The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “No!” Zosia slapped the table. “The last thing she’d want is to lose her home as well as us! She’ll stay there!”

  Alex made a face as if he disagreed, but realized that arguing with Zosia was useless. “Well, let’s hope it never comes to that,” he said finally, then switching to Polish he joined Anna and Joanna in their conversation.

  60

  ONLY ONE APPEARANCE WAS scheduled for that day. It had been arranged well before all the publicity, and so the tiny church hall on Lexington was completely inadequate to accommodate the audience. Folding tables laden with pamphlets, magazines, books, and membership forms were set up at the back, each one staffed by several representatives from an exile organization. Peter and the host sat on folding chairs at the front on a small, raised stage and waited for the program to begin. As he waited, Peter scanned the tables: arms-running fronts for well-established Underground groups, political action fronts, religious affiliations, the Prisoners-of-Conscience International Foundation, friendship organizations, aid organizations, nationalists, internationalists . . . Some names he did not even recognize. Of those he did, some he wholeheartedly supported, others he had his doubts about, and a few worried him with their alarming agendas and uncontrolled memberships prone to acts of wanton and useless violence.

  He studied the contents of one table loaded with various devices: long rods with handles, short rods that looked like torches or flashlights, a heavy belt with something attached, a curved metal object, odd-looking knives . . . He squinted to read the table’s banner: an aid organization for political prisoners. Putting the name together with comments he had heard, he guessed the devices were instruments of torture manufactured in the NAU that somehow found their way into the hands of the secret police of repressive regimes.

  Feeling vaguely ill, he turned his gaze to the walls. Maybe it was those coffees he had drunk the night before, or possibly it was the American cigarettes—they were different from what he was used to. Filtered, for one thing, but they also had a funny taste. They must have something in them, he thought.

  There seemed to be a minor commotion at the back of the room. The people who had bought tickets in advance were the sort who had been interested in European affairs even before the media circus. They were trying to get in past the crowd clamoring for the few unsold tickets. Those were the ones who would befascinated this week and forget his existence by next. Oh, well, as long as their money was good, he didn’t really care.

  Eventually one of the organizers decided to move the folding tables to another room and use the extra space for more chairs, thus increasing the atthedoor admissions. The grand rearrangement would delay the start of the modest program, that was clear. Resigned to the inevitable, Peter lowered his head, closed his eyes, and let his mind wander.

  Zosia, Joanna, impressions of America. Home, the smell of pine, the claustrophobic damp cement. Young faces, children—all staring at him. He checked; no, it was not the Vogel children. Row upon row of faces. All scrubbed clean, all boys in uniform. He looked down on them from an adult height. Not something from his school days. Where in the world . . . ? Their expressions were a mixture of curiosity, contempt, boredom. He was supposed to say something, he knew that, but what?

  His hands were shaking, he looked down at the small length of chain connecting his wrists. Another chain led down from his wrists to one that bound his ankles together. Shackled such that he could hardly walk. Now he remembered, he had hobbled into the schoolroom under guard, had been presented to the students as an object lesson. It was part of his reeducation, something from long ago that he had chosen to forget, a day from those three months of special treatment. Under torture he had been taught what to say, had memorized pompous words of self-denunciation. But they were lost to him. The boys waited expectantly but he was speechless. They had used so much pain to teach him the words, all he could remember was the pain. He was shaking with fear, with the knowledge of what they would do to him if he failed, but he could not remember what he was supposed to say!

  Someone prodded him roughly. Speak! But he couldn’t; he could not even remember the first word. He knew the gist of it, that he was evil and recognized his evil and begged the Fatherland to accept his service as expiation, but that was useless—he had forgotten the words and he had none of his own. He stood helplessly shaking; the boys grew restless. Somebody prodded him again, then he was hit several times. That only terrified him more, pushed the words even further from his mind. Finally, fed up, somebody had grabbed him and dragged him stumbling over his chains out of the room.

  Their retribution for his failure had been horrible and, even now, completely forgotten.

  Why that memory? Why now? he wondered as he opened his eyes and looked at the audience. Not the rows of faces, not the people looking up at him; it wasn’t that. Another table, now empty, was turned sideways; its legs were unlocked and folded down with a distinctive creak. The metal legs snapped into position against the wooden surface with a resounding thunk, and he flinched in response.

  That was it—the tables! Their retribution. Suddenly it all came back to him.In their rush to punish him for his insubordination, for his eloquent, unintended silence, they had not even bothered to take him back across the vast installation to the prison; instead they had hustled him along the hall, hurled him down the stairs into the basement of the school. He remembered how he had tripped over his chains, tumbled to the bottom of the steps, and lain in a miserable, helpless heap. The words had come to him then, as if by magic, and he had desperately recited them, begging them to return him to the classroom. But they were far too furious with him; screaming obscenities and threats at him the entire way, they had dragged him to his feet and into the boiler room, and there, shutting the massive steel doors behind them, they had unfolded a stored table. He could still hear how the legs groaned, how the metal catches snapped noisily into place. They had thrown him onto the table on his back, not even bothering to remove his chains, letting his head hang partly over the edge. The edge of the table pressed against his skull, and he remembered the view as he had looked up and backward: asbestos-covered pipes and a concrete wall. They had tied a length of rope from one elbow, down under the table, to the other; he remembered the cutting pain as they jerked the rope tight, how it pulled the chain between his wrists taut. They had used another rope and the chain between his ankles to tie his feet down and had then beaten him mercilessly with a length of electrical cord, the old-fashioned way. No drugs, no equipment, just pure, unmitigated anger, for he had humiliated his trainer.

