The Children's War (59 page)

“But how can I work outside?” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a mistake.

“You spend far too long outside—there’s no need for it. When you do go out,
you will always check with me first, and you will check in with Uwe at regular intervals to make sure he does not need you.”

Peter grit his teeth at her words and Elspeth slapped him again. “You will not take that attitude with me!” she huffed.

He was not sure what he had done that time—maybe she had read his mind. Resigned, he asked, “And if Herr Vogel has need of me, do I go then?”

“Don’t get clever with me! You know that if my husband or I have need of you, then you should come when we call. Don’t think, though, that you can use that as an excuse to ignore the needs of my son. He gave his legs to his country, and damn it, you will give him the care and respect that he deserves!” When she mentioned Uwe’s legs, Elspeth looked at Peter’s with a disturbingly jealous intensity. It was not the first time she had done that, and each time she scrutinized him in that manner, it sent a chill down his spine.

“I’m doing my best,” he sighed.

“Well, it’s not good enough! Now get out!” she ordered brusquely.

He was more than happy to oblige.

After he finished changing the linens on the other beds in the house, he returned to the kitchen. Miraculously it was still clean and so he had a few minutes to decide what to do next. An endless list of jobs presented itself, but as he glanced around the kitchen, he noticed the sunlight streaming brilliantly through the window, and he was drawn to the back door and the blue sky. He opened it and breathed deeply—the sweet smells of summer scented the air. It was a perfect time to go outside and take care of some yard work, and it would get him away from the oppressive mood of the house, if only for a few minutes.

He hesitated a moment at the door. Usually Elspeth was aware of his every move, and her command that he specifically inform her when he went outside was both redundant and insulting. He smiled at that last thought—was he even capable of being insulted anymore? Elspeth called him a selfish pig and a piece of filth, and he was the one who apologized. What a funny world it was!

The sunshine beckoned; Elspeth was busy upstairs with Uwe. If he went out now, without informing her, he would be in direct and clear violation of her command. She could conceivably get Karl involved, she was certainly already that angry at him, thanks to Uwe, and the punishment could be disproportionately severe, even life-threatening. All he had to do was go upstairs, tell her what he planned to do. There was no rational reason not to. He stood for a moment longer in the doorway. There was no rational reason not to inform her.

He did not inform her. Grabbing the keys to the tool shed, he stepped outside and carefully shut the door behind him. He selected several tools from the shed and busied himself clearing out some ivy that was threatening to strangle the hedges.

As he worked, he thought about Uwe’s threats, about Elspeth’s strange looks, about Roman’s disappearance, and he thought, yet again, about leaving. He had
ages ago worked out the logistics—the clothes, the car, the papers he would need. What he had yet to work out was his destination. Always he came to the same dead end. There was nowhere to go, no feasible escape from the Reich, no possibility of a safe haven within it. England was out, he was afraid of his own people there, and everywhere else was an unknown, full of strangers, requiring papers and connections and help that he did not have. What point was there running to another section of the Reich? Life here was tolerable, or at least survivable. What point would there be in taking all that risk just to end up in another suburb of another German city, hiding in alleys, foraging garbage?

He shivered suddenly as an image of a body—hung on a meat hook, arms and legs broken, flesh hanging in shreds—flashed through his mind. Looking up, he was surprised to see that the sunshine was as bright as ever, that no cloud had passed overhead. He wiped the sweat off his hands and forced himself to suppress the image of their retribution.

He thrust his hand into the hedge and grabbed some ivy near its roots. His thoughts always ended in frustration. He felt exhausted, he could hardly find the energy to think, and the whole process seemed so hopeless! With a sudden tug, he loosened the ivy’s roots and pulled it out of the earth. He stared at it for a moment, wondering at what had been done to him, thinking of the torture, the drugs, the endless droning propaganda. Had it been more effective than he realized? Uwe was threatening him, Elspeth was eyeing him as though she’d amputate his legs just to even up the score with her son, and Roman had simply disappeared. And here he was, completely paralyzed by indecision and ignorance.

For some reason he started to laugh at himself, at the pathetic shell he had become. The laughter brought tears to his eyes, and as he rubbed them away, his vision blurred irritatingly. He paused, squinting and blinking, trying to restore his focus. When he finally was able to see clearly again, he noticed something among the branches of the hedge. He reached in and cleared away some dirt so he could examine it more closely. Yes, there it was—hidden among the browns and yellows and dark greens—the tiny body of a sparrow. It was fresh with no sign of decay other than the gluey appearance of the closed eyes.

Gently, he scooped the bird into his hand, walked calmly to the back corner of the garden, and there, under a linden tree that he had planted, he dug a small grave with his hands. He carefully laid the tiny body in the earth, arranging it into a comfortable-looking pose, and then silently wishing it well in its new home, he covered it with the earth. It was a useless gesture, but one that he felt compelled to do.

As he walked back across the garden to where he had been working, he heard someone call his name. Surprised by the interruption, he looked up to see Elspeth as she stood framed by the back door like a portrait of suburban calm. Without knowing why, he smiled at the image—not a proper, subservient smile but rather a self-confident, almost happy grin. The sort of greeting
one bestows on a friend. He did not know where it came from—perhaps the salubrious effects of the sunshine, perhaps the sheer lunacy of his life. Whatever its source, it surprised Elspeth and before she realized it, she had smiled in response.

