The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Zosia—”

  “Would you stop repeating my name?” she grated, thoroughly exasperated.

  “Sorry.” It was one of those useless, meaningless apologies. His thoughts digressed for a moment on how harmful they were—worse than not apologizing at all, perhaps.

  “Anyway, I’m sick of German. Why the hell can’t you speak Polish yet?”

  “That’s not fair. You know I’m trying. It’s not like I get much help here . . .”

  “You always blame someone else.”

  Tadek’s perpetually snide rebukes of his attempts came to mind, but rather than dispute her assertion, he chose to ignore it. “I’m sorry. I really am trying, it just takes time. We can speak English.”

  She responded in Polish.“No. If you can’t say it in Polish, I don’t want to hear it right now.” She managed to slam the knife down on the counter as she was chopping at something. He wondered what it was she was pretending to make for breakfast. Chopped onions?

  He paused. Now, she really was provoking him, but he decided not to be waylaid. He ran through his vocabulary, struggled to construct a sentence that would convey at least the gist of his rather complex thoughts, but it was hopeless. Every time he started a sentence, he ran into a word or a phrase he couldn’t translate. And even if he knew all the words, he never knew what order to put them in, what endings the nouns should have—dative? Locative? Should he use a perfect or imperfect verb, and what was the masculine firstperson past tense? All he had available to him were phrases that he had memorized syllable by syllable—and none of those would do. If he wanted to express an original thought, he would have to construct the sentence from scratch and risk sounding extremely stupid. Exasperated, he tried to simplify what he wanted to say even further. At this rate, he thought grimly, we’ll both die of old age before I say anything.

  Zosia clearly had the same idea. If he could have seen her face, he would have seen that she was smiling. Gently she said, “I can hear the cogs grinding from over here.”

  He didn’t understand half the words, but he guessed the phrase from context. That’s it, he thought, I don’t care how simply or stupidly I have to say it, I’m going to speak! So, without groping for any further subtlety, he simply announced, “Kocham cie, bardzo, bardzo mocno,” which he hoped meant, “I love you, very, very much.”

  She spun around to look at him, her mouth slightly open with surprise. “Kochasz . . . du liebst . . . you love . . . ,” she gasped in a confusion of languages.

  He plunged in, mindless now of the grammatical niceties of her complex language. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you don’t love me, not yet. So, please don’t worry.” At this point he was stuck. Even butchering the language wasn’t sufficient to convey his thoughts, so he switched to English to continue, “I don’t expect a response. I don’t expect anything. I know that I haven’t given you any reason to love me—I’ve been too self-involved. But I promise, if you give me a chance, I promise there will be something to love. Just give me a chance to prove myself to you.”

  She smiled slightly. Then wetting her lips, she lowered her head. When she looked up again, she seemed to have come to some decision, but she did not say anything. She walked over to where he sat and set herself down on the arm of the chair and stroked his hair.

  He pressed his head against her shoulder and wrapped his arm around her waist. Embarrassed by his admission, he said,“Do you know you’re my best friend?”

  She laughed lightly. “The competition for that position doesn’t seem to be all that fierce.”

  “No. But you still manage to come through for me—even without having to compete.”

  “Well,” she said, swinging her legs like a little girl, “you’re my best friend, too.”

  They sat together quietly. He was enjoying the moment, but when he looked up at Zosia, he saw she was staring at the framed wedding photo of her and Adam on the wall. His face fell, but then he remembered how he had failed her the night before, and gathering his courage, he asked, “You grew up together?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was always there for you.” It was not quite a question, he knew the answer.

  “Yes,” she whispered, still staring at the picture.

  Peter stood and went to the picture, looking at it closely. She seemed to be wearing a gown made entirely of lace. “Where did you get the dress? You got married here, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, that!” She giggled. “Yes, we had a little ceremony here in the woods. I wore a white dress that Marysia loaned me—it’s held on with a belt. And then I wrapped my granny’s lace curtain around it and over my head. Pretty campy effect, isn’t it?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “White was hardly an appropriate color.”

  “It’s always appropriate when you’re in love.”

  “And that we were. Sometimes I think he was the only one who—” She stopped abruptly.

  “The only one who really understood you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted quietly.

  He turned to look at her, saw tears running silently down her face. He turned back to the photograph and contemplated the happy couple for a moment, then in a low voice said, “Zosia, if I could, I’d take his place. I mean—my life has been an utter waste. If I could have died in his place and he could have come back to you, I’d have made that trade—just to know you and Joanna were happy.”

  “Peter . . .”

  “I mean it, Zosia. It’s not a bunch of empty words. I know it sounds hopelessly romantic, but I don’t say things like that. I’ve never said or felt anything like that. I just know that it would have given more meaning to my life than I ever had.”

  She fell silent. He walked over and stood next to her, putting his arm around her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. And whatever I wish, I can’t trade places with him, so I guess it was stupid of me to even say that.

  I just wanted you to know you can feel free to talk about Adam. I won’t be jealous, I won’t be hurt. I promise.”

  She slid off the arm of the chair into his arms and buried her head in his shoulder. He felt her crying and held her as she sobbed quietly, “Oh, Peter, I miss him so!”

