“Humph! They just can’t be bothered—they don’t give a shit if we rot here, just as long as their balance holds. They threw us all away”—Teodor included Britain and most of Europe in this statement by waving his arm in an expansive way to include Peter in his definition of us —“for what they call peace. Just aslong as their bloody trade deals aren’t jeopardized. I’ve seen some direct quotes from some of their politicians—essentially they say, hey, we don’t care who the Nazis or Reds murder, as long as they do it inside their own borders.”
“And quietly,” Peter added.
“Yes, and quietly.” Teodor nodded vigorously. “Some even say if it’s quiet enough, then it isn’t even happening.”
“I know,” Peter agreed, wrapped in his own thoughts. “Just a few prisoners here, a bit of judicial torture there, nothing much, nothing that can’t be dealt with. Just a few unfortunates on the wrong side of the law.”
“Yes, some minor lack of civil rights, a couple of unnecessary executions, occasional famines—all accidental, all due to mismanagement,” Teodor continued the list.
“Oh, the Americans have applied sanctions.” Halina seemed to know she had been assigned the role of devil’s advocate.
“Sanctions!” Teodor snorted. What more needed to be said! Peter had heard variants of the same conversation numerous times before, in English, in London years ago. There, it had been a particular complaint that the British government and exiles had had the rest of the Empire and, in particular, all of Canada to fall back on. After a decade or so, the suspicion grew among those left behind that the island was being consigned to the category “ expendable.” The subsequent union of Canada, Quebec, and the United States into the NAU confirmed these fears in the minds of many. The British leadership was drawn into the huge and powerful political structure of an entire continent, their children grew up there and assumed the roles of power, their grandchildren were born there and knew no other home.
The world was thus neatly divided into spheres of influence: the Latin gangster regimes, the North American democracies, the Asian patrimonies, the Russian Communists, and the German National Socialists. Only Africa seemed up for grabs—the scene of continuous skirmishes between the great powers. It was, to all intents and purposes, a stable geopolitical division of the world, and that one small island on the edge of the German hegemony should be grabbed back, at an unconscionable cost in American lives, was, in the eyes of more and more Americans, a rather unsettling and unattractive idea.
Peter had not subscribed to this view; it wasn’t clear to him that the ancestral home of the British Empire was being abandoned to its fate, but he was convinced that the political paralysis that emanated from the far side of the Atlantic was only hurting their cause. He wondered then, as he did now, at the sort of social structure and the complex international economic and political policies that were involved. There were so many contradictions between the public statements and the actions of the NAU that none of it seemed to make any sense. And information was so hard to come by: having spent his life, like the rest of them, sorting through the propaganda of a totalitarian regime, how could he ever believe anything he read or was told?
“Now they want to organize some trade deals and so they’re putting pressure on our organizations there to lay low and offer us less help,” Halina explained to no one in particular.
“They buy goods made by slave labor on one day and talk of freeing the world on another,” Teodor countered.
“I don’t think they buy anything from the Reich. I think it’s illegal. They are still, after all, technically at war,” Peter suggested.
“Oh, they buy—I know all about that—just not directly. And as for being at war, they only seem to remember that when we need something. Then their Ministry of State refuses to let information or equipment into our territory because they’re at war with the occupiers! Talk about logic!”
Peter thought about his computer: obviously there had been no exaggeration in Katerina’s assertion that they had truly exerted themselves on his behalf. He should have shown more gratitude; perhaps later he could express his thanks.
“Well,” Halina said in a conclusive tone, “whatever we say here won’t make a damn bit of difference.”
“No, it won’t. But I know what will!” Teodor agreed, looking meaningfully at Peter.
“What?” Peter asked suspiciously.
“You!” Teodor announced triumphantly. “Why don’t you come up to Warszawa? We could use you there.”
“I can’t,” Peter explained as he rolled up his sleeve and showed them his numbers. “Out there, these are a death warrant; here they don’t matter.”
