The Children's War (82 page)

“But you did?” Zosia asked, trying unsuccessfully to hide her revulsion. Joanna, back up on her feet, wrinkled her nose but remained quiet.

“Of course I did!” He tasted a piece of chicken; it was done, but he needed to correct the spices. When he was satisfied at the balance, he scooped up the chopped peppers and tomatoes and tossed them into the pan. “No, my rations were, as Frau Vogel would say, completely separate. That is, when I got a chance to eat them; there were really no concessions to the possibility that I had human needs.” He fell silent, then added softly, as if to himself,“None at all.”

Zosia studied him as a distant look came into his eyes, but she said nothing to interrupt his reverie.

He caught her look and explained, “Sometimes I’d only manage to find time to eat early in the morning and very late in the evening. Near the end of the month, it was often half-rotten, as well. Still, I suppose that was nothing compared to . . .”

“To what?” Joanna asked.

He looked at her, aware for the first time that she had been listening to him. The words he had been about to say died on his lips. The memory had come upon him so suddenly, so casually, he had almost spoken about it in front of Joanna! How could he speak such obscenity in her presence? He grit his teeth to force himself into silence as it played through his mind. He shut his eyes, wishing it away. He felt himself shaking uncontrollably.

“Daddy? Are you all right? Daddy?” Joanna’s sweet voice penetrated the horror.

He opened his eyes and saw her wide eyes, the soft curves of her tiny, delicate face. Daddy. She had called him Daddy. He shook his head. “Don’t worry, honey. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Zosia asked gently. “You’ve gone as white as a ghost.”

He nodded. “It’s okay. Really.”

“How have your headaches been? You haven’t mentioned any recently,” Zosia asked, carefully changing the subject.

“They’re much less frequent. I still get them and the blurred vision, but not as often.”

Zosia grabbed a bit of meat out of the pan; she was about to pop it into her mouth when Joanna tapped her and pointed to her own mouth. Like a mother bird offering up a juicy worm, Zosia dropped the meat into Joanna’s mouth and they both giggled. Then Zosia said to him, “You have one now, don’t you.”

“Yes, how did you know?” He was annoyed that he had not been able to hide the pain more effectively, and annoyed that his head ached in the first place: it was like someone screaming at him continuously. He lowered the heat under the pan and in a separate bowl mixed some flour into sour cream.

“Oh, I just guessed. You know, your tone of voice, the way . . .” Zosia waved her hand vaguely.

He ran through a mental inventory wondering if there was any red wine to be had. White perhaps. Were the spices too heavy for that? If he had thought of it earlier, he could have compensated for that. If only he didn’t have this goddamned throbbing in his head. It took him a moment to notice that Zosia had not finished her sentence. “The way what?” he prompted.

“It’s just that they seem to be quite coincident with certain topics of conversation.”

“I’m not making them up!”

“I didn’t mean it that way! Really, you’ve got to stop being so sensitive!”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I wish you wouldn’t apologize so much.”

He had to force himself not to apologize for that. She continued, “You’re allowed to disagree with me. I won’t be offended!”

“Really? You seem to get so worked up.”

“That’s just your interpretation. I like discussing things with you, I like that you have different opinions from me, but I don’t like the way you take everything so personally.”

“I’m sorry,” he said without thinking. “Oops, I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I? Sorry!”

Zosia giggled and he laughed as well. The laughter felt good and he said, “At least you’ve managed to clear up my headache.”

“So, I’m good for something?”

He beheld her for a long, silent moment biting his lip as if to contain a torrent. Finally he nodded and agreed, “Yeah, for something.”

10

T
HE LITTLE PARTY
was a great success. Marysia even brought along her cat, Siwa, since the feline had taken such an obvious liking to Peter. Siwa’s affection was not lightly given, he had been assured, and this had delighted him—all the more so when he had learned that she had not been fond of Adam. Now she sat curled on his lap purring as he scratched the fur between her ears.

All the guests had enjoyed the dinner and, winking at Peter, complimented Zosia on her culinary efforts. They then clustered around the sofa, sipping vodka and waiting for him to open his presents. He was amazed that everybody had managed to bring one, even though, as Marysia noted, it was no great accomplishment finding something for the man who had nothing. He received some tools from Konrad, who laughingly pointed out that now Peter would no longer have to borrow his when he fixed something for Zosia, and Tadek gave him a Polish-German dictionary dating from the 1920s—one of the few that had escaped being burned after their language was declared illegal, Tadek noted. He almost said more, but Zosia fixed him with a look that kept him judiciously silent.

