The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  His thoughts turned to his genuine work. He would have to get those documents and negatives and an outline of the plan off to his father quickly. Maybe he and Kasia could stop by the bookstore on Saturday morning. A family outing. Should he show Kasia the negatives first? There was no particular reason to do so, but he knew she would be interested, and she might have some good ideas about how to time everything. She had a real knack for that sort of thing. Yeah, he’d show her. Of course, that would mean he’d have to explain the contents of the videotape. He did not like the thought of doing that, but he could not really leave her in the dark about it. He should have told her long before, when he was forcing his sons out of the house. She was not ignorant of the danger they were all in, and he was stupid to think he was shielding her by not telling her about the videotape. He started coughing again, but this time it dissolved not into laughter but into sobs. Poor little girl. Poor sweet, happy, lively little girl.

  As Ryszard walked up the path, he pulled out his packet of cigarettes, but it was empty. Somehow that infuriated him, and as Leszek opened the door for him, he walked in fuming. He reached for the cigarette box, but Leszek preempted him, picking up the box, opening it, and offering it to him.

  “Enough of this shit, already,” Ryszard snapped. “The surveillance is off for now, so would you just stop with all this crap?”

  “Look,” Leszek said, lapsing into familiar speech, “mine and my wife’s life are just as dependent on this little charade never being detected as your family’s. If you can’t handle it, why don’t you just pull out?” And get us out of this hellhole assignment as well, he did not need to add.

  “Who the hell do you think you are!” Ryszard yelled in reply, raising his fist threateningly. Kasia stepped into the entryway; she motioned with her head toward the sitting room, and Ryszard sheepishly went in.

  Kasia asked Leszek to bring them drinks, then joined her husband in the sitting room. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, then tenderly she advised, “Ryszard, my love, you must relax a bit.”

  Ryszard looked ready to reply but Leszek came in with their drinks. After he had set them down and left the room, Ryszard said quietly, “I despise that man.”

  “But why, dear?”

  “He thinks he knows this job better than me.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “My sweet wife, you think that about everyone.”

  “He wants to expand his contacts here. He thinks he can organize something among the workers.”

  “What? No! I don’t like that you let the two of them out and about as much as you do.”

  “Ryszard, you have no idea what it’s like here for us! We wait, day in and day out, with virtually nothing to do. It’s both dangerous and boring. You’ve got to let them have some diversion. Something to make them feel useful.”

  “They’re useful here, doing their job. That’s enough.”

  “Darling, please. They might be able to—”

  “I said no,” Ryszard growled. “It’s dangerous and we can’t afford that sort of risk. I won’t have it.”

  “But—”

  “I said no!”

  Kasia sighed. “So how was your day at work?”

  Ryszard pulled out the envelope of negatives and documents, explained about the contents of the videotape, and outlined his plan to Kasia.

  “Yes, I think it will work. It looks well laid out.” Kasia sounded reassuring. She squinted at the negatives. “I can’t really make much out. Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “Yeah, here.”

  Kasia accepted the glass and looked at the pictures. “Oh, that’s a nasty one. Helooks awful here, too.” She looked up at Ryszard and smiled. “Yes, I think it will all work well.”

  He was surprised that she did not show more emotion. “I thought you liked your brother-in-law. Don’t those pictures bother you?”

  Kasia tilted her head in surprise. “Not really,” she finally answered. “It’s all so long in the past.”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s all over and done with,” Ryszard said without conviction. It bothered him that Kasia was less perturbed by the photographs than he had been. Was he losing his cool? Perhaps, he consoled himself, it was actually seeing that videotape. Simply describing it did not do it justice. Or perhaps it was fear. He identified with Peter in the videotape. It was the sort of revenge they would take on him. They would use his family’s deaths to torment him. They might even let him live a good long time as they murdered each member of his family one by one in front of him. They would rape Kasia, repeatedly and brutally, just so he could see it. His tongue probed back to his tooth. Could he expect his family to kill themselves? Would his children do that? Could he kill himself immediately and abandon them to their fates, hoping that his death would preempt any action against them? Or would he, like Peter, suspect that only his long and tortured death would satisfy them? It was clear Peter had guessed that if he stayed alive they might leave Joanna alone. It was clear he had guessed wrong, but who was to have known? Would he know when the time came?

  “You need an eyewitness,” Kasia said, interrupting his morbid thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Well, they can claim the pictures and document copies are fake as well.”

  “They’re negatives,” Ryszard pointed out.

  “Even so,” Kasia replied.

  “I won’t write that into Karl’s scripts.”

  “Still, he might take the initiative. Or someone else might suggest it. You need a living witness.”

  “To what?”

  “To anything. Any indication that Peter was genuine.” Kasia paused. “Didn’t he say there was a daughter who was rebellious? Maybe she could be suborned.”

  “Too young. Besides it’s not really feasible. We’d have to convert her and spirit her out of the country and . . . I just don’t think that would work. And they could say she’s an actress as well.”

  “Yeah. It needs to be somebody already known.”

  “I just don’t see that as being possible.”

