The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Don’t shoot!” he yelled in the first language that came into his head—and that was German. He immediately followed it with Polish and, for good measure, English. He collected himself enough to repeat his yell in Polish and followed it with, “I’m one of you!”

  A moment later he heard footsteps, and he rolled over to see a young kid pointing a rifle at him. The boy did not wear any uniform—just an armband with the letter P that terminated in a w as an anchored cross. The letters stood for Polska walczy, “Poland fights,” and was the official symbol of the Armia Krajowa, the Home Army.

  Peter remained on the ground, among the leaves, careful to keep his hands up and away from the pistol he was wearing. “I’m one of you!” he repeated, trying to recall if he could say anything else. One of Joanna’s nursery rhymes came to mind, but that did not seem as if it would be useful.

  “No, you aren’t,” the boy said.

  “Yes! Yes, I am! I’m from the encampment. Really. I’m the Englishman—you must about me hear!” He knew he had really screwed up the grammar on that sentence, but he was pretty sure the point had been made.

  The boy stared at Peter with a look of confusion. That Peter did not recognize the boy at all warned him that perhaps, despite the armband, he should not say much more. As he was deciding this point, someone else approached. This was a somewhat older lad whom Peter recognized. He nodded at Peter and smacked the young boy on the head in a less than jovial manner.

  “You idiot! You’re not even supposed to be patrolling here!”

  The boy looked dismayed. He pointed at Peter and said, “But, but he isn’t one of us.”

  The older lad smacked the boy again, said, “That’s not for you to decide! You nearly shot one of our own! The least you could do is apologize.”

  Peter climbed to his feet and brushed the leaves off his uniform as the boy stammered a timid apology. Peter nodded his acceptance and watched as the two headed off back into the woods, the elder lad still randomly smacking the younger and hurling insults and orders at him. Peter’s heart was still pounding, but as he calmed down and began to walk back, he thought he should probably work more assiduously at his language lessons.

  As he approached the entry to the bunker, he spotted the sentry he had spoken to earlier. Though disturbed by her previous false assurances, he did not mention the shooting incident to her and instead returned to Zosia’s rooms. Bythe time he got there, Joanna and Zosia were ready to depart. He told Zosia about the incident and she seemed quite concerned, asking him details of where he had been and what the lad had looked like.

  He answered, then asked, “Why didn’t I recognize him? I thought I knew everyone here—at least by sight.”

  “Oh, he almost certainly doesn’t live here.” In answer to his questioning look, she continued, “We patrol a huge area and we could never afford to have all the kids who patrol for us live here; many are volunteers from local villages and farms. Lots live in camps in the woods. Genuine partisans. They get orders from us, and supplies, but they really have no idea exactly what we have here, or who we are. And for that reason, they can be quite dangerous.”

  “That explains his blank look.”

  “Yes, and it’s just as well you didn’t mention more than you did. They’re supposed to be posted to the outer sections, farther than you should have naturally walked. Either you really went a long way, or he was way out of his area.”

  “I think the latter—that’s what the other boy said. Now, him I recognized, though his name escapes me.”

  “If you recognized him, then he’s from the encampment—so he’d either be the boy’s superior officer and had tracked him down, or he’d be assigned to patrol one of the inner sections, presumably the one you were in. Anyone from the encampment should recognize you on sight since that’s part of their job, and of course, they should also be aware that we’re going out today and so should be on the lookout for that uniform.”

  “Ah, so the sentry was right, there should not have been a problem.”

  “No.” Zosia shook her head emphatically and wondered to herself why this little cock-up bothered her so much.

  “What about when I drove in? Why didn’t one of the outer patrols shoot at me then?”

  “The car,” she answered tersely. “They radioed your presence and we told them to let you through: we wanted to find out what you were up to. And besides, we wanted the car—it’s a nice one.”

  He nodded. So, that stupid car had saved his life. He smiled at the thought of how many times he had cursed it as he had polished the chrome.

  “Well, I’ll check it all out later,” Zosia assured him. “It should be in the daily report. For now, though, let’s just thank God that you’re okay and get this show on the road.”

  They rode the delivery vehicle down the mountain and into a nearby farmstead. There they picked up a car that had been prepared for them and drove the rest of the way. It was a long trip—they avoided the local village and smaller towns; instead opting to travel a bit farther for the greater anonymity afforded by the district capital, Neu Sandez.

  The journey passed pleasantly, with Joanna playing quietly with some toys in the backseat as Peter and Zosia chatted about trivialities in the front. Only when

  Joanna began humming a tune to herself was the mood broken. She had barely sung a half dozen notes when Zosia recognized it, turned angrily to her, and yelled at her to shut up. Peter replayed the offending notes in his head and realized that it had been a Polish folk song, but still he wondered at the vehemence of Zosia’s action. When he turned to look at her, it became clear: she was as pale as a ghost and shaking like a leaf. He had never seen her afraid before and realized, for the first time, that her studiously casual behavior up to that point had been for his and Joanna’s benefit.

  Zosia gained control of herself, turned to her daughter, and apologized. “But you know, Johanna,” she continued, using her daughter’s German name, “not even tunes.”

