing Irena to Stefi as Zosia prepared to go. “Yes, without a patron,” Ryszard echoed.

Together Peter and Zosia made their way on foot the mile or so to the Vogels’ house. Even though they carried papers appropriate to being out late at night, they avoided the patrols, dodging into the darkness like cat burglars to avoid detection. The house was as it had always been, and it was easy to enter quietly— he knew all the tricks to the old place. They entered through the back and stood silently in the kitchen, listening to see if they had been detected. Zosia looked around, entranced, as she was finally able to put Peter’s stories into a context. She tugged at his sleeve. “Show me the cellar,” she whispered.

He agreed to the diversion and gave her a brief tour, even indicating where Karl had bound him to the overhead pipes. “I’ll spare showing you the shovel in the garden shed,” he joked quietly as Zosia looked up at the pipes, then down at the floor where the sweat and blood must have pooled. It all looked so ordinary! They returned to the ground floor, and he silently pointed out the piano, the sitting room furniture, Karl’s walking stick in its stand. Nothing had changed.

Zosia shook her head; somehow, the physical reality of the cozy suburban house made the horror of his experiences seem less, rather than more, believable. It all looked so normal! Sheepishly, she confessed this thought to him, whispering it into his ear.

“I know,” he whispered in reply, “that’s what made it all so difficult.”

As she took it all in, he left to disconnect the phone and unlock the doors. She walked along the hallway, ran her fingers over the wallpaper, the pretty floral print that could hide a multitude of sins. She turned and saw a small table; on the top was a cigarette box and a lighter, on the other shelves were sparklingclean glass figurines.
Even in a room of pretty floral wallpaper and delicate glass figurines . . .

They climbed the stairs silently to the first floor and found the child’s room. They checked in on Magdalena, saw her sleeping soundly in a crib on her own. Zosia began sorting through the items in the room, packing anything that looked useful or might be special to the child. Peter left her to go check the rest of the house and looked to see if anyone was prowling around in a fit of sleeplessness. The children were sound asleep in their beds; the door to the attic was ajar. He peered in and saw a human form huddled under rags in a corner. He blinked into the darkness for a long moment, then resolutely turned his back on his unknown comrade and returned to Zosia.

She finished gathering the child’s possessions, set the bag down in the child’s room, and together they went out into the hall and over to the master bedroom door.

“I’ll cover you,” she whispered. “Good luck.”

He kissed her and pressed on the door handle. It gave way and he slipped into
the room. Both Karl and Elspeth were asleep. Peter watched them in silence for a moment, then he quietly cleared his throat.

“Who’s there?” Elspeth’s nervous voice asked into the darkness.

“Hello, Elspeth,” Peter replied softly.

“Who is that?” She sounded as if she recognized his voice but would not believe it.

“Have you forgotten me so soon?”

“Peter?” There was complexity in the tone: fear, reproach, passion.

“Who else?”

“What are you doing here?” She sounded terrified but still she whispered; she was more afraid of waking Karl than of what Peter might do.

He could see she was sitting bolt upright in bed. He went and sat on the edge of Karl’s side of the bed, his back against the headboard, his left side toward Elspeth with Karl in between them. He did not bother to point his gun at her or at Karl, just let it rest casually in his right hand on his lap. Karl snored away, clearly at ease with the world and his conscience. Peter casually brought his legs up onto the bed and crossed one over the other. He leaned his head back against the headboard as if resting after a long day’s work. Even in the dim light he could tell the ceiling was still smoke-stained, still not scrubbed clean. The eagle, its talons wrapped around the swastika, still hovered over the bed.

“What do you want? Why are you addressing me familiarly? I haven’t given you permission! Why are you doing that? What are you doing here?” Elspeth demanded in rapid succession.

“Oh, I just came to say hello to my old mistress.” With his left hand Peter reached over Karl’s prone form toward Elspeth. She tensed as if expecting him to hit her, but she did not pull away. He pushed a loose strand of her hair back into her night braid. It still felt like steel wool.

“Did you think I would hit you the way you hit me?” he asked.

“I don’t know what to think. The way you abandoned me! After all I did for you!”

“Abandoned,” he laughed. “Abandoned. Heh. Now there’s a discussion point! But I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. I’m here to do you a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Your husband has made a mess of things at work, hasn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” she replied cautiously.