“Ech. Can’t they do something about those?” Halina asked as she leaned forward to have a closer look.
“They say not.”
“Don’t believe the quacks here, get another opinion!” Teodor snorted.
“But if they’re right . . .”
“Well, then you’re right, those would be a problem,” Teodor conceded.
Peter rolled his sleeve back down, pleading, “Please, don’t get me transferred. I don’t want to leave here, it’s my home.”
They looked at each other as if communicating telepathically, then they both nodded. “It’d be a pity not to have you up there with us, but we’ll honor your wishes. We’ll tell HQ that it’s best you remain here,” Halina offered.
“Thank you. And do visit often, okay?”
Teodor nodded his head. “I can see why you want to stay. It’s a cozy arrangement here.”
“What’s your rank?” Halina asked as if agreeing.
“Rank? I’m a civilian.”
“Oh, heavens! Don’t do that! Get commissioned!” Teodor insisted.
“I’m averse to taking orders.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Halina insisted. “If you’re here, you take orders, and ifthere’s fighting, they’ll draft you in an instant. Get a commission—you’ll get better pay and at least then you can give orders, too!”
“Pay?”
“They aren’t paying you?” Teodor asked, astonished.
“Room and board.” Peter replied, then added somewhat humorously, “And all Colonel Firlej’s old clothes.”
“Those bastards,” Halina murmured. “Demand a salary.”
“It’s that Katerina, she’s a skinflint! That tightfisted old . . .” Teodor stopped himself and grinned sheepishly. “Ah, mustn’t say that. We’re all brothers in the bond, now aren’t we?”
“And a commission!” Halina urged, ignoring her comrade. “Zosia is a big shot, she should arrange something decent for you.”
Peter considered their words and wondered why he had not thought to ask earlier for some compensation. Had he assumed they all worked for free, or was he just simply grateful not to be shot? “A salary. Money for my work!” he scoffed, mostly at his own timidity. “Sure, why not, I’ll ask.” Then with mock severity he added,“No, I’ll demand!”
“Good for you!” They smiled, sat back, and relaxed. Peter thought that though their age difference was enough for them to be father and daughter, they looked more like two peas in a pod. One plump pea and one skinny one. Peter laughed to himself as he wondered how long it would have taken Maria to pluck these two peas out. Halina consulted her watch, showed it to Teodor, and said, “What do you think?”
“Yep, I’ve had enough.”
They looked at him. “Shall we join the others now and have some vodka?” They were not strangers to the Szaflary encampment and knew about the regular parties. On Saturdays a group of the “regulars” got together along with some of the visiting or temporary staff and indulged in vodka and conversation and debates; sometimes there was singing and even dancing.
Early on, Peter had attempted to join in; nevertheless, he felt rather uncomfortable despite the general merriment and relaxed atmosphere. Notwithstanding their protocol to the contrary, the language invariably switched to Polish as the evening progressed, and anyone who the
n bothered to converse with him was clearly doing so only to be polite. And if there was dancing, then Zosia made an impression on the floor as she whirled around gracefully with her partner. Not only did he not know how to dance, but the lingering pain in his legs had made him awkward and self-conscious when he had tried to learn, and eventually he had given up. He simply sat back and watched, usually drinking far too much vodka, envious of the man dancing with Zosia, aware that all too often it was Tadek and that the two of them looked painfully natural together.
He shook his head at Teodor’s and Halina’s questioning look. “You go ahead, I have some work to do.”
8
“NOW WHAT THE HELL did I do with it?” her victim muttered. She stood there carelessly with her back to the open door, shuffling papers and mumbling to herself in confusion.
Stealthily Stefi crept up on her, her arms poised for action. When the moment was right, she sprung like a cat, leaping forward to throw her arms around her aunt and shouting, “Boo!”
“Good God!” Zosia exclaimed, jumping with fright and dropping her files. She turned around even as Stefi released her hug. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“You should be better prepared!” Stefi teased. “Ever on the alert.”
