The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  From their living room, Anna and Alex together with Zosia and Joanna watched the live program. Alex smoked nervously; Anna kept leaping up to refill someone’s glass with tea or to offer snacks; Zosia, sprawled on the floor, chewed her thumb. Only Joanna, sitting on the floor next to her mother’s prone form, remained calm; she knew her father would do well.

  “I wonder why Mann decided to go after him?” Anna asked as she once again shoved a plate of cheese and crackers in front of Joanna.

  “I don’t know,” Alex admitted. “I never watch this show. But Peter’s handling him well.”

  “I would have snapped that woman’s head off,” Anna admitted. “She has no clue how lucky she is.”

  “Yes, but Peter’s right, there is no point in debating her. It would only makehim look unsympathetic. Better to go the route he’s taken and suck up to the Americans.”

  “I wonder how he manages to say all those obsequious things with such a straight face,” Anna commented to no one in particular.

  “Just part of the service,” Zosia answered bitterly, thinking of how he must have spoken to Elspeth. And herself as well? “Seems he has a whole slew of personalities he can use when he’s in the mood.”

  “So which one is the real thing?” Anna asked.

  Zosia shrugged. “I’d be surprised if even he knows.”

  Anna looked at her daughter, wondering at the source of her remarks, but did not say anything because Alex shushed them both. “I want to hear him! hissed, leaning closer to the television.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mann watched the reaction of his audience and felt elated. He did not care that he was the object of their hate at the moment— he’d rectify that situation soon enough—all he cared was that they were involved. They were beginning to make noises, small cheers, occasional boos. It was great. It was perhaps the most intellectual discussion he had managed to maintain for any length of time without losing them utterly. With a glance he looked toward his guest. The man was tiring of the harassment; a few more good swipes, and he should change the pace lest he look too mean and petty.

  Despite all his intentions to the contrary, Peter found himself rubbing his forehead. The pain was excruciating. It was those damn lights—they were in his eyes and had bothered him from the moment he had stepped onto the stage. He felt certain in a few more minutes the pain in his head would overwhelm everything else, and he was afraid of the consequences.

  As the host asked yet another aggressive question, Peter decided to take a small risk. He indicated with his hand and a brief smile that he had heard the question, then said, “Excuse me, just a second here,” and reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. He bowed his head to put them on, mostly to rest his eyes and stretch his neck, but it looked quite humble to the audience, and on the close-up monitors most of them could discern that he was shaking. Still quivering, he looked up, smiled sheepishly, and explained, “I’m terribly sorry, but my eyes were damaged over the years, and these lights are causing me excruciating pain. I do hope you don’t mind.”

  “Damn it! What’s he doing?” Alex growled.

  “Have you noticed, his accent has changed?” Zosia pointed out, ignoring her father.

  “Yes, now that you mention it . . .” Anna looked intrigued. “Why did he do that?”

  “It’s unintentional,” Zosia explained. “He slips into that tone anytime he’s angry or stressed. I don’t think he’s even aware he does it.” She was though. Thedistance, the distinct courtesy—as if he were talking to a stranger. It was offensive when he used it with her, and he used it all too often, pronouncing her name with a disapproving precision that irritated the hell out of her.

  “However he speaks, I want to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing!” Alex grated.

  “Don’t worry, this will work,” Anna assured him. Whether it was deliberate or not, the tone of voice, the courteous wording, the apology, even that sheepish, pained expression: it was all there. It worked for her—she wanted to hug him and apologize for anything she had ever said, so she knew it would win over the audience, or at least the women. She glanced at the scowl on her daughter’s face and amended to herself, at least those women who did not love him dearly and apparently, painfully.

  It did work. Peter had not intended to look pathetic, he was just in pain and quite embarrassed by that fact; nevertheless, he looked heroic as he suffered in brave silence. The audience felt suddenly protective of him, and as one they turned toward Mann daring him to try one more aggressive question.

  But, no, Mann realized it was time to save his own image, and this thing with the eyes gave him a great idea for a publicity stunt. His audience, his beloved audience, ready to rend him limb from limb at the moment, would in a minute do a complete turnabout and be the heroes of the day. The American public, they were wonderful, generous to a fault, and they loved themselves and that image of themselves quite dearly. They would happily pay to keep that image, and Mann knew exactly how to get them to do that.

  He made a discreet hand gesture to his offstage staff and then went into the audience to have them ask the questions. The tone changed markedly—no more innuendo, no more vague accusations. Suddenly Mann was the epitome of concern, nodding his head sympathetically as someone asked, “What exactly is wrong with your eyes?”

  “I wish I knew,” Peter answered tiredly. “My vision comes and goes, and bright lights provoke phenomenal pain.”

  “Will it lead to blindness?” an older woman asked.

  “I don’t know. We don’t really have the facilities to diagnose something like this.”

  “What caused it?”

