The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  He thought about the ultimatum he had accidentally issued. Zosia had not answered him, she had put him off. She had not even tried to reason with him, to reassure him that even if he was not reassigned immediately, he would be backand welcomed back soon. He was tired of being pushed around at her behest. It was as much his fault as hers—it had been too easy to leave it to her to argue on his behalf, to arrange everything for him. He had been her project ever since he had arrived, partly out of necessity, partly out of inertia. He had come to her a mess of physical and mental injuries, and she, in her kindness and grief, had helped him, and he, in his gratitude, had fallen in love. Perhaps that was inevitable. But it was foolish to have married her before he had found himself. And it was foolish for her to have married so soon after Adam’s death. It had all been a mistake.

  He shook his head in sad recognition. It was time to undo their mistakes. Maybe later they could start again, when she no longer wanted him to be Adam, when he had something he could call his own. He turned and headed back toward the bunker and made his way to Marysia’s. It was late and Marysia looked at him dubiously when he knocked on the door.

  “Did you just get back?” she asked, yawning.

  “No, I’ve been here since Thursday night. Didn’t you know?”

  “No. Zosia was unclear on the date. Why didn’t you visit?”

  “Didn’t she even mention I was back?” he pressed, rather annoyed.

  “No. What’s up?”

  “Where’s Olek?”

  “Guard duty.”

  “Good. Can we talk?”

  Marysia nodded. “I missed you,” she said, hugging and kissing him.

  “I missed you, too,” he replied, touched by her warmth.

  “I assume you’ll want some vodka?”

  “Just exactly how,” he began without preamble, “does one get one of these things annulled?”

  Marysia’s eyes widened; something in his tone warned her he was not joking.

  “I’ve had enough, Marysia. I want out.”

  Marysia shook her head.“No, no, no—it’s not that easy, Peter.”

  “Well, what do I have to do?”

  “If you don’t take these things seriously, you shouldn’t have made the commitment in the first place.”

  “No morality lectures. We made a mistake, now how do we undo it?”

  “All right, all right,” she soothed. “First off, the child makes an annulment nearly impossible. You could, of course, file for a civil divorce, and for you that would be enough since you don’t believe in anything anyway, but what’s all this talk for?”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  “Peter, this doesn’t sound like you at all.”

  “Oh, it’s me all right. I’ve been fucking used all my life and I’m fed up with it!”

  “I don’t understand. What’s happened? You don’t give up—that’s not like you.”

  “Yeah, maybe I don’t. And what fucking good has it done me? Huh?” he barked at her. “Tell me, what good has it done me? Maybe I’ve finally learned to get out while I still have something worth saving!”

  “What about the child?”

  “She wants to keep me away—she’s going to argue for my staying in London forever. She can do it. She has all the rights, all the power. If by getting a divorce, I can prove she won’t have to live with me, maybe she’ll withdraw her objections to my being here. My hope is then I can convince the Council to reassign me back here and maybe get partial custody of the child—or at least visitation rights.”

  Marysia shook her head as if to indicate that she knew that would be unlikely, but she didn’t comment on the technical details. Instead she asked in a conciliatory voice, “It’s not that bad, is it? Zosia’s just going through a bad patch. Joanna’s death has made her unsteady. She’s been terribly depressed. First Adam, then Joanna. Give her a chance.”

  “God damn it, I’ve given her chances! She doesn’t want me around, and I refuse to beg. I’m fed up with begging. All I am is useful to her—that’s all I am to her. Well, I’ve had enough of being used! Do you know . . .” He gritted his teeth as if controlling the torrent of words. “Do you know that I have worked every fucking day of my life since I was thirteen? Do you know that I have taken orders from somebody all my life? Do you know how much I have to show for it? Do you? Nothing! Not one goddamn thing! For a fucking lifetime of work! Do you know what it was like in America surrounded by people—younger than me!— with their families and all their things and their houses and cars and, and I have absolutely nothing to my name! God damn it, what am I going to live on?” He paused long enough to take a deep breath, tried to regain the original thread of his thoughts, and then continued his tirade. “She wants me gone, so poof!—the Council decides I need to leave! I’m not consulted, I have no rights; the apartment is hers, the kid is hers, where I’m posted is her decision.”

  “We thought you would want to go. We thought you were unhappy here.”

  “You didn’t once think of asking me! ”

  “But you seemed so unsatisfied. And you both seemed to need time away from each other.”

  “I didn’t! It was Zosia who wanted time away from me. That’s all that mattered to you.”

  “No, really, we thought it was for the best.”

  “For the best? To throw me out of the only place in the world I might call home?”

  “You didn’t act like it was your home. After all, you were the one who called yourself a prisoner.”

  “So all of a sudden, all the concerns about my trustworthiness vanish and you all feel happy sending me off to London. Just like that, just because she demanded it.”

  “She didn’t demand it. It was Katerina who pushed the idea,” Marysia interjected, but he wasn’t listening.

  “I’ve worked too long and too hard to just be shunted around at someone else’s discretion. I’m tired of being owned, I want my freedom, I want my life back!”

