As he walked back, he noticed a jeweler’s and on an impulse decided to go in. It was already shop-closing time, but when he rapped on the window, the ownercame and opened the door for him. He looked into his wallet to see how much he had with him. It was a reasonable amount, and since this would be the last evening he could carry money, he decided it would not be unreasonable to spend it all. He perused the display cases. Most of the jewelry was gaudy and unappealing, but a fine silver chain with a solitary diamond centered in a setting of filigree shaped like a delicate and distant star caught his eye. It cost rather less than he had planned to spend, but it was the only piece of jewelry that he liked, and he imagined it would look beautiful on Zosia.
He gave the clerk the six thousand marks and asked if he would wrap it. The clerk asked to see his papers so he could note the transaction in his books. Peter frowned with annoyance—he had forgotten that expensive purchases were recorded for tax purposes. He handed over the papers and the clerk perused them; noting that he was married, the clerk asked, “Shall I send the invoice to your home or, uh, your office?”
Neither, of course, would do. Glancing nervously back at the other customer the clerk had let into the shop, Peter placed five hundred marks on the counter and said, “Just store it here for me.”
The note disappeared and the clerk agreed, “Of course, mein Herr.”
Just as well, Peter thought, that so many Party officials have mistresses. Once outside the shop, he placed the small packet in his pocket. He would send it back with the uniform and pick it up later to give Zosia the gift at a more appropriate time. Then, realizing that he might not return, he decided to scribble a note on the wrapping paper to make sure Zosia knew it was for her, and if neither of them returned, that Marysia would save it to give to Joanna. There wasn’t much room on the small package to write what was in essence a last will and testament, but he found space enough to tell them he loved them both.
When he returned to the pension, Zosia, her godparents, and Tadek were in the sitting room. Zosia greeted him warmly. She asked in German,“So does it run well?”
“No better than one might expect.”
“Ah, I’m sorry you didn’t discover anything useful.”
“So am I. But what can one expect from a car? Certainly not miracles.”
Tadek scowled. “Cut the crap. You were AWOL.”
Peter shrugged. “When’s dinner?” he asked in Polish, picking up a biscuit and chewing it thoughtfully.
“Now,” Zosia’s godmother said. “We were waiting for you.”
“Sorry. I did not intend to take so long.”
She smiled at him and shook her head at the suggestion that he had caused any problem at all. Clearly she and her husband had decided that he was Adam reincarnated, and they were quite willing to forgive the dead-returned-to-life almost any discourtesy. Peter wondered how Adam managed to be so well loved by so many people. Was it just a side effect of being dead? His question, at least in the case of Zosia’s godparents, was answered later in the evening when the old woman drew him aside and said, “Zosia thinks highly of you and that’s all thatmatters to us. I just thought you might want to know, she said many kind things about you. Take care of her—she trusts you, and she is very precious to us.”
Peter, stunned, took a moment before he could construct an appropriate reply. Finally he managed to stammer, “I’ll do my best.”
26
IT WAS A WINDY and bitterly cold morning in Berlin. They had finished their preparations and now it was time to go. It was getting late, he should have been dressed long ago, but still Peter had trouble pulling the uniform on. Once he put it on, he was stuck—there would be no alternative for at least three days. His military uniform and the papers that went with it would be sent back separately to Neu Sandez, and until then he would be obliged to wear the uniform and carry the papers of a slave. And in a society that defined a person by their documents, that is what he would be. Again.
It was only an act, he told himself; just a role. It should be simple; all the difficult things had been done already. He had the metal band on his wrist, designed to look as solid as the real thing but more easily removed, and his numbers had been changed, but only with ink.
