The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Get fucked.”

  Karl’s reaction was exactly what Peter had expected. He had been so involved in his tirade, he had not noticed that Peter was standing, had not noticed how close Peter’s hand had moved toward the gun. The shock of hearing such words directed at him threw him off guard long enough for Peter to twist the gun out of Karl’s grip and discreetly point it back at him.

  Peter did not know if the passengers at the end of the aisle could see what was going on, he could only hope that they didn’t—he certainly could not afford to look at them. How much time did he have? Minutes? Seconds? Had somebody noticed the sudden exchange of the gun and gone to get help? Or had he hidden his action well enough?

  A voice inside him told him to shoot Karl while there was still a chance. Now! it yelled. He wondered what he could do then; once he had shot Karl, there would be no escape, he would have to kill himself if he did not want to be taken alive. He argued with himself: there was Zosia to protect, and Joanna; he could not get them involved! Karl had recognized him, he could never get away now, not unless he killed him, and then he would have to die as well.

  Nervously he licked his lips. He had to act quickly, before it was too late, but he did not want to die. His thoughts turned to Zosia again, his beloved Zosia. It was worth his life to save her, to know that she had walked away unscathed in the confusion of a murder-suicide in the narrow aisle of the carriage. She would disappear long before his papers were checked, long before the questions about his strange double numbers would arise. She would be safe, and she and Joanna might remember him with fondness and carry him into the future in their hearts.

  His eyes strayed momentarily to her compartment. He wanted to protect her by keeping her away from the situation, but did she need protecting? What hadshe said? If one gets the right angle, it makes it so quick that they rarely even bleed much.

  She didn’t need protecting! Not only that, she could offer him a chance for life.

  He made his decision in an instant and whispered intensely to a stunned Karl, “Now, you listen to me you shit-faced motherfucker. You’ll keep your mouth shut. Do you understand? You know I have nothing to lose, so I’ll happily use this if you make one wrong move. Got that?”

  Karl nodded. He was shaking and visibly sweating, his dreams vanished.

  “Turn around slowly, look casual.”

  Karl obeyed. Peter poked the gun into his back, tried to hide the metal in the folds of Karl’s jacket. If only the passengers lose interest. If only they haven’t seen enough to know what’s going on. If only the conductor doesn’t come through. “Okay, now walk slowly down the aisle. Be calm. Just two compartments. That’s good.”

  Peter glanced at the loitering passengers at the far end of the carriage as he proceeded awkwardly down the aisle. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention. Clearly a Zwangsarbeiter being smacked around was nothing particularly noteworthy. And a bewildered, drunken oaf who would do such a thing, in his confusion perhaps attacking the wrong man or his own man for no reason—it was embarrassing, nothing more. Something to watch with mild interest or, at most, a slight unease, then when it was over, something to ignore and forget; it was none of their business. They had gone back to their conversations and observations; the train was approaching the station, and they needed to get to their seats and get their luggage. They had lost interest.

  Karl’s terrified silence gave Peter the chance to finally speak his mind. Calmly, quietly he hissed into Karl’s ear, “We met as strangers: I had never done any harm to you or your family—keep moving, that’s right—yet, you worked me to exhaustion, denied me food, insulted and beat me endlessly and without mercy. And I never did you any harm. I did not raise one finger against you or your family in violence. Consider that, mein Herr, consider how lucky you are that all I did was leave.”

  He doubted the words would even penetrate Karl’s prejudices enough to be examined, but Peter had needed to say them anyway, and though he recognized it was ill-advised to divert his attention from the dangerous job at hand, he was glad he had spoken.

  They stopped outside Zosia’s compartment. She looked up, immediately assessed the situation, and rose to her feet. Peter was surprised to see that instead of reaching for her necklace, she adjusted the silver ring she wore. A matched set, Zosia had said to Frau Rattenhuber. A matched set! Of course, it was a weapon as well. She stepped out and hugged Karl, who stood confused by the door.

  “Darling! There you are!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Karl bellowed, his surprise overcoming his fear of the gun.

  Peter mouthed Karl to Zosia; she nodded and tightened her hug and pressed her hand forcefully into the base of his neck. Loudly she continued, “You know you shouldn’t drink when you take your medication! The doctor said so! You really must be more careful, dear. You know how it makes you dizzy and confused!”

  Karl’s quiet “Ow” and surprised grimace went undetected through Zosia’s little-speech. He gave her a glassy, cross-eyed stare, then he slumped in her arms. Peter caught his weight, and with Zosia’s help, pulled him into the compartment. They set him in the seat next to her—a drunken, peaceful soul. It wasn’t the first time that a passenger had collapsed from too much drink on a long train ride, and it wouldn’t be the last, but the two old ladies shuddered with delicate revulsion nonetheless.

  31

  THE SNOW CAME DOWN in large, lazy flakes, melting even before they hit the ground. It was a wet, cold, uncomfortable day, but the heavy gray clouds and the messy splatters on the windowpane looked beautiful to Peter. He rolled over and stretched, soaking in the unaccustomed luxury of a feather pillow, crisp white sheets, and a down comforter.

