The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  Adam did not call her back.

  51

  “HOW’SIT GOING IN THERE?” Graham asked as he peered nervously into the room.

  “Would you stop poking your nose in here!” Allison hissed at him. “Just go back to your office and pretend to be busy!”

  “Can’t you hurry it up?” Graham asked.

  “Alan’s running the tapes as fast as he can,” Allison explained, “and every time we hear someone coming, we’ve got to drop everything and pick up these mops. Now, would you just leave! We’ll come by your office when we’re done and let you know, then you can lock up. Now, go!”

  Allison pushed the door shut even as Graham was beginning to protest.“He’s such a worrier!”

  “Ah, he’s afraid you and I will get picked up and give him away. I guess it’s pretty obvious that if two janitors are caught using the institute’s computers, then one of the faculty is responsible.”

  “It is?” Allison asked.

  “No. Graham’s just a fussbudget. And maybe he suspects that we’re doing more than working here.”

  “Do you think he’ll tell Terry?” Allison furrowed her brow worriedly.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t want Terry to know about us, it would hurt him.”

  “Then divorce him. We can get married the day after you file the papers.”

  She shook her head. “You know I don’t want to do that.”

  “Yeah, I know all right. What I don’t understand is why not.”

  “We’ve been through this,” Allison said, a hint of anger in her voice.

  “I know, we’ve been through it: you love me, you love him. Why, I ask myself, do I feel used?”

  “It’s complicated. I owe him loyalty.”

  “Why? You’re the only person in this country who takes a housing-list marriage seriously! God, what were you, seventeen? He was sixteen? Did you even spend a night together?”

  “Not then. But look, he came back from the draft and he joined the Underground just to stay with me. It wasn’t his style, but he took the risk just to be my husband.”

  “Your husband! How in God’s name you can be loyal to someone who told you that you did too much, that you were ‘too smart’!”

  “I told you that in confidence,” she hissed.

  “You two aren’t meant for each other. We are. Just divorce him!”

  She shook her head sadly. “It’s easy for you to say, you have nothing to lose, Alan.”

  “And apparently, neither do you. Do you think I can wait forever?” He didn’t tell her that he would. The tape drive whirred to a stop, and he turned his attention to the computer. “God, if only we could get our hands on a small version of this thing.”

  “Do you think they could be smaller?” Allison asked as she stroked the huge metallic beast that filled a wall of the research room.

  He nodded. “No reason they couldn’t be small. Just technology. In fact, I’ve heard they have desktop computers in America.”

  “Wouldn’t that make our lives easier!” Allison exclaimed quietly. She walked up to him and threw her arms around his waist. “Once you mount the next tape and program the translation, do you think we could, um . . . ?”

  He felt his hostility melt with her touch. “I love you so much,” he whispered, too quietly for her to hear. He closed his eyes and imagined what their life together could be like.

  When he opened his eyes again, there were no bright fluorescent lights, no smell of cleaning fluids, no laboring computer noises. There was darkness and silence. He was lying down and he was alive, for what it was worth. His arms ached and his extremities were cold, but most of all his back tormented him,causing him to sweat despite the chill. He rolled off his side onto his back, hoping the cold, damp cement would ease the burning sensation. It was a mistake; the agony he felt as he moved nearly caused him to scream aloud. Groaning, he arched his back, rolled back onto his side, and passed out.

  Allison. Allie, looking up from her work at him, smiling her tentative, almost somber smile. Allie, waking him up, taking a deep drag off her cigarette, then sticking the end, still moist from her mouth, between his lips and saying, “Here, Alan, this will help you open your eyes.” Allie, smiling indulgently at his jokes. Allie, running her fingers over his body. His body, which did not ache incessantly then.

  He realized he was awake again, surrounded by darkness, awash with pain. He could see nothing, but he heard himself moan with each gasp he took. He hurt so badly, and he was so cold, but he could not move. He lay very still, doing nothing more than breathing, staring into nothingness with half-closed eyes, wondering idly what it would be like to be dead. Would the pain stop then?

