The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  The interrogator seemed to be waiting for something; he glanced nervously at the door and drummed his fingers on the table. After a moment, an SS officer entered the room, placed a file on the table, and went to stand, somewhat disinterestedly, by the door. As if this were his cue, the interrogator motioned toward the camera, and one of the guards went over to it and pressed a button. A red light indicated it was filming. The interrogator straightened, indicating his awareness of his important role as narrator, and approached his prisoner.

  Peter surveyed the man calmly. Working around the pain in his jaw and stomach, he asked conversationally, “What do you want from me?”

  “Many things. Many, many things. But that can wait,” the interrogator replied ominously. “You’ll talk to us by and by. I’m sure you’ll tell us everything you know. You’ll beg to talk to us, then you’ll beg to die. But we have other business to tend to first.”

  “What other business?” Peter asked, hoping to initiate some sort of dialogue. He ignored the interrogator and directed his question toward the officer with the assumption that he was in charge; he hoped his action would distract the interrogator by irritating him. Anything to waste time.

  The interrogator slugged him, snarling, “I ask the questions here!” Then, calming himself, he reached inside his jacket and removed a pair of dark sunglasses. He held them up and dangled them in front of Peter. “Do you recognize these?” he asked rhetorically.

  Peter shook his head. They were not the pair he had worn in America, but they looked a great deal like them.

  “Seems you are fond of talking about your eyes. Worried that we have damaged them, isn’t that so?” The interrogator did not wait for an answer, but instead clumsily shoved the glasses at Peter’s face to put them on him.

  Peter winced, held his eyes shut as an earpiece jabbed into his eye. Finally, the interrogator managed to seat them correctly on Peter’s face. Cautiously, he opened his eyes; the interrogator had stooped down to look directly into his face and said sardonically, “There he is: darling of the American media. Doesn’t look so self-confident now, does he?” The interrogator glanced at the SS officer and was rewarded with a grunt of approval.

  Peter felt himself trembling, but there was nothing he could do to calm himself; he knew all too well the odds against him.

  The interrogator stroked Peter’s cheek. “Look at how the coward shakes!” he mocked, then smacked him lightly across the face. “Such a fine face—it would be a shame to cut it up. Hmm?” The interrogator’s hand stroked gently along Peter’s skin, plucked a piece of glass from his hair that had been missed. Then the interrogator smirked a bit, shook his head at the sunglasses. “But no, no—they just don’t work for you. We’ll have to do better.” In one abrupt motion, the interrogator backhanded Peter at the temple, sending the glasses flying across the room. They landed near a guard, who then stooped to pick them up.

  “Crush them,” the interrogator ordered, and the guard mindlessly obeyed and destroyed the glasses.

  It seemed an odd thing to do, and Peter did not bother to search for the veiled threat—it would be made clear soon enough. Indeed, the interrogator did explain the action: “You won’t be needing those! You won’t be needing anything! You so bitterly complained about what was done to your eyes—well, we’ll show you what you missed! After all your grievous accusations against us, we feel obliged to help. We will solve your problem for you and make sure you have no reason to complain about your vision ever again.”

  With that the interrogator pulled out a switchblade, and holding it near Peter’s face, let the blade leap out. In response, Peter’s head jumped back the few centimeters that he had between his skull and the back of the chair. The interrogator menacingly brought the blade forward, and once Peter could move his head no farther back, the interrogator brought the blade in to touch his eye. Peter had squeezed his eyes shut in fear, but dared not move farther as he felt the razor-sharp edge against his eyelid. The interrogator drew the knife slowly over the eyelid and along the skin above and below his eye as if tracing a surgical pattern. Involuntarily, Peter squeezed his eyes ever more tightly shut, but he could do nothing to protect himself and he knew it.

  The cold knife edge danced over his skin. With a brief prayer to no one in particular, Peter resigned himself to losing his vision. He summoned up the last bright image that he had—Joanna looking down at him, asking if he was all right—and ceased trembling. He would probably not survive long in any case; it seemed unlikely, given the Führer’s interest in him, that the encampment wouldbe able to effect a rescue, and even if they chose to try to bargain for him, he doubted that he was ransomable. He had offended the powers-that-be, and no price save his life would satisfy them.

  Then suddenly, the teasing stopped, the knife was pulled away and plunged into his thigh. Peter screamed and opened his eyes to see the knife embedded deep in his flesh. Blood seeped warmly into the fabric of his trousers. The interrogator smiled sheepishly, then turned to look, almost apologetically, at the officer. The SS officer, looking somewhat bored, shrugged his indifference.

  “Not yet,” the interrogator said with an air of disappointment, reaching forward to remove the knife. He primly wiped the blade, closed it, and put it back into his pocket. He looked pensively at the blood as it continued to seep into the material—the flow indicated a muscle wound, no major blood vessels cut. He shook his head in genuine annoyance at having exceeded his orders, but the flow was slow enough that the wound did not need to be bound, and he decided to ignore it and continue his monologue.

