He continued to sip the Scotch, relaxed, and daydreamed. He closed his eyes and wondered what he would like to hear, what he would want to see when he opened them, if he were an old man. What could possibly surround him that would make his life feel worthwhile? He kept his eyes closed and listened into his future. Laughter. Giggles. The mischievous sounds of little children teasing a sleeping old man. Slowly he opened his eyes. Instead of the gloom of the little room, he saw a warm, well-lit room full of children. He saw Zosia smiling contentedly at him. He saw Joanna, and their other grown children, chatting amiably. He saw himself a husband to Zosia, a father to Joanna, a man with a family. It did not matter where; it did not matter what else he did.
He took another sip of the whiskey, sighed with satisfaction. Quietly he stood and crept to the door that separated his room from the bedroom. It was open a few inches and he peered in and looked at Zosia’s and Joanna’s sleeping forms. His dream was possible! It was all he needed. Calmed, his heartbeat quiet, he returned to the chair to finish his drink.
Zosia emerged from the bedroom. “Are you all right?” she asked in a sleepy whisper.
She was so beautiful, he wanted her so much! And he wanted to stay with her, to raise Joanna, to make a home for himself. If only this time he didn’t lose it all. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“What’s the matter?” she asked, responding more to his tone than his words. She sat on the edge of his bed, curling her legs beneath her, and pulling at the blanket to cover herself.
He told her about his dream. Then, before she could say anything, he asked inexplicably, “Zosia, have you ever killed anyone?”
“You tell me first.” She did not seem surprised by the question; rather it seemed as though she had been expecting it for a long while.
“What? If you’ve killed anyone?”
“No, silly, if you have.”
“No.” He considered her for a moment as Katerina’s condemnation rang through his mind. “It was never in the Underground’s plans for me.”
“And what was?”
“Infiltrating as Reichsdeutsch into a weapons lab outside London. I was trained to that end.”
“But you didn’t want that?”
“No, I wanted to be English.”
“What happened?”
“I was told to shut up and follow orders.” He remembered how they had said “grow up” with such disdain that all he could do was study his hands, his head bowed in utter shame.
“And?” Zosia prompted quietly.
“I more or less refused. I think they were ready to shoot me for insubordination by then.”
She nodded and he continued, “It went on for years. I kept studying all the background I needed in order to infiltrate but kept arguing that I didn’t want to. Finally we compromised: they would scrap the idea of me working in the lab, and in exchange, I would use my analytic skills for them. Us, I mean. I was to analyze from the outside what I refused to find out from the inside.”
“You mean the research lab?”
“Yeah, they added cryptanalysis to my training so that I could decipher stolen documents and interpret them.”
Zosia tilted her head in confusion. “With so much background, why did you hesitate to tell the Council what you knew?”
“I don’t know. I guess because it was all dated, and I didn’t know what was still in my head.”
She looked dubious.
“It’s the truth. I really don’t know, Zosia! Maybe it’s because I spent so many years lying about my skills—pretending I knew nothing, sometimes pretending I couldn’t even read. Maybe I had come to believe my own lies.”
“Apparently that wouldn’t be the first time.”
“You’ve talked to Marysia.” He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I misled you. She told you why, I’m sure.”
Zosia ignored his apology. “So this time, tell me the truth, how was your group organized?”
“Small cells of scientific specialists, at least one of whom had some knowledge of cryptanalysis. Most of them had jobs at the university or in institutes and lived relatively normal lives. Someone, usually me, picked up or bought information from our sources, then I took a preliminary look at it and farmed it out to the appropriate cell for further study. They consulted with each other and reported back to me. I collected and organized the various reports and presented it all to our liaison.”
“So you only oversaw the work that others did?”
“No, I had a cell as well, so frequently I’d assign something to our cell to be analyzed.”
“Was Allison in your cell?”
“Yes, she was a chemist. She and I were so-called ‘full-time’; we had both joined young, had been specifically trained to the job, and our external lives were meaningless: we weren’t pursuing careers and we didn’t have family commitments to hold us back.”
Zosia nodded, apparently satisfied. “What was Allison’s husband?”
“He wasn’t a specialist, just security. He had come back from conscription to discover his wife was in the Underground, so he joined to stay with her. He was only assigned to our group because of her.”
“Oh, so that’s how you two spent so much time alone together,” Zosia guessed.
“Yes,” Peter admitted dryly.
“No doubt she was attracted to your ability to understand her work. Unlike her husband,” Zosia continued in her investigative voice.
“No doubt,” Peter replied bitterly. Before he could stop himself he said, “He was thick. God knows what she saw in him. God knows why she wanted to keep us both.” He should never have kept the affair a secret! He should have done what everyone else did and blithely announced their attachment to the world. Terry would have left her in a minute. Then she would have seen how much her loyalty to him was worth!
Zosia shrugged. “Did it work?”
“Did what work?” Peter asked, still thinking of Terry and Allison.