  “I don’t know. Chemicals maybe. I was exposed to a lot of”—he shrugged— “junk. There are no safety requirements for us, just use us until we drop dead.” His voice had taken on a bitter edge. The pain was making it impossible for him to keep up the faÁade he had so carefully constructed. He could hardly construct a coherent sentence, let alone try to sway an audience toward supporting armed insurrection in distant lands.

  It was the perfect opportunity for Dr. Whitmer to jump in, to point out that any money spent abroad was a criminal waste of resources when there were somany unsolved problems at home. He would never be able to stay calm in the face of another attack, she was sure of that, but she knew instinctively that even if she managed to pummel him verbally, he would win any debate in terms of audience sympathy. She weighed her pride and urge to argue against that insurmountable truth and kept silent, consoling herself that at least she had managed to reach a much wider audience than usual and that she had already said her piece.

  “Or maybe it was simply physical abuse,” Peter continued. “I was hit in the face a lot.” He paused as if remembering something or someone, then repeated distantly, “A lot.”

  “What about treatment?” someone asked.

  Peter shook his head. “That’s not available to my class of people. We work—in whatever conditions—until we drop dead. Now, of course, after speaking to you all, if I made myself known to the authorities, I’d simply be shot out of hand.” He thought for a moment, then added with a winsome smile, “If I were lucky.”

  “So you are planning to return?” Mann jumped at the implication.

  “As I have said, I cannot comment on my plans.”

  “But what about here? In America?” Dr. Whitmer felt inclined to inquire. “Surely you could find something out?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought about that. I’ve thought about lots of things. Having my legs broken and reset, having this tattoo removed, tracking down these headaches, sorting out my vision problems, talking to psychiatrists to soothe my nights. Lots of things. I don’t know what’s possible; probably there’s nothing much that can be done about most of it. Not at this late date.”

  “Oh, don’t underestimate our medical community!” Mann admonished. “With such a wish list, what would be your most pressing desire?”

  “I guess my eyes. I don’t want to lose
my sight,” Peter responded without much hesitation. “But there’s no point having a priority list since I can’t afford any of it anyway.”

  Alex frowned as he watched the proceedings. It was going well by most measures, the audience certainly loved Peter, but it was not going the way Alex had expected. The topic was digressing terribly, getting more and more personal and less focused on their cause. “Why does he keep talking about himself?” Alex grumbled to himself.

  “That is what he’s supposed to do,” Anna reminded him. “Remember, he’s supposed to personalize it all.”

  “Oh, he’s personalizing it all right. It’s a goddamned one-man freak show!” Alex fumed. “Where are the appeals for arms or political support?”

  “I think he’s tired,” Anna defended him, “or sick.”

  “Both,” Zosia opined from her position on the floor. “I’d guess he’s concentrating on not vomiting onstage.”

  “He gets that ill?” Anna asked.

  “Frequently.” Zosia grabbed a piece of cheese from the tray Anna had set onthe coffee table, broke it in half, popped one bit into her mouth, and offered the other piece to Joanna.

  “Has he seen a doctor?” Anna asked, concerned.

  “Yes. The guy back at Szaflary thought it was linked to the headaches which come from all his head injuries. He said there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that might be true. Or it might be psychosomatic. Peter just gets terrified now and then; I think his fears provoke a lot of his physical symptoms, but he says that’s not the case.”

  “What about the booze, that can’t help much,” Alex suggested caustically.

  “Naw, the symptoms predate the drinking, and the alcohol actually seems to help, which is why I think it’s stress-related.”

  Alex harrumphed his disbelief.

  “Has he seen anyone here? They have some wonderful advances in medicine,” Anna pressed.

  “He asked the physician who gave him his physical about it. That fellow suggested some pills; some sort of stomach wonder drug.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Peter wouldn’t fill the prescription, said he was sick of drugs.”

  “He should at least try,” Anna insisted.

  “Maybe,” Zosia agreed. “But the physician just sort of scribbled this prescription, he didn’t really seem interested in diagnosing the problem. Anyway, unknown drugs scare Peter, so there’s no point forcing him to take them even if they do work. The stress alone would make him sick.”

  “What did they do to him?” Anna asked almost to herself.

  Zosia glanced at Joanna, then decided to answer anyway. “I gather one little game was making him swallow something which would make him violently ill.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  Alex sputtered at the stupidity of Anna’s question, but Zosia interpreted it correctly. “They were teaching him to obey any command, no matter how painful, immediately and without thought. Since he knew what was going to happen, he might well hesitate, but if he hesitated, they just upped the stakes, thus punishing him for self-defense mechanisms and, in that way, attempting to destroy any reaction on his part other than absolute, mindless obedience.”

  “It still affects him, doesn’t it?” Anna asked, though it was clearly not a question.

  “Oh, yes,” Zosia agreed. “In ways not even he is sure of.”

  “I guess that’s why he—” Anna began, but before she could say more, Alex hushed them both and they returned their attention to the screen.

  They were still talking about Peter’s assertion that he had no money.

  “How could you afford to come here?” someone asked.

