The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  As Katerina fended off his arms with ill-tempered impatience, Wanda chimed in, “Ryszard, it’s hard enough to keep discipline here, why do you insist on being so difficult? You know the ventilation can’t cope if we all smoke.”

  “Then don’t,” he snapped.

  “And it would help if you stuck to speaking German with the staff,” Wanda added. “You haven’t spoken a word of it since your arrival!”

  Ryszard raised his eyebrows at her. “I speak enough of it out there. Now, are we going to get down to business or are you ladies too intent on your bitching?”

  “Please, let’s sit down,” Marysia suggested, gesturing toward her dining table and the four glasses of vodka she had poured out. As they seated themselves, she began, “We think we’ve found a couple who could work in your household when you’re in Berlin.” She handed Ryszard two files. “She says her mother is ill and they shouldn’t go, but it’s your call. Look at their files, interview them, and let us know.”

  “Anyone would be fine,” Ryszard remarked, as he leafed through the pages. He looked up at his listeners and grinned malevolently. “Though, what we should do is save Zosia before it’s too late and use her husband-to-be. After all, he’s experienced!”

  “No!” Wanda snapped angrily.

  “No,” Katerina agreed.

  “It was a joke,” Marysia explained, somewhat perplexed. Then she turned to Ryszard. “Wasn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “I thought so. I thought you wouldn’t want to lose him. I’ve heard he’s turned out to be reasonably useful.”

  “Who said that?” Wanda asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Tadek, of all people. Said you got a highly trained, highly intelligent analyst quite cheap—free in fact! If only he weren’t . . .” Ryszard declined to elaborate.

  “Useful or not, he mustn’t leave this place,” Wanda explained.“He’s one of the few people here who knows your undercover identity, and we still haven’t been able to vet him properly. He’s a security risk!”

  “Pff. I must admit I was stunned when I saw him in Göringstadt. It just didn’t seem like you to clear something like that.”

  “I didn’t,” Wanda replied acerbically. “It was that sister of yours acting on her own again.”

  “So I heard. I also heard you reprimanded her so severely that she followed orders for what? Two whole months afterwards?”

  “I was hoping maybe you could get through to her. You’re the only one with any sense in that crazy family of yours.”

  “Ah, it’s that impetuous English blood in our veins,” Ryszard suggested humorously.

  Katerina laughed, but Wanda did not. “Zosia’s got some harebrained scheme and now your father is behind her as well . . .” Ryszard’s gaze wandered around the room as Wanda fulminated. His eyes lit upon Julia’s picture mounted on the wall, and he discreetly stared at it for some time. That long, dark hair, those passionate eyes. He sighed silently and brought his attention back to Wanda as she was saying, “I want to finally put a stop to this nonsense. I’m not going to give the clearance for him to leave here. No more trips out. None!”

  “That’s your prerogative, isn’t it?” Ryszard asked Katerina.

  Katerina sipped her vodka, eyeing the three of them.“In the final analysis, yes.I’ve heard Wanda’s arguments, and I’m convinced she’s right. I just wanted to hear what you had to say before I made my decision. I assume you agree with her.”

  “What about the rest of the Council, don’t they get a say?” Marysia huffed. “People here won’t like it that you’re trying to stop Zosia from doing something which could be very, very useful for us.”

  “They don’t need to even know about it,” Wanda retorted.

  “What do you think, Ryszard?” Katerina asked. “After all, you’re the one at greatest risk.”

  “Ach, the closer I get to Führer, the less I’m able to care.” Ryszard laughed. He leaned back in his seat and sent a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

  “Do you really think that’s a possibility?” Marysia asked.

  “Yes.” Ryszard laughed hoarsely and ended up coughing. “After all, I have a phenomenal political machine backing me up, don’t I? All unquestioningly loyal, too. Much better than the measly mafias my competitors can muster.” He laughed again at the concept of the entire Home Army as his personal entourage.

  Wanda rolled her eyes impatiently, and Katerina prodded, “Well, what about this stupid idea of Zosia’s. You’ve met this man, what do you think about him?”