“Did you find out what they were doing?”
“Oh, yes. I think we had a pretty good view of the entire establishment. We had people inside who stole documents, and we sat on the outside and analyzed it all and passed it on to the Americans. And that’s it, that’s all I did, I gathered intelligence and I never killed anyone.”
“Maybe you should have,” Zosia suggested. “Perhaps it would have purged you of your dreams.”
“What an odd idea. But the dreams came later.”
“I suppose they did,” she conceded. “Well, maybe you should talk to someone about what happened to you. Maybe that would help.”
Even though it was dark, she could see the sharpness of the look he gave her. “I did. I told you,” he replied evenly. “That was quite enough.”
“I meant someone else. Anyone. Maybe—”
“I’m not ever repeating what I told you, not to anyone,” he insisted somewhat brusquely.
“But if you told your story to other people, maybe it would not only make you feel better, maybe it would even help our cause, you know, show what’s going on—”
“Enough!” He did not raise his voice, but it was clear he was furious. “I’m not going to speak with anyone else! No one! Is that clear or are you stupid?”
Zosia pressed her hand to her lips to keep from saying anything. They remained silent for a moment, and she could hear him breathing deeply as hetried to gain control of his anger. Finally she said softly, “I was only trying to help.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Quickly he added, “Now, enough about me, what about you, have you ever killed anyone?”
“I was hoping you’d say you had.” She turned her attention to covering her toes.
“Why?”
“Because then you wouldn’t think less of me,” she whispered.
“So, you have?”
“Oh, yes.”
He waited, hoping she would expand on her answer. When she didn’t, he finally asked, “Why?”
She smiled at him. “What a silly question! I’m
a soldier! Don’t I look the part?” She shimmied comically from side to side so her breasts jiggled provocatively under her nightshirt.
He smiled at her teasing. “Well, then, when? How many?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I’ve lost count.” At the look of surprise on his face, she added, “All the kids who are raised here work guard duty patrolling the mountains, and then later, of course, we become group leaders to the partisan encampments: keep them pointing their guns at the right people, as you know. Our policy is simply, nobody uninvited ever reemerges. Of course, we don’t have prisons, so . . .” She gestured helplessly.
“Haven’t they ever done an all-out assault?”
“Against whom? We’re not officially here. These mountains are officially conquered, and you know the Germans, they are a very literal folk. They haven’t seriously tried since 1970. Anyway, it’s not all that easy to capture and control every inch of ground, especially territory like this. You should know that.”
“Yes, I guess I do,” he answered, distracted by her proximity. The dim light made her look all the more ephemeral, like the vision of an angel who had come to visit him. The thought of her patrolling against invading soldiers just didn’t seem to fit.“How old were you?”
“I started at fourteen. I stayed at it for twelve years, on and off. Of course, I did other things as well, training and such. Just like your Barbara and Olek, too.”
“Yes, of course.” Peter had a sudden image of sweet little Barbara blasting away some hapless foot soldier, then wandering back to the office to help with some data entry. And if he had not personally had Olek point a gun at him, he would have had just as difficult a time imagining that fresh-faced kid shooting at anyone. He suddenly felt very ignorant of the people and events around him. He rubbed his eyes and face to try to soothe a growing sharp pain in his temple.
“It’s not as bad as that,” Zosia responded perceptively to his frown. “The soldiers know our boundary and they know better than to cross it. Only the fools or would-be heroes who insist on following orders rather than, er, prevaricating get caught out.” She paused to rearrange the covers more securely over her feet. “Imust admit, though, it was rather unsatisfying: all I ever shot were poor dumb privates. I never really aimed at a genuine target—you know, someone truly evil.”
“I can’t imagine you aiming at anyone,” he said somewhat despondently.
Zosia looked at the shadows that hid his expression. She felt dismayed by his tone. Clearly, it was time to shatter some illusions; indeed, she had obviously waited far too long. Perhaps, she thought, she had enjoyed being the woman he had created in his mind. She had tried subtly throughout the year to enlighten him, but his illusions had been sturdy. She was the woman who had saved his life, defended him to the Council, fallen asleep in his arms on his first night of freedom. The doting mother, the caring friend. He had not wanted to know more, but now it was unsustainable. He could not remain in ignorance forever, no matter how much he wanted to.
She forced herself to sound cheerful, tried to recall the callousness of youth, tried to impress on him that she was not the kind and gentle creature he had invented in his mind. She plunged in: “I started patrolling at fourteen. I did my first lone patrol at fifteen and killed my first victim a month later. It was a difficult kill; I screwed up and wounded him. There was no time to go get help so I had to track him down to kill him before he got out. He was shot in the leg. He ran, I followed. After what seemed an eternity, he collapsed. I came up close—didn’t want to mess up again—and looked him in the eyes. He begged me to spare him. He pleaded with me. He was crying. Then I shot him in cold blood.”