Finally, it was time to unwrap Marysia’s present—she had insisted on saving it until last, obviously convinced he would be pleased. From the shape, he knew it was a book, and that alone pleased him. When he finally removed the cloth in which she had wrapped it, though, he was speechless. It was a volume of poems that Zosia’s father had given Marysia upon the engagement of her son to his daughter: not only were the poems in English, but the beautifully bound volume was William Blake’s
Songs of Innocence and of Experience
.

Marysia saw his expression and explained, “Zosia told me.”

He read the inscription that Zosia’s father had written, and below that another that Marysia had written to him. Finally he stammered, “I can’t accept this, it’s too much.”

“Yes, you can. Nothing can be brought out of the ashes, but some things, at least, can be replaced.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Marysia.” He couldn’t say more, but he did not need to—she could see the gratitude in his eyes.

She hugged him, said quietly, “Welcome home.”

At that point, it was decided by consensus that they had been somber for quite long enough and the party lightened up considerably. Vodka flowed, languages spilled out in a babble as each conversational group chose whichever seemed the appropriate tongue, and eventually they all got drunk enough to convince each other to sing bawdy folk tunes. As the last guest stumbled out the door, and Peter crawled into his bed, he was still giggling from the last joke, feeling well-fed, happy, and at home.

He awoke with a start from a completely different world. The small light that Zosia left burning cast comforting shadows; still he could feel his heart pounding furiously. It had been the usual dream—the one where Karl had just knocked him down the steps. He tumbled endlessly feeling his neck snap, his back break, his teeth smashed by granitelike protrusions. He observed his destruction with an odd detachment, felt no surprise when at the bottom of the steps, he could climb to his feet. Overwhelmed by pain he was unable to escape: his feet dragged as though his legs were of lead; he could not catch enough breath to move; his hands grasped uselessly at objects too far away to reach. By sheer force of will he tried to get his body to move; in response, his legs inched forward. To the right was a door—escape, he knew—but inexplicably he always turned to the left. Karl was somehow in front of him now, armed with a club. Karl swung at him, beat at him mercilessly. And Horst. And Elspeth. And others: faceless tormentors, dead friends, his parents . . . He felt his flesh pulverized beneath the blows, every bone of his body snapped like dry twigs, the sharp fragments jutting grotesquely through his skin. On and on it went, he could not move, could not scream. He turned toward the door, toward escape, and always, always it was Allison who stood there, blocking his path. She stared at him unseeing, expressionless. He reached for her, but she drew back. Her eyes were white—no, no, they were on fire. She held a club as well—he screamed at her to recognize him, to stop, but his voice caught in his throat. Unrelenting, she swung the club at him and his body shattered to bits; he collapsed into a heap of blood and pain—nothing left, unable to move. And then, always, he awoke.

He swung his feet to the floor, sat for a moment in the dark with his right hand pressed against his mouth, taking comfort in the solidity of his jaw, the unbroken line of his chin. He always woke racked by pain, and he wondered aimlessly if the pain caused the dream or vice versa. His hand moved up to touch the skin over his cheekbones where the doctor had indicated there was subcutaneous scarring of the muscle tissue. What had he said? It changes the shape of your face slightly. Not shattered to bits. No, not that simple. They had left their mark in other ways:
it changes the shape of your face slightly
. Gently, he touched where so many others had felt free to brutally slam. His hand trembled as his fingers traced a line along the ridge of bone under his eyes.

Quietly, so as not to awaken Zosia and Joanna sleeping in the next room, he went to the cupboard and pulled out the Scotch. It was a present from Zosia. An officer supply train had been raided, and some single-malt Scotch whiskey had been among the luxury goods on board. He smiled at the thought of how much Zosia must have wrangled to get him a bottle; she had presented it to him shyly, said maybe it would make him feel at home.

He poured himself a glass and sat in the underground gloom, contemplating what he should do with his life. What could he do to stop being afraid of his dreams? Would time heal all wounds? He felt that he needed more than time, he needed a direction. Never before in his life had he had the opportunity to make
choices for himself, to have a direction to his life. But where to? He began by examining his desires, replaying boyhood dreams, imagining anything he fancied irrespective of the logistics or likelihood of fulfillment. His mind wandered. Should he return to England? No, there was no particular attraction in that idea. Seek revenge? There were prospects there. But a life goal? No. He could not devote his life to or find his purpose in vendettas. Politics? He smiled at the image of himself, a world leader, rousing the NAU to action, ridding his land of the Nazi scourge, bringing peace to the world. He shook his head, rejecting the image. Maybe he could do something, but even in his wildest dreams, the image of himself as a charismatic leader was ludicrous. If he had ever possessed the sort of fire that such a person needed, then it was long ago extinguished.