  After a while, he turned a bit and managed to work his arms under his chest. He tested his strength and then, ignoring the slick feel of blood beneath his palms, carefully pushed himself up. Sobs of pain escaped as he struggled to a sitting position with his arms still supporting his weight. He paused a moment there, overcoming his dizziness, then continued to his hands and knees. Once he got his balance, he extended one arm outward into the darkness to search for a support. When he could find none, he sat back down to rest.

  After a few moments thirst drove him to try again. Panting with the effort of ignoring his pain, he crawled along until he found a wall. He rested his head against it as he gathered his strength. The darkness was so complete around him, he began to wonder if his sight had been damaged. There was a window in the other section of the cellar; if he went to it, he would be able to see some light even at night. With that thought to encourage him, he climbed to his feet, oriented himself by touch, and stumbled off in the direction of the back room.

  As he opened the door separating the two rooms, he felt the warmth of the furnace, and shadowy shapes emerged into view. It was still night, but the streetlights cast enough of a glow, even through the shuttered window, to reassure him that he had not been blinded. His eyes adjusted to the gloom, and he had no difficulty finding the sink. He drank until his thirst was slaked, then he rinsed his face and arms. He knew he should wash his back as well, but the prospect of aggravating the almost unbearable pain discouraged him. Besides, he was shivering with cold already; the idea of dousing himself with more freezing-cold water was too much to contemplate.

  He dismissed the thought and went to stand by the furnace to warm himself. With half-closed eyes, he stared at the flickering light. Millions upon millions, he thought, millions upon millions. He closed his eyes so that he would not have to see the image of burning corpses, but the pain he felt ebbing and flowing through his body forced them open again. This society, these people, he thought. Millions upon millions, he thought. Me. He stared emptily. When he finally focused his eyes, he looked at the flame and wondered if anyone had tended to the furnace for the night. He stood for a long time, undecided. Eventually, sighing, he gave in to his inclination and banked the ashes and closed the draft.

  He stepped back from the furnace and, reaching up among the wood beams, removed his stash of cigarettes. Among the ends were three entire cigarettes. He took two and put the rest back into their hiding place, then using a furnace match to light one, he sat down and smoked. The first cigarette calmed him a bit; the second he enjoyed as a welcome diversion from the pain. As he drew the last puff and sent the smoke in a farewell stream toward the furnace, he ground out the end and decided he had warmed himself enough. He wandered off to find a cloth, and wrapping it around and over his injured back to protect it and absorb the oozing blood, he returned to the other room.

  Feeling his way around blindly, he found his shirt where he had left it, pulled it on, and made his way to the steps. He was anxious to get out of the cellar, but when he reached the top step, he discovered the door had been locked. He pressed his hands and head against it, trying to control his frustration, then he slid down into a sitting position on the top step, his head pressed against the wood of the door, and waited for morning.

  He woke up whe
n Elspeth opened the door and he nearly fell into the kitchen. Holding on to the doorjamb for support, he climbed to his feet, wincing with pain. The effort of standing left him dizzy, the room whirled around him and he feared he might faint. He gripped the wood, his knuckles white with the effort of preventing himself from tumbling backward down the steps. When he felt sure he had his balance, he moved forward into the relative safety of the kitchen.

  Elspeth considered him, a look of faint disgust on her face. “You’re going to be useless today—that much is obvious. Damn it! I haven’t had a decent day’s work out of you all week. And now this.”

  “I need a doctor. Please.”

  She continued to study him, stroking her chin, then she shook her head.“No, you don’t. Go get some sleep, that’ll suffice.”

  “Mama said to get you up. It’s afternoon. She said you’ve rested enough.”

  He turned his head and looked into Gisela’s wide, innocent eyes. “I’m awake.” Nevertheless, she did not leave; she stood shyly observing him until he was driven to ask, “What? What is it?”