The familiar blue uniform lay on the bed waiting for him. He stared at it as though it were alive and he expected it to attack at any moment. The uniform was certainly in better shape than what he used to wear, but no more appealing. He remembered how much fuss it had taken to get Elspeth to replace his worn clothes. His old uniform had grown stained—mostly with his own blood—and torn and thin. He had tried to soak out the stains, had repaired the seams and patched the tears, but when the threadbare material of his shirt had worn so thin that nearly every move caused another rip, he had finally been forced to approach Elspeth with a request for new clothes. Of course she had grumbled that he had not taken enough care with his uniform, of course she moaned about the expense, and of course she told him to wait. So wait he did. Only when Frau Schindler made a rather snide comment about his unkempt appearance did Elspeth finally relent. So, even Frau Schindler had her uses.
The new uniforms were purchased from a supplier in the city—and, oh, how that had triggered yet another torrent of complaints about how much trouble and expense he caused! Then Peter had to carefully remove the shoulder patches from his original uniform and sew them securely onto his new. He remembered how Elspeth had inspected his work, carefully pulling at the edges to make sure they would not easily come off. Once that was done, the old clothes were returned to the supplier for recycling.
He shrugged off his thoughts, pulled on the uniform, and surveyed himself inthe mirror. He no longer had that malnourished, terminally tired appearance, but otherwise he looked fairly convincing. Well, if anyone knew how to play this part, he did. He put on the jacket, stuck his papers in his pocket, and left the room. As he descended the steps of the pension, a young man and his girlfriend began to ascend. Without giving it even a thought, he backed out of their way. Once they were past, giggling at some private joke, he made his way to join the others waiting in the private dining room. They looked him up and down, Zosia’s godparents with curiosity, Zosia with a smile of commiseration in her eyes, Tadek with a satisfied smirk.
Zosia took affectionate leave of her godparents, Tadek said his brief goodbyes, but Peter found himself completely at a loss for words. Somehow, the old woman understood. She came up to him, took his hands in hers, and said, “You are one of us and our prayers will be with you. Go with God.” She made the sign of the cross before him, then standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek.
The three of them made their way outside, Zosia and Tadek leading, Peter following, carrying the luggage. As they stepped onto the street, the January wind cut through the thin fabric of his jacket, and he looked with envy at the thick wool coats that the other two wore. Wordlessly, he opened the doors for them, loaded the luggage, and then lowered himself to inspect the undercarriage as he had done numerous times for Karl. Satisfied that there was no obvious danger, he climbed into the driver’s seat to chauffeur them to their destination. Tadek, only half-jokingly, suggested he follow regulations and chain himself to the steering wheel. At that Peter allowed himself to step out of character, and military discipline, long enough to tell Tadek, in three different languages, to fuck himself, then he started the car and drove off.
As he drove, he glanced in the rearview mirror at Zosia and Tadek. Zosia had lightened her hair to the appropriate platinum blond and had pinned it back into a bun with two braids running along the side. She had also done something to make her hair smoother and the usual halo of frizz and disorganized curls were missing, making her look very tidy, very organized, very proper. They sat in stony silence, each staring out his or her respective window. Tadek’s briefcase sat on the seat between them with Peter’s computer safely tucked inside: Tadek would use it for transferring the data that Herr Móller was bringing and for other simple uses. To acqu
aint him with the basics of its use, Peter had tutored him for hours. Zosia had assured him that Tadek would never let personal animosity jeopardize any mission, but still Peter had been surprised by Tadek’s attentiveness and cooperation.
The drive was slow. The roads were slippery, and a number of accidents brought traffic to a standstill. Once they were clear of Berlin’s endless sprawl, they drove into a turnout, and Tadek and Zosia walked a few meters into the woods as if to get a breath of fresh air. As soon as they were out of sight of the road and the parked traffic, they were met by the group that had intercepted Herr Móller and were given the data that he had been carrying. They returned tothe car, and sitting in the back, Tadek and Zosia spent some time looking it over while Peter waited outside, keeping a watch for any police or suspicious civilians. It was another bright day, and he sorely missed his sunglasses, but it was impossible for him to wear them at his present social rank. He breathed on his hands to try to warm them, then rubbed his eyes wearily, hoping to coax them into maintaining their focus for the rest of the drive, while wishing profoundly that his head would stop aching.
