The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Look, Dad!” Joanna’s sweet voice broke into his thoughts. He glanced around, but of course, she was not there. He missed her so! Such a happy child, so full of life. In her brief time, she had given so much to him, so much hope, so much confidence. Never before had he felt so unconditionally loved, wanted, and at home. He thought then of his other daughter—little Magdalena, whom he could not see. What lay in store for her? Would she harry her servants mercilessly, held back by no social convention; permitted, encouraged even, by society to be infinitely impatient and demanding? Would she be like her mother? The thought of Elspeth left him feeling cold, and he jumped to his feet as he felt her hand stroke his hair.

  “Sorry,” Barbara’s voice came from behind him, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Oh.” He turned around, thoroughly abashed. “It’s just that I thought for a second you were Elspeth.”

  “Who? Oh, yes, Frau Vogel! Did she come up from behind and stroke your hair when you were sitting?” Barbara teased.

  “I wasn’t permitted to sit,” he replied obscurely.

  She looked at him questioningly, but then decided that sizzling noises from the kitchen took priority. “I just wanted to ask you to set the table—the dinner will be ready soon.”

  “Of course,” he responded absently.

  After the nice little dinner that Barbara had prepared, they cleaned the kitchen, relaxed a bit, and then retired for the night. Tomorrow would be their first day on the job, and they were both intrigued and a bit nervous. As he undressed, Peter reviewed, once again, all that he had learned. He was sufficiently distracted that it took a few minutes for him to notice that Barbara, sitting on the bed in her nightgown, was staring at him. Once he noticed the vague look of horror on her face, he stopped to consider its possible source. Only a double bed was provided in the apartment; perhaps his assumption that they would share it was the problem?

  He looked at her quizzically. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” It would not be particularly practical since the couch was not large or comfortable, but there was nowhere else readily available.

  “No, no,” she said as if in a daze, still staring.

  “You don’t mind sharing?”

  “No, of course not. If anyone should sleep out there, it should be me. After all, you’re the senior officer.”

  Peter smiled at her gentle euphemism. “Then?” he asked, hoping she might explain.

  She shook her head at him, chagrined by her obvious gaffe. “I had no idea . . .”

  He glanced down at his scarred body. “Oh, yes, of course.” Fucking sons of bitches, how he hated each and every one of them who had trampled on him so happily.

  “Do they hurt?” she asked, motioning toward the injuries.

  He shook his head. “Only when pretty young girls point them out to me,” he teased.

  She reddened. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think . . . I, it’s just that . . . Oh!” She threw herself facedown onto the bed in a fit of girlish embarrassment.

  “Barbara. It’s okay, I was joking!” He laughed. “Here, I’ll turn out the lights.”

  In the dim shadows he saw her emerge from her self-imposed exile; he could just barely discern her face. “Would you put the lights back on?” she asked timidly.

  “Why?” he asked as he reached for the switch.

  “If we’re supposed to be married, I think I should know what you look like. I’m sorry about . . . It was unprofessional.”

  He nodded and, turning on the lights again, let her look at him as he stood there.

  “Would you come sit by me so I can look more closely?”

  Was she trying to prove her cool by being so clinical? He nodded and went to sit by her. Without even asking, she ran her hand over his back and along his arms. He turned his head away slightly so she would not see how much her presumptuousness annoyed him. She may have thought she was being sympathetic and open, or perhaps even seductive, but all it felt like to him was the prodding and poking of so many others who had given themselves the rights to his body.

  As she caressed him further, he grabbed her hand, forced a smile onto his face, and holding her hand in both of his, assured her as gently as he could, “That’s probably enough for now.”

  She nodded, suddenly aware that she had offended him and grimaced as she turned over to hide her face in the pillow once again. He turned out the light and crawled under the covers without bothering to console her.

  “Niklaus, wake up! Are you all right?”

  He opened his eyes to see Barbara’s anxious face peering down at him.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked sleepily. The dream was there—or rather the nightmare. Damn, if only he could have slept through it. The vision was still painful.

  “You were shaking!”

  “So?” he snapped angrily, stunned by the unnecessary cruelty of her waking him. He might have slept through it, would have forgotten it by morning, but now it was there in his memory. Damn it, sleep was so precious, and now it was lost!

  “I thought . . .” Barbara fell silent, then tried again. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I thought that I might . . .”

  He felt a sudden pity for her confusion. How was she to know? Masking his anger as best he could, he said, “It’s okay, don’t worry. Thanks for, uh, the concern.But next time, if possible, please don’t wake me. I get little enough sleep as it is. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed sheepishly.

  “Do you think I’ll bother you?” he asked, trying to soothe her feelings.

  “No, no, I’ll be all right. Now that I know.” She turned over as she said that and buried her head under her arm.

  He reached over and stroked her arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just an idiot,” she said forlornly.

  They lay silently for a long time, each thinking the other was asleep. Barbara occupied herself with her thoughts, Peter tried not to occupy himself with his. Finally after several hours he fell back asleep.