He continued to sip the Scotch, relaxed, and daydreamed. He closed his eyes and wondered what he would like to hear, what he would want to see when he opened them, if he were an old man. What could possibly surround him that would make his life feel worthwhile? He kept his eyes closed and listened into his future. Laughter. Giggles. The mischievous sounds of little children teasing a sleeping old man. Slowly he opened his eyes. Instead of the gloom of the little room, he saw a warm, well-lit room full of children. He saw Zosia smiling contentedly at him. He saw Joanna, and their other grown children, chatting amiably. He saw himself a husband to Zosia, a father to Joanna, a man with a family. It did not matter where; it did not matter what else he did.

He took another sip of the whiskey, sighed with satisfaction. Quietly he stood and crept to the door that separated his room from the bedroom. It was open a few inches and he peered in and looked at Zosia’s and Joanna’s sleeping forms. His dream was possible! It was all he needed. Calmed, his heartbeat quiet, he returned to the chair to finish his drink.

Zosia emerged from the bedroom. “Are you all right?” she asked in a sleepy whisper.

She was so beautiful, he wanted her so much! And he wanted to stay with her, to raise Joanna, to make a home for himself. If only this time he didn’t lose it all. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, responding more to his tone than his words. She sat on the edge of his bed, curling her legs beneath her, and pulling at the blanket to cover herself.

He told her about his dream. Then, before she could say anything, he asked inexplicably, “Zosia, have you ever killed anyone?”

“You tell me first.” She did not seem surprised by the question; rather it seemed as though she had been expecting it for a long while.

“What? If you’ve killed anyone?”

“No, silly, if you have.”

“No.” He considered her for a moment as Katerina’s condemnation rang through his mind. “It was never in the Underground’s plans for me.”

“And what was?”

“Infiltrating as
Reichsdeutsch
into a weapons lab outside London. I was trained to that end.”

“But you didn’t want that?”

“No, I wanted to be English.”

“What happened?”

“I was told to shut up and follow orders.” He remembered how they had said “grow up” with such disdain that all he could do was study his hands, his head bowed in utter shame.

“And?” Zosia prompted quietly.

“I more or less refused. I think they were ready to shoot me for insubordination by then.”

She nodded and he continued, “It went on for years. I kept studying all the background I needed in order to infiltrate but kept arguing that I didn’t want to. Finally we compromised: they would scrap the idea of me working in the lab, and in exchange, I would use my analytic skills for them. Us, I mean. I was to analyze from the outside what I refused to find out from the inside.”

“You mean the research lab?”

“Yeah, they added cryptanalysis to my training so that I could decipher stolen documents and interpret them.”

Zosia tilted her head in confusion. “With so much background, why did you hesitate to tell the Council what you knew?”

“I don’t know. I guess because it was all dated, and I didn’t know what was still in my head.”

She looked dubious.

“It’s the truth. I really don’t know, Zosia! Maybe it’s because I spent so many years lying about my skills—pretending I knew nothing, sometimes pretending I couldn’t even read. Maybe I had come to believe my own lies.”

“Apparently that wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’ve talked to Marysia.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I misled you. She told you why, I’m sure.”

Zosia ignored his apology. “So this time, tell me the truth, how was your group organized?”

“Small cells of scientific specialists, at least one of whom had some knowledge of cryptanalysis. Most of them had jobs at the university or in institutes and lived relatively normal lives. Someone, usually me, picked up or bought information from our sources, then I took a preliminary look at it and farmed it out to the appropriate cell for further study. They consulted with each other and reported back to me. I collected and organized the various reports and presented it all to our liaison.”

“So you only oversaw the work that others did?”

“No, I had a cell as well, so frequently I’d assign something to our cell to be analyzed.”

“Was Allison in your cell?”

“Yes, she was a chemist. She and I were so-called ‘full-time’; we had both joined young, had been specifically trained to the job, and our external lives were meaningless: we weren’t pursuing careers and we didn’t have family commitments to hold us back.”

Zosia nodded, apparently satisfied. “What was Allison’s husband?”

“He wasn’t a specialist, just security. He had come back from conscription to discover his wife was in the Underground, so he joined to stay with her. He was only assigned to our group because of her.”

“Oh, so that’s how you two spent so much time alone together,” Zosia guessed.

“Yes,” Peter admitted dryly.

“No doubt she was attracted to your ability to understand her work. Unlike her husband,” Zosia continued in her investigative voice.

“No doubt,” Peter replied bitterly. Before he could stop himself he said, “He was thick. God knows what she saw in him. God knows why she wanted to keep us both.” He should never have kept the affair a secret! He should have done what everyone else did and blithely announced their attachment to the world. Terry would have left her in a minute. Then she would have seen how much her loyalty to him was worth!