The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Of course,” he replied, snapping himself back to the present. “Yes, I suppose we could name our child Adam,” he offered quietly.

  “Good! Then Adam it is!”

  3

  “DO YOU THINK MOMWILL FEEL BETTER by the time we get home?” Joanna asked. The day had grown cloudy, and as they walked along the path to the cemetery and the river, a wind kicked up and Joanna had to clutch at the package of sheet music that they had bought.

  “I think so, honey,” Peter answered as he scanned the tombstones, reading their inscriptions as they walked down the path. It was a German cemetery, yet some of the names leapt out at him with their obvious Polish roots. Passing they had called it in the American South; here the corpses were “passing” even indeath. It would be quite a hilarious farce if it had not cost so many lives and so much suffering.

  They stopped at the edge of the cemetery and looked out across the river. “She has some terrible headaches with this pregnancy,” he explained, “and it was best for her to stay home and relax in the quiet.”

  Zosia had woken up with the headache early in the morning and informed him that they would not be able to go into town that day. It created yet another argument. It seemed that no matter how hard they tried, they fought about everything. The planning that had gone into their trip would be wasted, it would take ages to organize another outing, and he and Joanna were both desperate to get out and about. He had promised to get her the sheet music for her piano lessons, and they had already delayed once because of weather. With these considerations in mind, he had launched into a tirade about trust. He was sick of being watched, he was sick of being treated like a second-class member of the establishment. If Zosia was too sick to go, he and Joanna would go alone.

  Zosia had looked worried, but she was clearly in pain and not prone to prolong the argument, and she quickly conceded defeat. “Fine, go,” she had said wearily, “I’ll inform them of the change of plans.”

  Joanna grabbed on to her father’s hand and looked up into his worried face. “Why do you and Mama fight so much?”

  Peter closed his eyes with embarrassment, then he opened them to look down at his daughter. “I’m sorry, baby, we don’t mean to. It’s just that we both have strong and different opinions. We don’t do it that much, and we’re getting better, aren’t we?”

  Joanna nodded noncommittally. “At Uncle Ryszard’s house, they never fought.”

  “Uncle Ryszard and Aunt Kasia handle things differently than your mum and I do. And besides, maybe you never heard them fight.”

  “Genia said they don’t.”

  “Ah. And what did you tell Genia about us?”

  “I lied,” Joanna admitted sadly. “But she knew anyway, because you and Mama fought even there.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, little one!” he moaned. “Do we embarrass you?”

  Joanna remained silent, staring out at the murky waters.

  He stooped down and swept her up into his arms. He held her and stroked her hair as she buried her face in his uniform jacket. “Look, sweetie, I think I’ve worked out a few things over the past month in America, and, well, I realize that a lot of the time I’m not fighting your mother, I’m fighting things from my past. I’ve told you a bit about the time before I came here, didn’t I?”

  “Uh-huh,” Joanna murmured through the cloth.

  “And do you remember how I said a lot of it was very difficult for me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, it’s like when you trip and fall and hurt yourself. Sometimes everythingstill hurts long after you’ve gotten up and walked away. And if you’ve hurt yourself really badly, sometimes you’re afraid to even go back anywhere near where you fell. That’s sort of what happened to me, I think. And I think that sometimes I get afraid that your mother is taking me back to that place where I was hurt, so I get scared and I fight with her.”

  “You get scared?” Joanna pulled her head back to ask in amazement.

  He nodded. “Yes, and sometimes I do things like yell at your mother for things other people did to me.”

  “That’s silly, though.”

  “I know it is, and I’ll try to change. Will that make you feel better?” he asked. He wished it were that simple, he wished that he didn’t often feel as though Zosia were viciously goading him.

  Joanna nodded.

  “Why don’t we walk back into the center and buy your mother some of those chocolates that she loves. We can surprise her with them when we get back.”

  “Oh, that would be nice,” Joanna agreed readily, not mentioning how much she loved those chocolates as well.