  The bomb exploded silently this time. It all happened in silence. The blast, the way he threw himself down on Joanna, the terrible wind of shrapnel impaling him with thousands of daggers as he lay there. He rolled off the child, felt again the stabs of pain as each piece of glass dug its way deeper under his skin. There was mayhem; he looked down, saw the piece of glass in his leg. He was standing, swaying dizzily, and then he screamed at Joanna to run, to run as far away from him as she could, to run and hide. Sound bombarded the scene as he yelled his warning. He could hear her footsteps as she took flight, could hear the glass still tinkling to the ground, could hear the people running about, trying to help. He felt himself pitch forward, saw the ground coming up to meet him, but Joanna was gone, she was safe, she had run away.

  He awoke panting. Why hadn’t he told her to run? Surely there must have been time! The scene had played itself out in his mind so many times—both asleep and awake—that he knew each terrible microsecond. Run! How long does it take to say that? Why hadn’t he told her to run?

  The word repeated itself over and over in his mind as if trying to tutor him. This is how you say it, this is how to do it next time. Run. Run away and hide. How many times did he have to hear himself say it? Over and over he heard himself speak, saw her take flight in his imagination. He greeted her again back at the encampment sometimes; congratulated her on her escape. “You said run,” she told him, “so I did.”

  He sat up in bed and rubbed his face. It was going to be one of those nights. Though he was exhausted, he rose and went to the desk, gathered a few sheets of paper and a pen, and decided to write a long letter to Zosia. It would be ages before it reached her; perhaps there would be no opportunity to send it at all. It was futile, there would be no comfort to be had from her reply if there even was one, but still he wrote. Without preamble, he told her about his dream, that was uppermost on his mind; then he wrote about his memories of Joanna and the good times the three of them had had toge
ther. He mentioned over and over how much he missed Zosia, how much he loved her.

  “I wish I could write poetry,” he wrote, “so that I could let you know just how much I miss you. It’s like a physical pain, hell, it is a physical pain. Oh, Zosiu, I love you so much, why do we have to be apart? What have I done?”

  He looked at the words and realized he had written something almost identical-only a few paragraphs before. Such repetition looked foolish; better to write something else. He let his thoughts wander, and he began telling her about his impressions on his return to England:

  “Both Chase and Halifax are far in the past (other than those few weeks just before my arrest), and nearly all my memories of this place come from Yardley. He was such a different fellow—not the lonely boy, not the determined and rebellious youth. He went to pubs and slept around (before A.) and violated curfew to watch the stars at night (there are some dark corners near the river—and yes, we do have an occasional cloudless night!) and generally he had a pretty good time of it all. Confident, happy—if a bit lonely—he would have gone mad for you and your adorable daughter. I don’t know if you would have liked him though. Maybe better than you like me (I’ve gathered that’s not saying much anymore), maybe not at all. I wonder how much of him was me, I wonder how much I can become him again. And do I want to?”

  Peter scowled at the page. It was stupid referring to himself in the third person, but it seemed apt. He wasn’t Yardley anymore, and he hardly remembered how he could ever have been so unfettered. Worse though, was that last parenthetical remark. He wanted to remove it, but it was in ink and he’d have to rewrite the entire page. Maybe he could scratch it out? Knowing Zosia, that would only convince her to find out what lay underneath and she would then give it even more significance for the difficulty of discovery.

  He decided to let it stand as it was. Zosia would probably never even see the letter, and even if she did, she would probably skim its contents in her always rushed way. Deciding to explore his thoughts without worrying about Zosia’s reaction, he continued, “Would you want me to be more like him? I think he might have reminded you of Adam. I don’t know whether that would have been good or not. I’m sure that he’d never have matched up to”

  He hesitated, realizing he had written himself into a corner. The first words that came to mind were “your super husband,” but that sounded far too bitter, albeit an accurate reflection of his feelings. He constructed Zosia’s thoughts on the subject: Adam would never have let Joanna get taken, Adam would never have copulated with a Nazi-ette, Adam would never have . . . Peter snorted his derision. He would probably have liked the guy if he had known him, would probably have respected him as well, but this competing with his ghost—that was pure folly. He had known it would happen, had warned both Zosia and himself, but still it was worse than he had expected. It seemed unwinnable. Turning his attention back to the paragraph he had been writing, he tried to construct a tactful exit. He decided on “some of your expectations though,” and left it at that.

  He then turned to a description of their first several days in London, theweather, the people, the changes that he had noted. He wrote about how he had taken Barbara to one of his favorite pubs on their first night in town to get a meal, but realized just as they approached the door that as Germans they would probably be made to feel extremely uncomfortable inside. He had led her away, and they had found a quiet German-friendly establishment close to their new home.

  “It’s strange,” he wrote, “but I never experienced it from that angle and it made me feel irrationally angry at them all. I just wanted to have a nice meal yet I knew that we’d probably get beer spilled on us or someone would vomit in our direction or do something else unpleasant. There could have even been a stupid fight if anyone was feeling brave enough to risk police intervention. I wonder if there are any places where Brits and Krauts mix freely. I didn’t know of any before, but after all these years, perhaps things have changed. I’d like to mix in with them but I’m afraid it’s just not going to happen.”

