The Children's War (64 page)

He continued his ascent. He wedged his foot against a sapling and pushed
upward, his next goal a well-buried rock. He reached it, but as he put his weight on the rock, it worked loose and tumbled down the slope. For a few desperate seconds he dug his foot into the remaining dirt, but it did not hold and he went skidding and rolling down the slope.

He came crashing to a stop in the bracken. For a long moment, he lay still in his leafy green bed of ferns, staring up at the sunlight, letting the adrenaline drain from his system. Nothing broken, thank God, just a lot of bruises. Suddenly the sunlight was blocked by the looming shadow of the boy. It took Peter a moment to adjust his eyes, but eventually he could make out the silhouette of the pistol still pointed at him. He struggled to get to his feet, had managed to reach his knees by the time the woman approached. She had pulled her knife out of her belt and was skirting them both to come up behind him.

Peter knew she was fed up and had decided that they had come far enough. He knew she did not want to waste a bullet or risk the noise of a shot. They had brought him all this way with promises to hear him out, just to keep him quiet. They had brought him deep into the woods so they could abandon his body without its drawing attention, without them having to carry it off the road. They had brought him here so his corpse could rot in the sunshine, covered in flies, moldering beneath the bracken. They had brought him where there was no path, where no one walked, so that the stench would not trouble them.

She walked up behind him. He could feel her approach and bent his head forward in expectation of her hand on his hair, the pull that would drag his head backward and expose his throat. He wanted to fight, but he felt paralyzed with grief and frustration. He felt that he should at least climb to his feet—not die on his knees, but he could not move. He knew what would happen next. The knife cutting into his neck, a clean stroke, almost painless. Blood soaking his clothing, staining the leaves, seeping into the rocky soil, draining away without a trace. He would be able to watch as his life disappeared into the dirt, his exhaustion at last giving way to rest. A sudden dizziness made him want to pitch forward . . .

He woke from his daze as he felt the ropes drop off his wrists. The woman gathered the remnants and stuck them in her pocket. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself in that fall?”

Some basic instinct gave him the words to answer, “I think I’m okay. Just give me a moment to collect myself.”

She pulled out a handkerchief, clambered down to the creek to wet it, and after she had climbed back up, she handed it to him. “Here, use this to wipe the dirt off your face. There’s a bit of blood on your left cheek—you’ll want to remove that as well.”

He obeyed wordlessly, hardly able to comprehend what was happening. He was still alive! And she was showing him genuine kindness.

“Let’s go,” she said after a few minutes. “I’ll have to retie your hands before we reach the camp, otherwise they’ll think I’ve lost my mind taking such risks, but I
really think this is the only way to make progress. Besides, I suspect you are thoroughly lost by now and couldn’t tell anyone where you’ve been even if you did escape. Am I right?”

Peter nodded. He was still stunned by the vision he had had.

65

T
HEY SCRAMBLED ON THROUGH
the woods, heading ever upward, until eventually they began a descent into a valley. They crossed a small meadow and Peter breathed deeply the sweet smell of wildflowers and pine. A breeze stirred the upper branches and they swayed slightly, dancing from side to side, but below, the air was still and close. Once they reached the other side of the field and had entered the woods again, the woman stopped and turned to him. “I’m afraid I’ll have to tie your hands now.”

He nodded his understanding.

“And by the way, don’t mention that I ever untied you,” she added, taking in the boy with a glance to ensure that he had heard as well. The boy nodded and said something Peter did not understand.

“Don’t ever assume that your language is not understood,” the woman admonished in German.

Peter took the opportunity to ask, “Is it Polish?”

She gave him a sideways look, snorted with amusement. “So, he goes and disproves me, eh, Olek?”

The boy struggled to remain serious. “Perhaps it’s all part of his clever deception.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Then she answered, “Yes, we’re Polish. You are in that part of the Reich which was, for a thousand years, Poland. Is your history that weak?”

“No,” he snapped, somewhat irritated, “I just drove without maps and without direction. And there is always the chance that the population of a region is completely transplanted or slaughtered. It has been known to happen, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She finished tying his wrists behind his back and then led the way farther on through the woods. After a short time, they were suddenly met by an armed man. He appeared to be in his midfifties, heavily built, with thick brown hair and a bushy mustache.

