The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  Zosia nodded.

  “She brought a lot of happiness into our lives.”

  Zosia smiled shakily in reply.

  “Can I hold you?”

  She nodded and they embraced and held each other and wept.

  8

  THE NEXT DAY Peter appeared before the assembled Council. The weather was fine so they sat outside. Zosia was not present, and despite the casualness of the gathering, he noticed that the secretary kept the minutes and a tape recorder was present as well, though it was not on.

  Katerina began. In a voice that was about as gentle as she had ever managed, she welcomed him back and then said, “We have gathered bits and pieces of what occurred, but we need your version of events formally declared to us for the record. We realize you are still recuperating, and we are sorry to ask you to recount something so painful, but time is of the essence—we need details before your memory of the events fades, and we need to trace these people and administer justice if necessary.”

  “If necessary?” Peter asked.

  “If they have violated a law, then they have committed a crime for which we can punish them.”

  “Violated a law? How can they possibly not have violated a law?”

  Katerina motioned to the secretary to stop writing. “Please understand,” Katerina replied patiently, “here in the mountains you have been shielded, and for our own purposes we have kept you deliberately ignorant of many things, but in this land we are surrounded by murder every day. Many crimes have been committed on our territory and against our people. The murder of an innocentchild is not something in and of itself which we can either prevent or avenge— this is the tragedy of our existence. That does not mean we either forgive or forget; it just means that within the confines of our current existence, we cannot pursue personal vendettas.”

  Peter looked ready to argue with that, but Katerina raised her hand to silence him. “Joanna is not the first child to die, Peter, and she will not be the last. Thousands have starved, thousands were gassed, thousands . . . well, the list is endless. We have only managed to bring the mayhem under some control by virtue of certain protocols with our conquerors. We are in a very weak position—we cannot demand much of these murderers, and this is the price we pay for bargaining with them. An unlawful revenge against your child’s murderers will provoke massive slaughter, and it will not bring her back.”

  Katerina paused and it looked as though she were swallowing back her emotions. Even Katerina? She took a deep breath and emphasized, “If we were to avenge Joanna’s death when they have not violated the protocols, then all we will do is cause another child to die, and you do not want that, I am sure. However, if they have violated the protocols in the slightest possible way—believe me, we will seek revenge. Therefore, we need every detail, as painful as that may be.”

  He nodded his understanding, and she motioned to the secretary to proceed with the minutes and to activate the tape recorder. Quite formally Katerina then said, “Do you swear, by all that you hold sacred, that what you are about to tell us is the truth, and that you will tell us this truth completely, to the best of your ability?”

  “I swear.”

  “Please proceed.”

  He told them his story. He summarized briefly their visit into town, and then with the explosion he told them every detail that he could remember. When he mentioned the camera, there was a stir.

  “Excuse me,” Konrad interrupted, “but for whom was this film made?”

  “They never said explicitly, but there was a strong implication that it was intended for the Führer. They said that the Führer himself was interested in my being punished.”

  “Was Joanna ever visible on the film?” Tomek asked.

  Peter shook his head, then when Katerina pointed at the recorder, he said, “No, I’m pretty sure no one was visible except me and maybe the interrogator’s back. Maybe at the end his face may have appeared—when he tightened a knot . . .”

  “Ah, please continue,” Katerina prompted.

  “But her voice would have been heard,” Peter added to his previous answer. “She spoke so bravely . . .”

  Several of the members nodded their sympathy as they remembered the courageous little girl. They waited patiently while Peter collected himself. He continued with the details, trying as best he could to quote the interrogator, butit was terribly difficult. However, when he described the photograph and the interrogator’s last sharp command to the executioner, there was an audible hiss of breath as the assembled members gasped their surprise.

  “Did he actually use the name Przewalewski?” Katerina asked.

  “Oh, yes, he wanted to reassure the guard that they knew exactly who she was—that she wasn’t a German hostage. ‘She’s Przewalewski’s grandchild!’ he said,” Peter answered, then added softly, “I won’t ever forget that.”

  “Was the camera rolling when he said it?”

  “Yes. It should have recorded his voice. I assume it was recording sound . . .”

  “And the photo?”

  “Her name—or rather his—was on it as well. They had ‘Halifax’ under my picture and a question mark under Joanna. The question mark had been scribbled out, and beneath that—in a different handwriting—someone else had written ‘Przewalewski.’ ”

  “Not Przewalewska?” Marysia asked.

  “No,” Peter replied, wondering at the pedantry.

  “So they were clearly identifying her with her grandfather,” Marysia commented.

  “Was it spelled correctly?” Hania asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I think it’s clear,” Tadek said softly. “We have a witness, a voice record, and print record. We have the bastards.”

  “What?” Peter asked. “How?”

  “A deliberate assassination of an envoy’s near relative,” Katerina said, then added, “But we must not get distracted from your deposition. We’ll present this evidence to the court and due process will be followed. Please withhold your comments,” she said to the Council, then to Peter, “Please continue.”