  “And we can go to the bookstore, too. Maybe I’ll buy your mother a cookbook.”

  Joanna giggled in reply.

  So it was they strolled back into town, doing a last bit of window-shopping as they turned into the street with the chocolatier. They stood and looked into a large shop window, admiring the display of dolls, and he wondered if one would be appropriate for Joanna at Christmas. It was unusual to give bought gifts, but he thought that this year he might break the tradition and buy each of his family members something nice.

  They turned away from the window, and Peter was unable to decide if Joanna’s interest had been genuine or just a passing attraction. The street was fairly crowded with rush-hour pedestrians and traffic, and as they passed the display windows of a large department store, Joanna strolled in front of him as there was not room to walk side by side. The flash of the first explosion— perhaps only a detonation—was visible out of the corner of his eye. He lunged at Joanna even as the other pedestrians, less trained and more complacent, walked unperturbed. He was down on the ground on top of Joanna before they even heard the noise or felt the percussion of the second, larger blast. A wall of glass and debris erupted outward, toppling the standing people like so many rag dolls. He felt the fierce wind of shrapnel buffet him, and then it was over. He rolled off Joanna, realized that he was bleeding and in pain. He glanced at himself, saw pieces of glass covered in blood embedded everywhere along his exposed back and sides. He looked at Joanna as she climbed to her feet. She looked uninjured, albeit winded.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, looking down at him.

  He nodded. “I think so. What about you?”

  “I’m fine. You’re bleeding.” She reached toward his head.

  He felt his hair; his hand came away covered in blood and splinters of glass. “I’ll be all right.” He pulled himself into a sitting position. He sat still, afraid that further movement would drive the shards that covered him deeper into his clothes and skin. He was nauseatingly dizzy and shaking violently. He tried to take in their situation, and he realized with a slow horror that the body next to them was not moving. A few yards away he saw a little girl, about Joanna’s age. Her dark curls lay in a mass about her still head, blood dripped from her ears, her mouth hung open filled with something dark and wet, her eyes stared at nothing. There was mayhem around them. Glass and bodies and people running about trying to help.

  They had to get out of there. He tried to stand, but a long shard of glass lodged behind his knee prevented him from moving. He pulled it out, wincing at the pain. Joanna extended her hand and helped him to his feet. He stood there as the world whirled around him, fading in and out. They had to get out of there, he had to move. Joanna looked up at him worriedly. Her lips moved, the word “Dad?” echoed through his head. He wanted to say something to her, but he couldn’t find the word. Something important. The world spun around him, he saw someone coming to help, he wanted to say something to Joanna, but the ground was hurtling upward to meet him even as the world went black.

  4

  “THEYGOT HIM!” Karl gloated, walking uninvited into Richard’s office.

  “What? Who?” Richard managed to feign interest. Another poor dumb shit who had got caught. He hoped he was not expected to be present at the interrogation. He had grown somewhat inured over time, but it was still not easy watching torture. Joki
ng about it afterward was particularly taxing. Maybe he could have an important prior engagement . . .

  “That bastard—that ingrate. The one who stole my car and gun and papers!”

  “What? Where?”

  “Out East of all places. In Neu Sandez. I know one of the junior officers there. He phoned just to let me know! Goes to show you—they never really looked for him. I told them he was trouble, but they had to wait until he went and showed his face on American TV—then they took me seriously!”

  “Hah. Poor bastard. What are you going to do with him?” Richard tried to sound calm. Was Zosia okay? Did they get her as well?

  “Oh, nothing. He’s out of my hands now. Seems he’s offended someone much higher up than me.” Karl winked and pointed upward.

  What, the elevator shaft? Richard wanted to say, but he nodded knowledgeably instead.

  “They’ll take good care of him, I’m sure. I just hope I get a chance to witness some of it.”

  “Is that likely?” Richard wondered.

  “Well, I hear there’s going to be a film.”

  “Really? How did they get him?”