“Was there a problem?” he asked the woman as he studied their bedraggled captive. He not only spoke in German, but he had a thick Austrian accent as well.

“No, no. But we’ll need to have a meeting to decide what to do with him,” the woman answered without even pausing in her stride. “Do you want a proxy?” she added over her shoulder, as though it were an afterthought.

“I doubt you’ll finish that soon. If you do, I’ll trust your decision.”

“Fine.”

“Is he Austrian?” Peter asked.

“No,” the woman answered with a finality that said he could expect no more information for the time being.

They arrived at an encampment and he was led into a tent; it was well camouflaged and inside it was spacious and comfortably furnished. The woman left, leaving Olek to watch over him. Peter paced nervously and waited, wondering what was in store for him. Sometime later a young woman entered; she had a clipboard but seemed otherwise unarmed. She had honey blond hair, blue eyes, and exquisite high cheekbones; her hair was tied back with a ribbon, but untidy curls had freed themselves, framing her face in a golden halo. Untying the ropes on Peter’s wrists, she then motioned for him to sit down. She indicated with a nod of her head that Olek should leave. He stepped outside the tent but remained stationed near the entrance.

“My name is Zosia,” she said in English as she seated herself across from him. “Please don’t try to leave this area; you will be shot if you do. And please don’t consider taking me hostage. We don’t believe in hostages, I’d just be shot along with you.”

Momentarily stunned, he just stared at her. She reminded him of that woman who had winked at him at Elspeth’s
Winterfest
party. Was it possible? Whether it was possible or not, he decided it was unwise to mention the incident: if he was wrong, he might offend her, and how could he admit he had used her in his fantasies for months afterward? Finally he stammered, “You, you speak English?”

“Obviously,” she answered with a smile, then she explained,“My grandfather was a musician; he ended up in England and married an Englishwoman. My father was born and raised in England and grew up speaking English. He was, by all legal measures, British, but he was the son of a Polish immigrant. That was before the war.”

“What happened?” Peter was already enchanted by her, by her soft, deep voice, by her obvious intelligence, and by her ready smile.

“After England was conquered he was ‘deported’ back to his so-called homeland—a place where he had never been, with a language he did not speak. He married here and raised all of us to speak English as well as German. I’ve maintained my fluency, since it is a useful skill.”

“Just like speaking German without an accent?”

“Yes.”

“But you are Polish?”

“Yes. My father named me Sophie—you know, wisdom—and he even spelled it like an English name. All my siblings have English names. I think he wanted us to be English or he was homesick, but we never saw the land, never heard the language except from him or occasional radio broadcasts; so, we are Polish and I am Zosia.”

Peter was intrigued, but realized she had misinterpreted his question. “What I meant to ask is, you all here, at this camp, are Polish, right?”

“Mostly.”

“But you all speak flawless German, and that boy, he was wearing a German uniform?”

“Yes. We fit in, as necessary. You see, we are very experienced in living an underground culture.” She paused, pursed her lips, then added, “Perhaps too experienced.”

“And now you are testing one aspect of what I told that woman—what was her name? Babciu?”

Zosia laughed. “Babcia,” she explained, “means Granny. She’s Olek’s grandmother. Her name is Marysia.” She smiled at him, then asked politely, “May I see your arms?”

He offered both to her, leaning toward her as he did so. As she leaned in to look closer, her hair brushed against his cheek, and he shuddered with pleasure and a sudden longing. She inspected the numbers on his left arm, then pulling a small bottle of solvent out of her pocket and wetting her thumb with it, she determinedly rubbed at the numbers, but of course they did not smear. Satisfied with her ad hoc inspection, she then looked at the manacle on his right wrist, read the information, and compared the numbers.

“Vogel? Is that what I should call you?”

“No! That’s not my name; that was their name!” he answered vehemently.

Zosia raised her eyebrows but did not comment on his reaction. “Of course, their name was used for your identification.”

“More for where I belonged. My number was my identity; my name only appeared as part of my history in the full documentation—that’s in the satchel that was left with the car.”

“I haven’t seen that yet. What does it say?”

“Peter Halifax.”

She made a note. “Ah, well, what we must do now, Peter . . . Can I call you that?”

