“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 Iworked 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.”
Zosia wrote something down when he said this. He could not quite make out the words but he thought he saw “severe depression.” He felt affronted, so he quickly added, “Besides, it was difficult and the penalties were high. In my case, as a convict, it was the death penalty.”
“So you planned to sit out the full twenty years?”
“No. I was hoping for a reduction in my sentence.” Then he added with a small laugh, “For good behavior.”
Zosia saw no humor in his words but wrote something else. She looked up and asked in a businesslike tone, “What sort of work did you do at the camp?”
“All sorts of stuff. Usually some industry or farm rented our services from the government and so our treatment and conditions changed considerably from month to month.”
“How long did you work?” she asked.
“Oh, the day usually ended around six o’clock. However, during the summer—”
“I meant,” Zosia clarified, “how long were you in the camp?”
“Oh. Nearly four years. It was grim, but tolerable.”
“You were well treated?”
He laughed. “
I guess so, in comparison anyway. I saw some things, awful things. I saw a man, a Zwangsarbeiter, shot in cold blood, in a steel mill, because he had broken a bone. I . . . I wanted to help, but I couldn’t, I was a prisoner, too.”
Zosia tilted her head but remained silent.
“I, there were other things, too, in other factories, in . . . They didn’t affect us,we were only draftees, so we weren’t usually treated that badly, but the way they . . . It was the Zwangsarbeiter, the way they treated the Zwangsarbeiter. I thought, at the time . . . It was like they were different people, another species, almost like they couldn’t feel pain, or had no lives of their own. I . . . After what happened to me later, after the factory work, I know better, I . . .” He paused, embarrassed by his sudden, confused confession. “I remember, when I was working in a factory, these two officers, one of them tripped me. I swear he did it on purpose. I . . . they . . . I was beaten for that.” He closed his eyes against the painful memory. “I don’t know why they did that to me.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t remember their faces. All I remember-is the uniforms and the way they joked with each other and . . .”
“And?”
“And the way they looked at me. It was just the way I used to look at others. Like I wasn’t really there, or couldn’t possibly understand what was going on. Like I was beyond hope.”
“Everything in due course,” Zosia said as if to steady him. “Back to the work camp. How was it there for you?”
“There? I felt secure there, even needed.”
“Then what?”
He stared at the ground as if he had not heard her.
“Then what?”
“Hmm?”
“Then what?”
“Oh, then?” he asked as he began to pick at some dirt under a fingernail. “Then I attempted an escape.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why?’ ” he asked, moving on to the next nail. “I just did.”
“Was it that you had seen too much?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. That was it. I had seen too much,” he answered distantly as he struggled with a particularly recalcitrant bit of dirt.
She shook her head. “There’s more to it than that.”
“No, really, I just had an opportunity, so I took it,” he said, still concentrating on his fingers.
“You’re lying.”
“Lying?” He shook his head.“No, it’s the truth.”
“Don’t play games with me. Why did you leave the work camp?”
“Does one need a reason?” he asked, forcing himself to look directly at her.
“After nearly four years, yes.”
“It took that long to get over what had happened in London. I felt ready—”
“One last chance,” she stated coldly.
He threw his hands up angrily. “I don’t understand why I need a reason! I changed my mind about waiting it out. Wouldn’t you try to escape?”
She stood up and headed toward the entrance.
“Don’t go!” he pleaded.
She turned back to look at him.
He sighed, then said, “I found out something.” Before she could prod him he continued, “You see, the boys are paid a wage during their conscription: half of their wage is doled out to them while they’re working, the other half is saved up until their release. Out of the paid-out wages, they pay for their room and board and buy any of the so-called luxury items such as cigarettes or coffee. Naturally, the prices are set such that nobody saves anything. At the end of their six years, they get the lump-sum payment of the other half of their wages minus taxes, their round-trip fare, and any surcharges they have incurred. As you might well guess, it’s a con game and it’s not untypical for the boy to return home emptyhanded for his six years of work.”
Zosia returned to sit down next to him. “So?”
“Well, I was different. As a convict, I didn’t merit a wage, nor was I charged for room and board. I figured I was on a different scheme and that was that.”
“How did you buy your luxury goods?”
He laughed. “I was camp leader, remember. I assessed fines for misbehavior, and the others chipped in a bit now and then.”
“You taxed them?” she asked, amused.
He nodded. “I guess you could call it that. Anyway, I figured prison was prison and after I did my time they’d release me with a hundred marks or something. But then, when I was working in one of the camp offices, I went through the files and found out I was being assessed all along. In other words, the longer I stayed, the greater my debt.”
