The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “It was your brother,” Zosia whispered.

  “My brother? But that’s nuts! He loved Mom and Dad! And he— It would have looked bad for him!” But Erich had hated him and everything he did. It was conceivable—especially if Erich was naive enough not to realize that such a denunciation would put their parents at risk as well.

  “He probably didn’t realize what the fallout would be. He probably thought all you’d get was a good scare. And he could curry favor by turning you in.”

  “There’s no doubt? This isn’t conjecture?” Zosia shook her head. “No, his name was listed as the informant. I can think of no reason why the files would have been falsified.” She waited a moment as the reality of her news sunk in, then asked, “Are you all right?”

  He nodded but could think of nothing to say. His brother. The bitterness of it left a foul taste in his mouth. “Anna was the lucky one,” he finally said.

  “Anna?” Zosia was momentarily confused, thinking of her mother.

  “My little sister. She died before we could tear each other apart. We would have destroyed her, too. She’s the lucky one.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Peter.”

  “No, but I didn’t help. I provoked Erich. I joined that stupid gang. I never took any of it seriously. It was all a big joke. I didn’t think I was risking their lives . . .”

  “You were a kid, how were you supposed to know?”

  “I was old enough to cause their deaths.”

  “Peter, it wasn’t your fault!”

  “No, it wasn’t. Could you go now, Zosia? I have loads of work to do.”

  “Peter . . .”

  “Really, I’ve got so much to do, I’m simply swamped. I’ll see you this evening.”

  She realized that she wasn’t going to change his mind, so she gently kissed him and left. His back was to her as he lowered his head over his work. She watched for a few minutes from the doorway, but he did not look up and his pen scanned across the lines without interruption. Zosia walked away, leaving him to his thoughts. She stopped by a bit later and watched him from the doorway, but he was immersed in his work. An hour later she checked again, but he was still completely absorbed. She shrugged and decided that he would have to deal with it in his own time.

  Olek came in shortly thereafter. Peter greeted him with a muted hello, but did not look up from what he was doing. When Barbara showed up for work a short time later, Olek gave a subtle shake of his head to Barbara’s buoyant greeting. Recognizing the cue, she quietly began work, entering the data that had been set aside for further analysis. So the three of them worked; occasionally Olek and Barbara exchanged a comment or two, but essentially they worked in silence.

  Thus, Olek and Barbara both nearly jumped out of their skins when Peter stood and in one swift motion knocked stacks of files off his desk onto the floor. The carefully sorted stacks landed in a heap, which Peter then kicked across the room. His own brother! As the mess of papers floated back to earth, Olek and Barbara stared in stunned silence.

  “Shit,” Peter swore quietly as he realized he had just undone hours of work. His own brother. He sighed and went over to the mess to put the papers back into their file folders and try to reconstruct the priority assignments. It reminded him of his life. Anytime he thought he had put everything back together, some ill wind from the past stirred it all into a mess again.

  Without even asking what had provoked his outburst, Olek and Barbara came over to help him, and together they reconstructed the stacks.

  “I can’t tell from where it was lying—was this low or high?” Barbara asked, holding out a file.

  Peter took it from her and scanned the cryptic notes he had written in the columns. “Low,” he replied, handing it back to her. Olek handed him another, and he scanned it and remembered that it had been rated low as well. Both files had been one of a number that had puzzled him. Statistics about animals. Now why was farm data encrypted in the first place? And whose farms? He had not taken the time to translate them properly. There was so much else to do, so many other documents that had not even been perused, that he felt uneasy at the thought that while he puzzled out the farm data documents, important information could be moldering on a stack.

  Nevertheless, the documents nagged at him; there was something there, a coincidence of some sort. He jogged his memory but could not quite find the connection; then as Olek questioningly placed another file under his nose, it suddenly hit him. He jumped up and consulted his atlas. It was the place-names!Many of them were near to ones he had encountered in that strange code he had translated a half year before, the code that still trickled in now and then. Irrelevant meetings between nonentities on the one hand, and stacks of meaningless information on the other. Could they somehow be connected? It was, at this point, nothing more than intuition, but he decided to play his hunch.

  “Olek, Barbara, once we’ve cleaned this up, I want you to both stop what you’re doing. Olek, go through the low-priority stacks I’ve already sorted and look for notes like these on the first page, or for this structure.” He opened a file and indicated some of his markings. “If you find that, set the files aside in a separate stack. I want to see how many we have. Barbara, I want you to help me with the unviewed stacks. I’ll show you what to look for.”

  They worked late into the night. Neither Barbara nor Olek pointed out it was well past their usual quitting time—they had realized without Peter’s saying a word that something important might be involved. Olek stepped out to get their morning guard-duty shifts reassigned and returned with some dinner for the three of them.

  They continued their work the next day and the next and the next, unable to explain exactly what it was they were looking for, aware only that the farm data stack grew to an uncomfortable height. Olek finished sorting the low-priority stacks and joined Barbara in scanning the unsorted information. As they became more competent and practiced at their job, Peter left them to it and turned his attention to the higher-level codes that had been set aside.