  “I know, Mama. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “Please don’t ever forget.”

  “I won’t,” Joanna solemnly assured her.

  Once they reached the town, Zosia directed him to a place where he could search for parking. “Where in the world did you ever learn to drive?” she asked as he turned a corner.

  Distracted by pedestrians, he answered, “I watched the bus drivers when I was fifteen. I got a working license that year so I could get a job with a delivery firm. I was still using the Halifax name, so it was in those papers.” He paused to glance down a side street, but there was no parking there. As he drove on, he added, “I remember how mad Karl got at me when he noticed it in my documents.”

  “Why was he mad?”

  “Because I hadn’t volunteered the information. He had me get the chauffeuringlicense the next day. Threatened me with all sorts of dire consequences if I didn’t pass the test. That sure made for a relaxed test,” Peter said with a sarcastic laugh.

  “And London bus drivers turn corners in that awkward manner? How come?” she asked as he turned onto another narrow residential street.

  “Oh, they don’t do that. It’s a bad habit,” he answered, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ll stop doing it.”

  “But why do you do it?”

  He rounded a corner and selected an alley before explaining, “When I drove for the Vogels, I had to handcuff my left wrist to the steering wheel. It made for rather awkward turns, especially since my right hand was busy shifting. I could let the wheel slide through my grasp, but I never knew when it would suddenly catch on the ring. I compensated by holding fast to one place and moving my arm with the wheel.”

  “But why? I mean, why the handcuffs?”

  “It was the law.” Peter scanned along the street. “At least that’s what I was told.”

  “But what was the point?” Zosia asked, mystified. She pointed to the right. “Try down there.”

  “Of the law? I haven’t a clue. There weren’t any inane poster
s explaining thatone. Maybe so I couldn’t hijack the car. Who knows. Just one of a million idiotic laws on the books.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone else have to do that,” she commented. “Look, there’s a place!”

  He aligned the car with the space. “I guess Herr Vogel was one of the few people-who actually obeyed that law—far be it for him to miss a chance to humiliate me. But that one was particularly stupid. Even his mother-in-law chided him about it once when I drove them all back from the train station.”

  As he backed the car into the small space, he remembered how Karl had repeatedly explained to Frau von dem Bach that it was the law, and how Elspeth, as if translating, had repeated the words to her mother. Only minutes earlier, in the train station, Karl had lashed out at him in public, leaving him profoundly humiliated, and as a result, Frau von dem Bach’s concerns had been the least of his worries, but he didn’t mention that to Zosia. “If I think about it, I don’t do it. It’s only when I’m concentrating on something else that the old habit takes over.” He threw a smile in her direction. “Don’t worry—I’ll soon unlearn it.”

  She shook her head a bit sadly. “Sometimes, it all seems a bit too much,” she sighed.

  “At least I don’t try to drive on the left,” he said to lighten her mood.

  “Do they still do that in Britain?”

  “No, they got rid of that fairly quickly, but for a time, it was sort of a protest—driving on the left when the law said the right was the correct side. You can imagine what a mess that made of things. By the time I learned to drive that was long in the past—although some irresponsible types would still do it occasionally.” He smiled at the memory and Zosia laughed at the implication.

  “You didn’t, did you?”

  He turned the engine off and pulled the key out of the ignition. “Not often. I had a job driving a delivery van, and I only got to drive on the job, of course. My superior officers in the Underground made it very clear that they would not tolerate such nonsense. They didn’t want me to lose my job, and they didn’t want to have to get me out of prison for something idiotic like that. But I was just a kid and a rather bloody-minded one at that.”

  “You? Bloody-minded?” Zosia asked disingenuously.

  “Unimaginable, eh?”

  It was already early afternoon, and so their first order of business was to get some lunch. The meal in the restaurant went smoothly and was followed by a visit to the zoo and then a quick look in some of the shops. Peter noticed, here and there, attached to park benches or over shop doors, the at one time ubiquitous Nur für Deutsche signs, but they were all old and fairly rare. Clearly the rules were known to all, and nobody even needed to remind the Nichtdeutsch who scurried nervously about that they were not wanted, that they were only just barely tolerated. Despite the signs, despite the uniforms, despite the seethingresentment of the Nichtdeutsch and the downcast eyes of the Zwangsarbeiter, he began to relax and even to some extent enjoy the visit.

  They decided to splurge and have their evening meal in a restaurant as well. Again, everything went as planned, and as they left the restaurant, he basked in a well-fed glow as he strolled down the street to promenade along the river with “his” family.

  Zosia’s sudden viselike grip on his arm destroyed his reverie. Without realizingit, he had nearly stepped aside into the gutter to let another couple pass. He shuddered a sigh as the couple skirted around them, naturally deferring to his imposing black uniform. Joanna, walking on the other side of her mother, had not even noticed, but only Zosia’s warning had saved him from an action that would have been both out of character and inexplicable.

  It was the only incident of the entire visit, and though it shook him to the core of his being, Zosia shrugged off his apology when he mentioned it the next morning. The couple, she assured him, would have assumed it was an eccentricity on his part, and in any case his uniform would have kept anyone from noticing anything he did. Thereafter, however, he made it a point to accompany Zosia into town whenever possible: he was not going to be wrong-footed again.

