The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  Peter directed his attention to the huge man. His size made him look slow and stupid, and Peter had to fight an urge to speak simply to him. “If you really feel that I cannot be permitted to live—there’s the gun.” Peter nodded toward the pistol sitting in front of the old woman.

  Wojciech followed his gesture, stared at the gun for a moment, and then shook his head.“No, I won’t do that. No.”

  Peter let his breath out quietly. It wasn’t an affirmation, but it was enough.

  “I will,” Tadek spoke at last.

  Everyone looked at him in surprise. Zosia leapt up. “You can’t! There’s been a vote.”

  “What vote? He asked for opinions and now he asks for unanimity! Since when do we take orders from a stranger?”

  “Tadziu!” Tadek picked up a gun and walked calmly to where Peter stood. As Tadek faced Peter wordlessly, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. He raised his hand to stop any of the Council from interrupting and returned Tadek’s steely gaze. Finally Peter broke the silence, said as calmly as he could, “I know if you want me dead, I’ll inevitably end up dead sooner or later. So do it now, if that’s what you really want. If you really want to kill an innocent man in cold blood, then do it now, in front of all your friends.”

  Tadek raised the gun to point it at his face and grated, “You talk about friends, but where are all your friends?” Still pointing the gun at his face, Tadek turned to address the others. “Don’t you find it just a bit too convenient that they are all dead? That there is no one to confirm or deny his story? Huh?” Tadek turned back toward him and added, “Even your accomplice in the prison camp didn’t last very long, did he? How convenient!”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Oh, but of course, you don’t know about that, do you?” Tadek sneered.

  “About what? Who?” Peter glanced at Zosia, had a sudden, terrible premonition. “Geoff?” he asked so quietly they could hardly hear the name.

  Zosia nodded slightly.

  Peter felt suddenly quite ill. Tadek studied him as if interpreting his reactions, but he ignored Tadek, wanted to ignore the gun pointing at him. He had a violent urge to knock it out of Tadek’s hand, but he knew that would be pointless. “What happened? I didn’t name him,” he said to no one in particular. He felt he was losing his balance as the earth kept shifting beneath him.

  Katerina answered in a dispassionate voice, “It seems he murdered your Kommandant —beat him with a candlestick over the head in his private quarters. Claimed it was an accident and self-defense according to the court report. Of course, they hanged him for that, the very next day.”

  It was obvious what had happened: with Peter’s absence, the insane Kommandant had decided to move to his next victim despite the documents they held against him. And poor Geoff had been down to counting the days until he was free!

  With a voice like a twisting knife, Tadek added, “So, no friends, no family.”

  It was completely irrelevant to the argument, but he felt the need to correct Tadek’s assertion. “I have a brother,” he said distractedly. Though Erich, no doubt, assumed he was dead, he had checked on his brother’s progress now and then and knew he was alive and well. But, he realized, the last time he had checked was ten years ago.

  No family, Tadek had said.

  He looked up past the gun at Tadek and waited for the inevitable. Tadek said nothing, just held the gun steadily pointing at his face.

  “I do have a brother, don’t I?” Peter finally asked plaintively.

  “Oh, yes. The best sort.” Tadek fixed him in his sights. “Just your sort.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a Party member. A good Nazi.”

  Peter felt himself flush. He noticed how intently Tadek watched him, and embarrassed, Peter dropped his gaze as he thought how both his father and his brother had betrayed everything he believed in.

  Zosia called out something in Polish, which Tadek answered angrily. Then Marysia said something. Tadek snarled a reply to that as well. As a debate erupted around Peter in words he could not understand, he kept thinking of his father and his brother. Collaborators. Stinking collaborators.

  Suddenly Tadek turned back to him and, switching to German so that Peter could understand, said, “Those idiots will believe any ridiculous sob story, but you and I know better, don’t we? We both know, you’d be the death of all of us.”

  Peter felt too dismayed to answer.