  It was a problem. He could usually recognize on sight when something had been given a higher security code, but it was still tedious and time-consuming interpreting each document—and he felt sure, irrationally so, that there was no time. He decided not to try to translate them; he just wanted to look for certain words: in particular, anything that would relate to the stacks of low-priority farm data. He went to the list of keywords they had for the various security levels for the past month. Out of thirty days, they had twenty-five third-class keywords, twenty-two second-class keywords, and twelve of the first-class keys. He used each to write a program that would translate entered data and search for the unusual words that had repeatedly appeared in the low-priority data: fertility, reproduction rate, and mammalian. He did a quick mental calculation—the limiting step would still be data entry. He would just have the first ten lines of code entered. Or maybe twelve? If the words did not occur within that range, they would have to assume the document was irrelevant—at least on the first round.

  Once he had the program set up, he reassigned Olek to entering the codes, telling him to start with the first-class stack that Peter would give him and explaining how to handle the data entry. Peter then sent Barbara out to locate another computer—preferably Zosia’s if she wasn’t currently using it. If that was unavailable, she should steal one, he said, smiling at the crisp salute she gave him in response. Once he had Olek established at his job and Barbara was off on her acquisition mission, he set about sorting the high-priority stack into first-, second-,and third-class codes. It was a nuisance—they all required different handling, and trial and error was too time-consuming. The quickest method was for him to look at each and decide by sight which category it was. It was not something he could quickly train either of his assistants to do; in fact, he was no longer sure he was very good at such instantaneous visual pattern recognition. He took a deep breath, reminded himself that he used to be quite skilled at this game, and plunged in.

>   With twelve out of thirty keywords known, and assuming the data was accurately entered, nearly half of the first-class stack should have been readable. Their hit rate was less than a quarter. Peter sighed—either he was screwing up or it was just bad luck. He scanned the stacks of information around him and cursed quietly. An office move: from a dilapidated building to a new concrete structure in Breslau. One of the moving vans had been hijacked for the loot inside, and as a bonus there were several crates of encrypted files. Just their luck it was all paper files. It all had to be done by hand. And what if there really was nothing there? He swore again.

  “I might not know much English,” Olek interrupted his thoughts, “but I sure can swear fluently in it now—thanks to you.”

  Peter laughed, and Olek continued, “I shocked my grandmother the other day. She said I had picked up your accent!”

  “Yeah, I really should stop doing it—it’ll ruin the purity of your German if you slip in English vulgarities. That could be dangerous.”

  “Oh, no problem—I only let it integrate into my Polish. I run German through a separate part of my mind.”

  Peter wondered if Olek really was that good at keeping it all separate. They spoke German in the office, invariably worked on German-language documents, so if Peter constantly swore in English, the natural place for it to fall into Olek’s head was in his German vocabulary. But Olek was like Zosia—raised from birth here— and Zosia was phenomenal at keeping it all separate. Was Olek equally adept? Well, in any case, Peter would have to stop using English in the office: Olek or Barbara’s life, or perhaps even his own, might one day depend on such a subtlety.

  Eventually Barbara returned with Zosia’s computer, and Peter took some time to copy his program onto that and get Barbara started entering the data from second-class documents. They had a much better hit rate on those and he felt reassured. Several hours later with stacks of what he hoped were well-sorted files, he took a break. Even with his reading glasses, even with the lights dimmed and focused, he could barely see a thing. He cursed what they had done to him as he rubbed his eyes and thought that the Council would be holding its usual weekly meeting soon—this would be a good time to inform them of his suspicions. He told Barbara and Olek to take the rest of the evening off, then went on his own to see the Council.

  He was a few minutes early, and he waited impatiently in the room they used as their chambers. In fine weather they would meet out of doors, but with thecoming of winter, they remained indoors and used a storage room to meet. Tadek was the first to arrive.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked accusingly. “We haven’t summoned you.”

  Peter ignored the gibe and offered a serious answer: “I have information that I think you should know.” He felt the beginnings of one of those piercing headaches and hoped grimly that the pain would hold off long enough for him to make a coherent presentation to the Council. As he saw Tadek pull out a bottle of vodka and uncap it, Peter added undiplomatically, “And it would help if you would remain sober for once.”

  “Since when do I take orders from Zosia’s houseboy?” Tadek asked pointedly, then drank straight from the bottle. “Ah, good!”

  The others filtered in and took their seats. Katerina was ready to call the meeting to order, but Tadek raised the point that they must at least start as a closed meeting. Zosia scowled but did not object as Peter was politely ejected from the room and told he would be called back as soon as possible.

  He stood in the hall, waiting impatiently. He paced a bit, angrily aware that the headache was beginning to dominate his thoughts. A few more minutes and I’ll be incoherent, he thought, cursing yet again the anonymous multitude that formed the “them” of his past. A nameless sergeant—he must have weighed at least 130 kilos—had swung that rubber truncheon with such enthusiasm. Peter could remember the sergeant vividly but had no idea which interrogation it had been, could not even remember his nationality. How he had hated that behemoth with every fiber of his being!

