The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  When they were at the desk, Tess pointed out the name. “He checked out the morning after.”

  “Schindler,” Peter muttered, surprised to see that name. “Wolf-Dietrich Schindler. You said he was young?”

  “Yes, well, not old anyway. His papers said he was from Berlin. His accent was consistent with that.”

  Peter and Jenny exchanged amused glances.

  “Can you describe him?” Jenny asked.

  “Of course,” Tess agreed cheerily, and did just that in great detail.

  The next morning they left their luggage at the inn and took a day trip to Dover just to see the ocean. They walked along the beach, totally alone in the bitter December wind. Peter stopped to stare from a safe distance at the western docks, where he had embarked so long ago into an unknown fate. Jenny huddled next to him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. She followed his gaze and then, leaning into him, asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, I was thinking how my escape cost Geoff his life.”

  “You weren’t to know.”

  “I know. Still, if I had told the truth at my interrogation, maybe that would have saved him.”

  “How so?”

  “After my recapture, I lied about the extortion we had used against the Kommandant. I didn’t want to get my accomplices in trouble, so I just made up a story that the Kommandant had freed me out of love, that he had planned to meet up with me after some time.”

  “But how does that change anything?”

  “Well, when Geoff killed the Kommandant, he claimed it was self-defense. He claimed the Kommandant had attacked him. If I had admitted that the Kommandant had attacked me as well, maybe they would have believed him.”

  “He was hanged so soon after you left, your words couldn’t have affected his trial.”

  “I only spent four days out of the Reich and, let’s say, a day or two in transit. Geoff was hanged nine days after I left. There was plenty of time for me to corroborate his story. It might have saved him if they knew the Kommandant was a psychopath . . .”

  Jenny shook her head. “You know better than that. We’re Nichtdeutsch, the justice system doesn’t work like that for us.”

  They padded along the heavy, damp sand in silence. The sea threw up dark waves onto the shore, then greedily sucked them back with a loud roaring sound through the pebbly beach. Clouds scudded across the sky, gathering on the horizon with a portent of rain. The wind whipped at them so much they had to lean into it to stay upright. Jenny huddled closer and Peter hugged her. “So much waste,” he muttered at the sea.

  “This trip?”

  “Oh, no! I think we’ve got everything we could hope for, and that description was terrific.”

  “Yeah. She’d make a great recruit.”

  Peter nodded. “Thanks for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “My pleasure.” Jenny sighed into the wind. “Anything for old times.”

  Upon returning to London, Peter relayed the information to Ryszard. Ryszard promised to call on him again if need be, but had pressing business in Berlin and had to abandon the hunt for the time being. He left Peter with strict instructions not to pursue anything on his own and then, upon seeing Peter’s face, added, “I mean it!”

  Despite the obvious temptation to spite Ryszard, Peter decided not to do anything so foolish as to play sleuth, and so he settled back into a routine with the bookstore and into preparing for the extra sales that were inevitable during the Winterfest season. For that he got little help from Barbara, for she and Mark threw themselves into the Winterfest activities that dominated the city. There were street markets and theater productions, sporting events and parades. The weather was uncooperative, but then, it always was, and nobody was surprised that they had to sip their Glóhwein under the sodden awning of a street booth during the Winterfestmarkt.

  Peter ventured out with them once or twice after closing up shop; the outings reminded him of some happy times in his youth, but even though the markets had grown richer and the entertainment was more elaborate, he found no real joy in the occasions. There was an ever-present fear that even in the huge, anonymous crowds he would be recognized from his wanted poster or by an old acquaintance, and though he told no one, he was also afraid of a bomb or other unforeseen event blowing his cover, the way it had done in Neu Sandez.

  So he usually stayed at home in the evenings, enjoying his privacy and tendingthe books. He spent several evenings filling out the necessary papers to reapplyfor the bookstore’s license to sell English-language books. The forms weretedious, requiring signatures and testimonials from several government offices, but since they had received approval in the past, it seemed likely they would be granted the license for another year.

