The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “This is certainly going to be an unpopular decision amongst our own people!” Schindler argued.“My God, it’s a complete capitulation to the capitalists!”

  The Führer pulled out a cigarette, and Richard lit it for him before Schindler could even react. “I know. I’m not happy about that, but I can’t afford to be linked to anything like this—it violates several treaties we’ve signed on biological warfare.”

  “Damn the idiotic treaties.”

  The Führer shook his head. “I wish we could. It’s these trade deals: oil, plutonium. . . The bastards are killing us, they keep putting pressure on all these neutral countries, them and their damn money.”

  Schindler snorted his disdain. “We don’t need them, any of them!”

  “Yes, we do. I don’t really understand all the details, but the Economics Ministry never stops yammering at me. And Defense. And Labor, too. It’s a mess. You don’t see the reports, you have no idea what a mess it is.”

  “We’ve managed to keep going this long!” Schindler retorted.

  “We’ve managed to keep going this long,” Richard explained, “by using up every resource of our erstwhile neighbors, but that’s not sustainable, we’re going to be in trouble soon.”

  “If we show weakness, that’s when we’ll be in trouble!” Schindler snorted.

  “Maybe you’re right,” the Führer sighed. “But we’re not showing weakness here. By preempting the Americans on this, it doesn’t look so bad for us.”

  “Our own people will know,” Schindler pointed out. “They’ll know you rolled over for the capitalist dogs.”

  “It’d do well for you, Günter, to remember to whom you are speaking.”

  “My apologies, mein Führer. It is only my absolute loyalty to you that makes me worry so much.”

  “Ach, well, anyway, we don’t have to worry about what our own people think—most of them weren’t supposed to know about the project. As for thosewho did, well, the program wasn’t working anyway, and as far as they are concerned, that’s why it was abandoned.”

  “It just needed time!”

  “Perhaps, but we don’t have the time. According to the rest of the world, we’ve stopped a small-time conspiracy cooked up by some overzealous fanatics, and thanks to Traugutt, you’re in the clear this time.” The Führer waved toward the door. “Now go see if you can’t put your house in order for me, so that I can maintain my trust in you as a senior adviser.” As Schindler hesitated, the Führer waggled his fingers impatiently in the direction of the door. “Go!”

  Richard sighed his relief once Schindler had left. He had taken the calculated risk of alienating Schindler to ingratiate himself to the Führer and set himself in obvious and direct competition for the title of heir apparent. He still was unsure of the wisdom of his move. The Führer was notoriously unreliable, his own position was still extremely tenuous, his power base weak, and Schindler would be a powerful enemy. It was possible he had made his move too soon, but the opportunity had arisen and he had not been able to pass it by.

  “Do you think he’s going to cause trouble?” the Führer asked.

  “I think our real problems are going to come from elsewhere,” Richard guessed. “There has to be a reason our people lost control of this issue, and I’m afraid we’re going to find out what it is, all too soon.”

  “Will you advise me, Richard?” the Führer asked almost plaintively.

  “It would be an honor, mein Führer.”

  “Maybe you could bring your daughter along to the consultations? Whenever she’s in Berlin. We’ll need someone to take notes, and she seems like a clever girl.”

  “Yes, she’s clever,” Richard agreed worriedly.

  “A very pretty girl.”

  “That she is.” Richard paced to the window and stared out for a moment. He brought his cigarette to his lips and could not help but notice that his hand was trembling. “I’m sure she’d be very pleased to be of service,” he said without turning around. “It would be a great honor for her.”

  54

  “ANDWHAT DID you do then?” The reporter’s soft voice conveyed genuine concern.

  Peter was impressed. He knew she was only showing concern as part of her job, part of the caring persona she projected on television, but she did it well. No wonder she was so highly paid despite her incredible shallowness. He answered, “What could a twelve-year-old boy do? I ran and hid.”

  “Why? Certainly you were not guilty of anything.”

  “Of course not, but the idea of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ is”—he wanted to say “is unknown,” but realized that would convey the wrong impression, and so he said, “is not honored by our oppressors. Of course, our people always remember their ancient human rights—the rights which our two cultures have in common and which inspired your wonderful Constitution—but what can one do in the face of such evil?”

  “But you were just a child.”

  “Oh, yes, but children are not immune. Think of your own child,” he said, turning imperceptibly toward the camera, “see how innocently he or she plays and think of how you would feel knowing that they could be arbitrarily arrested or kidnapped. Stolen, enslaved, killed—you would not know which—you simply would never see your son or daughter again.”

  “He’s good,” Alex muttered to Zosia as they sat off-camera watching Peter. “He never misses a trick.”

  “I told you he’d do well.” Zosia nodded. “We watched hours of American shit to learn how to present his story, and he made a point of getting that reporter to like him—she’ll see that it’s well edited. We had several meetings beforehand where he turned on so much charm with her I was ready to puke.”

  “Yes, she has a reputation for being tough, and here she is eating out of his hand.” Alex laughed quietly. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

  Zosia nodded. “I guess it’s just one of those suppressed talents that none of us ever get to see.”