  “What about a diplomat?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Well,” Kasia explained, “didn’t Peter say he served at diplomatic functions sometimes? And they’re always kept under surveillance. Maybe there would be a diplomat who was at one of those and would remember him.”

  Ryszard shook his head. “Even if we could somehow trace the parties he worked . . .”

  “I’m sure you could get that information directly from Karl.”

  “How would he remember?”

  “His accounts. He must have them from that far back. He’ll have been paid for Peter’s labor.”

  “If it wasn’t done as a favor.”

  “You can be sure he kept track of those as well.”

  “Yeah, I might be able to get the information from him. Okay, say I can locate a list of functions—so what? Nobody remembers servants. Who’d remember him? And what good would it do?”

  “You only need one person of standing from a nonallied country to say he saw Peter at one of those functions. Just one. Then his existence and story are undeniable.”

  “Hmm. It would be a nice extra touch.” Ryszard wondered if it would be worth the extra work. Tracking the receptions—reasonably easy; getting the surveillance photos—probably not a problem, he could invent a plausible reason. Identifying the people in the negatives would be tedious but not particularly taxing. But finding someone who remembered Peter, a nameless, faceless servant in a foreign country?

  “If you get a reception during the period when this photo was taken”—Kasia held the one where Peter was an obvious wreck—“then he might have been more memorable.”

  “Yeah. But Karl might not have loaned him out at that time.”

  “Leased,” Kasia corrected.

  “So?”

  “Money, dear. Do you think he’d be ashamed of his handiwork?”

  “No. He’s quite proud of it.”

  “And with money
involved?”

  “You’re right. I doubt he bothered to keep Peter under wraps just because he looked battered.”

  “Also, Peter is rather distinctive, at least for that class, and with the criminal stripes on his arm, he may have aroused curiosity.”

  “Yeah, that criminal link is a problem.” Ryszard was distracted by that thought.

  “But it’s just arbitrary! He wasn’t any more criminal than . . .” Kasia was going to say “you or me” and realized just how stupid that would be.

  “The Americans have a real problem with criminality. They take the label seriously whether it’s deserved or not. In news articles they use the word prisoner as if they were not humans, as if they’re a different species.”

  “Or subhuman?”

  Ryszard laughed. “They do that with prostitutes as well. Rarely do they refer to them as women. ‘A prostitute was murdered,’ they’ll report, as if herjob defined her existence. Part of their piety and drug-war siege mentality, I’d say.”

  “How was his criminality handled on his original visit?”

  “He tiptoed around it. Didn’t actually mention he was classified as ‘criminal.’ Just kept mentioning the facts of his case, rather than the labeling. But if Karl mentions that label—well, the American public is likely to think Peter deserved whatever he got.”

  “They’re not that naive, are they?”

  “Some are. They seem to think that once you’re found guilty in any legal system, then whatever happens to you is your own fault.”

  “Obviously the result of never having lived with a mad government.”

  “Obviously,” Ryszard agreed. And what assumptions did they make having always lived with insanity as the norm?

  “Well, if Karl wants to mention it, maybe you should point out how bad it would look that he harbored a criminal in his house. Would that work?”

  “It just might.” Ryszard grinned. “Anyway, Karl is such an arse, he won’t even think to mention it if I don’t tell him to.”

  “Good, now back to my eyewitness idea.”

  “I think it’s great. I’ll see what I can dig up.” Ryszard got up and went over to his wife and kissed her. “Moja kochana Kasiu, do you know how empty my life would be without you?”

  “I can only guess.”

  19

  IT WAS THE FOURTH NIGHT IN A ROW that it had happened. Awake and disturbed, he lay there. No nightmares, nothing horrible; yet it was so disconcerting and uncomfortable. He lay perfectly still on his side, turned away from Barbara. She was asleep but pressed up against him so that he could feel every curve of her body against his back. He was hard, erect, on fire with desire. He had been dreaming about sex, but couldn’t even remember with whom. Just sex with some woman, any woman it would seem. The warmth of Barbara’s body, the softness of her hand as it lay casually draped over him, all of it was driving him wild with need.

  Carefully, so as not to wake her, he reached downward. Maybe he could at least relieve some of the physical tension. If he didn’t, the resultant lowerabdominal pain would add insult to the injury of his frustration. Damn Zosia! Did she want him to sleep with Barbara? How long did Zosia think he could tolerate having a beautiful young woman who was madly in love with him in the same bed with him night after night? What in God’s name had Zosia been thinking when she had imposed this exile on him? Or did she just not care?

  His hand moved slowly, up and down. His breath came in more labored gasps as he felt the unbearable tension building. He began to stroke a bit faster, struggling to minimize his movements without unduly distracting himself from the pleasure.

  “Are you awake? What are you doing?” Barbara mumbled.

  That slowed him down a bit. What he would give for just an iota of privacy in his life! “Nothing,” he answered through gritted teeth, hoping she’d get the hint to leave him alone to get on with it before he lost the threads of his fantasy.

  Her hand slipped forward across his stomach, under the waistband, and down to join his hand. She stroked the veins on the back of his hand, twined her fingers in his.