Zosia had already cooked up false data on Peter’s computer in case there had been any complications with Herr Móller, but once she had a chance to peruse the real data, she decided they should dump theirs. “It’s just too different,” she stated despondently.
“Let’s alter what you put on the computer to look more like this stuff,” Tadek suggested.
“That’ll take too long.”
“But we shouldn’t miss this chance to ruin their experiment.”
“I don’t think one set of cooked data is going to ruin their experiment, and it’s just too risky to throw any old crap at them. Let’s give them the real stuff— it’ll make it easier for us to pass as legit.”
“Why can’t you alter your faked data?” Tadek asked.
“We just don’t have that sort of time!”
“Then why don’t you introduce spurious results into the real data?”
“I don’t want to risk that—I can’t tell if they’ve built in any checks. If they know we’ve tampered with this stuff, then we’ll be screwed,” Zosia explained.
“Surely you can do something?” Tadek insisted.
“Hey, if you want to be the expert, then you do it! Otherwise, keep your fuckingcomputer illiterate mouth shut and let me make the decisions!”
Peter had listened to the debate from outside the car, and Zosia’s voice had risen considerably during the interchange. He decided it was time to stop the argument, and besides, he was freezing. He went around to the driver’s side, got in, and lied matter-of-factly, “We’ve got to push on. I’ve spotted trouble.” The debate ended; Zosia deleted the false data as they headed west while Tadek sulked.
27
THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE laboratory headquarters could not have gone better. Major Rattenhuber was a jovial host, well pleased to meet both the adjutant and his charming wife. He showed them to a well-appointed room in what had clearly once been a private mansion and indicated its various comforts to them: the lovely view, the fireplace, the comfortable furniture. As Peter set down theluggage, the major furrowed his brow in thought and then offered, “I could find separate, er, accommodations for your boy here. We didn’t really expect . . .”
“Oh, heavens no!” Zosia crooned. “We wouldn’t want to put you out, and anyway I want him here to be of help. Could you just locate a cot perhaps?”
“My pleasure!” The major rushed to the door, then stopped to consider something, drumming his fingers on his lips as he did so. He sighed, said, “Forgive me. It just occurred to me. There’s no, er, facilities anywhere on this floor for him. Of course, you wouldn’t want him using your bathroom—which is right through that door, by the way—and I’m afraid the nearest appropriate toilet is in the cellar. Unfortunately, the building isn’t really secure, and he’ll have to get a guard to accompany him on such, er, you know, occasions.”
Zosia smiled her most perfect smile. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem, Major.”
“Well, then, if you don’t mind . . .”
“We’ll manage just fine.”
“Good. Well, I’ll be off then.” Pausing only long enough to remind them when dinner was, the major then took his leave. Even as the three of them were sighing their relief, he popped his head back in to say, “I’ll be sending an escort to bring you to dinner—you could get lost in this place without help! Isn’t it just gorgeous!” And he disappeared again before they could answer.
Peter unpacked their cases, glad for something to do, while Zosia sat on the sofa and nervously tapped her foot against the coffee table. Tadek paced the room, suspiciously scanning the furniture, pictures, and drapes. When he had finished unpacking, Peter politely inquired if they wanted a drink. They both nodded, so he went to the bar and poured a portion of brandy into a glass. He drank it down in one quick gulp, then filled it and another for Zosia and Tadek.
The cot arrived and was set up, then they were left alone to relax. When Peter had traveled with Karl, he had always been at a loss for what to do at such times. Clearly, he could not relax, not with Karl in the room, yet there was little in the way of work that needed to be done in a hotel room. With Zosia and Tadek, it seemed even worse. He could, of course, sit in one of the chairs and read quietly since that would never be noticed by a possible undetected listener, but he did not want to step that far out of character; so instead, he went and stood by the window, pulling back the curtain to stare out at the countryside, thinking of what lay ahead, thinking of what lay behind.
