The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Okay, you can help me. Go on this assignment, do that for me.”

  He closed his eyes against the unanswerable logic of her request. Finally he nodded slightly, then asked plaintively, “Am I really so useless to you?”

  Zosia sat down, ran her hands through her hair, then gave herself a little neck rub. After a moment, she looked up at him; she seemed near to tears. Finally she said,“No, you’re not. But through no fault of your own, you are in no position to help me now, and if you stay here, I will feel compelled to help you. Not only do I not feel up to that task, I know I will eventually resent it. Do you understand?”

  He shook his head.“No, I don’t understand.”

  “Please, just take the assignment. Please?”

  “All right,” he said, resigned. “I know I don’t really have any choice, not if you don’t want me here.”

  He hoped she would rebut the blunt assertion, but she did not. He let his head drop, there was nothing more to say. He remembered, early on in his days in the Vogel household, once or twice trying to reason with Karl, almost arguing with him. In view of his reeducation, where anything but immediate and completely docile obedience provoked the most vicious retaliation, it was amazing he had ever tried anything so foolhardy. He must have felt insanely brave. If so, it was a bravery he no longer owned. He could not bear to argue anymore—Zosia had succeeded where they had failed. Such were the powers of the heart.

  They were silent for a time. Zosia noted the change of eye color back to blue wherever appropriate; he stood and watched her. When she had finished, he waited for her to look up, but instead she gathered everything together and made as if to leave. As she dropped her files into her case, he finally found his voice. “Can I just ask one favor?”

  “What do you want?” she asked cautiously.

  “Can I come back to help out when you’re due to give birth? Just temporarily?” he pleaded.

  She closed her eyes as if the request pained her. Finally she said, “Okay, I’ll see if it can be arranged.”

  12

  ALEX RECEIVED THE VIDEOTAPE and knew exactly what to do with it: publicize it to all and sundry. The job was more difficult than he had expected. The interest in Peter’s visit had faded, the networks claimed the video was too violent and of remote interest. He went to the current-affairs show that had originally aired Peter’s story. The executive producer was interested, but was also afraid of government pressure and claimed the strange and graphic nature of the video was problematic. “Either way you look at it,” he said, “it’s a problem. It’s too graphicin that it portrays a child’s murder and therefore will be condemned as sensationalistic, and yet because you don’t actually get to see the murder—it won’t attract audience interest. We’d be stomped on for showing it, without any benefit from the publicity.”

  “You are kidding, right?” Alex replied.

  “No. And it really doesn’t help that it’s in German. The audiences don’t want to read subtitles.”

  “Next time they murder a child, I’ll remind them to do it in English for you. And make sure they get a goddamned close-up of the blood!” Alex snarled bitterly.

  “I’ll show a still from it and report that Halifax was arrested. It’ll be a followupto the original story.”

  “All right,” Alex sighed.“Here’s a picture of the girl when she was alive. Maybe you could show that as well.” He handed over a picture of Joanna. He had not told the man it was his granddaughter on the videotape, and Alex thought momentarily of volunteering that information to elicit more interest; perhaps they could even interview him. But he did not have the heart for that. Any moron who paid close attention would hear the name, but then again, most Americans so egregiously mispronounced his name that they probably wouldn’t hear it in the stream of German.

  He tried the news agencies next, and they dutifully reported in brief paragraphs the attack against a member of a government in exile’s family. The murder raised interest in the exile community—not least because most of them had relatives or friends back home—but it never managed to make it beyond the special-interest pages.

  Not until a lone financial newspaper decided to splash the story on its front page. The Wall Street Times —a merger of the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal —decided that it was sheer cowardice on the part of the networks not to air the story in prime time. They highlighted government pressure that had been brought to bear after the Halifax visit and concerns raised about destroying efforts at normalizing relations. The front-page story with all its accusations was supplemented by a two-page story on the inside pages. That story contained the translated text of the entire videotape as well as still photos taken from it.

  The news reported the exposó, and the following week one of the newsmagazines that had interviewed Peter used the picture of him with the knife pressed against his eyes as its cover photo. “Are we blind to what is going on?” it solemnly asked America, and it touched off the expected furor. Soon each network was finding time and reason to air segments of the videotape with subtitles and explanatory notes.

  13

  JAN, GENIA, PIOTR, KASIA, Leszek, and Lodzia. And himself, of course. That was quite enough victims for them. Nevertheless Ryszard was sad to see his sons go, and he did not know if he would ever see them again. They would leave today while he was at work; he had said his good-byes that morning. Both boys had been determinedly unemotional. Ryszard as well. He did not dare show how much he wanted them to stay. If he did, they might convince him to change his mind, and he had already delayed their departure by far too long. Well past the week he had promised himself. No more delays! They were off to the military academy where they would be safe; it was time to get over it.