  “Peter, it’s not like that! This isn’t like you. I know you, you don’t just give up. Why are you giving up now?”

  “It’s not giving up. I’ve just had enough, and for the first time in my life, I have the right to walk away when I’ve had enough. For the very first time I’m not somebody’s prisoner. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to act like I’m hers just to preserve this farce of a marriage.”

  Marysia looked at him but did not say anything.

  “And don’t say ‘I told you so’!” he almost yelled.

  “That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was wondering why, if you were tired of taking orders, you didn’t walk out of the Underground before your arrest. Nobody forced you to stay then, did they?”

  He sighed as if obliged to consider his words more carefully. “I don’t know. I knew a lot, they had a lot of effort invested in me; I don’t know if they would have let me go that easily. In any case, I had nowhere to go.”

  “And where will you go now?”

  “Presumably, my divorcing Zosia won’t force me out of your organization? Or will it?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply your position here was dependent on her.” Marysia furrowed her brow.

  He caught her look of doubt. “You don’t know, do you?”

  She shook her head.“No, I’m afraid I don’t. You might be viewed as a liability if you are thought to be unstable.”

  “So blind loyalty to Zosia—no matter how she treats me—is the only way I can show stability?”

  “No, don’t deliberately misinterpret. It’s a serious question and I’m trying to be honest with you. For Christ’s sake, don’t be difficult!”

  “Difficult? Me? You can’t even tell me if my divorcing Zosia would cause me to be a persona non grata here—and I know what that implies given what I know about you all—and you tell me I’m being difficult?”

  “Well . . .”

  “You’re saying I could be shot!”

  �
�I’m sure it wouldn’t come to that.”

  “Then what? Tell me, Marysia, what would it come to?”

  “The question has never been considered. But, Peter, before we embark on hypotheticals, can we please discuss this divorce idea of yours? Please—let’s not argue about things that may not even happen.”

  Peter felt terribly disconcerted. He had not considered these possible consequences of asking for a divorce. Unstable, irrational, embittered: those labels could be deadly.

  Marysia saw his look of dismay. She stroked his face with the back of her hand. His skin was still cold from the bitter night air. “It’s not that bad. We’re all interdependent. We all take orders from someone or some cause. None of us could survive without the others. Even in a free land, even in America, they must work jobs and pay bills and feed their children. No one is free. Not really. I know you’ve had no tangible rewards, I know you feel perpetually indebted to someone else for your life, but we all need each other. We depend on the guards outside to keep us safe, we depend on the sacrifices of those who planted our deterrents to keep us alive, we depend on hope of the future to give us a reason to live. None of us here has anything, Peter, none of us has anything to show for all we’ve done. Not gratitude, not even surety that we’re doing the right thing. It could all be in vain. We could be destroyed in an hour and it would all be for nothing. You’re one of us— homeless, dispossessed, dependent on those around you. Don’t let a chimerical bid for freedom destroy what you have established here. Deal with your problems with Zosia. She’s a good woman, she’ll want to work it out. Tell me what the problems are and maybe we can sort something out.”

  “What problems aren’t there?” Peter enunciated with exasperation. Did they get along on anything?

  Marysia lifted an eyebrow, waited patiently.

  “The most obvious thing is that she doesn’t want me here. She has this idea that I’ll be a drain on her, need her help like I’ve done in the past, and that she doesn’t have the emotional energy to handle it. Not after . . .”

  Marysia shook her head. “That’s what she tells you.”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s not the real problem.”

  “What is, then?”

  Marysia opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. She looked hard into Peter’s eyes, then turned away from him and paced the room. When she returned to him, her expression had changed considerably, but he did not know what that meant. “The truth is difficult, Peter. Difficult and complicated and I can’t—won’t—explain everything, but there is one important fact you should know.” She stopped, took a deep breath, then dove in. “She blames you for Joanna’s death.”

  The bold assertion felt like a knife plunged into his flesh. Peter bowed his head. “So do I,” he whispered. He had not expected that of Zosia; everyone had assured him that she was too competent, too experienced, to lay the blame on the victim. In fact, in the darkest hours of his nights, when he was trying to talk himself out of his guilt, he had depended on those assertions and used them to calm himself. “At least you don’t blame me,” he had written in his letters to her, “and if you don’t, I shouldn’t either.”

  “But you shouldn’t and neither should she. She knows that.”

  Peter stared grimly at the floor.

  “She also blames herself. All along she’s been reckless with security on your account. She told me about your jaunt in Berlin, and there was the time she took you to see Ryszard without checking with anybody. She did it because she wanted to prove to you that you were trusted, and she wanted to prove you were trustworthy to everyone else. And it cost her Joanna.”

  “So why agree to my being sent away?”

  Again Marysia paused. She licked her lips nervously. “I guess she didn’t want you to see that she blamed you. She knew you’d see through her act, and she was afraid of what that would do to you.”

  “Rightly so.” Without his realizing it, his hand reached impulsively toward the gun he carried inside his coat.

  Marysia recognized something in his look. “Peter! Don’t!”