There had been a particularly unpleasant trip with Karl once. Elspeth had not come along; Karl had made it clear she was not invited. For three days, Peter had spent his time a virtual prisoner of the hotel room. Each day had been tedious, but the nights were much worse. Karl spent each successive night out drinking. The first evening, he had come back sick-drunk and in dire need of help. Peter had greeted him at the door, helped him wriggle out of his clothes, washed Karl’s face after he had puked, and washed himself and his clothes after Karl had vomited on him. He had cleaned the bathroom so it did not smell, and since Karl had insisted on vomiting into the sink, he had removed handfuls ofundigested food from the clogged sink drain and flung them down the toilet in nauseated disgust. He had helped Karl into his pajamas, guided him into his bed, and helped his master in and out of that bed with each succeeding wave of Korn -inspired nausea. In the moments of peace in between, Peter had lain on the floor, at the foot of the bed, and had wrapped himself in a bit of sheet that hung over the edge.
On the second night, Karl had returned drunk again, but this time in the company of his conference buddies, who stayed and played cards late into the night. As he stared out the window of the ch‚teau, Peter shied away from remembering exactly how long that night had lasted, exactly how much petty abuse had been meted out to him in the interests of humor and fun.
The third night had been the last. Karl had come back late and drunk again, this time grasping at a prostitute, who was, to judge by appearances, equally drunk. They had stumbled into the room giggling, then the prostitute had caught sight of him. She gasped her surprise and looked him up and down with undisguised curiosity. He took their coats and Karl maneuvered her to the bed and they began undressing. There was nowhere for Peter to retreat to, and he had stood uneasily staring out the window into the night, trying to ignore the sounds of their frenzied, drunken, grotesque attempts at sex.
When the woman got up to leave and was pulling on her clothes, Karl had called him over to the bedside. “Hey, you, Fräulein. Do it with him,” Karl ordered, pointing at him.
The woman ceased struggling with her stockings and looked up in alarm. “Him?” she asked, trying to determine if she had misunderstood.
“Yeah. I want to see you two at it. Do it. Don’t worry, I’ll pay his costs.” Then, turning to Peter, Karl had added, laughing, “There, now don’t say I never give you anything! I mean, surel
y you want it, don’t you?”
Peter felt his cheeks growing hot. Karl knew what would happen, knew he could then gloat at his obvious superiority and masculinity. Peter surveyed his options: blatant refusal and the attendant violent punishment, or a humiliating inability born of shame and the resultant denunciations of impotence and inferiority, which Karl would continually broadcast thereafter, or compliance and success and the knowledge that he had performed sex on command for his master’s amusement.
The quandary had been nicely solved by the prostitute’s appalled response. “I cannot do that! I am a good German, mein Herr!” she had declared, “and I will not violate the race laws in this manner!”
Karl had hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether to pursue his little theater, but then he had given in and said, “Good girl. That’s what I wanted to hear. I respect and salute your purity.”
Zosia said something to Tadek, which broke Peter’s reverie, and he let the curtain drop back into place. He thought of the prostitute’s kindness. She had given up good money and risked Karl’s wrath to rescue him. Or, he wondered, had shemeant what she had said? Had she viewed sex with him as akin to being asked to copulate with a dog? He would never know, he thought. And maybe it was better that way.
The seconds ticked by, the minutes slowly accumulated. Eventually, it was time for dinner; there was a light tap at the door, and a gangly young private indicated that he would escort them to the dining room. He seemed almost obsequious in his manners, but nevertheless balked at the idea of Peter being left behind in the room.
“I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, but this area is not secure.We can’t just leave him here. If he doesn’t accompany you to dinner, then he’ll have to be locked up elsewhere.”
The Children's War Page 81