She studied him as he approached and the smile dropped from her face. After all this time, after all our efforts, she thought, he still walks too proudly. Even with his limp, he carries himself with grace—his back straight, his head held high. And where in the world did he get the idea he could smile at her like that? Like an equal! Still, she had to admit, he was a lot more amusing than some of the thoroughly cowed workers that her friends had. When she sat with her coffee circle outdoors and he interrupted his garden work to refill their pot or replenish their tray, she would feel a surge of possessive pride as all four of them would look up from their gossip to watch him stride across the lawn. Sometimes they would fill the breaks in their conversation by just staring idly at him as he went about his work.

He stopped in front of her, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Elspeth was standing on the stoop and so they were facing each other eye to eye. She scanned him from head to toe—the uniform, the manacle, the numbers on his arm, calloused hands, scars and cuts and bruises here and there, that malnourished, tired cast to his face—it all clearly pointed to his inferior status, yet he looked her direct in the eyes and smiled. It was not fitting. It was not right or proper! Would he never learn? It seemed they could pummel him into exhausted, mindless subservience, but as soon as they let up, as soon as she took pity, he bounced back to this totally inappropriate behavior.

“Gnä;’ Frau?”
he prompted, slightly confused by her silence.

“You did not inform me that you were out here.”

“My apologies,
gnä’ Frau,
I forgot.”

It was clearly a lie, but she chose to ignore it. An hour alone with her son had drained her emotionally. He whined like a child, and she felt much less sympathetic to his complaints than she had when she had issued her commands. In any case, they were probably impractical, and though she would not revoke them, she saw no point in enforcing them either.

“What were you just doing there, by that tree?”

“Burying a bird,
gnä’ Frau.”

“What? With your bare hands!” Her eyes widened in horror. “That’s filthy!”

“But so am I,” he answered obscurely.

She narrowed her eyes; she was sure some sarcasm was hidden in that comment, but she could not find it and he returned her scrutiny with a look of sincere innocence. Finally she said, “I need you in the kitchen, we need to make something for the ladies this afternoon.”

“Yes,
gnä;’ Frau.
I can finish out here in about five minutes.”

“Do it later, I want you now.” She wasn’t in a hurry, but decided that she had already been lenient enough.

“May I put the tools away?”

“All right. But hurry up.”

“Thank you.” He turned to go.

“And Peter . . .”

“Yes,
gnä;’ Frau?”
He turned back toward her.

“Your behavior is totally inappropriate.”

“Ah, yes,
gnä;’ Frau,
but you wouldn’t have it any other way.” And with that he went to collect the tools before she could even respond.

60

“D
ONA
EIS REQUIEM
,
dona eis requiem . . . ,”
the voices sang mournfully. Zosia had managed to hold up quite well until that point, but upon hearing the words she burst into bitter weeping. She convulsed with sobs, tears streamed down her face, and Joanna’s hand fell from her grasp. She could feel her daughter throw her arms around her legs, but she could not reach down to her.

The July sunshine felt cold on Zosia’s face, and she shivered uncontrollably. Gnats swarmed under the pines, and she waved at them as if waving away the evil from the world. Her Adam, gone. Gone forever.

Somebody led Joanna away, somebody else put their arms around her shoulders, but all she felt was the enormous void that had opened up in her heart and was threatening to swallow her.

“Is Daddy going to come back?” Joanna asked her grandmother in a whisper as the people around her sang.

Marysia shook her head.“No, honey. That’s why we’re having this special ceremony. It’s our way of saying good-bye.”

“I know that. But maybe he’ll come back anyway?”

“I don’t think so, honey.”

“Is he in heaven?”

Marysia nodded, then almost laughed as she thought of some of Adam’s antics. “We can hope.”

“Maybe he’ll come back anyway. Maybe he’s just lost and can’t find his way home. We should go look for him,” Joanna suggested.

Marysia shook her head but could not reply.

“Babusiu,
why are you crying?” Joanna asked.

Marysia gently stroked her granddaughter’s curly blond hair. “First my little girl, and now my little boy. Does it never end?” she whispered.

“Are you okay?” Joanna asked. “Do you miss Daddy?”

“Yes, very much. He was my little boy,” Marysia replied. “And they’ve taken him from me.”

“Why?”

“I wish I knew, honey. I wish I knew. When I was a very little girl, they came into our land and they took everything and destroyed anything they could get their hands on. And it hasn’t stopped. They just keep taking. I don’t know why.”

The ceremony ended and the people drifted away. Zosia spent some moments holding on to Tadek and talking with her parents, and then she gathered her composure and came over to join them. “How are you doing, sweetheart?” she asked Joanna.

“Oh, I miss Daddy.”

“I do too, sweetie.” Zosia reached up and wiped away some tears.

“Do you think he’ll come back?”

“No, sweetheart, your daddy’s dead. We won’t see him again in this world.”