“That’s a good way to have a nervous breakdown,” Zosia chided, patting her chest to try to settle her heart. “I’m at home, dear. I relax here.”
Stefi giggled. “You’re just getting soft.” She stooped down and gathered the dropped papers together.
“And you, I see, have come a long way in these four and a half years,” Zosia commented, remembering back to that traumatic day when she had helped Stefi with her first kill.
“Yes, I have,” Stefi agreed, suddenly serious. She stopped her paper gathering and looked up earnestly at her aunt. “Did you know, I had to take out Til?”
“No! That was you? Oh, I am sorry. What did he do?”
“He was a bad boy. Tried to blackmail Father,” Stefi explained.
“You liked him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, he was nice.” Stefi stood and handed Zosia her files.
“You should know better than to get emotionally involved with anyone who might one day be a target.”
“Pff! Look who’s talking!” Stefi laughed. “Olek told me you slept with a prisoner the very night he arrived.”
“I interrogated him,” Zosia answered defensively.
“Is that what it’s called?” Stefi asked slyly.
“I was tired! I fell asleep! Anyway, I have my reasons for what I do, and it is not your prerogative to question them!” Zosia scolded, then added quickly, “I didn’t realize you were coming so soon. Why are you here?”
Stefi tapped her teeth. “Time for some dental work, if you know what I mean.”
“You’re rather old for that, aren’t you? What are you, twenty now?” Zosia asked, turning away long enough to stash the files in a drawer.
“Yes, I’m twenty, and no, this isn’t a first implant. The dentist says that my mouth is still growing and I have to come back for frequent maintenance if I don’t want the capsule to crack. I’m also due for some weapons training, and the best ranges, as you know, are here.”
“Not to mention Olek.”
“Not to mention that,” Stefi agreed with a wink.
“Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous! Where’s Joanna?” Stefi asked, glancing around the flat.
“Out playing.” Zosia wandered over to the kitchen to see if Peter had left any prepared food around. She found some leftovers and brought those out. “Do you want this?”
Stefi sniffed the casserole. “Smells good. Is Marysia still cooking for you?”
“No, I’ve acquired a housemate. The English fellow.”
Stefi giggled. “Still interrogating him?”
Zosia glowered.
“I’ve heard he’s the spitting image of Uncle Adam. Is that true?”
Zosia shook her head.“Not at all. I don’t know why everybody says that.”
“Probably to annoy you. What’s he like?”
“He’s nice. Good company. Very useful, too,” Zosia summarized. “Takes care of everything here and Joanna loves him. He’s out with her right now.”
“Is he any good in bed?” Stefi asked impishly.
Zosia raised her eyebrows at her niece. “You should know better. It has only been a year.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. What’s he do here?”
“He’s our cryptanalyst. And speaking of which, it’s good you’re here. I need to talk to you.”
“Me? What about?”
“I’ll tell you while you warm this up.” Zosia began rooting around in the cupboards, muttering, “Where the hell are the frying pans?”
Stefi held one up in the air. “You mean this thing sitting on the stovetop?”
“Yeah, that. Do you know how to warm food?” Zosia asked, dumping the casserole into the pan.
Stefi shook her head. “Naw, that’s servant’s work. Or Ma’s.” She watched as Zosia put the pan on the stovetop. “Maybe you should put some oil in first?”
Between the two of them, they finally managed to heat up the dinner without burning it, and as Stefi sat eating, Zosia explained what was on her mind. “It’s something Peter found—this unusual code sent out from an unlikely source. We sent the results on to HQ and determined that they have also stumbled across part of this network. It seems there is a conspiracy within the security services, and the code is used more to exchange information between members of the conspiracy and to hide it from their own colleagues than to exclude us.”
“Fascinating,” Stefi mumbled as she sipped the wine Zosia had poured for her.“How do I fit into this?”