Of course she was only asking, with a politeness he had not experienced in years, if she could use his first name. He liked the way it sounded when she said it, and making a quick decision to keep the name, he replied, “Yes, I guess it’s my name.”

She cocked her head questioningly at his unusual answer, but when he did not explain, she continued,“Marysia argued your case very convincingly. I guess she took a liking to you. Just as well, it’s a dangerous idea that we would accept a total stranger from outside our lands into our midst.” She got up and went to the entrance and said something to Olek, then reseated herself opposite Peter. “We must remedy that; so, tell me all about yourself. I will represent you to our group, and it is up to me to decide if you are telling the truth. Convince me.”

He nodded. Even though it was an interrogation, one with life-or-death consequences,
he found he enjoyed talking to Zosia. She had a businesslike manner, but still smiled easily. Somehow, she reminded him of Allison: her determination, her strength, but Zosia was so buoyant that in some ways she seemed to be the antithesis of Allison, almost an antidote. Encouraged by her smile and her relaxed manner, he began his story.

As he was talking, coffee and sandwiches arrived. He interrupted himself to sip the coffee, looked at Zosia in astonishment, and exclaimed, despite himself, “It’s real!”

“But of course. We can manage lots of things. Coffee is easy. It’s getting those damn invaders out of our country and stopping them from murdering our people which is proving difficult.” The smile slid from her face and her look was momentarily distant, but then she collected herself and said, “Please, continue.”

He told her everything, or almost everything, shying away, quite naturally, from anything that might be viewed too negatively. He told her about his childhood, about going to the school for German boys, about his parents and his years in the English Underground. For some reason, he did not bother to explain his work, simply describing himself as being in the intelligence branch.

Zosia did not press on any point; it seemed enough for him to simply pour out his heart. She took notes, jotting down names and dates, but sometimes she just listened as he told her all about the people and places and events. He told her about Allison and what happened to her. He poured out his love for her, his passion, his enduring grief. It was the first time since her death that he spoke of his bereavement and mourned her aloud. He told Zosia what had happened to his entire cell and all his comrades. He told her about his weeks trying to live without papers, about his arrest and trial and sentencing to the work camp.

“They threw me in with the normal draftees so conditions weren’t too bad, but I was surrounded by a bunch of kids. After I arrived, I met a fellow who had a deferment and had already served three of his years so he wasn’t quite as young as the others. His name was Geoff, and we eventually became friends.” He watched as Zosia wrote down the name, then continued, “There were a few problems at first, mainly the fact that I didn’t fit in. Not only was I older and spoke German far too well, but I even looked, well, as one of the boys put it ‘like a German.’ By that, I guess he meant I didn’t have that pasty, undernourished look that comes from the awful diet most of them had as kids.”

“And why not?”

“My father earned good money and my mother was a health nut. She spent a fortune on fresh vegetables and meat and the like. At my school, as well, despite everything else, I was well fed.” He could not help himself from looking at Zosia’s gorgeous curves, but he decided not to make the obvious comparison with the scarecrowlike beings he had seen earlier on the road.

“This was not altogether a good thing,” he continued. “It took ages for me to dispel their resultant distrust, but I think, overall, it was an advantage. When I
worked alongside the others, it always amazed me how the boundless energy of youth would give way under the strain of hard labor and poor nourishment. I really felt sorry for those poor boys struggling to fulfill their assignments. The guards harassed them mercilessly for their weakness, and I had to intervene time and again to get them to lay off. I suppose it was that, more than anything, that finally won me their trust and eventually their respect.

“I ended up essentially being the camp leader with Geoff being a sort of second-in-command. We arbitrated disputes, maintained an informal staff, tried to minimize the bullying, carried out negotiations with the
Kommandant.
I really didn’t want the part, but it seemed the best way to keep things under control so I accepted the position and they accepted me. They even gave me a history. I didn’t do anything to dispel their rumors since I was unable to provide a better story, and besides, wondering about my background seemed to provide the boys with some amusement. Eventually, with repetition, even Geoff became part of the story. I believe we were con artists of some sort, setting up wild schemes to defraud the krauts.”

“Not so far from wrong. Why didn’t you try to escape during this time?”

“I don’t know,” he answered with reluctant honesty. “I guess, at first, I was too devastated by all that had happened.” He closed his eyes and thought about those years that had slipped by. “I felt sort of numb and uncaring.”