  The school was a subterfuge that he himself, as a youth, had never had to undergo, but which the Home Army handled marvelously well. They had established their very own military academies, high standards and all, and this was one of the best! His boys would be present for any scheduled inspections by state officials, and the school administration would conveniently cover their absences otherwise. Just another couple of spoiled brats with a well-placed father who bribed their continuous progress through the curricula even if they were almost continuously AWOL, off somewhere boozing and whoring, as would only be expected of them. He laughed to himself as he thought of how his colleagues occasionally mentioned the academy as a shining example of their superior educational system. The school itself was rather a challenge to the educators of the Underground as they dealt with a motley mix of young boys being prepped to infiltrate and genuine Nazi youngsters who were impressionable enough to perhaps have the brainwashing of their culture subtly impaired by conveniently available Resistance propaganda, overzealous teaching of idiotic Nazi ideology, and the occasional ineptly censored textbook.

  Ryszard shoved thoughts of the school and his children out of his mind as he approached the office. Time to assume his persona, time to become the mindless, soulless cog in the great Nazi security apparatus. Anyway, he had a lot to do, he had to get to work on Karl.

  Slowly the videotape was gaining publicity in America, slowly it was having an impact. A lot of people—average Americans—were angry. Quite angry. They had taken Peter into their homes, had adopted him as one of their own, and had written a fairy-tale ending for the conclusion of his visit. His injuries would heal, his eyes would be repaired, he would meet a nice American girl and buy a house in the suburbs, and if he disappeared from their view and from their minds, it was only to settle into an idyllic American life. They had solved the problem and they did not need to think about it any longer. Not until they saw the videotape.

  That he had gone back surprised no one in retrospect. It had always been clear that he would. That his government had taken such offense was also not surprising. How had he ever thought he would get away with it? All that was common sense, it was expected. But the gibes at America, the murder of a child in cold blood, the destruction of their dreamworld endin
g to his visit—that was just too much!

  The foreign offices of the three ruling American governments came under sudden irresistible pressure: we must not deal with these monsters! Third-party trade deals were scuttled as the pressure increased; arms shipments to rebels were allowed past without the usual delaying tactics; money was funneled into the coffers of the Undergrounds and their competitors and imitators. It even became the fashion for individual Americans to head toward Africa and to join militias with the idea of eventually infiltrating into the Reich to help with the imminent revolution.

  The isolationist plank of the U.S. election campaign was not only a dead issue; an interventionist plank began to gain a following. The message was carried by a small but vocal minority: We have been patient long enough! We must do something!

  The response from the Reich was predictable. As it became apparent that they could not simply ignore the issue, that it was having genuine repercussions and was fouling the air in all sorts of arenas, they felt the need to act. Of course, that meant find the leak and destroy its source, but also, they needed to do some damage control. They needed to respond appropriately. Somehow the bland denials of gray-suited officials to other government officials were not making an impression, and there was a minor panic as various Party hacks tried to work out how to handle these emotional and reactionary Americans.

  It was once again the topic of discussion during the morning coffee break. The deferential old woman who served the coffee withdrew from the lounge leaving the powerful men alone with their coffee and pastries and great thoughts, and Karl was the first to make a suggestion.

  “The trouble with those boys over in Propaganda is they haven’t had to earn their living in decades. They’ve been spoiled by all the good work of their predecessors and the excellence of our educational system. They have no idea what it’s like to deal with an undisciplined populace like the American public.”

  Good, good, Richard thought, he’s got it almost perfect. Richard had carefully put the words into Karl’s head by voicing that opinion several times in advance in his office.

  There were grunts of agreement. Everybody knew that Propaganda were a bunch of lazy, overpaid slobs. Not a one had the genius of a Göbbels, and they usually made Security’s job a nightmare with their idiotic initiatives.

  “What they need is someone who understands how to talk directly to the Americans,” Karl continued, pleased by his newly reinvented prestige.

  “Someone like you, Karl,” Richard suggested. Karl beamed with pleasure.

  The others fell over each other rushing to agree with this simple suggestion. “We ought to put your name forward to those boys, Karl,” someone agreed.

  “Yes, as a spokesman you’d be able to bring this thing under control,” another chimed in.

  “Here, here.” There was a general murmur of agreement. If Traugutt was suggesting it, it probably came from higher up. Everybody knew he had special connections with the Führer’s personal office and that he always seemed to be in the know. They even liked him as well. For all his power and prestige, he never took credit even for his own ideas. He seemed happy to let others take the credit for initiatives.

  So it was agreed. Karl would be suggested as the spokesman and damagecontrol expert to help those buffoons dig themselves out of their difficulties. He had the winning presence of prestige and knowledge, the style and flair for public speaking, the blond hair and blue eyes that would give his words weight and authority. And he knew the bastard who was causing all the trouble in the first place—Karl knew Peter’s weak points and could destroy his reputation as necessary.