“What if I pray? I’ll pray every morning and every night and even during the day. Will he come back then?”

“Usually those sorts of prayers aren’t answered the way you expect them to be,” Zosia replied carefully.

“You go ahead and pray for your daddy and someday . . .” Marysia sighed, unable to decide what to say.

“If you see him wandering in the woods, bring him home. Maybe he forgot where we are,” Joanna insisted, tugging at Marysia’s shirt.

“Okay. If I see him, I’ll bring him back.” Marysia looked guiltily at Zosia, who was shaking her head subtly in disapproval.

“And tell the patrols, too!” Joanna added.

“Okay, I’ll tell the patrols,” Marysia said, grimacing at Zosia in apology.

Zosia shook her head in exasperation. She grabbed Joanna’s hand. “Let’s go, little one. I need your help greeting all the people at the reception.”

As was always the way with these things, the topic of conversation at the reception moved away from expressions of condolences and talk of Adam to more mundane and less emotionally distressing matters. Jokes were told, news was exchanged, and the children began to play among the trees, clambering over rocks, fording streams, shouting, teasing each other, and laughing.

Zosia drank cherry-flavored vodka and discussed with her brother what he had been able to uncover about Adam’s death.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Ryszard said. “I’ve brought a copy of the report for you, but all it says is ‘died in custody.’ That’s not supposed to happen anymore, but controlling the actions of those thugs is nontrivial.”

Zosia nodded. “So, they never worked out who he was? It wasn’t deliberate?”

“As far as I can tell, no. I can’t dig too much without raising eyebrows.”

“I understand. Thanks for your efforts on that day. I know you really stuck your neck out there.”

“To no effect,” Ryszard sighed. “By the time I traced him . . . I still don’t know why they moved him around like that. Playing games, I guess.”

“Any idea who was responsible?” Zosia asked slyly. “Any names?”

“You know they don’t keep records of that sort of stuff. At least not where I can access it. We have the name of the interrogator, but judging from the report, it doesn’t look like he was even there at the time.”

“What about the body? Any hope of recovering that on a pretense?”

Ryszard shook his head. “Seems they disposed of it almost immediately. There’d be no way to dig it up without making a huge stink. I haven’t even been able to locate which site they used and . . .”

“And?”

“It’s been over a week, little sister. I don’t imagine it was a pretty sight when they dumped it, and they won’t have done more than throw it into a hole, probably with a few others. You don’t want to see it.”

“I suppose not,” Zosia said distantly. “It’s just that it feels so unreal like this. Joanna’s convinced he just got lost. She’s so convincing, she has me thinking maybe he’s in a hospital with amnesia, or in a camp or something.”

“Don’t do that to yourself. He’s dead. He was murdered. You have to accept it.”

Zosia finished her glass and poured herself some more vodka. “I’ll try.”

Alex came over and kissed Zosia on the forehead. “How are you doing, honey?” he asked as he sat down. “My goodness but Joanna has grown!” he added before Zosia could answer. “She and Genia get along wonderfully!” he said, his eyes following his two granddaughters as they played together.

“Yes, it’s too bad they only get to see each other on occasions like this,” Ryszard commented. He lit a cigarette and sat back to watch his youngest daughter and his niece.

“Ryszard, you know that’s discouraged here!” Alex chided, irritated by his own overwhelming craving for nicotine.

Ryszard shrugged. “Let them fire me.”

“So, Dad, tell me,” Zosia interrupted, “did you ever manage to wring more out of that chemical weapons stuff? Adam seemed pretty disappointed by the Americans’ response.”

Alex sighed. “It was a complete waste of time. We’re still pushing, using some documents Ryszard acquired, but nothing’ll come of it. That’s pretty clear.”

Ryszard nodded, still watching the two girls chasing each other in circles, flapping their arms like wings.

“So what are the Americans going to do with the information?”

“Keep it on file for leverage in negotiations,” Alex replied mordantly.

“What?”

“They’re keeping it secret from their own populace for some cack-arsed security reasons, or maybe it was to avoid embarrassing the Reich government or whatever. The upshot is they don’t care to use it for publicity.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Zosia said philosophically. “It’s not the sort of thing we’d get a popular response to anyway.”

“What do you think would get a popular response?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know,” Zosia said, looking thoughtful. “I really don’t know. Whatever it is, it has to be a human issue, something they can feel in their hearts. No statistics, no technology, just something to make them care.”

“Pictures from the camps? We’ve tried that,” Alex said despondently.

“Too distant, anyway,” Ryszard interjected.

“You’re right. It has to be something they can identify with. And we have to be able to control the story from beginning to end—no meddling with the security agencies, no political quid pro quos. It has to be something we own,” Zosia said.

“Sounds like what Adam was advocating,” Alex commented.

Zosia nodded. “We discussed it. We both agreed, it should be completely public-—no government involvement.”

“So any secretly gathered information is out,” Alex said.

“Yes, no secrets, no technology, nothing they can veto politically. I just wish I knew what it would be,” Zosia sighed.

“If only we could get some defector to talk publicly,” Alex suggested.

Ryszard snorted. “Not bloody likely. Any defector knows that would be suicide.”