“So after you served your time, you’d be massively in debt to the camp.”
He nodded. “Yeah, and the only way I could pay it off would be with my labor. That told me that my sentence was essentially a life sentence and that there was no hope of release other than escaping.”
“I see.” Zosia noted something down. “So how did you come to be in such a trusted position that you could snoop through their filing cabinets?”
He shrugged. “Somebody had to be assigned to clean those rooms. My turn came up.”
“Alone, in rooms with sensitive files?”
“They weren’t that important,” he answered defensively. “Just prisoner files.”
Zosia stood and paced to the entrance of the tent. Speaking softly into the woods, she said, “One clever infiltrator would be the death of all of us. They’re not going to take that chance, Peter, they will shoot you.” She stepped out of the tent.
“Come back!” he yelled desperately. “There’s more!”
Zosia stepped back inside and eyed him critically.
He dropped his gaze to his cup of coffee. The black liquid was not as dark as the void he felt he was entering. What was in that corner of his mind? He had notlooked there for so long. He stood suddenly and joined Zosia at the entrance of the tent; only Olek stood there, watching them curiously.
“Does the boy speak English?”
“Not really.” She grabbed his arm and led him back into the tent to sit down.
Still he could say nothing. He picked up his coffee and sipped it, then stood again. Zosia waited patiently as he studied the fabric of the tent. Eventually he found his voice. “I’d like to tell you everything,” he said quietly.
“I want to hear whatever you have to say.”
66
HE TOOK A DEEP BREATH, then began, “The camp changed Kommandant s fairly frequently. They were all alike, all the same sort of bland, ignorable bureaucrat. It was a dead-end job reserved for idiot nephews and brainless pretty boys who could go no further in the hierarchy. The latter group we called blah-blah-blah for ‘blathering, blue-eyed blonds.’ ”
“But blah-blah-blah comes from blond, blauäugig und blöd, or blond, blueeyed, and stupid,” Zosia corrected.
“I know, we anglicized it. Anyway, they were the sort who advanced through the military with their classic Aryan looks, until inevitably, someone realized that they were simply too brainless to be of any real use. As a group they were generally arrogant, petty, and vindictive, and we avoided them. Well, one day, we got a new fellow, just like all the others. He was driven into the camp one morning, an announcement of the change was made in the evening, and the old Kommandant left the following day. At first nothing changed. The announcements were as patriotic and idiotic as usual, the threats just as dire, the routine just as tedious.
“It started slowly; the stories filtered in, hearsay and secondhand, and I did my best to ignore them. Then one of the young lads approached me and described his troubles firsthand. I couldn’t ignore it any longer, and after several days wrestling with my options, I decided to confront the Kommandant directly.”
“What exactly did the boy say?”
“Oh, that he was summoned to the Kommandant ’s private quarters and given an ultimatum. He must perform sexual favors for the Kommandant or face unspecified consequences.”
“And he did this?”
“He was afraid.”
“And you believed it was not voluntary?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I find it difficult to believe he would give in so easily.”
Peter turned to look at Zosia. “You’ve never been a prisoner, have you?”
Zosia shook her head.
“I believed him,” Peter reiterated, “and I believed it was involuntary, even though, I guess, the Kommandant showered his victims with little favors after the fact. The problem was, I really did not know what I could do about it. I had no real authority.”
“You went to see him anyway?”
Peter nodded. “I told him my concerns. I told him to just leave the kids alone. He kept feigning ignorance so I said I’d go over his head, if necessary.”
“Was that possible?”
Peter shook his head.“No, not really. I was just grasping at straws.”
“Did he get angry that you were threatening him?”
“He didn’t seem to, he just told me to come and talk to him later. He seemed like he got a bright idea and said that he was having a party and I should come as a guest, then we could talk afterwards.”
“A guest?” Zosia asked, amazed.
“I think he thought I would be entertaining. After the roll call, I returned to the barracks, somewhat undecided about what to do, but within minutes, a guard came to the hut and informed me that the Kommandant wanted to see me in his quarters. With an armed escort I was taken back across the compound.
“The Kommandant was in a friendly mood. He offered me a brandy and then said, if I was a charming guest that evening, maybe we could work out some arrangement with respect to the problem I had mentioned earlier. So, I worked at being charming. God, it was tedious! I’ll spare you the details. Anyway, I did my best. Probably succeeded except for a certain lack of deference. At one point the Kommandant hissed in my ear that I had not said even one lousy ‘mein Herr’ and it wouldn’t hurt for me to say ‘Heil Hitler’ once in a while.”
The Children's War Page 55