The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “I chose them at random. I simply fled the city and drove as far as I could before dawn.”

  “At random?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that a rather idiotic escape plan?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Maybe it was my version of Russian roulette—I like to load five chambers instead of one,” he answered testily. “You just try and get the information I needed from where I was!”

  She laughed. “So you just ended up here. Of all places.”

  “Clearly I had to end up somewhere. And don’t tell me you weren’t watching me from a distance. It wasn’t so unbelievable that we happened upon each other. After all, you stopped me. If only you had watched a bit longer, you would have seen that all I wanted to do was dump the car. I took an exit off the autobahn and headed for the mountains. I thought I might find an old dirt track or even a lake into which I could dump the car.”

  She did not comment on his assertion; instead she asked, “Why would you want to dump such a nice car?”

  “I could be traced to this area if it were found; you see, it belongs to the man whose papers I took.” He hesitated, then added with quiet distaste, “The man who owned me.”

  “Why not head toward England? Why here?”

  “The photograph,” he said, indicating Karl’s papers. “I could never have madethe Channel crossing on those papers. And I figured that going to England is exactly what they would expect and that I’d soon be rearrested. It’s not like I can ever return to a normal life, not with these numbers burned into my arm.”

  “They’re not burned on,” she said as if pointing out a flaw in his story.

  “They are to me.”

  She nodded slightly, then she looked up at the trees and sighed, “What a world we live in!” She made a visible effort to regain her detachment before she ordered, “Finish undressing.”

  As he shivered in the cold autumn air with his hands on his head, the woman searched him thoroughly. She was gentle and asked his pardon as she invaded his privacy, but he could not help but notice that the muzzle of the automatic rifle never slipped from pointing directly at his heart. The boy’s steely gaze held him fixed: he would not be fooled again!

  When the woman had finished searching him, she ran her fingers gently over the wounds on his back, satisfying herself that they were real. “When did you get these?” she eventually asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean,” he hastily added, “it depends on which ones you are referring to.”

  “So you have been beaten more than once?”

  “Yes.” Beaten, tortured, by more than one person, on more than one occasion. Why did it embarrass him to admit it? Why did he feel as if he had somehow failed?

  The woman looked up at him; clearly this revelation, and the physical evidence, made his story more believable. She surprised him by saying, “I am sorry.”

  Before he could respond, she turned away and went to sit down by the pile of clothing he had left. The boy continued to hold him in his sights as the woman searched each piece. The thoroughness with which she inspected every seam and button implied that not only was she extremely experienced, but that the devices she was searching for were far advanced on the ones he had learned about so long ago in London.

  She paused and looked up at him when she reached the waistband of his trousers. Before he could say anything, she slid the slim piece of metal out and inspected it. “A lockpick?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I put it so that I could reach it even if my hands were cuffed to the front or the back.”

  “So you are not completely devoid of talents.” She pocketed the lockpick, then continued her inspection. When she had finished, she handed him his clothes, but left the jacket, belt, socks, and boots to one side. She answered his questioning glance by saying, “They’re too difficult to search by hand; we’ll get to those and your bag later. You can walk barefoot for now. We’ll finish questioning you at camp.”

  After he had dressed, she tied his hands behind his back and took a moment to inspect his gun before she handed it to the boy. He inspected the gun as well,checked the clip, and then slung his rifle over his back and pointed the pistol at Peter. They then set off into the woods with the woman leading the way, Peter in the middle, and the boy following, keeping his prisoner under constant guard.

  They dove into the woods, ducking under saplings and trampling over roots and stones until eventually they turned onto a narrow trail. The rocks cut into his skin, the roots twisted around his ankles, loose stones slid out from under his feet, and with his hands bound behind him, each time he stumbled he had no real ability to recover his balance. He fell a number of times, crashing in an ungainly heap, twisting his ankles and bruising his shoulders painfully. Each time they waited patiently, but did not help as he struggled to his feet.

  Their path wound up the slope; at points they turned from one path onto another; sometimes they left the trail altogether only to join another a few meters away. Each time they fought their way through the underbrush, Peter was scraped by branches and briers he could not hold out of the way. He tried to keep his head low and lead with his shoulders; nevertheless, his face was soon covered in scratches.