  “You were bad, weren’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he answered reluctantly.

  “Daddy punished you?”

  “Yes,” he moaned.

  “Are you going to be good now?”

  He winced as a wave of pain washed over him.

  “Are you going to be good now?”

  Sobbing with pain, he was unable to answer her.

  As she left the room, he grit his teeth and struggled to his feet. Each movement sent tendrils of agony along the damaged muscles and skin of his back. He worked his way down the stairs, panting with the effort. Elspeth greeted him with a nod toward the front door, indicating that it was time for Karl to return from work. He waited, opened the door for his master, and performed the routine he had carried out hundreds of times. Only when it came time to light Karl’s cigarette was his routine disrupted. The crystal lighter that usually sat in the hall had not yet been replaced, so he reached in his pocket to find the lighter he usually carried, but nothing was there.

  “Here,” Karl sneered, and handed him what he was looking for.

  He stared at it, embarrassed, but unsure why.

  When Karl wandered into the sitting room, Peter followed. Elspeth handed him the keys and he unlocked the liquor cabinet, pulled out the glasses and bottles, and poured their drinks. All the while, the two of them chatted about their day. He set their drinks next to them, and then Elspeth interrupted her diatribe about Horst and his girlfriend long enough to dismiss Peter from the room with an order to go make himself more presentable.

  He left the room feeling inexplicably humiliated. Being greeted at the door, having a cigarette lit, having their drinks poured, chattering mindlessly about the children or problems at work— their lives were completely unchanged! God in heaven, after what they had done to him, they could at least be smug! But it was as if it were all an irrelevancy. Elspeth had reduced his suffering to an order to clean himself up! Even worse was that it mattered so much to him. His degradation and isolation were so complete that he turned now to his tormentors to care about what had happened!

  His eyes strayed to the staircase down which he had been thrown, not even a week before. He turned his head and saw the walking stick, stored in its holder near the door. He let his gaze stray along the hallway where Karl had so brutally beaten him. He stared disconsolately at the walls, at the wallpaper. Afterward, in his dismay he had pressed himself against the wall and carelessly let his blood stain the wallpaper. Even after hours of cleaning, it was still there, his only legacy in the house. Faint traces of blood, his blood, spattered like drops of red rain on the floral pattern. Each drop glinting orange-red from the reflected streetlights. Each drop balanced delicately on the fragile petals as Allison brought the bouquet to her face and breathed the sweet scent. “I can’t take them home with me,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he agreed. “I thought you might enjoy them for a few minutes anyway.”

  “You just wanted an excuse to give that girl a few marks.”

  “Maybe. Anyone selling flowers in the middle of the night . . .” He did not finish his thought.

  “It’s almost dawn,” Allison said as if disagreeing, but he knew she was just sayinggood-bye.

  “I’ll walk you home.”

  The air was misty and their footsteps were muffled as though they were ghosts treading the desolate streets. He watched her as she slipped into her apartment building, waited long enough to feel sure that she had arrived safely, then turned to head back to his room. En route he stopped and laid Allison’s flowers at one of the impromptu memorials to the defenders of the city. A patrolman called out to him but he ignored the summons, slipping down an alley before the policeman could fire off a shot. The narrow escape left him feeling rather apprehensive, and he took extra care for the rest of his long walk home. When he got there, as was his habit, he waited a few moments out of sight to observe his building. It was just a habit and he hardly expected to see anything, so he was rather shaken when he saw three officers exit the building. He could not discern their insignia in the poor light; all he could see was that they conferred in front of the building, in a manner suggesting frustration, and then left on foot.

  He stood absolutely still for a moment trying not to believe what the evidence suggested. Had they come looking for him? Why? And how did they know where he lived? The confusion blinded him momentarily to the implications. He knew he should not go inside just yet. There was no guarantee the building was not being watched or that someone was not still inside. No, he should sleep somewhere else tonight, this morning—already the sky was turning gray. It would be dangerous to go to any of his colleagues. . . . He felt a sudden catch in his throat. If they were seeking him, if he had been betrayed, then . . . Oh, God. He turned and began running back toward Allison’s flat.