  Theirs was a dual-language store; that is, they sold both German and English books. The German books required no special license, but the English books did—ostensibly to prevent their shop from becoming a low-class establishment and thus destroying the character of the neighborhood. It was true that many of the shops that sold English books were located in the English parts of town and were therefore quite run-down, and it was this association that the Neighborhood Committee wanted to prevent. Peter knew, though, that it had little to do with the integrity of the neighborhood: the government simply wanted to keep an eye on all establishments that might become focal points for resistance. For that reason, they were careful to keep an extremely proper shop, and for that reason as well, he was careful to have all the forms filled out with due care and attention.

  He tracked down signatures and testimonials during the day; assurances from the bank that they had credit, from neighbors that there had been no incidences, from the local police that there had been no complaints. The district security police certified that they had not been implicated in holding or selling any illegal books, the Neighborhood Committee confirmed that the shop window displays had been acceptable, and the Workers’ Committee indicated that the bookstore had satisfactory hiring practices, though indeed there were no employees other than Barbara and Peter. In the evening, he collated the statements for paid taxes and bills, organized the list of books bought and sold throughout the year, indicated the typical customer profile, and included the necessary proof of his and Barbara’s acceptable racial credentials and their approved marriage certificate.

  When he had completed all the paperwork and bound the documents into a thick file, he hand-delivered them to the appropriate office with the appropriate, hefty fee and received a receipt. Once that was done, he happened to find an unmarked envelope stuffed with cash on the floor, laid it on the counter, and departed, trusting the clerks to find the rightful home for the money. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting. The license was important to the shop—it allowed nearly any type of customer to come and go without suspicion, and that was important to their work, but besides that, it was profitable as well. English books were somewhat difficult to find, almost always being located in the less salubrious districts of the city, and the shop managed a good trade amongst the middleclass English of their mixed suburb, as they timidly rediscovered their own culture.

  New Year’s Eve was celebrated in typical British fashion with everyone getting stinking drunk. Added to that were fireworks and every armed German shooting off his gun into the air. Early in the morning, the drunken revelers wandered back from the Central Square, or, as the locals called it, Trafalgar Square, singingtheir out-of-tune love songs in a mixture of obscene English and broken German.

  Peter opened the door to Barbara and Mark as they stumbled in close to four in the morning and, taking pity on them, let them have the bed while he made a space for himself on the floor of the living room by putting the coffee table on the armchair. The next morning, after a peaceful night’s sleep, he sat in relative comfort in the living room and took a unique pleasure in hearing one then the other of them stumble time and again to the toilet to empty their stomach. It felt good to be the healthiest one around!
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  Barbara tottered in some hours later and looked blearily at him. “What are you looking so cheerful about?” she asked with a surly scowl.

  “Got permission last night to go home,” he answered happily. “I leave in a week.”

  Barbara’s face fell. She glanced back with a guilty expression toward the bedroom, then asked in Polish in a whisper, “You’re leaving me?”

  “It’s only temporary,” he answered gently. “Zosia will be giving birth soon. With luck, I’ll get there before it happens.”

  “And then?”

  He sighed. “Then I have to come back. That’s the deal.”

  Barbara looked relieved, but said, “I’m sorry. I know you want to stay there.”

  “Oh, well, there’s no point staying where you’re not wanted. That’s what my mother used to say.” He laughed and added, “Just before she sent me off to that German school!”

  Barbara forced a little laugh as well, then groaning and grabbing at her head, she rushed off toward the toilet.

  40

  “OH, WHAT THE HELL IS IT NOW?” the Führer demanded into the phone.

  Stefi uncurled herself from his body and sat up on her knees. As she heard his tense answers, she began to massage his neck, pressing her head close to his in a gesture of affection, which quite coincidentally meant she could overhear both sides of the telephone conversation.