  “I know,” he said, holding her and stroking her hair. And I love you so much, he thought.

  He could not think of anything else to say, so he just held her closer. They stayed that way a long time, then Zosia shook herself free and walked over to the photographs and pictures on the wall. She stood in silence contemplating a watercolor of Warsaw’s Stare Miasto —the old town. Peter came up behind her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her nightshirt. He had an intense desire to feel the softness of her skin, to move his hands forward under the fabric, but he knew it was not the right moment. He distracted himself by looking at the picture.

  “It’s quite beautiful. Was it really like that?”

  “I guess so,” Zosia replied as if from another world. “At least that’s what everyone says.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?”

  She thought that the way he held her felt nice; he did not lean on her like some men did, bearing their weight carelessly down on her small frame. Indeed, in all his gestures, he seemed to have that rare talent of understanding their relative size difference. His touch was always light, his presence, even in the tiny apartment, never overwhelming, never obtrusive. Of all the men she had known, none had ever achieved that level of comfort with her, not even Adam. She realized she had not responded, so she asked, “What’s funny?”

  “You and me, and those like us. We live in a world of illusions, a world of other people’s memories, it’s like we don’t really exist. Photographs from other people’s worlds, watercolors of cities that are no more. Yearning for, fighting for, things that have long disappeared, things we never knew: freedom, tolerance, peace. Peoples have disappeared, cities lie in ruins, and we have never known anything el
se. Your world and mine is concrete and ruins, guns and uniforms. Our lives are lies.”

  “Or maybe our lives are hopes.” Zosia leaned back into him. “It’s happened before. Dreams can resurrect realities.”

  “Were those realities really so good?”

  “They were better than what we have now,” she sighed. “I wonder if the people-then appreciated what they had.”

  “I don’t know.” Did they appreciate not being in an even worse world? Did he fully appreciate not having been thrown into a concentration camp? Surviving that industrial job? Being allowed to live more than the three days he had asked for? “I guess it depends on whether or not they believed things could be different.”

  “I believe it can be different. I believe there does not have to be perpetual war. I believe—” She stopped abruptly.

  “What?” Tenderly he massaged the tension from her shoulders.

  “I believe there could be a world where it would seem unnatural and wrong for me to kill another human being.”

  “A world where death is not the penalty for every infraction against the state . . .”

  “Or the penalty for being born on the wrong side of a border . . .”

  “Or with the wrong name . . .”

  “Or . . .” She stopped their mantra, asked instead, “What does London look like? Was it spared?”

  “Oh, the initial destruction was not too bad, but over the years, section after section was taken hostage for various reasons and deliberately destroyed. What was left has fallen into ruin. All but the German residential and office areas.” He sighed as he thought of some photos he had seen. “The parks are gone: the trees were either removed through official vandalism or died from age and neglect. Nothing new was planted. The Gestapo built a huge prison in Green Park—I was held there for a time. Outside the prison they had an execution ground. Very grand.”

  “What about the theaters? My father used to mention them all the time.”

  Though she couldn’t see him, he just shook his head. The theater district was an utter shambles. Still, that did not prevent the regime from putting on productions for the benefit of the people: comedies, dramas, musicals. All with the same theme: National Socialism triumphs over evil. How many different ways they could present the same awful idea! He had seen—been forced to attend—dozens of productions at school. Always the same shit.

  Only once had he seen something truly different. When he was eleven, after his brother had been drafted, his parents treated him to a Shakespeare play. It was a rare production, held in a warehouse in a seedy district south of the river. He had been overjoyed at the prospect, had studied the play for so long in advance he could quote whole passages verbatim. King Lear. How could he ever forget? The magical night arrived, they filed into the theater and took their seats, and finally the curtain was raised.

  He remembered his chagrin as he heard the first lines of the play—in German. Furious with his parents, with the actors, with everyone in the audience, he had begun humming an obscene anti-German ditty he had learned from his friends. His mother shushed him, she jabbed him, she tried to cover his mouth, but all to no avail. He hummed it throughout the entire first act. At the end of the act, his father had grabbed him and literally dragged him out of the theater. Outside, in an alley, his father had begged him to shut up and sit through the play quietly. In response, he had begun humming the song again. His father, who rarely hit him, swung at him and cuffed him on the side of the head. The blow sent him tumbling into the mud.

  He did not get up, just stared furiously as he sat there. “Why the hell did you bring me to this bloody awful play?” he had asked in English, using a thick accent he had only recently perfected. Unusually, his father had answered him in English. He had apologized then. Apologized for hitting him, apologized for the play. They had not known it would be in German, they had assumed it would be in English and would please him. His father extended his hand, pulled him out of the mud and cleaned him off, and together they went back in and sat through the rest of the play in silence.

  Puzzled by his silence, Zosia turned to look at him. She was so close, he could feel the warmth of her body. His eyes held hers, then he leaned in and they kissed. He gasped with the urgency of his desire for her, and he wrapped his arms closer around her, but she pulled gently back. Kissing him lightly, she whispered, “I’ve got to go,” and delicately extricated herself from his embrace.