  They had gone to the pension. Since they were unexpected, there was no room for them, but Zosia’s godparents had insisted they stay in their own private room. There had been a minor debate about that, but in the end, the old woman had had her way. She and her husband would take turns sleeping on the sofa, and besides, they did not need much rest. They told Peter and Zosia not to worry, they would arrange everything—clothes, papers, travel passes, transport. The identity band was removed, the numbers covered. The old woman ran her fingers knowledgeably along Peter’s jaw, where Karl had hit him with the gun, then applying a cold compress, she had assured him that it would be okay. She and her husband did everything they could to make Peter and Zosia feel comfortable, and then they withdrew to give them the privacy they seemed to need.

  “Do you think he was still alive?” Peter asked as he lay in the bed, watching one snowflake after another hit the window and annihilate itself.

  Zosia rolled toward him, hugged him. “I don’t know. The dose was supposed to be sufficient to kill, but it wasn’t well placed and he was a real tub of lard; he may have survived.” She had buried her face in his neck, so that he had trouble understanding her answer. She pulled her head back, looked at him, and asked gently, “Did you want him dead?”

  “As a matter of practicality, yes. But if I had planned that encounter—well, I don’t think I would have made it so painless.”

  “So you wouldn’t have shown him your moral superiority by showing him mercy?” she asked, raising herself up on one elbow.

  “I doubt it. Oh, who knows what I would have done,” he sighed. He would have liked to believe better of himself, or at least have Zosia believe better of him, but the fantasy of inflicting on Karl what he had inflicted on so many others was too appealing. “Anyway, you didn’t hear what he said he’d do to me. And I know he meant it.”

  “Oh, I don’t blame you. I myself . . .” She scowled, then let her expression relax. Her head slid down her arm, and she snuggled back under the covers. “Well, let’s not think about that now. He’s either dead or alive, but we’re safe for the time being.”

  “But there is one thing that does bother me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, you had your poison; presumably if you got captured, you could make a convenient exit?”
he asked.

  “Yes, that’s the intent.”

  “Why in a ring? That’s the sort of thing they take from you.”

  “The ring is extra, because of my profession. For things like, well, like with Karl. I carry some in a tooth as well—that’s the way most people carry it.”

  “Most people,” he repeated gloomily. “Why wasn’t I provided with anything similar?”

  “It wasn’t thought to be necessary.”

  He did not fail to notice the passive voice of her answer. “Why not?” he asked almost too gently.

  She looked away from him, clearly embarrassed. She got out of the bed and walked to the window, watching the snow for a few moments. The light from the window silhouetted her form. Finally she spoke, keeping her back to him so he could not see her face. “It’s a trust thing: the poison is very convenient for us, but it is only useful as long as they don’t suspect that we have it. If they knew we had it, they would remove it upon our arrest, so we could only use it at the moment of arrest. Most of us prefer to wait a bit and see if there’s any hope of wriggling out of a tricky situation.”

  “So they . . . you were afraid I’d betray your secret.”

  “We didn’t want to take the chance,” Zosia admitted.

  “What exactly is it that you use?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes, I really don’t know,” Zosia sighed. “I asked once, but was told that I had no need to know. All I know is that if you don’t specifically look for it in an autopsy, it’s pretty much undetectable. That’s why it’s important that as few people as possible know about it.”

  “I understand why I wasn’t told about this by the Council, but I thought you trusted me. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Orders. I was very specifically warned not to mention anything that I didn’t have to.”

  “So, you tell me all about Ryszard—which was useless to me and clearly annoyed the hell out of him—but nothing about this poison—which would have given me a great deal of comfort! You know, it wouldn’t hurt if there was just a bit of consistency in what you guys are willing to tell me,” he replied witheringly.

  “We obviously need some Germanic organization,” Zosia said, deadpan.

  Peter sputtered and they both broke out in laughter. After a moment the laughter died away and they fell into a comfortable silence. Zosia seemed intent on watching something out in the street. “So what would you have done?” he asked suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said carefully, “given that I had no poison to protect myself, what were you planning to do if those two had taken me out of your sight?”

  “Oh, one of our operatives would have kept tabs on you.”

  “Your network doesn’t extend to Hamburg,” he said, feeling rather nauseated. “Please tell me the truth, Zosia. Just this once. What would you have done?”

  “I don’t know, Peter,” she answered distantly. “It didn’t come to that.”

  “You would have killed me, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” she said as if the question did not really interest her.

  “And if you had done that, then you would have been as good as dead yourself,” he guessed.

  “I don’t explore hypotheticals, it just destroys one’s ability to act.”

  “I almost gave myself up to them,” he admitted, “so that you could leave. God! It would have got us both killed!”

  “What stopped you?” she asked, still staring out the window.

  “The lieutenant hit me, for no apparent reason. Remember? That stopped me long enough to make me reconsider the idea.”