  Only years of expertise kept him from being picked up by a patrol during his wild run back to her place; instinct sent him dodging among the shadows at the last minute. He stopped two streets away from his destination to catch his breath. He had to be really careful now. It would hardly do to betray himself in his effort to protect her. Assuming a semblance of calm, he strolled toward the massive concrete tower that she called home. It was late enough that he could join the people stumbling to their jobs as the sun broke through the morning mist. As he walked, he prayed that it was a false alarm. Or that he had arrived in time.

  But the small knot of people in front of the main entrance of her building indicated that his hopes were in vain. His heart pounded wildly in his chest. Hardly able to refrain from running, he walked up to the crowd. The entrance of the building was blocked—no admittance to anyone. He thought for a moment about entering through one of the hidden exits they usually used, but a sudden commotion held him fixed in the crowd. With a horrible fascination he watched as the security police emerged from the building.

  They dragged a body out with them. It was Terry—unconscious, but apparently alive. Then two more police emerged with another body. He heard his breath catch in his throat as he struggled to breathe through the treacle that suffocatedhim. That hair, fine and black and beautiful. Those strong, loving arms dangling so lifelessly, twisted at an odd angle as if broken to bits, like his heart. Someone in the crowd shushed him— Do you want them to take you, too? He was oblivious. He knew she was not alive, but he stared at the body in a desperate attempt to see some sign of life. Anything.

  He wrapped his arms around his chest, clutching his heart. His helpless sobs drew the attention of a bystander— Do you know them? He could not answer. How could he say anything to anyone ever again? He still insanely believed it was possible that he was mistaken. He watched, paralyzed by his dread, as they loaded their captives into a van. As they turned to put her in, he saw that the left half of her face was missing. And he saw, from the bloody remains, that it was indeed Allie. A sudden incoherent rage made him want to scream. Why did you
fight? Why the hell didn’t you let them take you alive! Damn you to hell!

  The van drove off and the crowd dispersed. He stood alone on the pavement as workers hurried by, jostling him in their rush to their jobs. Any alert patrol should have noticed him and taken him in for questioning, but he remained undisturbed. The bizarre thought crept into his mind that he led a charmed life. In a daze, he walked away.

  He needed to get as far away as possible. Some mindless survival instinct kept him safe as he wandered about. He stopped under a bridge—the same bridge that he had retreated to after his parents’ arrest—and stared at the oily swirls of tidal water struggling to flow upstream. The damp air reeked of mysterious chemicals and untreated sewage. It seemed appropriate that he should be here, it seemed a fitting place to think about what had happened. If, as he suspected, they had been betrayed, the betrayal looked complete. He could not return home, nor could he use any of his current aliases, and there was no one to turn to. He assumed anyone he knew was arrested or dead or guilty of the betrayal. Not only were they suspect to him, but he would be suspect to them, and he would be suspect to any other member of the Underground; any other assumption on their part would be suicidally stupid. Given the circumstantial evidence against him, if they knew he was alive, they would almost certainly try to assassinate him. The realization left him stunned: he would be relentlessly hunted by both sides.

  He was not sure why he cared to continue to live—stubbornness perhaps, or maybe a desire for revenge—but he began to make plans. There was a set of papers he had, against orders, saved. No one in the group had known about them, not even Allie, and any record of them had long ago been destroyed. They were the ones he had used years ago when he had first joined, long before any of his current comrades had met him. They were old and out-of-date, but they would give him a safe identity, one that had not been betrayed, until he could find better papers. He went to the place he had hidden them and removed them from their protective envelope. He paged through them, looked at the weathered photograph of his younger self, and read the name aloud: Peter Halifax.