  “Oh, he was waltzing around town—in an officer’s uniform, can you imagine!—and he got caught by one of those terrorist bombs. Probably set it himself. Anyway, at the hospital, I guess they identified him.”

  “Ah, was he, uh, alone?” Please, God, say yes.

  “No. Seems there was some kid with him. Couldn’t be his though, she’s about five, and, well, he wasn’t having kids five years ago.” Karl scowled suddenly as if his thoughts were heading in a direction he did not like.

  “I assume they’ll just release the kid,” Richard said, not believing that he had actually voiced such a naive opinion.

  “Yeah, right!” Karl laughed. “That’s good. I’ll keep you posted! Maybe we’ll get to see the film. Would you be interested?”

  “Very. I’d really like to see you get what you deserve, Karl,” Richard replied with a winning smile. Then, reaching for the phone, he added, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call.”

  5

  “HE’SWAKING UP,” the voice emerged from the darkness. His eyes fluttered but closed against the bright fluorescent lights. Finally he managed to open them, saw an unknown male face looking down at him. Behind that he could discern banks of lights, rows of beds. A hospital.

  “So, Halifax, you’ve decided to come home.”

  Peter grimaced in confusion.

  “Oh, yes, your numbers gave us all the information we needed.”

  Peter glanced down at his arm, at the numbers that had betrayed him, but he could not see them, they were bandaged—as were his other injuries. He was in a hospital bed; the back had been raised so he could see the room easily, and he realized as he tried to move that his wrists and ankles had been bound to the frame. He shuddered with fear. Joanna was nowhere in sight. Had she escaped?

  “Or should we say Herr Doktor Halifax, hmm?” the voice prodded. “Seems you’ve made a little name for yourself, eh? A mathematician. Goodness, we never appreciated your talents, now did we? Maybe we’ll have you do some sums for us, eh? Calculate how long your life is going to last, eh?”

  Peter closed his eyes against the moronic prattle, took a mental tally of his physical state. He felt hot and rather dizzy, and every part of his body hurt as if stabbed repeatedly. Yes, of course, the glass.

  The bland voice continued as if tutoring him. “Did you enjoy your sojourn in America? Hmm? You said some terrible things about us there, didn’t you? About your homeland. See? We know!”

  Peter opened his eyes to see a facsimile of a magazine page held in front of his face. It was in English—a page from a magazine article written about his American tour. The page was pulled away, and the head shook and a tongue clucked in disapproval. “You’re going to have to pay for that, you know. You belittled our land and our Führer. Such disloyalty! We can’t have that.”

  Peter looked at the speaker, but he could think of nothing to say, so he remained silent. Where was Joanna? Was she safe?

  “And then there is this fine uniform of yours and these papers! Now there we do have some questions. A five-year-old daughter—”

  Peter closed his eyes in an attempt not to show any emotion. His tongue reached to the tooth that had been loaded with poison. Still intact.

  “—when we know you were otherwise engaged five years ago. Confusing, eh?”

  The man waited as if for a response. When Peter said nothing, he finally said, “Clearly you have friends we’d like to know about. But what were you doing getting involved in such an unprofessional bombing?”

  “I had nothing to do with the bomb.”

  “Probably not. Oh, well, just bad luck, eh?” His inquisitor smiled. He motioned to the guard nearby. “Untie him.”

  They released him from the bed and helped him to his feet, then handed him his clothes and helped him to put them on. His arms were grabbed before he could do up the buttons of the uniform jacket, and his wrists were locked behind his back, then he was pushed in the direction of the door. As they half-walked, half-carried him out of the ward, he realized that he was surrounded by victims of the bombing. A visitor looked at him and his entourage and hissed aloud, “That’s one of the terrorists!”

  “Kill him,” someone said.

  “Slowly,” someone else muttered.

  A woman who was walking between the rows of beds overheard and turned to look at him.“Murderer!” she hissed, and spat at him.