  “Not yet, boy. You still need them—there’s something we want you to see. In Berlin, in person, there you can provide some amusement. Live entertainment! Isn’t that what those idiot Americans say? Live! Heh, heh—at least for a time. No, it will have to wait a bit, then we can remove your eyes properly, perhaps with a sharpened trowel, hmm?”

  The interrogator paused as if expecting a response. As there was none, he continued, “And then let you eat them for us—how will that be? Eh? Will that solve your problem?”

  Aware of the camera, Peter was torn between trying to reason with them and wanting to spit in their faces. He could think of nothing sensible to say in the face of such madness, and in the sure knowledge that he was going to die, he wondered if they couldn’t perhaps just get on with it. They were going to drag it out, that was clear, but maybe once he was dead, the Council could ransom Joanna. Once they had their revenge, maybe then she would be safe. By that reasoning, he could not kill himself: they would feel cheated and might turn to Joanna as a substitute. No, he would have to bear whatever they did to him—at least until he knew she was safe or until he was dead. The prospect of what the next few days or even weeks might hold for him terrified him.

  The interrogator beamed. “Well, now, as promised we have a special treat— something we want to be sure that you see!” His voice assumed an air of authority, as though reading a judgment, and indeed he was reading something. “Let it be known, that you have been judged to have offended against the dignity and pride of the Fatherland. You have insulted the person of the Führer himself. Your disloyalty has caused untold distress, and now we shall return the favor.” He paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “The Führer himself is interested in seeing that this crime does not go unpunished. He wishes you to understand the distress you have caused for all our peoples with your disloyalty. He wishes you to understand how, after all the mercy that has been bestowed on you by theFatherland, you have behaved like a thankless child. It has been determined that the best way to teach you this lesson is to take your own child from you.”

  Could they possibly mean . . . ? Peter prayed that he had misinterpreted the threat. His mind worked feverishly for some sort of response, something to stop the madness, some way to buy time. Fervently he begged, “What if I were to apologize? Publicly. I can make an appearance—denounce everything I said, swear it was all lies. Why don’t you go find out what your superiors
think about that?”

  The interrogator ignored him, motioning toward one of the guards to go out and bring Joanna in.

  “No, wait!” Peter pleaded. “Before you do anything—contact your superiors, I’m sure they’d want to hear what I have to say. Go call them, I’ll wait, I promise! It’d be a mistake to do otherwise!”

  The interrogator did not respond; the guard continued as if programmed. He had Joanna stand in the middle of the room, only a few feet from Peter and facing him but out of sight of the camera, then he withdrew to stand by the wall. Joanna looked at Peter and bit her lip but did not betray any other emotion. She waited silently to learn what role she should adopt.

  “She’s not my child!” Peter asserted in a voice shaking with terror, his glib line of defense vanished.

  “But close enough.” The interrogator smiled.

  “No. I hardly know her. She’s just a kid. Let her go!” he begged. He was aware of the camera recording his emotion, knew how much pleasure his agony would give someone, but he was oblivious to all but the need to save his daughter. He struggled to hide his fear, to sound unconcerned: at any moment, someone would come bursting through the door, machine guns blasting, and they would all be saved. At any moment. He searched for the bravado to continue to make offers, to play for time.

  But there was no time. The interrogator nodded toward one of the guards—a large man with a blank expression. “Strangle her,” he said bluntly.

  The guard approached Joanna.

  “I am a German!” Joanna’s confidant voice rang out. “And if you touch one hair on my head, you will be made to pay the price.” She spoke flawless German, played her role perfectly. Her years of training had not been wasted.

  Peter felt a surge of pride in her; she was so convincing, so utterly confident!

  The large man stepped back, somewhat worriedly.

  “I said strangle her!” the interrogator demanded.

  “But . . . ,” the guard stammered. If there was some sort of cock-up, he knew exactly who would be the scapegoat.

  “She’s a Pole!” the interrogator asserted angrily.

  “I am a German!” Joanna retorted haughtily.

  “Then,” the interrogator asked her directly,“why were you with this terrorist?”

  Joanna hesitated.

  “She’s a hostage. Her father is rather high up,” Peter answered for her, “and wewere using her as a shield. I hardly know her, there’s no point in harming her— she’s meaningless to me.”

  Joanna straightened and looked at the interrogator with brave determination.

  “Kill her,” the interrogator demanded.

  The guard looked confused.

  “They’re lying, you idiot!”

  “No, she really is a hostage! If you harm her, you will be in deep trouble,” Peter reiterated. Joanna’s acting was so good, he almost felt confident of their success.

  The interrogator raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

  “She’s one of yours. She doesn’t mean anything to me,” Peter assured him.“If you touch her, you’ll just be harming an innocent kid for no reason at all. One of yours!”

  “Then why,” the interrogator asked as he pulled a piece of paper from the file that had been placed on the table, “was she with you in America?” He shoved a facsimile under Peter’s nose.

  Peter gasped involuntarily. Along with some printed details was a reproduction of a photograph of him with Joanna sitting on the steps of England House. Somebody had scribbled “Halifax” under his picture. Beneath Joanna’s picture was a question mark, which had been scratched out and “Przewalewski” written below it. It was a good shot of the two of them—he held a cigarette in one hand, his other arm was draped around her shoulders, both of them were smiling. The photograph was obviously taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, probably from somewhere within Central Park. He knew the precise moment: he had just promised her he would quit smoking.