  They took their time covering ground; frequently Peter and the boy would rest while the woman disappeared into the woods, presumably to check to see if they were being followed or observed. Nevertheless, Peter felt exhausted: his feet were battered and bruised and covered in mud, his face and arms were covered in scratches and insect bites, and his muscles ached from his numerous falls. He was shivering from the cold, he was hungry and thirsty, and he had an urgent need to urinate. Eventually he had to ask them if he could please stop to piss.

  The woman held the gun on him while the boy helped him. Peter was beyond feeling humiliated though—it was such a relief to finally relieve himself! After he was done, the boy used the opportunity as well, and the woman laughed quietly at the odd camaraderie. The boy shrugged, said something to the woman in a language Peter did not understand, they both laughed, and then all three continued their march.

  The ground became soft with moss and dead leaves. Birds twittered high above in the branches. The clouds had yielded to a brilliant blue sky, and whenever there was a break in the canopy, sunlight streamed down to the forest floor with a magical dappling of light. Eventually the path they were following dropped down to run along the edge of a small stream. The sunlight created fantastic patterns on the surface—a thousand diamonds dancing to the tune of the water bubbling over the rocks. Peter asked if they would stop for a moment so he could drink.

  The woman and the boy waited patiently as he approached the stream and knelt in the shallow water. As he leaned forward, he had a sudden thought, and he straightened and turned to look at them. Why weren’t they drinking? “Is this water safe?”

  The boy shrugged. The woman pursed her lips, said, “I think so. Your folks— the Germans, I mean—have no access to its source.”

  He wondered at her slip of the tongue. Were they just taking him deeper into the woods to kill him? The path they had followed had seemed incredibly erratic, as if they were heading nowhere in particular. The water beckoned, his thirst overrode his concerns, and he leaned forward and drank deeply.

  They continued along the stream for a long while. The ground was soft and felt good underfoot. Eventually, they came to a large fallen tree that spanned the creek. The woman leapt onto the trunk and began to cross. Peter stopped cold and considered what he should do next. If he slipped off the impromptu bridge with his hands tied behind him, he would probably break his arms falling onto the rocks, but it seemed unlikely that he could convince them to untie him.

  The woman was already on the other side and eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of water?”

  “No,” he grated, and plunged into the stream. It was less than a meter deep and only about five meters wide, but it was still a challenge not to slip on the mossy stones. He dragged his e
lbow along the edge of the trunk to help stabilize himself and finally emerged on the other side, dripping wet, but none the worse for wear.

  Once he was on the other side, the woman held his arm, guarding him so the boy could cross unhindered. When they were all together, she left the path and scrambled up the bank and up a bracken-laden hillside. Their progress sent up clouds of gnats, which hovered around their faces and seemed to be preferentially drawn to Peter’s soaked clothing. He shook his head frantically from side to side to try to disperse them, but they clung to him. He coughed and spit as he realized several had gone into his mouth.

  The woman, noticing the commotion, stopped and turned. She took the several steps back toward him and waved her hand wildly at his face. He threw his head back, flinching defensively, his instinctive response a split-second faster than his realization that she was swatting at the bugs. He reopened his eyes and grimaced with embarrassment at his display of fear. She gave him a long look but said nothing, turning instead to resume her climb.

  Gathering himself, Peter followed, scanning desperately for any sign of a path. There was none as far as the eye could see. Nor was there any sign that anyone had recently trampled through the bracken. They were clearly breaking a new path. Where the hell were they going? He became increasingly convinced that they were leading him nowhere.

  The bracken gave way to a steeper slope of mud and roots and an occasional sapling. The woman climbed up that as well, frequently using her hands to grab on to a root to pull herself up a slippery section. Peter struggled to follow. He wedged his foot into a root and leaned against the slope as he gasped for breath. Behind him he could hear the boy climbing. He looked back and saw the gun still trained on him. “Keep moving,” the boy advised.

  He continued his ascent. He wedged his foot against a sapling and pushedupward, 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 Ireally 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

  THEY 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?”