  He fingered the grip absently, stroked the rough surface as if seeking answers, then pointedly he brought out his hand and showed it palm up to Marysia. Empty. “I won’t.” Thinking of his unborn child, he added, “It’s not even an option.”

  Marysia sighed her relief.“How about that drink I promised you?”

  “No, thanks.” He turned toward the door. “I have a lot to think about.” It was not fair that Zosia blamed him, but it was understandable. If she thought she could not adequately hide her accusation, and if she felt that it would destroy him, then sending him away was not as cruel as it seemed. And now that he knew, there was no reason anymore for him to go. Was it that simple? Was it love that had motivated her cruel disregard for him? Was it love?

  “Stay, Peter,” Marysia pleaded.

  “I’m not going to do anything stupid, Marysia, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “It’s not that. I just think you should talk more.”

  “Why? You’ve told me what I need to know.”

  “You should discuss these things. Both of you keep too much inside. Let’s go and get Zosia and clear the air.”

  He shook his head.“No, I need to be alone for a bit.” He went out the door.

  Marysia watched as he headed down the corridor past his own rooms and toward the exit. She stood undecided for a few minutes, then drawing her robe around herself, she went and knocked on Zosia’s door.

  “Come in.” Zosia’s soft voice sounded expectant. When she saw Marysia, she added, “Oh, it’s you.”

  “We need to talk.” Not even considering the possibility that Zosia would disagree, Marysia poured herself a drink and sat down next to her.

  Peter spent about two hours walking around outside, trying to think. If what Marysia had said was true, then at least some of Zosia’s behavior was explicable. But that wasn’t everything. What about the fighting? The constant misunderstandings? The cold disregard she seemed to show him? Was it all his fault?

  He shivered. He had not dressed adequately and the night was bitterly cold. Finally, near midnight, he decided it was stupidity to stay away like some runaway child. He had to face Zosia and their problems. Marysia was right, they needed to talk. He returned to the flat but it was empty. He went over to Marysia’s and knocked on the door. She greeted him tiredly.

  “Do you know where Zosia is?”

  Suddenly Marysia looked worried. “She isn’t with you?”

  “No. I was outside.”

  “She said she was going to look for you.”

  “Oh, shit! I better find her. Did she head outdoors?”

  “Yes. She said she had heard enough and she asked me to leave. She started to pull on her winter clothes as I was going out the door. And, Peter . . .”

  “What?”

  “She dressed heavily. Do likewise.”

  44

  HE PUT ON SOME WARMER CLOTHES, then stopped at the bunker entrance before he headed out. The boy had not mentioned anything to him about Zosia when he had come in, but perhaps he had not made the connection between the two of them, or more likely he had thought it was none of his business to notice their comings and goings.

  “Have you seen my wife?” Peter asked. The boy looked blank. “Colonel Król!” Peter amended angrily.

  “The colonel took off in that direction.” A young woman who was preparing to go out preempted the boy’s answer and pointed to the right. “On skis.”

  “Shit,” Peter swore. Zosia was an excellent skier; he would never catch up with her on foot. He, on the other hand, had never bothered to use them, and now they were his only hope of catching up with her. He stepped back inside the entrance, surveyed the row of skis.

  “Can you help me?” he asked the young woman. What was her name? He knew it, but it had escaped him.

  “Of course, Captain,” she responded, indicating that she certainly knew him. She glanced at his
boots, estimated his height, and selected a pair of skis off the wall. “Take these. The bindings will work with your boots.” She then selected a set of poles. “These look about the right length.” She handed them to him.

  He stepped out with the equipment and thanked the woman as he pulled the skis on and fastened the bindings. He stood upright and gathered his balance, then began to move in the direction the young woman had indicated. It was not as difficult as he had expected, and within a few dozen meters he began to feelcomfortable with his stride. Still, he was new at this and Zosia was expert—the only thing he could do was hope that her pregnancy would slow her down or that she would stop somewhere to rest.

  As he put some distance between himself and the entrance, Zosia’s tracks became clear in the snow. The terrain became more uneven as well, and he took several tumbles as he learned how to handle the gentle slopes and occasional turns that Zosia’s tracks led him along. After the first fall, he glanced backward and was relieved to see he was already out of sight of the sentry at the entrance.

  He skied for some time, picking up speed as he gained confidence. After about an hour, there was still no sign of Zosia. The tracks had not been broken— no falls, no rests—and he began to wonder if perhaps he had picked up the wrong trail. Was Zosia already back at the encampment wondering where the hell he had run off to this time? Still he kept going forward; if she was out there, he wanted to make sure he found her and brought her back.

  Another twenty minutes or so passed, and then he spotted her in the distance. He was moving faster than she—either she was fatigued or simply awkward with all the ill-distributed extra weight that she carried. He put on a burst of speed and managed to catch up with her in another five minutes.

  “Ow! Leave me alone,” she greeted him. She made no effort to stop and talk. Clearly if she had gone out simply to locate him, she had changed her mind.

  “What are you doing, are you nuts?”

  “I said, leave me alone!” she yelled back, and skied steadily forward.

  He had to struggle to keep up with her; the burst of speed had tired him and her anger had reinvigorated her. After several more minutes, he tried to speak.