  “But since you got a majority vote, you know what I’m going to do?” Tadek asked, then without waiting for an answer, said, “I’m going to grant your last request. I’ll shoot you in the face, in front of my friends, and I’ll even clean up the fucking mess it’ll leave.”

  Peter stared at the cold metal of the barrel. “Fine,” he agreed tiredly. After all that he had endured, was this really all there was? He fought back an image of what his face would look like when Tadek pulled the trigger, fought away memories of Allison’s face, and wondered suddenly about life after death, about soaring spirits. Would he finally find out?

  “Tadziu.” It was Zosia. She had quietly joined them and they both looked at her, surprised by her sudden presence. “Put the gun down.” Under her breath, so that none but Tadek and Peter could hear it, she added, “That’s an order.”

  Without saying a word, Tadek lowered the gun and turned disgustedly to walk away. The rest of the Council, still in a sort of shock, watched as he walked back up the slope. He climbed to where he had been sitting, walked a few meters farther, then turned again. Waving his gun to indicate the entire group, he snarled, “You’re all fools! Don’t you see! He’ll be the death of all of us! Anyone he’s ever had anything to do with is dead!” Anger and frustration nearly choking him, he spat out, “You’re fools to trust him! Idiots!” Spinning on his heel, he stormed off, still hurling incomprehensible imprecations as he went.

  Peter watched him leave, continued to stare into the sun long after he was gone. Though Tadek had left, his words hung in the air: Anyone he’s ever had anything to do with is dead! It was no worse than what he himself had thought on many occasions, yet the words stung. He knew the Council was watching him, wondering what he would do, but he did not care to notice them. Your father died within days of being arrested . . . Within days. All those years of searching, of wondering. Within days. The sun blinded him, turned everything around him into dark, looming shadows. He began to tremble, as if from cold. Your mother died after about seven months. . . . How she must have suffered! Seven months —and for what? For nothing. All those years he was looking for her, she was dead. It’s all right, it will be all right, everything will be okay, trust me, she had said. But she was dead. The sunlight caused tears to stream down his face, but he did not care anymore. He did not care what the Council saw or did not see. He could no longer make out even their shadows; they were irrelevant.

  He saw nothing, felt nothing, heard no one, only the darkness surrounding and the voices of his past. Arrested! Killed! What for? Like a cascade of water, they washed over him. Do you want them to take you too? He shook his head, but voices hissed in his ear: You like games, see how you like this one. . . . He squeezed his eyes shut. I’m afraid you’ve been sold. . . . He put his hands to his temples to try to still them. Are you so stupid you don’t even understand self-preservation? He pleaded for silence, but a thunder roared in his head. The price of disobedience is death. . . . His heartbeat pounded a rhythm into the cacophony. Dona eis requiem. . . . A sickening dizziness caused him to stumble. Don’t let them kill you. . . . Waves of grief and loneliness and death washed over him, suffocating him—he was drowning. Were you tortured? He could not stand them anymore. Were you tortured? Slowly, he turned and lowered himself to a sitting position, put his face in his hands, and wept.

  1

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” The words emerged from the din with increasing clarity, and by the third time or so, he understood and looked up to see the speaker. Marysia looked down at him. By her
side were Zosia and Konrad.

  “I guess so.” Tears streamed down his face. “I think I just need to get some sleep. Can I do that?” The voices still beset him, but they were quieter, like the sound of a waterfall in the distance. He tried to focus on Zosia’s face, but her image was hazy; he squinted, blinked, and tried to get the film off his eyes. Eventually it occurred to him that Marysia had answered him. He looked up at her questioningly.

  “Of course,” she repeated slowly as though aware that she did not have his full attention. “You’re a free man, you can come and go as you please.”

  Peter nodded. Yes, free. They said so. So go away! he yelled to his voices. He looked at his arm: the markings were still there and the band still clung to his wrist. Free. They said so. Just like that. Like magic. He climbed to his feet and wordlessly stumbled to the tent. Throwing himself down on the cot, he fell into a deep sleep.

