The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Oh, that was my husband’s harebrained scheme. Anyway, that’s long in the past.”

  “Yes, just as well, judging from what Mother said. You certainly don’t want to tire this one out.” Constanze smiled at him as though, unable to comprehend her words, he might still be made to understand that she was complimenting him. “You’ve had him, what, three years?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I’m really surprised you haven’t visited earlier.”

  “Ah, well, you know, after last time . . .”

  Constanze nodded knowledgeably.

  He felt his face grow hot with embarrassment as he continued to stare at the patterns on Constanze’s fine wool carpet. From behind him Elspeth reached up and petted his hair. He visibly shuddered and Constanze frowned slightly, then asked knowingly, “Touchy, though?”

  Elspeth nodded. “High-strung.”

  Constanze reached up slowly toward his face as if trying not to frighten a wild animal. She touched him gently, seductively, then let her fingers trace down his face, along his chest, and onto his thigh, which she then smacked approvingly. “Well done, Elspeth!” She nodded happily. “Well done.”

  He was sent off to the kitchen to get something to eat while the two women visited. Elspeth’s sister seemed to run a much more relaxed household, and the plate of food that was set before him by a smiling old woman was reasonably generous if simple.

  “So, you’re the new one?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” he answered between bites of fresh bread and cheese. God Almighty, why couldn’t Elspeth be this relaxed! Fresh bread!

  “How long have you been lying with her?”

  He glanced sharply at the old woman, then returned his attention to his food. “I’m afraid,” he answered dryly, “that would be illegal and therefore completely out of the question. Besides”—he smiled wickedly at her—“it would be immoral and immorality does not exist among our Übermensch.”

  She nodded. “Good boy, very wise. But be careful.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Well,” she said as if changing the subject, “I suppose we’ll be seeing you around here sooner or later. The mistress isn’t a bad sort, but don’t make her husband angry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, your lady will get tired of you, and my lady is not averse to castoffs. I imagine you’ll make an extended visit at some point.”

  Traded from one to the other! No wonder Constanze had looked at him with such interest.

  Observing his reaction, the old woman breathed, “Dear boy! It’s not by choice, is it?”

  Utterly ashamed, he turned away from the woman’s probing eyes, shook his head slightly, and answered softly,“No.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I just assumed . . .” She did not bother to finish her assumption. Instead she whispered, “I think it’s worse for you men.”

  He looked up at her quite perplexed. “Worse? How so?”

  “Yes, worse. When the men expect, er, favors from us, that’s all they expect. The women, the women though, they always believe you’re going to fall in love with them. It’s not enough to submit, is it?”

  Keeping his eye on the entryway, he shook his head. “No, whatever I do, it’s never enough.”

  “Not just your body, but your soul as well.”

  He nodded, then asked, also in a whisper, “You seem to speak from experience.”

  “Yes, in my day, I was quite pretty.” Her eyes took on a distant look and she added melancholically, “They robbed me of my youth.” She fell silent a moment, wrapped in bitter memories, but then she revived. “But I was smart and I played along and I’m still alive now and in not too bad a position. And one day”—she winked—“one day the revolution will come.”

  She smiled and continued without prompting, “It wasn’t with her husband.” She indicated with her head in the direction of Constanze’s voice. “It was her husband’s father. The wife didn’t seem to mind, maybe she was relieved not to be bothered herself. Who knows. Anyway, once I was no longer interesting to him, I was allowed to stay, and then I was given to the son when he married.”

  He rested his head in his hands and thought about the Vogel children. Would he be given to one of them when Elspeth grew bored with him? Which one? Horst? Horst would be the worst, and Elspeth knew that, too. It would be Horstthen; it would be her retribution for his failing to fall convincingly in love with her.

  The curtain dropped back over the window and the dimly lit street disappeared from view. Peter shook his head at the thought of what his life might have been like, but then again, if he had stayed, Joanna would still be alive, he’d be caring for Magdalena, and maybe, just maybe he would have settled into his role in life.

  16

  RICHARD DECIDED HE WOULD ACQUIRE the surveillance files himself rather than request an outside operation. As an insider, they would be reasonably accessible to him, and since there was nothing particularly secret in their contents, they were not well guarded. Anything truly sensitive would be removed long before they were archived. Of course, he would have to be careful not to be seen with Karl’s file, but otherwise the acquisition should be fairly easy given his high rank.

  As he headed down to the archives, he worried that the files might have been purged. He had already checked the computer, using passwords that should have been unknown to him, and there had been precious little of use there. He said a little prayer as he descended the metal steps to the bowels of the building and hoped that the last several years of information were still intact and that Karl had elicited enough interest in his career to have merited at least occasional surveillance.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and glanced along the hallway’s length. To the right were cells for the prisoners and interrogation rooms. Someday, he would probably be dragged in that direction never to emerge. The thought was not reassuring, nor were the occasional noises that filtered down the long hallway. He finished his cigarette and lit another one. Thank God Pawel and Andrzej had left. At least they were out of harm’s way, he thought simultaneously with yet another prayer, and thank God the surveillance had apparently ceased. Just another false alarm.