  He finished his story. He did not describe his thoughts during the hours they had left him alone with Joanna’s body—they were clearly irrelevant. When he was done, a few words were said to bring the proceedings formally to a close, and then the Council dispersed. Peter remained sitting on the grass, absently plucking at a few blades. Tadek approached and stood uneasily near him. He noticed several others nearby as well, but he ignored them all.

  He knew exactly the sort of thing Tadek would say. He had heard it often enough, and he could not bear to hear it again. Not now. Without looking up, he said to Tadek, “I don’t need anybody to twist the knife, thank you.”

  “Peter, I . . . ,” Tadek said uncertainly.

  “I know she’d be alive if she had been with you or with Zosia or with anybody else. No one else walks around branded as a criminal; she would have been safe with anyone else. No one else advertises to millions what they have done and then just stupidly walks about with his daughter like he had a right to live like a human!” Peter’s voice shook with bitterness and sorrow.

  “That’s not what—”

  “Everyone I’ve ever had anything to do with is dead; you don’t need to say it this time,” Peter spat his anger. “So no sly comments, please. There’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already thought a thousand times.”

  “Peter, please . . .” Tadek stooped down to be able to talk directly to him.

  “And the funny thing is”—Peter laughed between his sobs—“my getting her killed, that would not have been good enough, would it? They could strangle a little girl to punish her father and that would have been okay with you all. But let the bastard mention some official’s name and . . .”

  “There is no action that we can take without their retaliating, but the retaliations vary.” Tadek leapt at the opportunity to explain. “A ‘terrorist’ act is one that is not covered by the protocols: our retaliating for murders within co
ncentration camps, for deportations, enslavements, or starvation falls into this category. If one of our acts is deemed to be terrorist, then it results in the wholesale slaughter of entire villages or sections of a city.”

  Peter looked up at Tadek and shook his head in horrified disbelief. It was all so legalistic!

  “However, an action on our part which is justified by the protocols is called ‘partisan’ and results in varying actions: sometimes nothing, sometimes the murder of a set number of listed hostages. A judicial assassination falls into this category. It was thought that it would be impossible to maintain a government in exile if we did not have some manner of guarantee for the envoys, so the murder of an envoy’s relative merits a judicial assassination. Don’t you understand?”

  “And the murder of a little girl?” Peter asked, climbing to his feet. Tadek stood as well.

  “Is not covered in the protocols. As they intend to eventually annihilate us in any case, we have very little in the way of staying their hand—we fought to achieve whatever we could and we have managed a few compromises—a slowing down of the slaughter, if you will. In a case like Joanna’s, we’re clearly pushing the point, but if he had not mentioned her grandfather, we would have no case for a judicial assassination; in which case, any action we would have taken would have provoked a bloodbath.”

  “So her murder would have remained unpunished?”

  “Illegal actions taken by individual members on their own initiative are not unheard of. We can hardly control the behavior of every private citizen,” Tadek answered obscurely.

  “I see,” Peter replied, disconcerted by the cold-blooded calculations involved. “It’s all very tidy, isn’t it?”

  “We do our best,” Tadek answered, growing impatient. “If the reality of our existence is not to your liking, then let me be the first to apologize to you for it. But let me also say this, Halifax: you’ve done precious little to change it. You were well enough able to stand the murder that was happening all around you when it didn’t affect you personally! If you can’t stand finding out exactly what our existencehere means, then perhaps you should just pick up your sorry excuse for a personality and get the hell out of here!”

  Peter was so stunned by the sudden attack he said nothing.

  Tadek warmed to his task. “We took you in, gave you a home, gave you a rank and a purpose! Our most wonderful Zosia gave herself to you, tried to include you in her life and her family. And how do you repay her? All you can do is blame us when something goes wrong! Why don’t you just once remember who the hell is doing the murdering around here in the first place! It’s not us! We didn’t kill Joanna, not even you did! God damn it, if you can’t see that, then you’re an idiot!”

  Tadek took a deep breath. “We didn’t ask for this!” He gestured furiously toward the area of occupation. “And if after all these decades we are a bit weary and jaded, then let me apologize to your incredible sensibilities, once again! But if we don’t live up to your grand expectations, then why don’t you just go back to England and fight your puny battles from inside a cozy office there! Get the hell out of our country, we have enough problems without your continuous accusations against us!”

  Peter glanced at the others who had remained. They stood a short distance away watching the two of them. Obviously they had heard every word of Tadek’s vehement denunciation of him. They said nothing, their faces betrayed no emotion, yet he knew from their stances that they agreed with Tadek and were relieved that someone had finally expressed what they all felt.

  He swallowed. Tadek was right; because miracles were what were needed, he had expected miracles from them. As an antithesis to evil, he had expected perfection, and so he had condemned them for their human frailties. How many impossible decisions had they been forced to make over the decades? How many times had they wept with the bitter knowledge of failure? These thoughts prevented him from mentioning the painful fact that if only they had deigned to let him know about the details of the protocols, he might have been able to bargain for Joanna’s life. It was too late to say that though, it would serve no purpose except to exacerbate their pain.