  It was dark when he awoke. He rolled into a sitting position, sat for a moment trying to recall where he was. A lantern was burning with a low light. Somebody had removed his shoes and set some food on a tray near the bed. He ate the food, climbed under the blankets, and fell back asleep.

  He awoke in broad daylight feeling oddly detached from himself and his surroundings. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed to get up, but before he could stand, the realization hit him: he was free! He had done it, he had survived! Ever since the night of his arrest all those years ago . . . How long had it been? God Almighty, eight years! For eight years, he had focused his entire being, all his hopes, everything, on this one moment. And now it was here. He had survived!

  He felt an incredible surge of happiness at the realization that all his dreams had come true. Free! And a home! The Council had agreed he could stay! He was safe, he was free, he had left behind all that horror. He could live a normal life, hewould return to the living, he would start afresh! What more could any man want from life? What more? He felt tears running down his cheeks, and he wiped at them in confusion. What were they doing here? He was free, he was elated, he was thankful. . . . What more could one want? All the rest of it, all the ugliness and the murders and the years and years and years of wasted life—it was all in the past. He had been purged of all of it! The escape, the trial, defending his life—that was sufficient to cleanse him. He was free, he was free, he was free! What more could one want?

  He stood and a momentary dizziness overcame him. He sat back down. His parents. They were indeed dead. That’s what that man, Tadek, had said. Peter had known it all along, but somehow it still hurt, and now, after all these years, he could mourn them. But what was there to mourn? People he hardly knew; a life he had never lived. And Geoff. Executed. His friend’s ever-present grin, the silly scenarios he would invent, the way the two of them would do a double act that kept the young boys in stitches, laughing at their oppressors, joking their way through years of meaningless labor. Hanged. And Allison. Nothing left but bones by now. The fantasies he had invented, where she survived to greet him upon his return home . . . Home? He couldn’t go home. They would kill him.

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts. He was free, he had a chance here at a new life. None of the past would matter. He would start afresh, make a home for himself here. He would be free and that was all that mattered. He would be free of them. Forever!

  He stepped out of the tent and looked around—there was no guard in sight. Clearly, they had honored their decision that he was to be trusted, but it left him feeling strangely alone and at a loss for what to do. What did a free man do? Where should he go? He realized with a sudden pang how much of his life had been structured by constraints, and after all this time, without directions, orders, or threats, he was adrift.

  His eyes were drawn to the forest around. The pines were tinted with the somber green of autumn, the air was alive with the singing of birds. Insects swarmed here and there, and he saw the movements of a squirrel as it dashed up a trunk. Sunlight glinted through the canopy, warming him as he stood there. It is a beautiful world, he thought. And if he was to begin life anew somewhere, then he could think of no better place.

  He cleaned himself up, found a change of clothes and breakfast among the things that had been thoughtfully left for him in the tent, and then went out and tried to find someone. It didn’t take long. A camp sentry emerged from the trees after he had wandered a few meters and pointed him in the right direction.

  As he walked among the trees, he noted, not for the first time, that there were far fewer tents than the number of people seemed to merit. He took a mental tally: ten Council members, six or seven different guards, Zosia’s child . . . Even without assuming that the Council represented a much larger number, that was still more people than the three tents implied. One entire tent for himself, onefor the latrine; the third and largest was where he was heading now. Where the hell did everyone else go? Perhaps if he had been less preoccupied earlier he would have noticed, but now, as he looked around, he saw no sign of where they all resided.

  The large tent was a sort of kitchen. There was coffee and tea and some food on a long table along one wall, and opposite that were some chairs. Four other people were in the tent, only two of whom looked familiar. One was the old assassin, the other was Wojciech—the man who had grumbled that he had been outvoted. They stared at Peter with undisguised curiosity. He felt daunted that there was no one he considered a friend.