  He turned to the left, leaving behind his morbid thoughts, and called up one of his most charming smiles.

  “Good afternoon, Herr Traugutt. I haven’t seen you in a while.” Beate smiled at him.

  “Ah, my good Fräulein, it has been far too long!” Richard grinned at her. “But they have you buried here so deep in the bowels of the building, it’s hard to find you! Maybe, they want to keep your beauty from dazzling everyone and stopping them from working!”

  “Oh, Herr Traugutt! The things you say!” Beate tittered in response, reddeningand grinning and ducking her head in a charming-shy manner.

  He chatted with her for a while, complimented her, leaned across her desk to sniff her perfume: “Marvelous! Heavenly!” Then he explained the reason for his visit. A newspaper was under investigation. Seemed there were hidden unpatriotic messages in the text. He’d need the files on all the contributing writers, editors, and anyone else involved. Quite a list actually—that’s why he had come personally—too much for his secretary to carry. Could she track down this list of names while he ferreted out some others? Oh, of course, he would help, it was a lot to ask and together the work would go much faster!

  As she smilingly agreed and went to track down the names from the top of the alphabet, he headed toward the other end. He grabbed one of the folders on his list then went to Karl’s file. Grabbing the material from the relevant years—it wasn’t empty!—he stuffed it into the folder and then finished gathering the other folders. He would actually peruse them at some point. The newspaper was loyal beyond reproach, and it would serve them right if one or two of them were denounced. It always helped to stir the pot a bit: good, loyal Party members being arrested for disloyalty not only advanced his career—he was the first to spot them, the clever bastards—but also sowed disa
ffection among the populace.

  Beate returned with an armload of files and checked them off along with the stack that Richard presented her. When they were done, he made a point of chatting to her some more, then returned to his office to read through the data. He could probably manage to pluck out a few interesting items and return the rest before the end of the workday.

  Karl’s file contained several envelopes of photographic negatives. Apparently Karl had been surveilled at least four separate times for a period of several weeks, each time during the years he had owned Peter. There were also isolated photographic negatives from the trips Karl had taken and from the various functions that he had attended. Richard quickly sorted through them. He was only interested in photos that had Peter in them as well. Once he managed to get Karl to deny the entire Halifax story, the release of such pictures would prove singularly embarrassing.

  A number of suitable candidates were among them. Most were in the garden surrounding the Vogel house. In fact it seemed Karl was rarely outside without his servant—either ordering him around or harassing him at his work. In several shots both their faces could clearly be seen, and Richard sorted those into a pile. He specifically looked for the incident with the shovel, but unfortunately there was nothing from that time; however, he found a sequence of three photos that would serve as an adequate substitute. The first shot was of Peter lying on the ground near the car, obviously working on something like removing rust or mud from the lowest part of the frame. The next shot had Karl saying something to him; Peter was still on the ground, but had rolled over to look up at his master. The third shot had Karl aiming a kick at Peter’s face.

  Richard snorted with pleasure at his good luck: nothing could be clearer—a vicious, unprovoked attack on an unarmed man in a defenseless position. Both faces were clear, especially in the second shot, especially if magnified. Perhaps these would be even better than the incident with the shovel since, as far as he knew, Peter had not even bothered to mention its occurrence to his American audience. Such was the brutality of the regime that the incident had passed for normal in his life.

  The second picture in the series drew Richard’s eye again and his glee subsided. As good propaganda as it was, it was disturbing as well, especially the look on Peter’s face. He clearly knew what was going to happen next, yet he was helpless to prevent it. Richard focused his magnifying glass on those eyes, thinking of his own momentary terror as he had looked down the right branch of that long corridor, and he felt suddenly ashamed of himself for his quick and harsh judgment of the man.

  Why, he wondered, had he and Tadek been so determined to poison the waters of Peter’s marriage to Zosia? Why the brutal humor at Peter’s expense? Well, the answer was obvious in Tadek’s case. With himself though, it was less apparent, but he suspected it might have been fear. Fear and recognition. Peter was a living reminder of all the things he tried not to think about, of all the right turns down that terrible corridor. Peter was the silent witness that Ryszard himself had spoken about, and his own reaction to Peter had been disturbingly predictable and exactly as desired. It would seem, he mused, that the wall of distrust between the tortured and the rest of the world had builders on both sides.

  There was a knock at his door, and as Richard closed the folder over the evidence, Karl entered grinning. “I just wrote up a memorandum to send to the NAU government—I thought you might like to peruse it.”

  “No,” Richard responded almost angrily. Karl looked devastated so Richard quickly explained, “You don’t want to talk to their government. They’re impotent. What you want to do is prepare a statement to read directly to the American people. I’m busy right now, but why don’t you keep tomorrow afternoon free and we can work on it then.”