  “Barbara . . .”

  “Let me do it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “As a friend. Just massaging you, massaging away your tension. Don’t do anything, just relax.” Delicately she began to caress him. He started to pull her hand away, but then he stopped. What harm would it do? It felt so good to be so gently touched.

  “Turn a bit.”

  He did, rolling onto his back so she could reach him more easily. She rested her head on his chest and positioned herself so she could use both hands. Her fingertips danced over his skin, located scars from electrical burns, from cutting cords, from any number of brutal tortures; she memorized their locations and thereafter deftly avoided touching the fragile skin with its painful memories. He began to relax as he recognized her caution, and he took her at her word and closed his eyes, not even thinking of reciprocating or of kissing her or of doing anything except accepting her attentions. He wasn’t doing anything, he assured himself, wasn’t being unfaithful, and it felt so nice. It felt really, really nice. So relaxing, so . . . Again the tension built, more intense this time on account of the delay and on account of her alien touch. He wanted her, wanted to pull her on top of him, kiss her passionately, thrust himself deep inside of her, ah . . .

  When his brain started functioning again, he wondered momentarily who “she” had been. Was it Zosia he had wanted or Barbara? Or maybe nobody in particular? He lay on the bed, covered in sweat, trying to keep the sticky puddle on his stomach and chest from dripping down his sides. He felt too happy and relieved to even think of being embarrassed but did laugh to himself at the thought of what he must look like.

  Barbara slipped out of the bed and returned with a washcloth and washed him, making a special effort to avoid hurting him. His scars weren’t all that sensitive, but it was sweet that she was so careful, and he grinned at her idiotically. When she was done, she left to wring out the cloth, then she returned to the bed, kissed him on the forehead, and curled up next to him, throwing her arm across his chest.

  “Where in the world did you learn to do that?”

  “Oh, girl talk. Intuition,” she answered obscurely.

  He pulled the covers up over the two of them, relaxed as she held him, did not even mind as her hand slipped downward and rested, holding him gently, almost possessively. He wondered if she had expected him to reciprocate, but her soft breathing indicated that she was only interested at the moment in sleeping, and he fell into a dreamless and peaceful sleep in her arms.

  20

  ALEX SCANNED THE OUTLINE of what Ryszard planned for his next release. It was all going wonderfully. That pompous Vogel arse droning away at the American public, telling them they had been duped, implying they were stupid and naive, explaining that the entire Halifax story was a hoax generated by inferior exiletypes. Heh! Just as things had begun to settle down, the Vogel presentation had hit the air. Alex could hear his son’s dripping cynicism behind each and every one of Karl’s words. It was marvelous and it all sounded so incredibly patriotic. Karl would think he was doing wonderfully. Even his bosses would praise him. Until . . .

  Alex listened carefully to the recording he had made of Karl’s presentation on American television. It had been difficult to find a full airing of it, and even then they had so carefully jacked up the translator’s voice that Karl was almost inaudible behind him. Alex wanted to hear the German so he could work out what Karl was really saying. The translation was appalling: ungrammatical, uncolloquial, stiff, and even occasionally wrong. It was a nice touch. Alex wondered who had arranged it.

  “What’s this request to get in touch with this diplomat?” Anna interrupted him.

  “Shh!”

  “Oh, shush yourself. Put that thing on hold and answer me!” Anna snapped.

  “It’s ‘pause,’ ” Alex corrected as he pushed the appropriate button. He had noticed that Anna was becoming more and mor
e—what was the word for it?— aggressive? Pushy? Emancipated? It was annoying.

  “Pause-shmause. What’s this about?”

  “Ryszard has tracked down a real person who met Peter at a diplomatic function in Berlin. He’s from some African country or kingdom or whatever. Anyway, he’s currently here in the NAU, and there’s actually a photograph of him conversing with Peter.”

  “Conversing?”

  “Well, he seems to have stopped at his drinks tray for longer than it takes tosay ‘another one of these’—through three consecutive photos, in fact. So we’re hoping he remembers Peter and can verify his story or at least his existence.”

  “What was Peter doing attending a diplomatic function?”

  “Weren’t you listening! He was serving!” Alex laughed.

  “Serving? Who’d remember a servant?”

  “Well, here’s a copy of one of the photos. What do you think?”

  Anna studied the photograph. “Oh, God, he looks like hell. Maybe the other fellow will remember him. I guess the picture will help jog his memory.”

  “No doubt. Unfortunately, he’s more likely to find forgetting convenient. They get money from the Reich.”

  “Are they allies?”

  “No, but he’s unlikely to want to upset them. We need a way to convince him it’s in his best interest.”

  “Does he get money from us?” Anna suggested.

  “From the NAU—yes. From us, no.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes, but the point is, the NAU authorities have no interest in putting pressure on him.”

  “Wouldn’t they want the truth to come out?”

  Alex snorted his derision. “Yeah, sure. Anyway, I have a much better lead. Remember that woman on the late-night show? She’s from the same country and is famous.”