  6

  WITH THE SUMMER the weather settled and the nights warmed and Peter began sleeping outside with some regularity. Many times, on clear nights, Zosia and Joanna joined him, and they cuddled together under the stars. Many others from the encampment had the same habit—clearly the fresh air and starry nights were preferable to the safety and claustrophobia of the bunker. On those clear nights, the woods around the entrances took on a strange quality as sleeping bodies were scattered under the trees amid desultory conversations and restless, pacing sentries.

  Peter found his greatest peace out there in the forest. If Zosia and Joanna were with him, he enjoyed the warmth of their company, the feeling of belonging, the quiet buzz of conversations drifting around him. Even when the nights were chill or damp, he often slept outside; then he had the woods nearly to himself. On those nights, he was equally happy. He would retreat far from the entrances to a small escarpment and sleep undisturbed, breathing in the pungent odors of moss and wet leaves, protected from the misting rains by the rocks. After a time, the sentries learned his habits and were careful to avoid pacing too near so that he had a sense of aloneness and privacy such as he had never enjoyed in his life.

  Whatever the weather and however many other people were outside withhim, he rarely slept through the night. He would awaken from uneasy dreams, listen to the breathing of those nearby or the soft rustle of the leaves, and he would invariably be drawn to his feet to walk among the pines in the embrace of the blessed darkness. At first he made a point of quietly announcing his presence to any unseen guards, but eventually they came to know his peripatetic ways, learned to recognize his slightly arrhythmic gait, and he could walk in silence, undisturbed and with the illusion of total isolation.

  Sleeping outside also solved a recurring problem that he had in Zosia’s flat. Tadek had the irksome habit of visiting Zosia, spending hours talking to her in a rapid, complex, and incomprehensible Polish and staying far, far too long. Peter had initially tried to join in the conversation, but his halting attempts were sneeringly rebuffed. Then he tried simply listening, so that he could learn the language, but Tadek glared at him as though he were eavesdropping. Eventually, he simply tried to sit out the visits, reading a book or doing some work at the kitchen table, but even that felt awkward. He finally gave up and learned to abandon the flat anytime Tadek visited. Now, at least, he could leave for the entire night, and by morning he managed to suppress his irritation enough so that Zosia was unable to detect it.

  He knew that Zosia’s hospitality in inviting him to live with her and Joanna had not been an invitation to run her life. He knew that with Joanna asleep in the bedroom, Zosia had no place to sit in her flat with guests other than on his bed. He tried to adhere to the necessary courtesies of close living, and so he did not groan when Tadek came to visit, and he hid his dismay when Zosia invited Tadek to dinner. He grit his teeth at the snide remarks about his “limited language abilities” and ignored Tadek’s satisfied smirk whenever the two of them returned from long walks together. He knew that whatever Zosia did with Tadek was none of his business, that it was presumptuous of him even to notice their actions, but whenever he saw them together, his eyes followed them. He could not stop himself from wondering, but he did not dare ask Zosia anything directly, and since she did not volunteer any information, he was left unenlightened.

  Nevertheless, he was not averse to picking up clues about their relationship from other sources. It inspired him to work on his new language so he could better follow the encampment gossip, and for that he found a great source in his two trainees, Olek and Barbara. They were hard workers and fast learners, and though their youthful chatter sometimes irritated him, he quite liked working with them, and in between the happy laughter in the office and their dispensing gems of local gossip, they helped him clear away the backlog that had accumulated. Their routine was fairly straightforward: Peter perused all messages, and i
f they fell into the category of familiar, he delegated them to either Barbara or Olek to interpret. The unfamiliar ones he attacked himself. Once the gist of these became clear, Olek would help him, keeping track of the information that emerged and reporting to Wanda accordingly. If the nature of the message wastoo sensitive or revealed details unknown to Peter, he was obliged to hand it over to Olek to finish the translation, using lists and code names to which Peter had no access. It was frustrating work, for Olek did not have the requisite expertise, but Peter could only offer his help by working blind—and that was inefficient. Nevertheless, despite such hindrances, the three of them worked well together and managed to do a good job.

  Only one series of communications, picked up by one of their listeners in a Breslau military installation, stymied them. It was a series of intermittent and aggravatingly short messages that did not fit any of the patterns of codes they were aware of, but it was low priority, so though it remained unbroken, they did not forward it to HQ, nor did Wanda forbid Peter from working on it. So, whenever he had some free time, he puzzled over the code, musing on possible structures during walks in the woods, attacking it from different angles during the day. There was no reason to suspect the information it contained was important, so he quietly gnawed at the problem as a sort of amusement, simply curious to find its solution. It was as he was working through a paper sent from the NAU on new cryptanalysis techniques that he realized that his code did not fit the usual mode, not because of its sophistication, but because it was old-fashioned. It was the sort of code that might have been devised by someone, trained as he had been, years before, in a backward land, long before computers dominated their trade with their tedious ability to do phenomenal calculations.