  She disappeared into the bedroom, and he stood for a long, long time staring at the cheerful watercolor on the wall, at the world he had never known.

  12

  “EXQUISITE!OUTOF this world! Unlike anything I have ever known!” Richard whispered into her ear. He closed his eyes and groaned inaudibly as his fingers traced a pattern down her body to find a new wonder. What was her name again? Oh, yes. “You are magnificent, Helga.”

  “You don’t think I’m fat?” she asked nervously.

  He pulled his head back so that he could look sincerely into her eyes. “No! What in the world would make you ask that!”

  “I just thought—”

  “You have a woman’s luxurious curves,” Richard assured her as he stroked her flab, “soft, enticing . . .” He moaned expressively.

  “Some of the other women . . .”

  “Who wants to touch a boy? That’s what I want to know,” Richard asked as he leaned over to kiss her. “I like women. This current fad for stick figures . . .” He shook his head in dismay. “I’m so lucky to have found you! Ach, but it can’t last long. Alas, I must leave Berlin soon.”

  “Maybe you’ll get transferred here,” Helga suggested as he planted little kisses on her chest, just above the frill of her rather demure nightgown.

  He looked up. “Oh, to be with you!” he sighed, then said sadly, “Still, I don’t think there’s much chance of it, or have you heard something?”

  “Well, I know my boss really wants you here. He thinks you’d be marvelous to fill Schacht’s position.”

  “Oh, is he leaving?”

  Helga sighed. “No, unfortunately not. Even worse, he’s dead set against havingyou in Berlin.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “I don’t really know. I think he’s afraid of you and doesn’t want the competition. That’s sort of what his secretary said to me, but you should ask her directly.”

  Tried that, Richard thought, but she was unreachable. So, here he was making love to an insignificant and insecure lump of womanhood, trying to wring every last bit of gossip out of her. It was stretching his talents to the limits, but he could at least console himself that every word he said seemed to make her feel happier about herself.

  He reviewed all the information he had gathered and decided that his source had served her purpose. Now, it was time for one grandiose, final act of lovemaking, then tomorrow he could have one of his men discover her, woo her, and shortly thereafter, given the choice of a married man in a distant city and a young, handsome, unmarried man in Berlin, she would be able to let Richard down gently. If that didn’t work, a sudden, guilt-induced impotency always did the trick. In any case, there’d always be a special place in her heart for him, and he would always give her a longing, albeit resigned, sidelong glance. Sometimes, when he entered a crowded room, he had to let one such look serve for four or five women at a time. It was getting ridiculous. Ah, but enough digression, it was time to get to work.

  “It is well past time to take a break from work!” Richard enthused as he trotted-down the Ministry steps into the early November night. “Don’t you agree?”

  “I have a thousand other things I should be doing right now,” Schacht grumbled as he followed Richard. “I see no reason why I should be wasting my time going to the club with you now.”

  “Ach, my dear colleague, I know you are a very busy man. After all, you’ve turned down three of my invitations so far! If the Führer himself hadn’t insisted I seek your advice, then I would let you go home to your dear wife and eight childr
en.” Richard walked rapidly, pulling his comrade along in a friendly manner.

  “I have nine children.”

  “Yes, of course, nine children. But he did insist and he himself suggested we do it this evening over a beer.” They turned the corner together and approached the construction site that was adjacent to the club.

  “I’ll have to ask him about that,” Schacht muttered.

  “Yes, do that. Tomorrow.” Richard slowed his pace as they walked past the placards posted on the wooden wall surrounding the construction site.

  “I really don’t understand why this can’t wait,” Schacht groused.

  “Just one evening, dear colleague! You won’t deny our Führer that, will you? Well, look at this!” Richard stopped dead and pointed in amazement at a handwritten notice on the wall. “It’s pure smut!”

  Schacht bent forward to have a closer look.

  “Herr Traugutt!”

  Richard swung around to see who was calling him. At the corner, his assistant, Stefan, stood panting, holding one hand against his chest as he gasped for breath and holding out a piece of paper in the other hand. “It’s a message for you!” he gasped.

  “I’ll be right back,” Richard said, but Schacht was too intrigued by the letter on the wall to take note of him.

  Richard sprinted over to Stefan, grabbed the note from his hand, and began to peruse it. Stefan scanned the street, reached discreetly into his pocket, and pressed the button on a small device. Not two seconds later they were both thrown backward by a blast emanating from the construction site, from behind the point where the letter had been posted. Both men looked in alarm to where Schacht had been standing.

  “Bloody hell,” Richard swore. “Terrorists.” He motioned to Stefan. “You go get help, I’ll see if Schacht is okay.”

  Stefan took off at a run back toward the Ministry. Richard ran toward Schacht’s body. A few pedestrians were reasonably near, but they stood unmoving, paralyzed by fear.

  Richard gently rolled the body over. The bloody, charred mask that was Schacht’s face greeted him. Richard reached down to the neck and frantically searched for a pulse. He was startled to find one, strong and steady. Convulsively, his fingers dug into Schacht’s throat with a sudden, violent force. Schacht’s eyes popped open; he stared unseeing into the night sky.