  He shook his head but did not otherwise respond as his guards hustled him from the room. They led him out of the hospital and into a car. A short journey later they arrived at a nondescript town house. There was no sign over the door, no indication of what lay within. Inside, they passed two sentries and walked along a hallway and down a staircase into what was presumably the cellar. Peter’s inquisitor rapped on a door and it was opened to reveal a small, dark room with a window looking into another room. The guards remained outside as he and the inquisitor stepped into the room.

  Peter’s heart sank as he looked through the one-way mirror. It revealed a similarly small room with only a table and a chair and one lonely occupant. Joanna sat calmly at the table. In front of her was a bowl of oatmeal or something, which she ate dutifully as though she had been ordered to do so. Peter’s companion smiled at his reaction. “So you know her.”

  “No,” he replied steadily, “she’s just a kid.”

  “I don’t think so. Her papers say you’re her father.”

  “You know I’m not. She’s just some kid.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we harm her.” The inquisitor pressed a button recessed in the wall. A woman entered Joanna’s room. She had a piano wire in her hands.

  “No. Don’t,” Peter breathed.

  “So, she means something to you?” the man asked as the woman stretched the wire between her hands. Joanna sat stiffly, staring determinedly straight ahead; she did not even turn to look at the woman.

  “No, I just don’t want to see a kid hurt. Let her go! She’s just a kid,” Peter pleaded.

  The man pressed the button again and the woman left the room. “Thank you,” he said sardonically. “You’ve told us all we need to know.”

  Peter was led out of the room and back into the corridor. The turn of events surprised him—what were they playing at? He was led to another door and into a slightly larger room. There were few furnishings: a table off to the side, a high-backed metal chair with sturdy crosspieces near a wall, both bolted to the floor, and a camera on a tripod pointed so that it focused on the chair. It looked all too familiar.

  He sighed. He had hoped they would wait a bit—give the encampment time to organize something. What could he tell them that would buy time? What useless information could he offer in exchange for a few hours? How much should he tolerate before he started talking? He was afraid they might resort to drugs immediately—if they did that, he would have to decide quickly, while he st
ill had a free will, whether suicide was the only option. Would they release Joanna if he was dead? He suspected not; he suspected that she would remain alive only as long as they thought she could be used as a way of getting him to talk. So, he would have to stay alive even if they started using drugs. And he would have to keep his mouth shut about so much! He trembled as he realized how desperate his situation was—could he buy enough time? Could he get them to use violence instead of drugs? Perhaps he could provoke them into knocking him out: that would buy a few hours . . .

  He glanced around. There were two guards as well as the interrogator, but no one was holding him at the moment. He bolted for the door. It was slammed shut before he could reach it, and his arms were grabbed by the guards. The interrogator hit him in the face, but only once. He struggled against them with all his might, tried to kick them, but all they did was drag him into the chair and tie him to it. He fought them the entire time, making their job as difficult as possible, but they remained unprovoked. His arms were draped over the back andbound into place, and his ankles were tied to the legs. The base of his skull was pressed back against the top crosspiece, and a length of insulated electrical wire was wrapped around his neck, twisted once, and then wrapped around the crosspiece and the two ends carefully twisted together. The wire was not particularly tight, and given that his arms were already wrenched behind the chair, it did not affect his mobility greatly. Nor did it affect his breathing, and if he did not move, it did not even hurt him, but it did prevent him from lowering his head, and he guessed its intent was to keep him from bowing his head out of sight of the camera. Once he was safely immobilized, one of the guards punched him viciously in the stomach in retribution for his resistance; he jerked forward violently, discovered the exact painful limits of the wire, but did not, unfortunately, lose consciousness.

  He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself and waited for the inevitable. His tongue probed his tooth again. He had to stay alive for Joanna; he had to die if they came at him with a syringe. Which? Would they just release her if he died? Could he stay alive and say nothing to betray the encampment? Perhaps he could lead them on a wild-goose chase—start with useless information and drag them through an entire false confession. Then if they resorted to drugs, they would probe in the wrong direction, and he might say nothing useful. He took one second more to gather his courage and then opened his eyes.