  Alex covered his mouth to contain his laughter. Anna shushed them and Zosia whispered more quietly, “Just as well you told him not to smoke though. We had no idea Americans had such a visceral reaction to it.”

  “Apparently they view it as a drug addiction,” Alex whispered. “That and drinking. Is he staying off the booze?”

  “As much as possible,” Zosia replied. “He’s got some sleeping pills for the bad nights, but he swears the vodka is better.”

  “Tell him to stick to the pills.”

  “I will. But why is it better to pop narcotics than to drink a bit of alcohol?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.” Alex turned his attention back to the interview.

  “I’m going to take a break,” Zosia whispered, and she discreetly slipped out of the studio.

  By the time she returned, the reporter had covered considerable territory and was saying, “I assume you’ve heard the Reich’s response to these recent accusations of medical experiments?”

  Peter dropped his gaze briefly to the floor as he considered what his answer should be. He looked back up with sincere concern at the reporter and said, “I had heard some rumors there, but our news services cannot be trusted. Which experiments are you talking about?”

  “A sterilization program! Our security service received detailed informationfrom Underground agents about it, and the Führer himself was moved to comment on the allegations.”

  “And what did he say?” Peter asked warily.

  “Oh, he said his own investigators had already uncovered a minor conspiracy among some low-level officials. A single laboratory was immediately shut down and the officials were dismissed. Apparently they cooked the program up among themselves.”

  “You know that’s not true. Such a program would be approved at the highest level.”

  “How do you feel about it? Your involvement, I mean.”

  Peter shook his head slightly.“My involvement?”

  The reporter had a momentary look of confusion, but then hid it expertly. “Yes, we have in
formation that you are listed among the human subjects tested. You didn’t know this?”

  “Wow, look at that!” Alex whispered. “He looks genuinely shaken. My God, he fakes astonishment well.”

  “That’s not astonishment,” Zosia hissed in reply, “that’s fury!”

  Into Peter’s stunned silence the reporter added gently, “I’m sorry you had to find out in this manner. We assumed you had already been informed.”

  “I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .” He wet his lips and fell silent.

  “You didn’t know, of course.”

  “No, I never expected to hear such a thing. I . . .” He took a deep breath, his eyes briefly wandering toward the dark corner in which Zosia and her family sat.

  Zosia muttered angrily to her father, “We had agreed that we wouldn’t use this angle!”

  “No,” Alex explained,“we had agreed that he would not use this angle, but the threat that he would reveal an entire secret program, using his own experience, was enough to force the security service to do a preemptive announcement before he even arrived. It was a reasonable exchange, and don’t worry, he’s coping just fine.”

  Zosia had to admit that he was. She turned her attention to Peter as he was saying, “. . . just shows you the utterly inhumane way in which a portion of the population is treated, and the fact that it was uncovered by Underground agents and that the program was, as a result, closed down, shows how important it is to support these people in their efforts. Some Americans have an image of the Underground as a bunch of people with rifles creating mayhem in an otherwise peaceful society, but these revelations show how wrong such images are. These are brave people who risk their lives to uncover the truth in a society of lies. Their efforts save lives and prevent untold misery!”

  He continued for some time in that vein, and slowly the color returned to his face.

  Altogether the interview lasted over six hours, far longer than anyone had expected. Afterward the reporter thanked Peter for his cooperation. “You understandthat this will all be edited down to a twenty-minute segment.” She sounded as though she wanted to avoid his being disappointed.

  Peter smiled graciously. “I’m just pleased that I have had this opportunity to tell my story. I’m sure that your expertise will ensure that the twenty minutes will convey the essence of my message.”

  The reporter blushed, assured him she would do her best, and took her leave of them all. Peter kissed her hand in farewell. Out of sight of the reporter, Zosia rolled her eyes. Once the production crew was safely out of earshot, Zosia asked, “The Brits don’t kiss hands, do they?”

  Peter did not answer her question, just said quietly, “See if you can’t get me a bottle of whiskey from somewhere.”

  The taped, edited interview was to be shown on a popular current-affairs program in two days’ time. The day before the airing, Alex received a call from one of his comrades. As Alex cradled the phone, he turned to Zosia and Peter, who were relaxing in the living room, and said, “It looks either really good or really bad.”

  “How’s that?” Zosia asked.

  “The network is advertising the interview as an hour-long special. They’re canning the other segments to highlight his story”—Alex nodded toward Peter—“for the entire hour.”

  “Good Lord! That must be good news,” Anna inserted.

  “Unless they’ve discovered something awful and they’re going to spend the hour destroying his and our reputation.”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” Peter said with a calmness that surprised the others. He could not find it in himself to get particularly worried. He had done his best and there was nothing more that he could do. He had made the complicated journey out of the Reich and into the NAU, had been given a few days to adjust and absorb the cultural atmosphere, and then he had given what was probably the most important interview of his visit. It was done and he felt nothing but an overwhelming relief. It was up to the editors and propagandists to make something of his words.