  The words looked strange. He had said them in reference to the English and he had clearly written it as if he were a German living in London. How odd! Still, the way they were treated defined to a great extent who they were, and they were treated as Germans—there would be no way around that fact. With all the privileges, with all the jealousies, with all the suffused hatred that would involve. It was ironic and unfair, and it pushed him toward sympathies that would otherwise have been abhorrent. It was, he realized, exactly what he had hoped to avoid when he had argued with the Underground leadership so long ago.

  He wrote for several hours more, digressing into whatever topic crossed his mind—the way the mountain wildflowers bloomed in a profusion of color, the sound of the pine needles underfoot, the glistening of diamond-scattered sunlight on the fast-flowing streams. He told Zosia how beautiful she was, how he missed her, and asked how everyone was doing—each by name. He realized he missed more than Zosia, he missed the entire place and the people there.

  He also realized, quite suddenly, that he had spent the time free of nightmares or visions. He felt tired and relaxed and somewhat sure that he would fall into a restful sleep. And he had not drunk a drop! Pleased with his discovery, he got up, stretched, and returned to the bed. Barbara had confiscated his side of the bed. Gently lifting her up and back onto her side, he lay down and fell into a peaceful sleep that lasted the rest of the night.

  18

  “SO, KARL,LET’S SEE WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY to the American public,” Richard offered in his most friendly voice, atoning for the previous day’s snub in his office.

  “I’m not so sure I should address the public directly. It’s so low class.”

  “No, you must! The American government has no control over its people. They’re a bunch of impotent fools—that’s what comes of democracy. The entire place is run by opinion polls of the voters’ preferences, and those opinions are manufactured by their Jewish-controlled media. It’s pointless defending our interests to their government—they’re toothless. We must win over the American populace!”

  “But if the media are controlled by Jews, how can we possibly get a fair hearing?” Karl moaned.

  Richard smiled knowingly. “We have some friends there. I’m sure I can arrange something for you if you want.”

  “You could?” Karl sounded stunned by his friend’s reach and power.

  “Yes. And I’ll make sure you get credit for everything you do! My role will simply be to facilitate whatever you choose to present,” Richard offered magnanimously.

  “But what should I present?” Karl wailed. “The boys in Propaganda had no luck, and the Führer’s office couldn’t get a good response either. What can I possibly do?”

  “Their mistake was they protested to the government to suppress the whole affair. That won’t work. We’ve got to fight fire with fire. We’ve got to give our side of the story directly to the American people, and we’ve got to make it attractive so that they listen to it. That’s why we need you—you’ve got the presence we need!” Richard tutored Karl yet again. How many times did he have to explain to the moron!

  Karl’s hand went impulsively to smoothing his naturally blond hair. “So what should I say?”

  “What I would do is deny the whole thing. It’s all a plot. They—that is, the American Jewish media—hired some actor and had him fake the whole damn thing. Every word of it. Then, they faked the video as well. It’s all a fake and there is no way they can prove otherwise.”

  “No way,” Karl repeated, entranced. He had not thought of that, but, yes, they had no way to prove any of it. All a fake. Every last word! What a brilliant idea.

  “But I’m sure that’s what you had in mind already.” Richard blew a stream of smoke into the air and watched it dissipate. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Oh. Yes, yes,” Karl hastily answered. “I was just thinking along those lines. How very disconcerting that you should have so accurately r
eflected my thoughts!”

  “I was just building on something you mentioned the other day. It must have come to you in a flash, but of course, it took me several days to understand what you were saying.”

  Karl grinned. It was clever of him, wasn’t it! If only he could remember what he had said and if anyone else had heard it. He wouldn’t want someone else taking credit for his idea, after all!

  “Tell you what,” Richard continued. “I’ll lay out a script for you and you find a translator.” Best for Karl to organize the translation—there was a good chance he’d screw it up and that would only make their reply to the Halifax video all the more ridiculous.

  “A translator?”

  Richard dug a fingernail into the back of his skull to distract himself for a moment. When he had located his patience again, he explained, “Yes, as you noted, they don’t speak German there and we could hardly hope to get a sympathetic translation from those gangsters who run their media.”

  “Oh, yes, I, um . . .”

  “Organize the filming for next week—that will be plenty of time. Don’t you think?”

  Richard spent the rest of the workday creating a script for Karl, and then to say that he had officially accomplished something, he randomly picked four files from the stack of folders on his desk and handed them to an underling, saying, “I’ve studied these and found their behavior extremely suspicious. I want them put under round-the-clock surveillance, and I want you to determine why they are acting suspiciously.” Laughing to himself at the grand idiocy of it all, he then went home.

  In the taxi on the way home, he mused about the possibility of having some evidence planted against two or three of the four. It would look good if he had once again managed to spot wreckers or saboteurs or infiltrators among the most loyal and patriotic segment of the population. Of course, he would have to get clearance, and that was always a nuisance; the other organizations were terrible about sharing information as they naturally wanted to protect their operatives’ identities. He would have to put in a request to HQ this week, but once the suspects were cleared, he could have some fun with them. He laughed hoarsely, his laughter dissolving into a coughing fit before it ceased altogether. Then he lit another cigarette.