The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “Zosiu—come back! At least stop. For heaven’s sake, woman, let’s talk back at home!”

  “Talk!” she screamed back. “Why talk with me? Why not blather our troubles to everyone else instead!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went to Marysia and told her you wanted a divorce! You didn’t even mention that to me—you just went behind my back and told her!”

  Good Lord, what had Marysia been thinking? “I didn’t think she’d . . .” He stopped that approach. What point was there in saying he didn’t think she’d repeat what he had said. Maybe Marysia had hoped to impress Zosia with the seriousness of the situation. He chased after Zosia for a few more meters, then yelled over the sounds of her panting, “I’m sorry! Please, stop this nonsense and come back home. We can talk there!”

  “Divorce!” she moaned.

  “I’m sorry!” They were crossing a clearing and could ski side by side. The stars twinkled enticingly in the sky, the night was clear, cold, and dark. He kept pace with her, hoping that she would eventually agree to turn around; his other option would be force, and that, he knew, would be disastrous.

  “What the hell were you thinking? Talking about us behind my back!” sheaccused after a few more minutes. He was making progress: she had not tried to outpace him this time.

  “Me? What about you? You rearranged my whole life without consulting me!”

  “That was official business!”

  “Oh, Zosiu! Don’t try that on with me. You’ve been running my life behind my back all along, and now you’re going to go hysterical because I talk to Marysia about my concerns?” he responded furiously.

  “Don’t call me hysterical! Ow!” she yelped.

  “What?”

  “I said—”

  “No, I meant, what’s wrong?”

  “You! Going to—”

  “Not that! Why did you yelp?”

  “Oh, that’s just a contraction.”

  “A contraction! A fake one?”

  “No, the real thing. Don’t worry, they’re not regular. And even when they are—I’ll have hours.”

  “That’s on a first birth! God knows how long you’ll have once they’re regular!”

  “I don’t care!” She skied forward.

  He kept up with her and they argued back and forth. In between their mutual accusations, he pleaded with her to turn around and head back. She replied by increasing her pace and occasionally yelping with another pain.

  Finally, when he was convinced she was gasping or otherwise indicating a pain far too frequently, he grew exasperated. Exhausted, he stopped dead and threw his poles down into the snow. “You’re an idiot!” he yelled after her as she continued forward. “Come back now!”

  Zosia stopped and turned to look at him. She looked livid, and he braced for her scathing reply, but all she did was whimper the Polish version of his name: “Piotr.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Piotr,” she repeated over and over between sobs. He picked up his poles and approached. For once she did not turn and flee.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, not knowing what to make of her sobbing or that she had called his name as if he were not there, as if she could not find him.

  Looking as if she had only just begun to comprehend what she had done, she moaned, “It’s too late. They’ve been coming more frequently. I’ll never get back.”

  He glanced at his watch. Three in the morning. Had they really been skiing for three hours?

  Zosia shook her head. “I’m exhausted, I’ll never make it back.” She continued to whimper and sob in a way that terrified him. He had never heard her sob like that, had never heard her express quite so much fear. She was so brave, so resolute, so rational! And now she was staring at him with wide, fear-crazed eyes. It was as if some animal spirit were possessing her.

  “We’ve got to get you back!” He glanced around desperately. “We’ve got to get some help from a patrol!”

  “There won’t be anyone nearby,” Zosia explained, her rational control reasserting itself. “We’re out of the central sector. They’re thin on the ground here and I imagine most have gone up to the front anyway.”

  “Front?”

  Zosia groaned and doubled over.

  “We’ve got to get you to some shelter.” Could he possibly carry her, on skis, that sort of distance? It did not seem likely. Walking would be impossible, he would sink too deep into the snow even without her weight.

  “We have to go forward,” Zosia announced.

  “Ahead? We have to get you to shelter!”

  “The cabin is ahead.”

  “Which cabin?”

  “The one we used on our honeymoon.”

  Ahead? They would be alone, without any supplies, and he had no knowledge about childbirth. What if something went wrong? As Zosia again bent forward in pain, his nascent urge to chide her for her stupidity evaporated. She was right, they would never make it all the way back. “Okay, ahead,” he agreed.

  Zosia straightened up, but she continued to cling to him. They turned in the direction they had been heading and set off. He wanted to try to help her along, but it was essentially impossible, so instead he let her lead the way, following and offering useless encouragement as they went.

  They passed through a light stand of trees and across another small clearing. There was a downhill slope, a small stream, and then a rise that gave Zosia particular trouble. A few meters up the rise, the trees began again, and Zosia indicated that the cabin was in a tiny clearing through the trees. Peter marveled at her sense of direction and knowledge of the terrain—he would never have found the place and could not, even now, recognize this approach to it.

  Once they had clambered to the top of the rise, Zosia turned to say something before she disappeared into the dark woods, but she was preempted by an ominous series of whistling noises. They both threw themselves down into the snow and covered their heads as the distant sky behind them lit up with the impact.

  “Oh my God!” Peter whispered. The bombs were quite distant—probably at their borders, but the noise had not ceased with the first barrage. In between the aerial assaults they could hear the sound of distant gunfire.