  Softly she said, “You know, I think perhaps hope springs eternal. If they had taken you, if I was unable to prevent them, then I would probably have let you go.” She traced a pattern in the mist on the window. “It goes against everything I know, everything I’ve been trained to do. They might have tortured every bit of information out of you that you had, or you might have been working for them all along. Either way, it could have been a death sentence for everyone I know. Rationally, letting you go would have been the most indefensible action of my life.”

  His heart stopped, he did not dare say a word as he waited for what she would say next.

  “There’s only one explanation for such a lack of discipline,” she whispered.

  He tried to quiet his breathing so he would not miss a word.

  “It’s that I love you.” She said it so softly he wondered if he had simply wished the words into being.

  She turned and smiled shyly at him. It took a moment for him to catch hisbreath, then he smiled broadly. He beckoned and she returned to the bed. As she crawled in, he moved toward her and embraced her gently. As he held her to him, he whispered in her ear, “I love you so much, Zosia. I love you so much.”

  They hugged each other for a long time in silence; he savored the warmth of her body against his. Her eyes were closed and she sighed quietly, and he wondered if she had fallen asleep, but then she stretched and yawned luxuriously like a cat after a nap. He smiled to himself, and then assuming the traditional British stance for a proposal, he raised himself up on one elbow and said, “You know, love, you’ve saved my life three times now.”

  “Have I?” she asked, arching her back and throwing her head back as she lay on her side.

  “Yes, and do you know, it’s an old English custom, when a woman saves a man’s life for the third time, she has to marry him?”

  “Oh, really?” she replied, opening her eyes to give him a dubious look.

  “Yes. No exceptions. So, will you?”

  Zosia rolled onto her back, stretched again, and grinned. “Sure. Why not?” She giggled, turned toward him, and added, “But I’m not going to let you get away that lightly—you coldhearted Brit. You’re going to have to work harder to get a proper yes out of me.” She snapped her fingers. “One order of romance! Heavy on the charm! I want a symphony!”

  He smiled broadly. He felt so giddy with happiness that it did not matter what had happened to Karl. It did not matter that he had narrowly escaped death or that the Council’s treatment of him was inscrutable. Nothing in the world could intrude on their happiness!

  He put his arm around her, began to kiss her neck, moved downward slowly, teasingly. As she began to respond, breathing deeply, sighing slightly, he looked up, could not resist asking, “Is this what you had in mind? Or would you like me to add words to my music?”

  “Only in Polish.” She traced a pattern with her finger along his neck, down his chest.

  “Kochana Zosiu.”

  “That’s a good start,” she teased.“How about some more?”

  He shook his head helplessly.

  She giggled. “Then you’ll have to work your magic in silence.”

  32

  “WELL, COLONEL?” he asked mischievously.

  “Yes, Captain?” she responded with a luxuriant stretch and a satisfied smile.

  “Was that a reasonable salute?”

  “Um-hmm.” She stretched, moaned, and turned over in the bed so her face was away from him.

  He raised himself up enough to lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re marvelous,” he whispered softly into her ear.

  “Umm,” she responded, already half-asleep. He continued to lean over her and watched as she drifted off. With her eyes closed, her long eyelashes looked even more seductive. And whatever she had done to her hair to smooth it down was wearing off—obstreperously frizzy curls were beginning to emerge here and there. He looked at the curve of her face, ran a finger gently over her cheekbone and down along to her chin. She continued to smile even as her breathing became regular.

  Peter settled back down among the covers, resting his hands behind his head. He had not slept the night before, he had endured a miserable day, the adrenaline surges from two life-and-death situations had left him exhausted, and Zosia had agreed to marry him
. Despite his fatigue, he did not feel like sleeping.

  It had been so long since he had slept with a woman. A year and a half? No, better not to think about that; that was not sex—it was something else: a quid pro quo, a bargain, a way of staying alive. Besides, he had never told Zosia about it. It had embarrassed him too much: that selling of the very last bit of his soul in exchange for a little peace in his life. And until Elspeth had hit him in the plaza, in public, he had thought it had worked. He thought that he had bought some human dignity from her. But when she had hit him like that, for voicing his opinion, then he had known he would never be human in their eyes. That was when he had known there was no price he could pay that would satisfy them. That was when he had known he had to leave, whatever the cost.

  He smiled to himself. Just as well: look at what he finally had now! Zosia would be his wife, Joanna his daughter. He had a home, friends, and a purpose, and given his outing alone in Berlin, the doubters in the encampment could not fail to trust him now. He had proven himself. Even the disastrous encounters of the past day had served their purpose—he had shown what he was made of, had proven his loyalty. They would have to accept him.

  He got out of bed and went over to the window. It had still been daylight when they had begun making love and they had not drawn the drapes. He wondered if anyone had seen them. Now, the night sky was lit a brilliant orange as the omnipresent security lights reflected off the dusting of snow on the sidewalks. The overcast sky merged into the mist of orange making the city look somewhat like a dimly lit backdrop in a theater. It was still reasonably early, but the streets were nearly deserted. A patrol paced along the pavement under the window; a few soldiers emerged from a bar across the street and debated the direction they should take. A taxi turned a corner and disappeared from view. The usual workings of a city. A city gone discreetly mad.