“I talked with the analysts from Warszawa, after they had talked to Peter, and they’re as baffled by the information being sent out as we are. Place names in the middle of nowhere, code names for people that we can’t match up to anything, no obvious rhyme or reason for any of it. Then it dawned on me that maybe it’ssomehow linked to that thing you’ve been pursuing—that project that Schindler had. Have you found out any more on that?”
“I’ve more or less let that drop. I got some place-names out of Wolf-Dietrich, but then he had to go back to work and I have no way to get at him there.”
“Hmm. I was hoping you could pump him for a bit more information. I’d like to see if these things are linked.”
“Well, we do keep in touch. He said he’d be in Göringstadt sometime in the near future. I could try and arrange a meeting.”
“Do it,” Zosia ordered. “I have a suspicion this is important.”
9
“IS THIS IMPORTANT? Can I help?” Joanna asked as she stood wide-eyed in the kitchen watching her mother pull bowls and pans and ingredients out and place them on the counter.
“Yes, I’m making dinner.” Zosia ducked her head into a cupboard and began ruthlessly rooting around, muttering imprecations to herself.
“Why don’t you get Daddy to help you?”
Zosia brought her head out and looked at her daughter with something like disapproval on her face. “Daddy?”
“Yes, he’s good at making things! I help him out all the time,” Joanna explained, oblivious to her mother’s look.
“Well, the reason I’m not asking Peter for help is, I meant it to be a surprise party for him.”
“A birthday party?” Joanna asked excitedly.
“No,” Zosia answered irritably. “It’s been a year since he came here, and I thought we should celebrate that. Especially since he made such a fuss for both our birthdays, and then I missed his altogether.”
“A party! Great!” Joanna jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “I’ll decorate!”
“Fine, sweetie. Maybe first you could tell me where the potatoes are?”
Joanna took her mother’s hand and led her two steps to the storage bin. She opened it and pointed inside. “Those are them.”
�
�I know that much!” Zosia growled. She picked up one and inspected it. She poked at the small eye growing out of a dimple.
After a moment of watching her mother, Joanna said, “I still think you better get help.”
“I think you’re right.”
A short while later, Zosia munched on a piece of chopped onion as she watched Peter put a pan on the stove. “I can help out now, I’m all dressed,” she offered.
“Good, chop this up.” He shoved some boned pieces of chicken toward her.
“How did you ever learn to cook so well?” She picked up a paring knife.
He handed her a cutting knife, then threw some butter into the pan. “What I want to know is, how did you ever get to this stage in your life without learning how to do even the simplest things in the kitchen?”
“It was never really necessary. And I was busy with other things,” she said, busily hacking at the chicken.
“All your life?” He raised an eyebrow disbelievingly as he twisted the pan to melt the butter evenly.
“Well, I depended on my mother until my parents moved out. After that, Marysia did a lot of the cooking for us,” she answered as he dumped the onions into the butter. As they changed from white to almost clear, he shifted them to the side of the pan, reached for the chicken, and added that to the center. The meat sizzled as it hit the hot surface.
“So, now, you’ve delayed answering long enough; where did you learn to cook so well?”
“No big secret, I’ve watched others.” He stooped down to inspect the flame and adjusted the gas accordingly. “When I was home from school, my mother taught me some basics.” He remembered how normal life had been then. She had advised him that a man should always be able to fend for himself, and that it would help him find a good wife if he wasn’t helpless in the kitchen. He turned the meat, pushed it around a bit, pensively. If they had lived, what would life have been like for him? A respectable government job, a wife, a child, a one-bedroom flat, maybe eventually even a car. Could it ever have been like that?
Zosia was looking at him questioningly. He gave her a fleeting smile and continued, “My grandmother taught me as well; I used to stay there sometimes.” Again he stopped speaking as he remembered the frail old woman who had given him so much love. “I paid her back by cooking for her when she got feeble. I was in school then, so I didn’t have much chance, but when I was home on break, I’d go over and try to help out, at least until she died.”
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