The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “I’ve got to get down there before he does something stupid with that money. You stay here,” Alex said to Zosia as he rummaged for his documentation and credentials, “there might be cameras around. I’ll see what I can do.” As he headed toward the door, he turned toward Anna and asked, “Do you want to come along?”

  Anna shook her head emphatically.

  57

  AS THE SHOW wrapped up, Peter walked off the set. He was not interested in the numerous people who approached him; he just made a polite apology and forced his way through to the backstage area. There, a security guard kept the crowd at bay as the same young woman who had escorted him before came to greet him. “We need to go to the back office so you can see about this collection Jerry organized. What a marvelous humanitarian he is!”

  “Yes, he’s something all right,” Peter responded mordantly. He still felt like puking.

  As they entered the office in the back, Alex looked up from harassing the man behind the desk and beamed guiltily at Peter. “Ah, my boy, there you are!”

  “Isn’t it customary,” Peter asked in Polish, “to wait until the corpse is cold before stealing the coins from its eyes?”

  The office staff looked at him blankly, Alex’s smile wavered just the briefest second, then he replied in English, “Good to see you, too! What a wonderful man that Jerry is, isn’t he?”

  “A marvelous humanitarian,” Peter responded, borrowing his guide’s words.

  “How do you feel?” Alex had not noticed on the television how pale Peter was.

  “Ill,” Peter responded tersely.

  “Sophie sent you some lemonade,” Alex said, picking up a sealed cup he had set on the desk and handing it to Peter.“Homemade.”

  “Oh, we have drinks here!” Peter’s guide responded with alacrity. “I should have offered you something. I’m sorry! Would you like a soda?”

  “No, this will do. Thanks,” Peter murmured as he tasted the vodka and lime. Thank God for Zosia’s sense of humor.

  As Peter began to relax, Alex explained helpfully, “I was just discussing this collection—”

  “What’s the total?” Peter interrupted to ask the man behind the desk.

  The clerk tapped a few commands into the computer on his desk, waited a moment, then announced, “Four hundred fifty thousand has been promised so far.”

  “Is it genuine?” Peter asked as he studied the high technology scattered about like so much cheap office equipment.

  “We’ve collected a lot by credit card—that you’ll get. The rest are pledges— expect about fifty percent of those to materialize.” Clearly they had this operation well established.

  “Um,” Peter agreed noncommittally as he finished the last of Zosia’s drink. “How’s it disbursed?”

  “Once we’ve collected it all, we’ll deposit it into a special account to pay your medical bills.” The clerk hesitated, then added, “Of course, we’ll need to take a minor administrative fee. Fifteen percent.”

  “That won’t work,” Peter replied, feeling a bit better, or at least a little more numb. “I’ll probably have to go into hiding and change my name. I won’t be able to use the funds if they are in a medical account.”

  “We could deposit them directly into your personal account,” the clerk offered. “Of course, the administrative fees will be higher. Twenty percent.”

  The woman who had escorted Peter shifted uneasily.

  “Five percent,” Peter replied, “and I won’t feel obliged to mention these fees to my next audience.”

  There was a slight hesitation, then the clerk pressed a button and picked up the phone. He explained the situation, nodded his head, and cradled the phone, smiling. “Ten percent and we won’t mention the redirection.”

  “Three,” Peter countered. Alex smiled—he could have saved himself a trip.

  “Three? That wouldn’t even cover our expenses!”

  “Charge it to advertising costs,” Peter suggested.

  The clerk excused himself and left the room. When he returned, he suggested timidly, “Five?”

  “Done,” Peter agreed.

  “We’ll need your bank details.”

  “I live under a pseudonym and have no accounts or legal standing in this country. Sign it all over to my agent here. Mr. Przewalewski will see that it is used as intended.” Peter indicated Alex with a brusque wave of the hand.

  Alex could not believe his luck—no cajoling, no bargaining, no sharing with the Brits! A list formed in his head: rifles, bullets, detonators . . . How much could they get? He suppressed an urge to hug his son-in-law.

  “All of it?” the clerk asked.

  “Every fucking penny,” Peter answered bitterly. He picked up a pen and a loose sheet of paper off the desk, and at the bottom of the blank page he signed his name. “Fill in the details,” he ordered curtly as he handed the page to Alex. As Alex stared nonplussed at the signature, Peter, without another word, walked out of the office.

  The woman who had been assigned to help Peter stared after him. She thought perhaps she should follow, but he had seemed so determinedly rude that she decided he could find his own way out. He had been so charming upon his arrival and now he was so sullen! “Moody fellow,” she muttered to herself. Alex and the clerk nodded their agreement.

  As he walked down the hall toward an exit, Peter was unable to shake the feeling-that it had been an utter disaster. Not financially—that part had at least been salvaged, but in every other way it was a pointless and humiliating experience. He had been there to talk about their fight for freedom and had ended up in a debate about medical expenses. Had anybody been convinced of anything? The media circus was beginning to wear on him. And these headaches, the nausea— they were so overwhelming and so unpredictable! God, to show such weakness in front of so many people! He had been obliged to retreat into morose silence throughout the last portion of the show. What would people think?