  “Oh my God,” Zosia repeated. Peter clambered up the short distance to her. He helped her to her feet and they moved several yards until they were under the trees. There they stopped and looked backward to watch the assault upon the partisan encampments on their borders.

  “I guess he finally decided that inaction against us is politically more risky than our threats of retaliations,” Zosia commented. “We knew this was coming.”

  “It has happened before, hasn’t it?” Maybe if they reiterated previous successes,then they might encourage success this time as well. It was just superstition—his answer to not being able to pray.

  “Ahhh!” Zosia pressed herself into him. After a moment, she released her hold and replied, “Yes, frequently at first. We even lost the whole area in 1954. They had to evacuate over the mountains and scatter into the woods and towns. Lost a lot of good people then and it took all of 1955 to retake it. Since then we’ve moved underground, expanded the bunker, relocated some critical establishments, and never lost complete control. The last big attack was 1970. After that we established the protocols.”

  “Do you think they have a chance of taking the area?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it depends on what they decide to use and how much priority they’re giving this operation. From what Ryszard’s been saying, any action that isn’t immediately successful will be politically impossible to sustain. Let’s hope he’s right and we can hold out long enough to get them to pull back. And I hope someone in Berlin has the sense to avoid going nuclear. If they blanket us with nuclear weapons, Peter, not only are we lost, but we will retaliate and . . .” She groaned again.

  He held her as the pain buffeted her body. He did not even resent that he had been privy to none of the information she had just mentioned
, but it did explain why everyone had been so tense.

  “Ow! Psia krew ,” she swore.“My water broke!”

  “How far is the cabin?”

  “Just through the trees. About five minutes,” she replied through gritted teeth.

  “I’ll just carry you.” He bent down to remove his skis.

  “No, no, I can make it. Come on.” To prove her point, Zosia began skiing toward the cabin.

  45

  THE CABIN APPEARED THROUGH THE TREES, cold, dark, and empty. Zosia rested at the edge of the clearing while Peter went inside to check that it was unoccupied and safe. Once he had quickly inspected it, he skied back to Zosia and escorted her into their shelter.

  It was dark and frigid; dawn was hours away. He found a candle and lit that, then helped Zosia to lie down on the straw mattress. She was breathing hard, barely cognizant of her surroundings. He covered her with a blanket and stroked her forehead as she gasped again in agony. He felt so helpless as he watched her suffer.

  Once the pain had abated, he turned away to inspect the cabin and see what supplies they had, but Zosia cried out for him not to leave her.

  “I’m right here. I just need to see what we have and make a fire.”

  “No!” Zosia exclaimed.“No, don’t leave me!”

  He sat on the edge of the bed and held her. Another contraction racked her body. He spoke soothingly to her as she gasped and clutched at him. When that one had passed, he said, “Zosiu, I must make a fire—it’s freezing in here.”

  “No! They’ll see us!” Zosia sounded near panic, not at all like herself.

  “No, they won’t. They’re far away. We’ve got to use this chance to get this place warm. Maybe later we’ll have to do without smoke—we’ve got to get this place warmed up!”

  She was still gasping “No” as he gently detached her hands from his arm and went over to the fireplace. Thank God some wood was there. He stacked the kindling and logs hurriedly, assuring Zosia as she cried out to him that he would be at her side in just a moment. A few scraps of newspaper were stacked to the side, and he lit a page and ignited the kindling.

  Just as the fire caught, he remembered the damper and reached up above the smoldering flames and into the chimney to open it. A rush of cold air met him and the fire leapt into life. A fireplace. How romantic. That’s what he had thought a year ago. Now, all he could think was, too bad it’s not a woodstove or a kerosene heater. Damn, it would be a cold few hours.

  He removed his coat, set his gun and knife on the table, and threw his coat over Zosia. She was writhing again, twisting from side to side as if trying to escape her body. He scanned around, found another blanket, and brought that out as well, setting it at the base of the bed. There was no point putting it on her—she had already thrown off the other covers.

  “Let’s get you ready.” He helped her to stand so that he could remove her coat and weapons and help her undress. He thought to put her gun and knife and stiletto on the table with his gun, but she insisted that they remain in the bed with her. He grimaced at the risk, but did not argue. They might well have to fight for their lives, and if she felt more secure with a pistol next to her as she gave birth, then so be it. He tucked the weapons into the bed and returned to peeling off the layers of sweaty clothing she wore.

  When they had removed all the clothing that would be in the way, she was left with her long flannel shirt, an insulated cotton undershirt—both long enough to cover her thighs—and a pair of wool leggings and heavy wool socks, both soaked with sweat and amniotic fluid.

  “Shall I put your boots back on?” he asked. They would be warmer, but it seemed they might also be in the way.

  “I’ll do without.” She had sat back down on the edge of the bed, but decided she did not want to lie down for the moment. Another pain brought her to her feet, and she began to pace like a caged animal. He wrapped his arm around her and they paced together up and down, back and forth across the small room of the cabin. Every time she felt a contraction, she doubled up in agony and he supported her, fearing she might drop to the floor if he did not hold her up. As heheld her, he comforted her, talked to her, and in between his words he scanned desperately for food, weapons, and fuel.