  Karl offered his services to the Führer’s personal office, which had taken over responsibility for dealing with the implications of the fiasco. His offer was accepted, and he was given a small staff and time to prepare appropriate statements and presentations to the American public. They certainly didn’t understand why the NAU government was in thrall to its own subjects, and they felt helpless to put the right spin on the events. Maybe Vogel could get through to them—after all, he was the one who even understood that the Americans had a concept of “spin.” Before he had mentioned it, the propagandists in the office had been clueless.

  Karl returned to his office flushed with success, realized what he had done, and ran immediately to Richard’s door.

  Richard laughed to himself when he saw Karl’s breathless body blocking the light. “What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  Karl panted a bit, then smiled. “Er, nothing really. Just stopped by to say hello.”

  “Hi, then.”

  “I got the job.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You always, er, have lots of ideas, Richard. Perhaps you’d like to have some input on this? You know, er, throw some more ideas around.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder, Karl! If it got around that I was involved, some people, well, you know how they talk, they might say you weren’t up to it.”

  “But I am!”

  “I realize that, but others might not,” Richard replied coolly.

  “Ah, yes. Of course. I just . . .”

  “However. If you’re careful not to let anyone know I’m, say, offering my opinion-for you to consider in the grander scheme of things, well, I’d be pleased to submit my humble ideas.”

  “You would?” Karl sounded as if he might faint from relief.

  “Yes, you know I make a casual study of the wiles of Untermenschen and inferior races. I’m convinced a large proportion of white Americans are genuinely subhuman. It’s all that interbreeding. The Germanic blood in that country . . .” Richard shook his head sadly. “Anyway, I have studied them a bit and I might be able to help you. But keep it just between us. You don’t want anyone to think you needed my help, do you?”

  “No, of course not. But I would like to hear your opinion. Just so I can compare it with my own ideas. Refine them, perhaps.”

  “Yes, as a refinement.” Richard smiled his most endearing smile.

  14

  THEY SAID THEIR FINAL GOOD-BYES outside in the woods near the entrance to the bunker. The luggage—such as it was—had been sent ahead; all Barbara and Peter had to do was walk to the pickup point to be transported to the farm and from there into town. They would travel by train and ferry since it was easier to arrange than a flight.

  Peter gave a final kiss and hug to Marysia, thanked her for all she had done for him, then turned to face his wife. He looked at the bulge in her stomach where their child grew. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but he did not dare. Zosia put her hands out and he grasped them; they stood that way together in hopeless silence for a few moments. There was so much between them that both were speechless. Too much had been said, too much had been left unsaid.

  “May I kiss you?” he asked finally. He had been so humbled by the events of the past weeks, he felt unsure about even the simplest assumptions.

  “Of course,” Zosia replied with an air of frivolity. As if nothing had happened.

  He leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek. She looked slightly affronted but did not say anything. He said quietly, “Good-bye, Colonel,” and turned to join Barbara.

  Before he had gone even two steps, Zosia called out, “Peter.”

  He turned back to look at her but did not come closer. She stepped forward so she could speak quietly. Pressing herself against him, she reached up to stroke his face. “I love you.”

  He shook his head slightly and backed away. “I don’t think so.” He turned andwalked off to join Barbara. He put his arm around her shoulders to help steady himself, and together they headed down the slope without looking back.

  Zosia went back to her rooms—to the luxurious two rooms that were now hers alone—and poured herself a small glass of vodka. She downed it in a gulp as a toast to her husband’s departure, then she went into her bedroom and opened the carved wooden box that held her small collection of jewelry. Solemnly she twisted the weddi
ng ring from her finger and placed it inside next to the necklace Peter had given her. She looked at it lying there for a moment, and as she stared, she noticed that tears were staining the wood of the box.

  She looked away, and her eyes lit upon a classified report lying open on the bedside table. Peter had been reading it for her, so he could offer her a summary of its contents and in that way save her time. He always did that sort of thing, took over any bit of her workload that he could. She turned her back on it, but then her eyes caught sight of Joanna’s cupboard. The doors worked properly now—he had fixed them—and there were the happy little folk designs he and Joanna had painted on them. Zosia thought of how Peter would always get up for Joanna, early in the morning, or anytime she had a bad dream or was sick. No matter how tired he was, he always took care of the child so that Zosia could sleep undisturbed.

  Zosia grunted with annoyance. It was best this way, she told herself. She did not need him, he was nothing but a drain on her. Who needed the gestures of love, the tenderness, the lively conversation, the humor? She didn’t! Who needed the songs sung just to please her, or the way he held and comforted her when she wept about Adam? None of it mattered, she would miss none of it!

  Olek would miss him, surely, for Peter had provided the father figure that Olek had so desperately needed. Peter seemed to intuitively understand how important such things could be. Not like Adam. Adam had never felt comfortable with the role of mentor, perhaps being too immature himself. But Olek would do fine on his own. And Marysia, too. She wouldn’t miss Peter—the way he always helped out, the way he always found time for her. Damn it! Why was it even a question in her mind? She didn’t need him! He was a drain on her! He would ruin her professionalism. Katerina was right. It was better this way. It was better!