  He fought back his shock and dismay to assert, “That’s not her—you have the wrong child.”

  The interrogator shook his head, unconvinced.

  Glancing at the photo again, Peter decided to change tack. “You have me,” he offered desperately, his voice strained with emotion. “I’m the one who spoke out. You have me! Take it out on me, I’ll do what you want, whatever you want. I’ll say what you want. I’ll make killing me enjoyable for you. You can drag it out for weeks and I’ll do whatever you say. Whatever you want. Anything, really!” He indicated the camera with his head. “Look, does he have any tapes where the victim cooperates? It will be unique! Don’t give up that chance. I’ll help you out, I’ll do what you want! I’ll do it to myself, with a knife or whatever! It will be a unique tape. Just don’t hurt the little girl. I don’t even know her!”

  The interrogator hesitated, he glanced at the SS officer, who shook his head in response.

  “Go ask someone, you’ll see, it’s what the Führer will want. Please!”

  Growing suddenly angry at the delays, the interrogator motioned to one of the guards standing behind Peter. “Shut him up!” The wire was jerked taut and as Peter choked in response, a cloth was shoved into his mouth and held in place by a hand. Joanna stiffened but said nothing. She knew that she was not supposedto care about what happened to her captor. That done, the interrogator turned toward the reluctant guard. “She’s that terrorist Przewalewski’s grandchild! Now strangle her! That’s an order.”

  Still uncertain, the guard glanced questioningly at the SS officer. The officer nodded in response.

  Reassured, the large guard with his spadelike hands approached the little girl and placed them around her neck. The last view Peter had of Joanna was with tears appearing in her eyes as the massive hands closed around her throat. As her body was lifted from the floor by her delicate neck, the interrogator snapped his fingers in Peter’s direction and the gag was removed from his mouth. He roared in agony, trying to say something, anything that would stop them. He struggled with every fiber of his being against his bonds to try to stop them physically, he pleaded, he begged, he threatened, he offered bribes and deals, he screamed “No!” as the massive hands tightened their hold. He fought like a wild animal, to no avail.

  It took an eternity to wring the life out of her little body. With her tiny fingers, Joanna tore at the hands that strangled her, dug little fingernails into callused skin; she kicked wildly but in vain. Her struggles ceased; a bit of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth, urine trickled down her leg, then her executioner dropped her like a rag doll onto the concrete floor.

  As he saw her body drop, Peter stopped struggling abruptly. All his words stopped. He stared forlornly at the lifeless form, hoping against hope that she was still alive, that it was all part of some insanely cruel game. Apparently the interrogator had the same thought for he ordered brusquely, “Finish the job.”

  The executioner seemed to know exactly what that meant, for without hesitation he stooped and grasped Joanna’s ankles. Standing a few feet from the wall, he swung her body with vicious force. Peter screamed silently as he heard her skull crack against the concrete, as brain matter spattered messily against the pristine surface. For good measure the executioner swung her body again as Peter continued to scream his voiceless dismay.

  The guard dropped her battered body to the floor and backed away. Peter’s entire body shook, his muscles seemed frozen, and he was unable even to gasp for breath. His ankles and wrists were slick with blood, but the ropes and handcuffs still held him bound. Blood or saliva dripped from his mouth, and the wire that had held his head up hung loose about his neck. He stared wide-eyed, almost uncomprehending, at the body in front of him. They all ignored him; the SS officer left, motioning for the guards to follow him. The interrogator, taking only enough time to reattach the wire to the chair—more securely this time, left as well, quietly closing the door behind him.

  They left him there with Joanna’s body and the camera rolling. Left him to contemplate t
he evil of his ways and the words he had spoken so boldly in public. Left him to suffer before the camera so that his audience could have their revenge. He heard himself ask Ulrike: Do you think that babies and toddlers did something? Did a bright and happy five-year-old girl?

  6

  WHEN THEY CAME TO UNTIE HIM, they realized he was burning with fever. Cursing angrily at the prospect of losing him to infection before they had a chance to ship him to Berlin and interrogate and execute him in an appropriately gruesome manner, they rushed him back to the hospital for treatment. His muscles torn by his exertions, his mind in a fevered haze, Peter stumbled in their grasp and fell into a delirium.

  He was dimly aware of being bound to his hospital bed, of an injection or two, but little else penetrated his consciousness. All he could see was Joanna’s look of horror as her face grew bruised from bursting capillaries, as her mouth opened in a desperate bid for air. He saw her look pleadingly at him as she realized he was helpless to prevent her murder. Had she tried to say something? Father?

  His daughter. His little girl. He saw her grinning at him, her bright eyes, her happy expression, her messy blond curls glinting in the sunlight. The fire of his fever consumed her image, and he screamed over and over again for them to stop as her life slipped away before his eyes. People told him to shut up, he was given more injections, liquid was forced down his throat—but none of it was reality. The only reality was the impersonal red light of the camera and her little body lying at his feet growing cold out of his reach.