  Tadek shook his head in disgust at Peter’s silence and had already turned to walk away by the time Peter found his voice. “Tadek . . .”

  Tadek stopped, sighed heavily. With his back to Peter he snapped, “What?”

  “Tadek, do you remember the day I arrived here? When you pointed the gun at my face?”

  Tadek turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised in expectation. “What about it?”

  “If you had killed me then, Joanna would still be alive today.”

  Tadek opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it.

  “You should have pulled the trigger, Tadek. You should have done it.”

  Tadek said nothing for a moment, then he slowly shook his head, turned, and walked away.

  9

  RICHARD STOPPED BREATHING at points. If he just stopped, did not actually hold his breath, it seemed to take only thirty seconds to begin to feel uncomfortable— so much so that all else became irrelevant. That was good—it was the only way to show absolutely no emotion. If he was diverted to wondering at the involuntary resolve of his lungs to grab for air, then he would not have to think about Joanna’s brave little voice speaking off camera. Nor was Peter’s suffering easy to bear. He had no particular fondness for the man, but his agony was obvious, and knowing what he must be witnessing, Richard could empathize. Could, but did not dare, not here, not now.

  Karl had already filled him in on the details of Peter’s escape from the hospital-in Neu Sandez. The idiots apparently thought he had managed it alone or something. God, they were stupid! How in the world had they managed to conquer so much land? Was mindless brutality enough? Or had they grown stupider with success? Was their repressive system finally reaching the point where only idiots were promoted? Idiots promoting ignoramuses?

  Clearly that was the case with Karl. He had gloated about the escape; even though it had robbed him of the opportunity to know that Peter had been suitably punished, he had gloated. The reason was simple—it vindicated him wonderfully. If the goddamned security service in Neu Sandez couldn’t hold Peter when he had offended the Führer personally, who in their right mind could blame Karl for letting Peter slip away when he was nothing more than another forced laborer? Who could blame Karl now?

  Richard had heard Karl go on and on about it. Richard, his friend whom he trusted, had heard it all. That English traitor! Volksverräter, Karl had said, all of them! Why had we ever thought they would be of any use? he had wondered. I don’t know, Richard had truthfully replied. That cripple, Karl called Peter. Knowing the answer, Richard had once asked what had crippled him—was it some accident? Karl had shrugged as if he truly did not remember, then answered that he supposed it was simply genetic inferiority. Yes, of course, Richard had replied.

  Now Richard had the wonderful opportunity of personally viewing the tape that Karl had acquired at great cost. Richard sat, grunting occasionally with amusement, snickering at Karl’s comments, suppressing an overwhelming urge to strangle the oaf as he sat there giggling next to him. Richard did not think of his sister, he did not dare. He did not think of his parents—they had to be pushed out of his mind forcefully. And he did not think about Joanna—his dear little niece who had romped so happily through his house such a short time ago. As the fatal few seconds played, he did not even, despite a strong urge to do so,mentally list the mistakes that they must have made to allow Joanna to get into such a terrible position. Mistakes were inevitable—the only hope was that they were not fatal. No, he knew better than to look for fault anywhere but exactly where it lay: in the hands of their Nazi government.

  What he did do, to distract himself, was plot. His own efforts to stop the murder-had come too late. After a painful series of phone calls just to determine who had any authority in Peter’s case, after the delays in the long-distance exchanges, after he had cobbled togethe
r a convoluted excuse for wanting to see Halifax alive and unharmed, he had cheerfully been informed that the prisoner would indeed be transferred shortly to Berlin, and, oh, by the way, the girl was dead.

  Richard swallowed the gall that the memory produced; it was time to move past that. How exactly could he get this tape from Karl? How could he get it copied? How could he get it distributed? How could it best be used against them? Karl would never believe he owned a videocassette player: they were like computers and facsimile machines—not the sort of thing one would find in a person’s home. So, what excuse could he use to borrow the tape? Stealing it seemed impractical, borrowing would have to do, but under what pretext?

  Karl stood up and hit the stop button on the machine. It only took him three tries to find the right one.

  “Why’d you stop?” Richard asked.

  “Oh, well, I saw it before and, well, not much happens now.”

  “No?”

  “No, he just sits there, looking stunned and sick. Doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything. Well, I’m wrong there, he sheds some tears. Doesn’t make a sound, they just roll down his face—proves his weakness, if you ask me. But otherwise, boring.”

  Richard wondered momentarily what they had thought Peter might say or do. A soliloquy to the camera? A mea culpa? They’re idiots, he thought once again.

  “I heard the Führer was furious when he viewed the tape,” Karl said.

  “Oh, why?”

  “Well, you heard it: if they hadn’t killed the brat, they could have got him to do all sorts of stuff. It would have been unique. I mean, you heard him, cut himself with a knife, maybe he would have gouged his own eyes out!” Karl laughed. “But they blew it. Following orders, I guess, but I mean, you have to show some initiative now and then. They should have consulted with someone about his suggestion.”