  He checked his watch, indicated that it was time they should get going, and the four of them left for that evening’s appointment: a brief lecture at a university followed by a question-and-answer session. Peter traveled with Alex and Anna; as usual, Zosia traveled separately and remained well out of sight of cameras and curious reporters, and Joanna remained at the apartment with a trusted friend.

  They need not have bothered; the lecture was well attended but drew no obvious media interest. Still, it was successful as a fund-raiser. Numerous checks were signed then and there, and even more names were added to the list of prospective sponsors of the freedom fighters in Europe.

  “You’re good at this,” Zosia commented to Peter as they casually met duringthe cocktail hour afterward. Or rather, the diet-soda and decaffeinated-coffee hour.

  “Pleased to meet you. Um, what was the name again?” He grinned at her.

  “Oh, call me Interested.” She leered at him, running her tongue over her top lip in mock seductiveness. “From what I can see, I wouldn’t be the only one called that here. You’re obviously a handsome, exciting man.”

  “Kind of you to say so, miss. Interesting, isn’t it, how years of violence and misery can be summarized as ‘exciting,’ don’t you think?”

  “Oh, it’s not their fault. Too much TV, I think. All that violence where nobody ends up hurt—unless of course they end up cleanly dead, but then, that only happens to the bad guys.”

  “Yeah, just like real life.” He sighed, looking at the watery brown beverage they called coffee. Decaffeinated. What was the point? “God, I could use a real drink!”

  “How about if we accidentally meet in the bar across from my parents’ apartment? Ten o’clock okay?”

  “It’d be great, but where are we going to get the money to buy anything?”

  “I’ll cajole my dad.”

  “Aren’t you a bit old for an allowance?”

  Zosia shrugged. “What can I say, it’s either that or go without.”

  “Good point. Right, meet you then. I’ll be the one with a rose in my lapel.”

  “Okay, we ought to separate before anyone notices us.” Zosia looked around nervously.

  “Yeah, love you. Miss you.”

  “See you later.” Zosia motioned a discreet kiss in his direction and then melted back into the crowd. Peter pasted the smile back on his face and went to do his duty as a guest speaker and fund-raiser.

  55

  THE NEXT DAY nothing was scheduled, and Peter and Zosia took the opportunity to look around the city together. In what seemed an excess of caution, she wore a wig, makeup, sunglasses, and borrowed clothing that was completely different from anything she might wear on the job back in the Reich. Even though it was the fourth month of her pregnancy and there was an unmistakable swell to her abdomen, when they met at the corner of Fifth and Sixtieth, Peter did not even recognize her until she stepped up to him and said hello. He looked her up and down, smiled at her American-girl-style outfit, and greeted her with a kiss. Though she was admirably unrecognizable, their precautions seemed unnecessary; he had generated no particular interest, and there were no paparazzi willingto snap his photograph on the street either with or without a mystery woman by his side.

  They had a great time. So many things that they had heard or read about were so different in reality. Peter was amazed by the pedestrians, who blithely ignored traffic signals. Zosia stared almost stupidly at lasers used simply to read prices. “This is military technology!” she whispered. He replied by pointing out the discreetly placed detectors near the door—clearly the merchandise or something was being monitored. They both had fun finding out that real coffee was available, as was a full selection of wines, beers, spirits, and cigarettes, although the fact that customers had to register their purchase of such was a bit disconcerting. Summoning up his best foreign accent, Peter asked the clerk about it.

  “Oh, for cigarettes, we can only sell those to registered addicts. As for the other s
tuff—it’s rationed so that nobody buys too much. We type your registration into the computer, and that references your previous purchases—if you reach your limit in a month, then you’re out of luck.”

  “But we bought stuff in a bar the other night without registering it,” Peter risked admitting.

  The clerk shrugged. “Yeah, that’s not controlled. I guess they figure the bar prices will slow you down. Anything for those with money,” he added somewhat bitterly. Clearly, despite the fact that his income and quality of life would be considered extravagant by working-class Reich standards, he did not consider himself well-off.

  “Oh, so can we buy some whiskey?” Zosia asked.

  “I’ll need to see your ID.”

  Zosia pulled out the passport she had used to enter the Union. The clerk shook his head. “Sorry, you’re not a registered resident.”

  “I didn’t say I was.”

  “You need to be a resident to buy booze,” the clerk explained patiently.

  “Then what am I supposed to do if I want some?” Zosia asked with growing impatience.

  “I don’t know. The legislation doesn’t cover illegals and foreigners.”

  Zosia seemed prepared to argue, but Peter gently pulled her away. “It’s all right,” he assured her, “I’ll manage without.” They left the shop wondering at the ubiquitousness of idiotic legislation in the name of concerned government and headed down the Avenue. “Just as well I brought cigarettes with me,” Peter commented as he lit one. “I thought they’d be expensive, not unavailable!”

  “In any case, make sure you don’t smoke when you’re in the spotlight,” Zosia reminded him as she waved the smoke away.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Wasn’t I a good boy all day yesterday?” he muttered while scanning the shop windows.

  “Yes, very good. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do it when I’m around. You know it’s not good for the baby.”