  Karl looked stunned by the idea, and Richard realized that in his haste to rid his office of the man, he had not been sufficiently subtle. He summoned up his last shred of charm. “You can trust me on this, Karl—I know what to do.”

  After Karl had left, Richard reopened the folder and continued sorting through the negatives. He found a poignant one where Peter looked near to death. Karl was berating him for something, and Peter hung his head with a look of resigned dismay. With the transposed colors, it was hard to tell exactly, but Peter had clearly been terribly beaten, and though only the injuries to his face were visible, his expression of hollow misery spoke volumes. Richard set that aside for later use. It would work well in a before-and-after sequence once he had driven Karl into admitting Peter’s existence as his slave but had convinced him to deny any brutality. Poor Karl, Richard thought, he was in for a singular run ofbad luck on the timing and tone of the statements he would make to the American public.

  Once he had finished sorting through the photographs, Richard selected several useful documents and made photocopies of those. Again it was unusual that he did these things himself, but his poor secretary was momentarily overworked, and being the wonderful boss that he was, he did not mind taking a few minutes from his busy day to queue-jump at the photocopier and make a few quick copies of documents that he needed. He was even sufficiently courteous that he would have waited for his turn if the secretaries in the queue had not absolutely insisted that he go in front of them. As he walked away, he bestowed on them that special private smile that each knew was intended specifically for her.

  “He’s the only one who knows how to work that machine among the men,” one commented. The old system, where each and every copy had been funneled through an office for approval and copying had been scrapped, but since then, only the secretaries had learned how to work the one cumbersome machine allotted to their wing.

  “He’s married,” another observed incongruously.

  “Doesn’t mean he isn’t nice,” yet another noted.

  “And marriages don’t last forever,” the first opined, giggling.

  “Hands off, he’s mine.”

  “We’ll see at the Winterfest party!”

  “Maybe we should roll a die.”

  They all laughed and continued their musings. Perhaps they were all like that in Göringstadt? It would sure be a welcome change from the pompous and selfimportant buffoons who paraded around their Berlin office. Transfers anyone?

  Back in his office, Richard put the collected negatives and photocopied documents together in an envelope and locked them in his briefcase. He had decided to copy the documents since they formed a complete normal set and any gaps might easily be noted. The negatives, however, were not indexed, and the absence of several would not be obvious even if Karl’s file was closely inspected.

  He returned to the archives, not pausing this time at the junction at the bottom of the steps. He had with him four files. He handed the top three—all from the beginning of the alphabet—to the archivist and indicated that he was finished with them. The fourth, he volunteered to put away himself since it belonged on the other side of the room among the V ’s. She smiled, noted the returns, and accepted the three folders. Richard went to Vogel’s file, dropped the documents back in his folder, and filed the folder he had carried in. He breathed a sigh at his apparent success, said yet another small prayer, and after investing some time in keeping Beate happy with him, returned to his office satisfied with his day’s work.

  He lit a cigarette, poured himself a small glass of whiskey, and contemplated going home early. After such a day of expended charm, poor Kasia would be infor a grumpy husband. He shook his head in wonder at what she put up with. Ah, how he loved her!

  17

  OVER TWO DAYS, the bookstore manager showed Peter and Barbara what they needed to know about the management of the store, the codes and contacts, and the equipment they would use. After that, with a satisfied grin that she was finally going home, she vacated the attached flat and the two of them moved in.

  Barbara immediately set about making the place into their home—unpackingher clothes, dividing up closet space, sorting out the kitchen. Although she was supposed to help Peter manage the stor
e and handle the contacts and communications, she had also obviously decided to assign herself the role of a proper housewife, and before he had even managed to finish the cup of tea she had made him, she had unpacked his suitcase and begun preparing a dinner for the two of them.

  He sat unmoving on the couch, listening to the sound of something frying in the little alcove kitchen just around the partition, and thought about the codes and equipment and contacts. The job did not require his special skills, and his thoughts bifurcated between a growing resentment at this waste of his talents and wondering how soon he could send a personal message. Their communications were relatively secure—they depended on equipment that was smuggled in from the NAU and was allegedly years ahead of what the security services could handle—but there was always the possibility of detection and arrest. Their messages might be secure, but the senders definitely were not. It was a stressful and lonely job with a great deal of risk and little tangible reward. There was no sudden joy of breaking a code, no surge of accomplishment as a train line was dynamited, no congratulations on a job well done. In fact, nothing was ever completed; they were nothing more than a cog in a huge machine passing dangerous information back and forth between directors and operatives or from one political ally to another.

  Katerina had indicated to him that on account of his rank and experience and being a native Englishman, he would probably be asked to do more than simply file messages back and forth, but he was sure that she was only softening the blow. Neither side had any reason to trust him politically: the British had lost contact with him too many years ago, and he had never established himself among the Poles. The diplomatic fiasco of his interactions with the British government in exile would not soon be forgotten, and in any case he had spent too much of his life in the hands of the enemy. Collaborating, as Zosia would say.No, he would not be put to use as a diplomat between Underground groups, he was far too tainted for that.