  He walked out the back door into the sultry late afternoon. The heat hit him in the face like a blast from a furnace. Even with his protective shades, he winced at the bright sunshine, and it took a moment to realize a small knot of people were gathered there, ostensibly waiting for him. One or two had cameras mounted like second heads on their shoulders, a few others had the intense look of local reporters, but the rest seemed to have no news affiliation whatsoever. The heavy metal door clanged shut behind him, and he realized it was too late to retreat back into the building.

  As he descended the few steps into the crowd, he noticed that a number of the people were in a group. They were all young men with shaved heads, each wearing, despite the oppressive heat, heavy black boots. They sported sleeveless T-shirts and an array of tattoos on their arms including the crossed-ax symbol that was the ubiquitous replacement for the illegal swastika.

  “Hey! Nigger lover!” one called out to him.

  Huh? That would not have been Dr. Whitmer’s opinion, he thought in a sudden confusion. The heat pummeled him, and the sun had reignited the pain in his head.

  “Fucking Jew!” another shouted.

  “Faggot!”

  “Motherfucker!”

  Then somebody yelled, “Traitor!”

  He turned toward the one who had said that. “To whom?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “To the white race!” the youth shouted in reply. “You’re a weakling!”

  “Inferior!”

  “They’re defending our race and you betray them!”

  “They should have shot you!”

  “Bet he’s not even white! Bet if we scrape a bit, we’ll find he’s a nigger!” a lad asserted, pulling out a knife and brandishing it threateningly.

  Peter sighed. They were blocking his exit. Then another of them pulled out a small gun; his comrades pulled back slightly to form a loose circle around Peter. The several reporters and cameramen jumped back in alarm, or perhaps excitement. They had been sent out to get a “local-color segment” lasting a few seconds and more likely to be
canned than screened, and here they were witnesses to a confrontation, maybe even a murder! It would make the headlines!

  Peter glanced at the media people, thoroughly disgusted. It was clear he could expect no help from that quarter. As they whispered excitedly into their microphones, he turned his gaze back to the boys and surveyed them contemptuously.

  “Call that a gun?” he asked, pointing at the ridiculous weapon. Diplomacy, explanations, even a debate, might have been more effective than ridicule, but he was in no mood for chatter. His head hurt.

  “Want to try it?” the boy answered.

  “Sure,” Peter responded, and indicating the spot in front of him, said, “Stand here—the cameras will get a better view of your ugly face.”

  The boy hesitated, realizing suddenly the possible consequences of his brazen action. His mouth jerked convulsively as he tried to think of a way out, but it was too late. His options were to commit a felonious assault with a weapon oncamera or to back down in front of his comrades. Actually, he had no choice. On the one hand, the justice system would imprison him, he’d be a hero in the jail, and he’d be a hero when he got out. On the other hand, his buddies would humiliate him, beat him up, and possibly kill him. Unaware that he was taking orders from his intended victim, he went and stood where Peter had indicated.

  The fellow with the knife was looking quite surly at being upstaged. Peter glanced at him, fixing his height, weight, and location in his head, then he turned back toward the boy with the gun and waited. At the moment the boy raised the gun, Peter executed a sweeping kick that knocked it out of the boy’s hand and continued up and into the knife wielder’s face. Peter landed slightly off-balance, hammering a knee into the ground, but he quickly recovered into a crouch and spun around, prepared to take on all comers.

  There was no reaction—they stood with their mouths stupidly open. The boy who had held the gun stared disconsolately at his hand; the one with the knife was on the ground moaning and holding his face. Seeing their condition, Peter straightened and walked over to the gun. It lay outside the circle of bullies, and as he went through them, they found the wherewithal to move aside. All but the knife wielder turned to look at him.

  Peter picked up the gun, sputtering derisively as he looked at it. “Little boys shouldn’t play with grown-up things,” he muttered to himself, and removed the clip. He tossed the gun onto the ground near the reporters and pocketed the clip.

  Contemptuously, he scanned the boys, who were only just beginning to recover themselves, and said, “You really are too stupid for words.” Then he turned and walked off.

  One of the men whom Peter had thought was a reporter jogged after him.“Mr. Halifax!” he called out as he caught up with Peter. Peter did not stop walking, but the irritating fellow jogged jovially around in front of him and kept pace with him by trotting backward. “You don’t believe, sir, do you?”

  “What?”

  “Jesus. You don’t believe in Jesus, do you?” He shoved a pamphlet toward Peter.

  “I’m sorry”—Peter shook his head in vague disbelief—“I don’t understand.” When would they leave him alone?

  “Jesus loves you. Jesus will solve your every problem. It’s all in here! Read it!” The man pushed the pamphlet into Peter’s hands.

  Peter nodded as he grasped the literature. Was the entire country insane?

  “You should love your enemies. Turn the other cheek! Remember, Jesus loves you.”