“What else could you do?” he responded to her story mechanically, without sympathy. He hoped she had finished, but she had only paused.
“I got much better at it after that; I realized that wavering was worse than doing nothing. There were times when we didn’t see anyone for months, then there were other times when somebody got zealous, and we had to drop them like flies. Patrols would be sent in and the idiots would actually come in! Five, six at a time. We’d have to pick them off, one by one. Shoot and disappear. They’d respond with a barrage of fire, but we’d be gone. Then, the next kid, a kilometer away, would pick off another until there was one desperate fellow running to get out of the woods. We’d make sure he never made it.”
He nodded. What he felt and what he wanted to say conflicted so badly that he was left speechless. Zosia continued, driving her point home, dispelling his last stubborn doubts.
“That’s how Adam and I got to really know each other. We’d keep score and try to outdo each other. Later, when we got older, we’d make love anytime we made a kill, right then and there, as close to the body as was safe. It was fantastic. The adrenaline rush was so incredible, you can’t imagine what it felt like.”
“Please stop.”
“It was, though, after a time, unsatisfying. Not personal enough. So Adam and I moved to assassinations. We worked as a team. We’d get sent out to removesomebody, do the job, and if we could, we’d fuck right there in the room with the corpse.”
“Please stop.”
“I still do it, Peter. What do you think I do on all those missions? Do you think they need someone to lug along a computer every time? Why don’t you ever ask anything about me?”
“Zosia, please stop!”
She did, abruptly. There was an awkward silence as he tried to think of something to say. She glared at him. “You want to know me?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But not the real me!”
“No, it’s not that.”
“You think I’m horrid, don’t you.”
“No, no, I don’t. It’s not that.” He struggled to find the right words, to clarify nebulous concepts. It was too much though: to process the information, filter it through his thoughts, and then explain what he felt in a few seconds. How could he hope to tell her what he felt when he himself didn’t even know?
“What then?”
“Why are you trying to provoke me like this?”
“You’re an idiot,” she hissed in reply.
“Mommy!” Joanna’s plaintive cry drew them both up. She stood in the doorway holding her ragged stuffed bear.
Zosia stood up, threw a last, unreadable look at him, and then went to her daughter. “Let’s go back to bed, honey. Sorry we woke you.” She herded Joanna back into the bedroom and shut the door tightly behind them. As she climbed back into bed with Joanna, she pulled the covers up close around them and tried to sound reassuring as she said good-night, but when she put her head back against the pillow, tears rolled silently down the sides of her face, puddling uncomfortably in her ears.
Peter remained in the armchair, stunned into paralysis. It was just as well Joanna had interrupted them, he would almost surely have answered Zosia’s brutal comment with anger. Why in the world had he asked such a stupid question? What had he expected her answer to be? No—of course. She had been right; the moment she had said yes, he had not wanted to hear any more. Or he had wanted to hear an apologia. Her life didn’t fit his script, and so he had wanted her to rewrite it.
His head ached with a brutal fury. He buried it in his hands, tried to claw the pain out with his fingers. It hurt as it had when Elspeth used to hit him and hit him and hit him all day long. It was probably her unabated pummeling, her continuous, insatiable displeasure that caused him such pain now, that threatened his sight. Yet, he had never believed she was cruel; though she was the one who had pounded at his face every day of those first weeks, he had always blamed Karl. Why had he done that? Why had he rewritten Zosia’s life for her? He shouldhave known, should at least have asked. Why had he been so determinedly blind to the real woman?
He thought about Zosia—the real woman this time—and realized that he had failed her miserably. She had wanted to tell someone her story, had wanted someone to understand the actions of her youth, the necessary compromises of her life, maybe even give her a
context in which to forgive herself. All the times she had listened to him, all the times she had soothed his memories! And the one time she had opened up to him, he had asked her to stop! Maybe she had told her story so brutally because she was bothered by it. Maybe she had been afraid of his reaction and so she had presented herself as cold and hard and unhurtable. And he had wanted to know why she was provoking him! God, she was right, he was an idiot.
11
THE NEXT MORNING, when Zosia emerged into the room, she found Peter still in the armchair, sound asleep. She nudged him and he woke up and smiled uncertainly at her.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said flatly, then turned away and busied herself-in the kitchen section before he could even respond. It was, he realized, the first time he had ever heard her apologize for anything, and unusually, since Joanna was not around, she had spoken German. Her choice of language was an unambiguous insult and the words held little conviction—it was as though she had decided to say them only in the interests of keeping things running smoothly in the tiny flat. With her back to him, she asked a bit too cheerfully, “Do you want some tea, or should we have coffee?”
“Zosia . . .”
“What?” She almost snapped the word—almost but not quite. Clearly she was trying hard not to be angry. She still had her back to him, so he could not read her expression.
“Zosia, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t.” Again her voice carried a tension—as though she hoped he might take her response as a joke, though it clearly was not.
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