  “My expenses were covered by the generosity of some local residents,” Peteranswered obscurely. His visit had never gained official status with any of the governments in exile, and the anti-Conciliation coalition had asked to remain anonymous for fear of indicating to the public at large the raging internal divisions of the exile community. “Understandably, given the Reich’s vindictiveness, they have asked to remain anonymous.”

  “And they won’t help you?”

  “They can ill afford the expense of medical treatment for the millions of victims of the Reich’s human rights abuses. I am relatively lucky—there is much, much worse. But in any case, our need is not to treat the victims; it is to prevent the abuses in the first place. We must fight them and we need your support to do that,” he answered, rallying slightly.

  They were not shaken that easily. He was the one they could see, he was there. If they could solve his problems, then in their consciences, they would have solved the world’s problems. It was a touching approach—the one little candle into the darkness philosophy—and Mann played it for what it was worth.

  “I know!” he intoned at the appropriate moment. “We have the resources! We have the ability! We can do it! Let’s get a toll-free number up on the screen.” He gestured theatrically toward his crew. “Can we do that? Can we get a toll-free number? Let’s do it! Let’s see what we can do about restoring this man’s vision!” Mann thought for a moment about linking eyesight-vision with the social-vision thing, but decided it was too difficult on the spur of the moment. “Come on, America! We have a need! Let’s see some response. Let’s get together enough to get this fellow into medical treatment! We can do it, we’re the greatest country on earth—the most generous people! Let’s see what we can do!”

  “Oh, God Almighty!” Alex howled, echoing Peter’s thoughts fairly accurately. “What the hell is that maniac doing! We’re not looking for doctors. Speak up, boy! For Christ’s sake say something!”

  “I thought he made a good stab at a turnaround,” Anna opined.

  “If it didn’t work, it wasn’t any good!” Alex almost shouted.

  Zosia motioned to him sharply to tone it down. Not only was Joanna in the room, but as she had explained to her father on numerous occasions, yelling loudly at the television did not cause the people on the screen to hear him—it only annoyed his fellow viewers.

  Peter did not speak up. He answered the questions that were put to him, conversed in general about various things, and let Mann take the show along the agenda he had set. Now and then someone announced the running total of the impromptu collection to rousing cheers from the audience.

  Dr. Whitmer finally asked why they were collecting money for this man’s medical treatment and not for a poor, black child of the notorious Docklands area. “Europe is always a mess! You Europeans are always killing each other! Why should we get entangled in another one of your stupid and interminable wars?Why all this money for a white foreigner when our own black children go without!” she accused, looking to Peter for an answer.

  Peter had lowered his head during the debate, and he kept it down as he considered her use of the word foreigner as if that meant he were a lesser being. Why an American child? Why imply that helping him excluded helping another? There were many answers to her question. Many and none. In any case, he felt too sick to argue, so he simply turned toward her, removed his glasses so she could see his eyes, the blue eyes that she so reviled, and answered distinctly, “I don’t know.”

  Alex groaned as if in pain as he watched the proceedings. The audience had completely taken over the debate with Dr. Whitmer and Jerry Mann screeching their opinions into the general melee of noise. Peter sat quietly, apparently breathing deeply to contain his nausea, probably with his eyes closed. Meanwhile the total for the collection climbed. Suddenly Alex sat up. There was a way to salvage the situation after all. Certainly they could convince the station to sign over whatever was collected not to a medical fund but to Peter personally. It would only make sense given the danger that they could claim he was in. “He has to go into hiding,” Alex muttered, practicing.

  “What are you talking about?” Anna turned to see if he was talking to the television again.

  “We’ve got to convince the station to mak
e sure Peter gets the money personally—tell them his life is in danger or some such nonsense. We’ll tell them he’ll use the money as soon as it’s safe, or better yet, under an assumed name.”

  “Why?” Anna asked.

  “So that Dad can get his hands on it,” Zosia explained.

  “Do you think you can get your husband to sign it over to an armaments fund?” Alex asked Zosia.

  “Oh, I think he’d be willing to divert most of it to something useful. He might want to reserve a bit to himself for a few things like upgrading his computer.”

  “Wouldn’t that be unfair to him?” Anna interjected. The cold-blooded calculations of her husband and children sometimes worried her. Was she the only one who thought that maybe saving his eyesight was useful? That it would be unfair to ask him to throw away this chance he had been given just to buy more guns?

  “He’s already looked into it a bit, Ma,” Zosia soothed her mother’s ruffled sensibilities. “The physician said that there was only a forty percent chance that they could even determine what was wrong. And then he said there wasn’t much guarantee they could do anything about it even then. He said it could take months of incredibly expensive tests and procedures, and that the risk of complicating whatever damage had been done might preclude treatment. All in all, he said, we’d end up a lot poorer and not very likely much better off.”

  Anna sighed. It was possible the physician had known they were impoverished and had proffered his advice accordingly, in which case a second opinionwould be worthwhile, but she did not say that. When her husband and daughter had their sights set on a goal, there was little point in arguing. If the station released the funds to him directly, Peter would sign over the money to the cause. He would have no choice.