  He had stopped pacing, was leaning against the wall, clawing at his temple, God, it hurt like hell! Worse than usual. He slid down the wall into a sitting position, his hands tearing at his hair. He heard the chamber door open, heard Konrad tell him they were ready to hear whatever he had to say. He shook his head, climbed to his feet, and mumbling “I can’t,” he stumbled off back toward his office.

  Olek and Barbara were still there, still working. When they looked up, both of them abandoned their work to help him sit down. Barbara lowered the lights while Olek went to get a cold compress. Zosia stormed in only moments later.

  “What the hell was that all about!” she yelled, furious at the embarrassment he had caused her. Everybody had turned to her for an explanation and she had none.

  “Leave him alone!” Barbara snapped defensively. Colonel Król only outranked her by a zillion ranks, but Barbara did not care.

  Zosia turned to look at the slip of a girl who had just yelled at her, stunned by her audacity. Then Zosia looked at Peter and asked in a much more concerned tone, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry, Zosia,” Peter muttered through his pain. It was worse than ever!He thought they had been getting better, and he was not only furious at himself and embarrassed, he was dismayed at the realization that nothing had improved.

  Olek returned, took in the scene with a glance, and ignoring Zosia’s rank, asked his aunt bluntly, “What are you doing here?”

  “Your loyal troops,” Zosia said to Peter, nodding toward Barbara and Olek.

  He smiled slightly in return, but the smile faded rapidly as he winced with the uncontrolled pain. Barbara clambered over some stacks to stand behind his chair so she could gently massage his head. Olek went to fetch some water. Zosia realized with a sudden unexpected jealousy that she was superfluous and said softly, “I’ll go back to the meeting and explain. Come later if you can—if not, you can tell me later and I’ll relay the information.” She leaned forward and, ignoring Barbara’s possessive and defensive scowl, kissed Peter on the forehead. He had his eyes closed and did not seem to notice.

  An hour later the worst of it had passed. He thanked Olek and Barbara for their care, then asked them to please quit work for the night, pointing out that errors caused by tiredness were extremely counterproductive. When he said that he was going to speak with the Council, Barbara agreed that they would stop work if and only if he allowed them to accompany him to the Council chambers. “You need some moral support against that arrogant bunch,” she asserted.

  “Sure, why not,” he agreed, truly touched by her offer. Three against ten—it seemed fair odds. Barbara could take on five, Olek would take on five, and he could fight the devils in his head. It seemed reasonable.

  Together they set off, carrying a few documents to back up their assertions. Careful not to make the same mistake twice, he knocked on the Council door and waited for someone to answer. He and his staff were invited in almost immediately. The fluorescent lights buzzed aggravatingly overhead—he appraised them and guessed that he had about five minutes before they would provoke another wild headache. Perhaps ten if he could shield his eyes somehow.

  “What is the problem?” Tomek asked, interrupting his ruminations.

  Forcing himself to organize his scattered thoughts, he launched into a brief description of what he had found so far among the captured files. “I think they’re related to those other messages we pick up now and then. They’re up to something, I just can’t tell exactly what. I just thought it would be wise for you to have a progress report, and maybe you can cross-reference my information with HQ. Maybe then it will be more obvious what this is all about. If you can give us a direction to look, that will help enormously. We could also use some extra help.”

  A series of glances back and forth among the Council immediately informed him that they already knew something. At the very least, they suspected something and he had just confirmed their suspicions.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Ka
terina spoke formally for the entire Council, using his newly acquired title somewhat snidely. “It is imperative you keep looking through the material and see if you can find anything else. This information has been very useful to us.”

  It was a dismissal.

  Peter debated with himself, glanced at Olek’s and Barbara’s exhausted faces. They were disappointed as well. Katerina was seated behind a table, and he went up to it and placed his hands down on its surface so he could lean in toward her. “Comrade Katerina,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “do tell us what it is we are looking for!”

  “That information is classified,” Katerina answered.

  He slammed his hand on the table so hard even cold-blooded Katerina jumped a bit. “Damn it!” he yelled. “Do you have any idea how long this work takes!” He gestured broadly back toward Olek and Barbara. “We haven’t got the time to play your games of hide-and-seek!”

  Katerina gave him a murderous look.

  “Peter . . . ,” Marysia said quietly, to try to interject some calm.

  “Look,” he interrupted her, pacing back and forth, “I know you have your security to worry about, but you don’t have much choice. As long as I am the only qualified analyst around, you’re going to have to trust me, otherwise you’re just wasting our time.”

  Still they greeted his plea with silence. Zosia would not look up at him, she seemed to be doodling something on a notepad; Marysia was looking at Olek as though concerned for his safety. Peter leaned against the table, opposite Katerina, and looked at each of them in turn, though most did not return his look. Then s he said softly, intensely, “If we know what we’re looking for, we have a much better chance of finding it. This material is dated, we don’t have much time, I’m sure of that.”

  There was no reaction. He took a deep breath and tried again, offering up the only assurance he could: “If you’re afraid of telling me something that will compromise your people in the field, then just keep me prisoner here for the rest of my life.” He stepped back from the table, and turning away from them, he added bitterly, “It’s what you’re going to do anyway.”