  His hands had been trapped by the way they had tied him, and he remembered how he had struggled vainly to spread them over his lower abdomen and groin to protect himself. The cable had cut across the tendons on the back of his hands, leaving welts that had taken ages to heal. “A folding table,” he muttered, inspecting his hands for identifiable scars.

  “Hmm?” the host, next to him, asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Are you from this area?” Peter’s voice shook slightly.

  “No.” The host smiled. “I moved to the Free City ten years ago. I’m trying to raise my family here. It’s a bit rough, you know, overcrowded, the prices are so high, the extra taxes . . .”

  Peter listened to the reassuring litany of complaints, nodding his head in solemn agreement.

  The program went well and the questions were knowledgeable, coming mostly from the front of the room—the location where the advance-ticket holders were seated. There were a lot of questions about England from people who had left decades ago. What was it like, how were the people faring? Was his experience in some way typical? They were thirsty for any uncensored news, and Peter felt sorry that he had nothing new to offer; he had not been home in over ten years.

  Then the questions turned back to him and one woman rose and asked, “Mr. Halifax, you’ve been through a lot. You were imprisoned or enslaved for a long time. Are you free now?” She tapped her chest. “Free here?”

  He h
eld her gaze for a long moment. He did not know what to say. The audience was expectantly silent, not even a cough or a shuffle of feet. The woman gave him a weak but encouraging smile, and he realized he was talking to someone who also had experiences of some sort. He felt he owed her something, but he did not know whether it was the truth, or a comforting lie.

  He scanned the faces in the room, looking for the answer. Did he dare tell them what he felt? The pain, the isolation, the unending fear? The irrational anger, the sudden surges of overpowering hatred? The horrible feeling that his own mind had been turned against him? The weariness at being perpetually grateful to everyone? The pathetic and selfish desire that someone, somewhere, might recognize his self-sacrifice and maybe, just once, say thank-you? Did he dare speak the truth for the sake of the one or two in the audience who might feel comforted to know that they were not alone in their perpetual torment? Or must he betray them and tell comforting lies to serve the greater good? His eyes fell upon Alex, and he recognized the growing anger in his handler’s expression. There were only seconds left before his silence would say more than any words. Spit it out! Alex was telling him. Give them what they need!

  “Yes,” he said at last, his voice more unsteady than he would have liked. “Yes, I’m free. Completely free.”

  There was a silence after that, as if they all expected something more to be said. He lowered his head as he waited for the host to select the next question, but nobody wanted to intrude.

  Peter raised his head and spoke into the silence. “I’ve escaped. And that’s what I want for others—the freedom that I have, the peace that I have found. If you can support us in our fight, I want you to know that it would make all that I suffered worthwhile.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he forced himself to emphasize, “All of it.” He took a deep breath, saw that Alex’s expression had softened to approval.

  “I want to thank all of you,” Peter continued. “I want to express my deepest gratitude for what you who support us have done, and I want to encourage those of you who have remained aloof to please join us. We need you, we need your help, and we are truly grateful. Your money will do wonders for us—my own story bears witness to that.” He paused and swallowed, then allowed himself to add, “I would also like to take this opportunity to publicly express my undying gratitude to those who have personally helped me and for the infinite patience they have shown me.” He did not turn his head toward her, but he let his eyes stray to where Zosia was discreetly sitting. She caught his look and returned a cautious smile of recognition.

  Afterward he wandered down into the audience and continued to chat with the various people who approached him. Nobody came up and spat out the word traitor, and Peter imagined if he had disappointed anyone with his words, then they had already left, perhaps to pick up the bottle or the knife or whatevergave them solace. How many suicides? he wondered. How many suicides would now be on his conscience? A few people who spoke with him did use the word inspiring and he blanched but accepted the praise without comment.

  The host eventually came over and asked if Peter would casually move into the room with the tables so that the crowd might follow. “We’ve done them a bit of a disservice, hiding them away like that, and it would be nice if we could get these people to that room to look at what they have to offer,” the host explained sheepishly.

  Peter followed him to the other room, and as predicted, many of the audience wandered along with them. The crowd milled around talking to the representatives at each table, or to each other, and a small group continued talking with him. He wandered mindlessly with them, chatting, listening to their stories, relaxing as the mob became more diffuse and he became less the center of attention and more just another body in the crowd. As he talked with an enthusiastic young woman, he casually leaned against one of the tables and his hand brushed against something strangely familiar. Without interrupting himself, he glanced backward and stopped in midsentence.