  “About him? He’s a wreck, he drinks too much, he’s moody, unpleasant, and rude. And I think Zosia’s making a big mistake. But if you want to know what I think about the idea of using him, that’s quite different.”

  “Then what do you think about it?” Marysia asked.

  What did he think? Ryszard reflected on the long debate he had had with Zosia after their discussion in Göringstadt. She had convinced him of nothing, but then, upon returning home, Kasia had spoken quietly for no more than ten minutes and had completely changed his mind. His eyes strayed up to Julia’s picture again. If only Julia had had Kasia’s sense. He brought his attention back to Katerina and said,“He poses no particular danger to me.”

  Katerina raised her eyebrows in surprise. Wanda looked ready to object, but Ryszard raised a hand to silence her. “He may or may not be loyal to us, but the one thing I know for sure is, he’s in love with Zosia, and for as long as that lasts, he’ll do whatever she tells him.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Marysia asked.

  “You don’t understand what they did to him. He doesn’t either. But I do. They made him afraid of freedom. So afraid that he would never leave. The fact that he left anyway shows a remarkable strength of will, but it also left him . . .” Ryszard paused, trying to find the easiest way to express the concept. “It left him seeking another prison, one to satisfy that fear they burned into his brain. His love for Zosia is that prison. He’s bound to her by more than affection, he needs her, and he’ll do anything to satisfy that need. So, if you want to use him, all I can say is, the sooner the better.”

  “But what if he loses control of himself? Like he did in Göringstadt?” Katerina asked.

  “That wasn’t losing control. He knew there was no real danger.” Ryszardleaned forward, looked at each of them in turn. “I’ll tell you this: he survived eight years slaving away for them. Eight years of abuse, months of torture, and he never once hit back! Now, that’s control.”

  “Controlled or not, he’s not going,” Wanda insisted. “I don’t trust him. I don’t know what it is, but he’s hiding something.”

  “Maybe,” Ryszard agreed.

  “None of us have perfect lives,” Marysia noted, then turning to Katerina, said, “So you see, Ryszard is not against it. I think you ought to throw the idea out to the encampment. See what they say. I think you’ll see that Zosia’s idea is generally supported.”

  Katerina pursed her lips. “I’m not going to take any votes, Marysia, but you, Wanda, should remember that the final decision is mine.”

  “I don’t like the way the rest of the Council isn’t being consulted,” Marysia commented.

  Katerina waved her hand in annoyance. “Wanda’s security, you’re vice chair, that’s sufficient consultation! Now, Ryszard, since you aren’t adamantly opposed to Zosia’s plan, maybe you could do some research for me. I was wondering if you could check Halifax out a bit further.” She pushed a thick file toward him. “Study his record and talk with him. Your impressions will be useful.”

  Ryszard accepted the folder wearily. He opened it and scanned the one-page summary at the front.“Hah! So, that’s why he’s familiar!” Ryszard laughed.

  “Why?” Marysia asked.

  Ryszard tapped the paper. “This place in Breslau he was at—he must have been one of Lederman’s pets.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I vaguely remember him showing me some English prisoner . . .”

  “Did he look li
ke Peter?” Wanda asked.

  Ryszard shrugged. “He was covered in filth, starved, and half-dead the time I saw him up close—he could have been anyone.” He looked back down at the paper. “I suppose I must have seen him at the Vogels’ the time I was there.”

  “Zosia said she thought she saw him there,” Marysia commented.

  “Did that man look like Peter?” Wanda asked Ryszard.

  Again Ryszard shrugged. “Exhausted, pale, coughing up his lungs. Same sort of hair though, face . . .” He screwed up his eyes as he thought. “Sorry, I didn’t bother to memorize it. He hardly merited attention.”

  “But you think he is genuine?” Marysia pressed.

  “Oh, I’ve never doubted that he’s genuine. He’s far too fucked-up to be acting!” Ryszard laughed. “Though what that says about his motives for coming here or his loyalty to us, I can’t say. All I can do is repeat: whatever his motives might have been, he’s now bound to Zosia by love, and as long as that lasts, we own him.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Wanda repeated. “He’s hiding something.”