  “Do you know if there’s a rifle in here?” he asked her during a break in her pain. “A hidden cache of weapons?”

  The break did not look particularly painless, and Zosia grimaced as she shook her head. “No, probably not. We don’t have enough weapons to keep any in reserve. It’s assumed that whoever takes refuge here—during a storm say—has been patrolling and is armed. There should be the basics for two to three days for two or three people. Maybe less now with all the shortages.”

  Without a rifle, they could hardly hope to defend their place against attack. Of course, with a rifle, all that would happen was that their deaths would take a few minutes longer. Peter tried to filter out the distant sounds of battle as he walked Zosia around and around the room. She clung to him as though he were her last contact with reality; she moaned and gasped and panted, and in between she whispered intense words to him. Words she had never said before, words she would probably never say again. “I love you,” she murmured over and over into his ear, “I love you with all my heart.”

  “I love you, too,” he replied again and again.

  “I want you to stay here by my side,” she whispered intensely.

  For how long, he thought bitterly.

  “Please don’t go back to London,” she pleaded as though it were something he had chosen. “I need you, please stay here with me.”

  “I’ll stay,” he replied, then to give her the out that she would inevitably need, he added, “As long as you want me to.”

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow! I think it’s about time!”

  He walked her over to the bed and helped her crawl in. He put the blankets over her top half, leaving her lower half exposed. Zosia grasped convulsively at the edge of the cloth and panted with the effort of controlling her pain.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  “See if you can’t find something to wash your hands and me with. I don’t want an infection.”

  There was the snow—cold but probably clean. Still it was not likely to be very effective. He opened the cupboards and located a bottle of vodka. Thank God! Supplies for three days in a snowstorm—yes, vodka made sense. He rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands, then swabbed between Zosia’s legs. “Hope that does it.”

  She giggled, then gasped a bit. After a moment she found the energy to tell him to look to see how large the opening to her uterus was. Indicating with her thumb and forefinger, she said, “It should be about this big.”

  Peter looked, probed with his hand. “I think so. I feel something behind— maybe it’s the head?”

  “Could be.” Zosia sounded relieved.

  As he helped her into a semi-sitting position and propped her up, sheexplained what he should look for. “I’m going to start pushing,” she gasped around her pain. “If it’s the head coming out, we’re probably all right. If not, well . . . Ahhh.”

  After she had recovered herself, Peter felt the shape of the baby in her belly and reiterated that he thought the baby’s head was in position. Sighing with relief, Zosia told him to check to see if the umbilical cord was out of the way and not wrapped around the baby’s neck. “I think the head will slide out. Guide it out and then I’ll pause and shove the rest out,” she panted. “Tell me to stop if the cord is in the way, or if anything isn’t going right. You might need to twist the shoulders a bit to guide them through.”

  He nodded, checking with his hands that all was going well. It did seem to be the head of the baby that he could see, and the color was good enough for him to suspect it was not being strangled.

  Zosia seemed to lapse into confusion, so as he saw another pain overtake her, he commanded, “Push!” She did, and slowly the crown of a little head emerged. They worked for a while in this manner, and then with a great heave Zos
ia struggled to get the entire head out. It didn’t work—the baby was adamantly stuck, the wrinkled pink skin of its head slowly turning blue.

  Like a large, purple walnut, he thought.

  They tried about fifteen minutes with Peter trying to gently guide the child out, but it remained stuck.

  “Rest a bit,” he advised as he whisked away some fecal pellets Zosia had expelled with all her efforts. He washed his hands again and Zosia rested, ignoring the urge to push on the next contraction. She raised herself up a bit to look down at the stuck head, then lay back and rested through another contraction. Peter went around to her and, lifting her up a bit farther, waited for the next wave. Her muscles tightened, the contraction shook her, and he ordered her to bear down.“Do it, this time!”

  She did and, with an earth-shattering heave, expelled the child onto the mattress.

  They both stared at the little thing lying like a rag doll on the blood-spattered mattress. “Shouldn’t someone pick it up?” Zosia asked, her voice suddenly steady, her pain immediately relieved.

  “Oh, God, yes!” Gently dropping Zosia back down, Peter went around to the child. “I thought you were just going to push out the head,” he said stupidly.

  “So did I.” She smiled at the baby lying sprawled between her legs. Two legs, two arms, healthy pink beginning to replace the blue. Hands and feet looked normal and healthy. Sex organs red and swollen. It was a girl!

  Tenderly Peter lifted the little bundle into his arms, remaining bent over Zosia’s legs because of the length of cord that still tied the baby to her. He looked down at his daughter, gasping with the realization of what he held. The infant snatched at the air with tiny little sobs that developed into a hearty cry as he held her.

  He cleaned a bit of mucus away from the baby’s nose with his fingers andstroked some fluid out of her mouth. He wiped her face with a soft cloth, but it was insufficient to remove all the muck. He wanted to clean her face, but the vodka worried him. Would it be too rough? Without deciding anything, he instinctively bowed his head over her and, after kissing the tiny face, licked away the detritus that covered her face.