  Peter formulated a scathing response, but then, remembering the presence of the microphones, he decided against saying anything. There were a lot of religious people among their financial backers; it was better to remain silent. He smiled and responded to the man’s assertion by saying, “I’m sure he does.” Peter pocketed the pamphlet, putting it next to the bullets and, waving farewell, quickened his pace so that he could lose his new backward-trotting friend.

  The phone rang and rang. It took forever for Peter to drag himself out of the deep sleep into which he had retreated. Elspeth would be furious, he had to wake himself up before she noticed he was sleeping, before she started kicking him. Oh, God, those new shoes of hers. They hurt. His whole side hurt from yesterday morning. And he had not cleaned them yet, even though she had told him to. But how could he, she was always wearing them! He had to wait until night, and last night he had forgotten. He would have to do them tonight, he dare not forget again. Was it night? Had he forgotten again? Was that why he was having trouble waking up? Damn, the telephone!

  He rolled over in his bed and stared at it. A bed. A telephone. America. It was still daylight; he must not have slept long since returning from the studio. Certainly not long enough to lose his headache. He sighed and picked up the receiver.

  “What the hell happened?” Alex’s voice leapt out at him.

  “Huh?”

  “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “What?”

  “You’re on the news. That little encounter with those boys. Did you know it was filmed?”

  “Hah! How could I not know? They were five meters away—those cowards!” Peter rubbed his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you call us?”

  “Why?” Peter squinted and blinked, trying to bring his vision into focus.

  “So we could prepare!”

  “Prepare what?”

  “A statement.” Alex stopped short of saying, “You idiot!”

  “I think the incident was self-explanatory,” Peter responded angrily. For this his blessed sleep had been disturbed?

  “But it was a great opportunity!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you blew your chance to say something profound there, but we could still have issued a statement after the fact.”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  “Peter! I don’t expect to hear that sort of language.”

  “Then I’ll spare you.” Peter hung up the phone. He turned over to fall back asleep, but the phone rang again almost immediately. He stared at it a moment, then swearing quietly to himself, he reached over and picked it up.

  “What?” he grated into the receiver.

  “It’s me,” Zosia’s voice greeted him.

  “Oh. Hi, darling. Sorry, I thought it was your father.”

  “I’m sorry about all that.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “But it was a great opportunity, and now it’s gone,” Zosia chided without meaning to, having redirected her anger to something other than that she was still trembling with fear.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Look, I’m sick, I’m tired, and I really need to rest. I’m sorry I missed a great chance to turn on the propaganda machine, but for heaven’s sake, Zosia, I’m only human. Couldn’t you at least congratulate me on handling the situation?”

  “You took an unnecessary risk there.” The local news program had opened by announcing, “International violence on our streets, foreign visitor greeted by mob as he leaves local studio,” and had shown a teaser of the newsclip. Only after interminable commercials and introductions had she finally seen the outcome even as her father was getting no answer from Peter’s room. When Zosia saw the gun pointed at her husband, she did not know whether he had survived the encounter, did not know as she sat there appalled, her daughter hugging her in fear, if she was witnessing his execution: he had not bothered to call when he got back to the hotel.

  “I called it the way I saw it,” Peter argued wearily.

  “You could have talked them out of it. You should have at least tried diplomacy.”

  “I decided action was best.”

  “But you should never have tried to get both at once; that was unnecessary. The guy with the knife was no threat,” she lectured like the training coach she had once been.

  “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “What if it hadn’t? They might have all jumped you if you landed on the ground.”

  “But I didn’t!” he responded angrily. Thanks for your support and advice, he thought sarca
stically.

  “You hurt yourself on that landing, didn’t you?”

  “My knees always hurt,” he replied defensively. It was not lack of skill on his part that had thrown him off-balance; rather, both assailants had offered less resistance than one would have expected—as a consequence he had overcompensated on the force of his kick and had to absorb the unused power on his landing.

  “You may have done permanent damage.”

  “Zosiu, I called it as I saw it! Damn it, I’ve worked hard to overcome my physical limitations and get back into fighting form, the least you could do is congratulate me on my obvious success!”

  “Congratulations.” Her voice sounded cold.

  “Where’s Joanna?” he asked suddenly.

  “I’ll put her on,” Zosia replied in a subdued voice.

  “Hi, Daddy!” Joanna’s cheerful voice greeted him a few seconds later. Funny to think she was only a few blocks away. “I saw you on TV! You looked great! But I was scared when that man pointed the gun at you.” She spoke German to him—it was ironically the easiest language for the two of them.

  “Yeah, I was scared, too, sweetie,” he responded in German while wondering if they should not switch to a dual-language communication—she could speak Polish and he would reply in English.

  “Why didn’t you call us afterward?” Joanna asked. Somehow, the question was different coming from her.

  What had he been thinking? “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t think you would see it. I felt so ill, I just climbed into bed and fell asleep. I’m sorry, baby, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “I was really proud when you knocked them both over.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart, I needed to hear that.” He imagined the look of pride on her face and smiled at the image. “I love you, little one.”

  “I love you, too. I miss seeing you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Will you visit us this evening?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I have another talk show to do. I’ll try and sneak over there tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay. Love you, Daddy.”