  “You don’t trust him because he’s English,” Ryszard snapped. “Just like the hard time everyone gave my father.”

  Katerina patted the air with her hands, as if calming children. “Maybe when you talk with him, Ryszard, you’ll learn more.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  It took several days before Ryszard managed to stumble across Peter as he was heading out on one of his walks. He invited himself along and Peter reluctantly agreed. The two men walked in uncomfortable silence as Ryszard led the way along one of his favorite boyhood routes up snow-covered inclines and down steep, icy slopes with the intention of eventually reaching a small waterfall.

  Ryszard enjoyed the climb and the brisk air. It had been a long time since he had been home, and he missed the mountains in winter. He stopped and stretched and turned to say something, but saw that Peter had fallen some distance behind. Ryszard crossed his arms and waited, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wool of his coat. He listened to Peter’s labored gasps and studied the frozen sweat on his cheeks as Peter climbed the last few icy steps up the slope. “Do you need to stop?” Ryszard asked brusquely.

  Peter took a deep breath, said, “I’m all right, we can . . .” There was a long pause as he stared into the distance, breathing heavily, then he pointed toward some rocks nearby. “If you don’t mind,” he muttered.

  They sat in silence, or almost silence. Ryszard scanned the dark branches of the pines and wondered how he was going to initiate a conversation, all the while trying to ignore the way Peter was sitting there, his eyes squeezed shut, gasping with pain. “What is it?” Ryszard was finally driven to ask.

  Peter dropped his head so that Ryszard could no longer see his face. “My legs,” he finally stammered. “I don’t usually climb when it’s so icy.”

  “Ach, sorry. I didn’t realize that you were that weak.”

  Peter looked up at that. “It’s not weakness,” he whispered angrily.

  Ryszard shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I’m ready to move on.”

  “Never mind. It’s a good enough view here.” Ryszard pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered Peter one.

  “I thought that’s against policy.”

  “Fuck policy.”

  Peter shrugged, took one. Ryszard lit it for him and Peter gave a short laugh of approval.

  “What?” Ryszard asked.

  “Oh, I think the last person to light a cigarette for me was an insane psychiatrist who had just had me tortured. He tried to get my reaction to his methods. They were always interviewing me.”

  “Hmm. Fascinating,” Ryszard replied without interest. What in God’s name did Zosia see in this man? he wondered. Was a passing similarity to Adam so damn important? They smoked in silence for a moment, then he said, “I needyour help. You see, my background placed me in London when I was young, and now that I’m going to Berlin, I’ll need more information about the place.”

  “London?” Peter asked rather incredulous. “Why in the world did you choose somewhere so unfamiliar? Certainly it would have made sense to use somewhere you were familiar with.”

  “Perhaps,” Ryszard agreed testily, “but the reasons were straightforward. First of all, there are not many Germans who could claim the Tatra mountains as their home, so wherever I claimed to come from, it would have been unfamiliar to me. I assumed the London background because around here it was almost guaranteed that no one would be able to call me on it. Now, as I move to Berlin, that is no longer true.”

  “I see.”

  “The name is a bit unfortunate as well,” Ryszard confided.

  “Really, why? Richard Traugutt sounds like a perfect German name!”

  “Oh, I chose it for the irony. Keeping my first name wasn’t risky, but Traugutt was a Polish nobleman who took over the leadership of the January Rising in 1863. He was hanged by the Russians in 1864.”

  “So you think it’s a bad omen?”

  “No, I just don’t think giving them hints like that is a good idea. At the time, I didn’t expect this identity to last so long. Now it’s too late to undo it.” Ryszard stopped and stared at the trees, then mentally preparing himself to feign a great deal of ignorance, said,“Now, tell me about London.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you all I know, but I’m afraid that I have very little information about how the Germans of London lived since most people maintained strict racial separation back then.”

  “Do you know anything about the Horst Wesel Academy, near Slau? My legend has me attending there.”

  “Eton,” Peter said.

  “Eton?”