  His hand was resting on a small black device the size of a flashlight. One end had a handle with a trigger, some sort of dial, and a switch; the other end was narrower and had some exposed metal prongs. He tried to move his hand, but it felt like lead; his mouth went dry and his breathing became heavy. The bright lights overhead washed out the images of the people around him, and the noise of the room blurred into an indistinct roar as his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

  Unfair, that had been the word that had ridiculously come into his mind at the time. It had been unfair and undeserved. His torturer had arbitrarily chosen him, pulling him out of a work gang, to demonstrate a new device imported, he had said, from America. He had called it a stun gun and had casually prodded Peter with the end to show its effect to a group of officers touring the prison. The result had been staggeringly painful. His legs had buckled and he had collapsed to the ground under the agonizing effect of the jolt of electricity it had delivered. They had pulled him to his feet, and as he saw his torturer approach him with the device again, he had pulled loose from the hands that held him and protested his innocence, almost yelling, “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Now you have,” the man taunted. His torturer had punished him for that insubordination by having two of the entourage hold him and, with the help of other hands pulling brutally at his face, ramming the device down his throat. When the trigger was pressed, an excruciating current raced through his body. He remembered hearing his own muffled screams, remembered his convulsive struggling, remembered how timeless moments later they had surveyed him, commenting on the device’s effectiveness as he lay crumpled in agony on the ground, drooling blood and drenched in excrement.

  A voice or voices emerged through the roaring waterfall of his pain. “Are you all right?” he heard. Marysia, Konrad, Zosia . . . No, someone else, and Englishwords, not German. He was looking across at a face so he had to be standing. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked again. “Are you all right?” an intense-looking, thin, bearded man behind a table asked again.

  Peter turned half around and saw the woman he had been talking to. “Are you all right?” she echoed.

  “Did they use these on you?” the man asked, his concern suddenly turning to avid interest. He interpreted Peter’s stunned silence as an affirmation. “Could you speak on behalf of our group? We really need to raise consciousness. Could you speak for us?”

  Peter shook his head and said softly,“No.”

  “Please! We really need to raise funds, to get legislation passed. You must!”

  “No,” Peter repeated softly.

  “You must speak out!” the man pressed almost angrily. “It’s not fair! You must help us!”

  “No,” Peter mouthed. He kept shaking his head and saying “No” over and over even as he backed away, even as he thought of Teresa’s word for him. Courage? “No,” he said, crossing the room to the exit. “No,” he was still whispering as he left the hall.

  The following day there were two magazine interviews. Both were mass circulation, nonintellectual newsmagazines; both had not been interested in his story when offered exclusive interviews before his arrival. Peter had scanned both magazines to determine their styles before the interviews, and other than for the typeset and paragraph layout, he was unable to discern a difference between them. They were identical competitors for the same soft-news, gee-whiz market, and he responded to each reporter’s identical questions with identical answers.

  “Should have just shown the second one a videotape of the first interview,” he told Zosia over the phone.

  She grunted as she pulled on her stockings while holding the phone against her shoulder with her head. “Did they take photos?”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll make the cover.” He laughed. “We went into the park for the one magazine. Settled for the lobby with the other.”

  “Did you at least get lunch or dinner out of them?” Zosia struggled with her other stocking.

  “Lunch from the first one. But Alex said there’d be food at Engl
and House tonight, so I turned down dinner.”

  “Are you ready yet?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “No, not yet. And I’ve got to help Joanna. I should get going.”

  “Okay, uh, Zosia, one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Do I have a bodyguard now?”

  There was an embarrassed silence, then a quiet,“Um, yeah.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since that incident with the Nazis,” she answered reluctantly.

  “Was that your idea?”

  Again a silence.

  “Was it?”

  “Yes. Why? Do you mind?”

  “Yes, call him off.”

  There was another silence.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. All right,” she agreed, resigned.“I’ll see you there,” she added and hung up.

  61

  THERE WAS DINNER, a very nice dinner. The reception had been organized in honor of a substantial donation from the estate of Lillian Rose Devon, and therefore, though Peter drew curious glances, he was not the center of attention.

  “Next year,” the woman next to him at the head table confided, “we’re going to establish a Devon award for notable contributions to the Underground cause. I’m sure you’ll be a shoo-in for that!”

  “That would be a singular honor,” Peter said agreeably, thinking that next year, they would be hard-pressed to remember his name. He did not bother to ask how they hoped to honor people who by the nature of their work needed to remain anonymous. Instead, he made polite conversation about the award and the Devon family while scanning the tables to see if he could locate Zosia. Finally he spotted her. He continued to look in her direction, hoping to catch her eye, but she was deep in conversation with someone and at length he gave up.

  He was not asked to make a speech, was not even mentioned by any of the speakers. Apparently the invitation had been solely to win him over rather than to have him win over the audience. Indeed the audience—volunteers, government officials, Underground liaisons—was already completely committed to the cause and had no need to hear from him. It was a relief, and in a rush of gratitude he felt slightly guilty that he had not mentioned an English organization on the late-night show. They had rescued him from the streets, had provided him with a raison d’Ítre, were fighting for his homeland; didn’t he owe them some loyalty?