“Yes, you do. You’re aware that he’s in trouble, but you’re probably not aware quite how deeply. He’s a dead man. If they don’t leave a pistol on his desk soon, they’ll just arrest him for something. In any case, you’ll be a disgraced widow. Impoverished.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Abandoned,” Peter repeated, and laughed again. “God, what a world you must live in! Anyway, I’m going to save you from all that.”

“Save me?”

“Yes. I’m going to kill him for you. He’ll be murdered by a disgruntled exslave; he’ll be a martyr and you’ll get to keep his pensions and honors and probably even the house and slave.”

Elspeth studied him as if considering the implications. As she determined that he was serious, her expression altered and she weighed the consequences of his planned actions. Then she came to a decision. It was clear from her mien that she had decided to accept his offer and provide whatever assistance was necessary, but she was careful; first she asked, “Why would you do this for me?”

“Because of my undying love for you,” he lied convincingly, then after a brief pause, he added, “And . . .”

She had expected that. “And what else?”

“My daughter. I’m taking her with me.”

Again she hesitated. He could see her weighing his words and her own reaction: as a matter of form, she should argue for Magdalena—it would appear unmotherly not to do so, and she could gain some extra influence over him if he felt he were tearing her daughter away from her. Perhaps she should indulge in a bit of crying? But then again, there really was no time to fool around. He was right, Karl was already as good as dead, and she had to look to her future and her other children’s futures. If she was to be a widow, a baby could be a burden, an impediment to a good marriage. And the sympathy factor after a kidnap could be enormous! He counted down mentally and reached one just as she compromised, “Will you give her a good home?”

“She’ll be loved.”

Elspeth nodded. “You always were kind to the children.” She then added, almost as an admission,“No matter what we did to you.”

He did not reply to that.

“Where will you take her?”

“Away from here. Overseas.”

“All right, but promise me you’ll tell her about me.”

“I will,” he replied without hesitation. He felt no compulsion at all to examine whether he was telling the truth. He would do what was best for Magdalena, independent of promises made to Elspeth.

“Do you dream of me?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully, choosing not to elaborate.

“Do you remember that night in Dresden?”

“Yes. I remember it well.”

“I watched you sleep that night. I woke up in the middle of the night and sat up and just watched you sleep.”

He smiled slightly. “I didn’t know that.” He wondered what else he was supposed to do with the information. Was it to show her kindness in contradistinction to the times she had kicked him awake when he so desperately needed to sleep?

“And do you remember that nice meal we had?”

“Yes, steak.” He didn’t add that he also remembered the time she would not give him the old bread that was to be thrown to the ducks. Even if she remembered, she would not understand his point.

“And the time we went to buy you some tea and a teacup?”

“Yes, the day you hit me in the plaza, in front of all those people.”

“Did I? Oh, yes, that’s right, you were so rude! I’m surprised you remember that,” Elspeth pouted.

Peter realized he was straying from his plan and he amended his words accordingly. “Only because I felt so awful that I had offended you, my beautiful, merciful lady.”

“So you still love me?”

“Of course, until the end of time. But I can’t stay, I have to do this, then I must go.”

“What am I going to say to the authorities?” she suddenly fretted. “I’ll have to turn you in for my husband’s murder. They’ll hunt you down!”

“They’re hunting me anyway. Their plans for me are sufficiently gruesome that there’s nothing I can do that will make it worse.”

“But you might betray me!”

“No, I won’t. They wouldn’t even ask about you. They’ll be relieved to have him out of their hair. I’m doing them a favor as well.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Frau Schindler.” He winked at her. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“But . . . but how can I explain your taking Magdalena? I can’t tell them she’s your daughter!”

“No, but you can tell them that I said, ‘An eye for an eye, a daughter for a daughter.’ They’ll understand.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, unsatisfied with the quote.

“They’ll understand.”

“But I don’t! What do you mean?”

He cocked his head to the side to study her. She was telling the truth—she didn’t know. He considered a moment, then explained, “They murdered my daughter.”

“What?”

“To punish me for speaking out, as I did in America, they took my five-yearoldadopted daughter and they strangled her in front of me.”

“No!” Elspeth hissed her denial.

“Yes,” he asserted quietly.

“They wouldn’t do that! Not to a child!”