  Schindler spoke angrily on the other end of the phone. The Führer listened, nodding his head in agreement. Stefi moved closer to him so that her bare breasts were pressed against the naked skin of his back. He arched his back in pleasure. “Look, look, I can’t deal with this now. Haven’t you any decency, Günter? What’s wrong with you, calling me at home? Call me tomorrow, in the morning. I’ll think about it and give you an answer then.”

  There was an angry diatribe. Stefi leaned forward and kissed the Führer alonghis neck; moving up to his ear, she inserted her tongue such that he gasped his surprise. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he assured his listener. “Look, I said tomorrow. Got that? I told the secretary to pass on only emergency calls. Did you say this was an emergency? It isn’t you know!” There was more muttering and the Führer added, “Yes, I know, but I’m busy. Go away!” He slammed the phone down on the receiver, then turning to the servant, who had stood impassively silent in the corner the entire time, he barked, “Go tell them no calls. Not even these so-called ‘emergencies’!”

  After the servant had left the bedroom, the Führer turned to Stefi. “Now where were we, Schatz?”

  Stefi grabbed his hand and laid it on her breast. “Here,” she breathed. As he tightened his hold on her, she asked, “Was that Günter bothering you again?”

  “Yes, yes. He wants me to have your father investigated. Something about his poking his nose into affairs in England. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Investigated? Oh, no! You can’t do that!” she exclaimed, pulling away enough that he lost his hold on her.

  “Huh? Don’t worry! Your father’s perfectly clean. If it will shut Günter up, why not?”

  “Because he’ll manufacture evidence against my father! Don’t you know? Günter thinks my dad is having an affair with his wife!”

  “Is he?”

  “Rudi! I don’t know! But does it matter to one as important as you? Are you going to involve yourself in Günter’s petty vindictiveness?” Stefi asked pleadingly.

  The Führer rolled onto his back and sighed expressively. “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  Stefi leaned across him to kiss his chest. She worked her way downward, saying, “You’re the Sun God king! I knew you would never involve yourself in such trivial mortal affairs. Um, what’s this?” She stopped kissing and let her tongue begin exploring.

  “Oh, you devilish little girl!” the Führer exclaimed excitedly.

  “No, no!” Stefi admonished, reaching over to the side table for the riding crop. “I do believe you are the naughty little schoolboy!”

  The Führer giggled excitedly. “Do you want to watch some of my tapes? Huh?”

  Stefi shook her head. “No, I think you need some discipline right now! Your schoolmistress is very disappointed in you!” She swung the riding crop lightly at his chest.

  “Ow!” he yelped. “Oh, you’re right! But you know what?” he asked, suddenly quite serious. He grabbed her jaw and turned her face toward him. “I have a surprise for you. I’m going to show you just how tough I am!” He pressed a kiss onto her lips. “I’m going to go to war for you, my little goddess!”

  41

  IT WAS SO INCREDIBLY PEACEFUL. White on black, crowned by somber green. A bird took fright, its wings beating an urgent message into the stark solitude, and a plume of snow drifted down from the branch and spread into a crystalline shower over his head. His steps were muffled, and the approaching dusk cast an ethereal light that caused his steamy breath to glow. His long wool coat dusted along the snow as he stepped through a lightly packed region. His feet sank to the top of his tall leather boots, and he mentally congratulated himself on his foresight in having carted them all the way to London and back. Peter took another step and sank into the welcoming embrace of the snow-shrouded woods of his home.

  At the large pine by the bend in the creek, he turned off his direct path and headed to the location of Joanna’s memorial. He could not see the stone buried beneath the snow, but he knew it was there, and he knelt at the site and sent his love into the unknown, hoping she would hear him. He already keenly felt her absence, the lack of a snowball greeting, the haunting void where her laughter should have been, the sweaty wool of his scarf where her arms should have been hugging his neck. By the time he looked up, the last of the sunlight had disappeared, and he walked the rest of the distance in the dark.