  “If you went there, you should know that was what the students called it. It’s the historical name. Well, at least for a part of the school. Even my Herr Vogel referred to it by that name.”

  “Not to me he didn’t,” Ryszard objected.

  “It’s sort of an insider’s thing,” Peter explained.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I went there.” “You?” Ryszard responded, carefully imbuing the word with amazement.

  “Yes, me,” Peter answered as though quite fed up. “Do you carry poison?” he casually asked.

  Ryszard gave him a sharp look.

  “Don’t worry, I already know all about it.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Good,” Peter responded cheerfully.

  “Me, my wife, and my elder children,” Ryszard continued darkly. “As for Janand Genia, we just have to hope they’ll die quickly and without being questioned. Does that satisfy you?”

  “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” Peter rubbed his forehead. “Now let me construct a life for you at Horst Wesel and in London.”

  They talked for hours, moving now and then from one location to another to keep warm. Peter offered up a wealth of experiences, retelling anecdotes with the emotions and hesitancy of one who had actually experienced the events long in the past. Ryszard listened intently, using all his skill and experience as an interrogator, but he could hear nothing that implied a memorized legend. What he did hear was the voice of a lonely, ignored, and frequently harassed schoolboy, retelling the jokes and stories that had rebounded around him in locker rooms and the dining hall as he lived his life alone in a crowd, unwanted and invisible.

  “Now, let’s see, you’ll probably want to know some of the standard insults they used,” Peter said, furrowing his brow in thought. “Those I know!”

  Ryszard listened, laughing at some of the more amusing puns the boys used. Despite himself, he became interested in what Peter was saying and asked, “Why didn’t the English boys join forces together?”

  “I believe most were genuinely trying to fit in. The last thing they wanted to do was mix with their own underclass. In fact, more often than not, it was some English kid trying to prove his loyalty that I had to fight. But even if they had wanted to gang together, I doubt if they, we,
would have dared—we were too few in number and the retribution would have been horrific if it was perceived that we were forming our own gang.”

  “It must have been pretty brutal,” Ryszard sympathized.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why we feel the need to torment our children with schools like that. Maybe we think it makes them strong,” Peter responded. After a moment, he added, “Or self-reliant.” He pulled a bottle out of his coat and offered it up. Before Ryszard could drink, Peter cautioned, “It’s pure.”

  Having been properly warned, Ryszard poured a few drops of the pure spirits onto his tongue and let the alcohol evaporate. The liquid left his tongue numb, and the vapors had a quick, dizzying effect. “Most people dilute this stuff,” he commented, handing the bottle back to Peter.

  “It’s more efficient this way.” Peter drank some down.

  They sat there for some moments. Ryszard smoked distractedly and watched as a few flurries floated to earth. The silence was crystalline and he was surprised when Peter broke it by saying, “I’m sorry about the way I acted at your house. It’s just that, it was only then that I realized that I was still a prisoner.”

  Ryszard turned to look at Peter, but Peter did not meet his gaze. “Don’t worry,” Ryszard found himself saying, “you’ll get used to it.” He wondered at his own words as he added, “I did.”

  37

  ALEX AND ANNAARRIVED in February, a week before the wedding, saying they wanted to spend some time with their daughter and granddaughter and old friends before absconding across the pond. Everyone knew that contrary to their plans and promises, they would probably never return. No one ever did. Of course, the first plan—the one that was trotted out as the most likely—was that the Third Reich and the Soviet Union would be overthrown, a new Poland would be established, and the government in exile would be able to return home in triumph. Just a couple of years. A decade, maybe two at the most.

  After everyone dutifully agreed that they would, of course, see each other again on that triumphant day, the conversation always turned to the next line of defense: even if things progressed more slowly than they all hoped, the departing couple would return in the line of duty or on business or even perhaps just to visit. There was no way they were going to be separated for the rest of their lives. No way. The exorbitant cost of travel for a government that had to beg every penny of free currency, the danger, the impracticality—none of this was mentioned. And the cultural changes that ómigrós underwent—the way they began to view the war and their homeland as a political playground, as a distant and unseen fantasy world—these things were not mentioned either.