  “So you’ve finally got up?” the old woman asked in a tone that was either sneering or jesting.

  He nodded.

  “Help yourself to the food. My name is Katerina. Do you want anything?” He wanted to find Zosia or Marysia, but his newly earned independence made him determined to make his way on his own. “I want this off,” he said, indicating the band on his wrist.

  Katerina turned to her colleagues and said something in Polish that made them laugh. He bristled but did not say anything. She turned back to him and looked as though she was going to tease him but, upon seeing his face, changed her mind and said in a tone that was kinder than he had expected, “We’ll get to that, don’t worry. Now sit, have some tea with us, then I’ll give you a tour.”

  “This is amazing,” he found himself saying yet again.

  Katerina turned a corner and pointed out a chapel. “We have expanded our underground home over the years,” she explained. “It is called Szaflary.”

  “Szaflary,” he repeated. “Is absolutely everything kept here?”

  “That would be stupid, wouldn’t it?” She gestured down a hallway. “Now here are some passages that lead to stuff you shouldn’t see for a while. Later maybe. I mean”—here she sidled up next to him as if telling him a secret—“we said we trust you, but you know . . .”

  “Frankly, I’m amazed that you have shown me this much. What about security? Why are there so many of you? Why aren’t you organized in isolated cells? It’s so much safer.”

  “Yes, it is. We did that early on, but we were dying. I mean, we live here. Some of us were born here. This is where what’s left of our freedom, our culture, is carried on. That’s more important than safety.” She looked around sadly. “This, and other places like it, this is all that is left of us. Out there”—she gestured broadly—“out there, we play roles, but we are not ourselves.”

  “But if you’re discovered here . . .”

  “Oh, they know we’re here. They’re not exactly sure of us, where we are, how many, but they know.”

  “What?”

  “The soldiers. They know. We don’t let any of them emerge alive from these mountains. They stay away, and they get to stay alive. They lie, they say they patrol these areas, but they know that they better not set one foot inside our borders.”

  “But if the government finds out, won’t they bomb you out of existence?” he asked, confused by the implications.

  “They can’t,” Katerina answered as if unconcerned.

  “Why not?”

  “Deterrents,” she answered, deadpan
.

  “What do you mean? You have nuclear weapons?” he almost scoffed. “No thanks to our useless allies. Anyway, our deterrents are strategically based in various German cities. It’s another one of those standoff situations. Only thing is, we reached the balance after they had grabbed our country and slaughtered millions of our people. It was too late to set the clock back, but we have at least stopped most of the mayhem.”

  “You negotiate with them?”

  “Nowadays, yes. There was a time . . .” Katerina neglected to continue and he did not ask anything more.

  When they had finished the tour, she led him back to the library.

  “You said some of your people infiltrate into the general population. What’s the point? Aren’t they powerless there?” he asked while absently scanning the computer screen visible on a desk. The library was not en route to the room she had said he could use, so apparently Katerina had a reason for bringing him back, but she had not as yet told him.

  “Oh, they serve a number of purposes. They keep the morale of the population up, set up schools, disseminate information, teach, organize small partisan groups, help equalize food distribution, recruit into our ranks, and perhaps most importantly, they keep any local or wildcat groups from assassinating our own operatives.”

  “Are assassinations common?”

  “A lot commoner than the Germans would like to have known.”

  “Isn’t there retribution? Murders of hostages and so on?”

  “Yes, but we decided early on, we can’t be held hostage for what they do. Besides, they are so uncontrolled, they defeat their own purposes. For example, in September 1939, just after the invasion, they hanged twenty thousand civilians in Bydgoszcz as a retaliation for military action.”

  “Twenty thousand? Civilians? Hanged?”

  “Yes. You see my point. If they are willing to kill like that, as retaliation for defensive military action during an invasion, then we can hardly take seriously any hope that our so-called ‘good behavior’ would be rewarded with civility.”