  “Welcome back, sir,” the guard at the entrance said with a smile.

  “Thank you,” he replied, and entered the bunker. Zosia was nowhere in sight, but then she would not know the exact time of his return so there was no reason to expect her to wait at the entrance. He made his way to their apartment, greeting a few people along the way, thinking about her. He imagined what she would look like so near to her due date. He thought about the way he would hug her, and how he would tell her he loved her and was sorry he had not said so the day he had left. He would kiss her hands and her hair, and then, tenderly, he would kiss her lips. He would hold her and tell her how happy he was to be home, and then they would talk and touch and get to know each other again. He smiled as he walked through the corridors, his smile broadening into a grin as he reached the door of his home.

  At the door he hesitated. Should he knock? It was his own apartment, but it would be polite not to just barge in and scare her. He glanced down at the boxes of tomato plants and herbs he had placed along the hallway; they looked well cared for and recently harvested. Probably Marysia. Actually, it was against the rules to block the hallways in any way, but he had constructed the boxes so that they were narrow and pressed against the walls and nobody had complained. The bunker had its own hothouses, but with his little indoor garden, using the perennially shining lights of the hallway, he was guaranteed a nonrationed supply of fresh vegetables and herbs. And the air was a bit fresher, too. He smiledand tapped on the door lightly; there was no response so he knocked a bit louder, waited a moment, and then turned the handle. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open, but it stuck halfway. He peered around the corner to see what the problem was and spotted a bunch of clothes lying in a heap on the floor.

  Stepping into the room, he turned on the light and looked around. The place was a mess. Clothes and books and dirty dishes were everywhere. “Zosia?” he called out gently, but there was no answer. He made his way to the bedroom and peered in, but she was not there either.

  He stood for a moment wondering what he should do, whether he should go looking for her. Then he looked up and noticed that the shelf of books he had left had been emptied and replaced with her stuff. He looked around again at the incredible mess
wondering what it all meant, then sighing, he cleared a place for himself on the sofa and sat down. His right leg hurt from the long climb through the snow, and he leaned forward to massage the muscles.

  “Dad?”

  “What, honey?” he asked, looking up to confront the dim emptiness around him. He thought he heard a noise by one of the piles, like that of a little girl hiding, preparing to jump out and surprise him, but he knew nothing was there. He sat back and brought his hand up to brush away the tears from his eyes, and he scanned the room again, looking for something, not knowing what.

  The bitter loneliness of the empty flat made him feel nervous, and he wished fervently that Zosia would return quickly. There was, though, no telling how long she would be away, no note, nothing. He got up and checked the kitchen cupboards, but they were essentially empty. He looked into the refrigerator and recoiled at the fuzzy green objects inside. He looked back in the cupboard; there was some barley in a jar he recognized from when he had left, a can of beans, some tinned herring, and a few bits of garlic shriveled in the corner. He turned to the cabinet and found the vodka, poured himself a stiff drink, walked over to the mirror, and tapped his glass against it. “Welcome home,” he toasted, and downed the vodka in several gulps.

  He took off his coat and cleared a space on one of the hooks by the door to hang it up. Then he removed his boots and went into the bedroom with his bag to unpack and change clothes. He had not brought much with him since he had left a reasonable amount of clothing behind, but when he looked in the closet, he found the space had been usurped. Exasperated, he buried his head in his hands and tried to remember where Zosia had stored Adam’s stuff when she had brought it out for him. Some locker several levels down: it would take ages to find everything, if that’s where it was.

  On an impulse he went and checked Joanna’s wardrobe. Everything was as she had left it the day they had gone into town. He stood stock-still staring sightlessly at the neat piles. Just like Anna’s clothes, neatly stacked in her little cupboard, even after her death. He touched the cloth, stroking the fabric as if it werestill cloaking Joanna’s skin. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, and then, as if dropping the blade on a guillotine, he shut the door.