The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  They had found three bodies—one of theirs and two enemy in the small patch of woods located down a steep, rock-strewn slope. Peter glanced around, but there seemed no easy way out of the little hollow. He supposed they could do a big grave for the two Germans and a separate grave for the Pole, but the earth was so hard, that seemed foolish. Still, he did not want to trample on his companions’ sensitivities.

  “I wonder what happened.” Staszek paused to look at the corpses.

  “I’d say our guy got the other two, but was wounded. Then he died of exposure,” Peter suggested.

  “Looks that way to me as well,” Lucjan agreed. He turned to Peter. “You’re not bad at this for an officer. Done it before?”

  “Never professionally.” Peter wondered exactly what skill it was that he had supposedly exhibited. Perhaps not sitting on his arse and directing them to do all the work. They looked at him curiously and he explained, “We had some deaths over the years in the labor camp that I was in. I was usually detailed to the grave-digging since it was outside of normal work hours—overtime you might say— and I looked strong enough to do it without collapsing. Me and my friend Geoff. Dug the graves, then we usually carried out some sort of memorial service. It was funny, the first time I did it, I had to get one of the kids to teach me a few appropriate prayers. They seemed to take some comfort in it anyway.”

  “What’d they die of? Executions?”

  “No, there weren’t any done on-site while I was there. Troublemakers got shuffled off to prison, and I don’t know what happened to them after that. Although I guess my friend was executed on-site shortly after I left.” Peter paused, wondering who had dug the grave then.“No, they went out from disease, or sometimes an accident. There were some stabbings as well. It was hard to keep that many kids under control, especially at that age, especially without any females around. Card games, love triangles, idiotic risk-taking. Too much testosterone, tempers flared, you know, usual stuff.”

  The two of them nodded.

  Peter contemplated the corpses again. Maybe Staszek’s suggestion wasn’t such a bad idea. The wolves would probably reduce them to bones soon enough. It had an odd appeal—do something useful even in death. He thought of the American woman who had tried to convince him that although Nazism had been catastrophic for the human inhabitants of Europe, it had given many of the other native species a respite from extinction. She had explained how the wolf population had exploded after hostilities had begun, and though she admitted itwas rather gruesome, she pointed out that the bodies had not only fed the animals but the decline in human population had taken some of the pressure off their habitats.

  Peter had surprised her by not taking offense at her deliberately provocative suggestions; instead he had agreed that all too often humanity saw everything only in terms of human costs, and he also, though hard-pressed by other problems, could lament the deplorable state of the environment and the cost to European wildlife. Nevertheless, he had disagreed with her thesis, pointing out that American society, by virtue of its freedom and concomitant wealth, was able to afford the luxury of caring about the environment, of setting aside preserves and of making laws to protect nature. On the other hand, the depredations of Nazi society had inevitably led to a poor, mismanaged, polluting economy that stripped the land of its resources and raped the countryside. “I’m afraid,” he had concluded, “that no matter how noble an idea it would be for people to care for the earth, most people care about themselves first. We need to see that they have a just society before we can even hope that they might think about the land around them. With the pressure of population such as it is and technology as advanced as it is there, that is the only hope for what wilderness remains: that civilized people care about it.”

  She had then asked about the nature movements in the Reich about which she had heard so much.

  There were such, he had admitted, but he had noted that true environmentalists-were more likely to end up as wolf fodder than as leaders of these intermittent propaganda efforts.

  “Are we going to put all three of them in this hole?” Lucjan asked suddenly, bringing Peter back to the present.

  “I sure as hell ain’t diggin’ another hole,” Staszek answered. “They’ll do fine all together. We got their IDs and we can put up a separate marker for ours later, during the memorial service.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Peter agreed.

  Lucjan glanced at the three bodies and was inspired to recite an old German poem. “ ‘They can no more revile each other, those who lie here hand in hand, their departed souls have gone together . . .’ Something, something, something ‘land.’ ”

  “Very profound,” his friend commented, and slammed his pick into the hard earth.

  “Indeed, it is profound,” Zosia commented, surprising them all. She stood at the crest of the hollow, wearing skis, Irena bundled on her chest.

  “What are you doing here?” Peter asked as he climbed up to meet her. He reached instinctively toward Irena, but then withdrew his hand as he realized what he had just been doing.

  “I thought I’d bring Irena out for some fresh air and keep you company. Am I intruding?”

  “No, not at all! But how did you find us?”

  “Oh, they said you’d be in this sector. After that it wasn’t hard to follow your tracks and the smell of vodka.”

  Staszek guiltily tucked his flask away and slammed the mattock determinedly into the ground.“Here!” he announced. “This is where we’ll put them.”

  Zosia removed a blanket from her pack, settled herself onto the ground, and after unwrapping layers of clothing, let Irena snuggle up against her breast to begin nursing. Lucjan turned his back and began work. Peter threw Zosia a kiss and rejoined the other two. He helped dig the grave, then when Irena had finished nursing, he took a break, sat himself nearby, and sang her a lullaby. Lucjan and Staszek decided to take a break as well, but they moved a few meters away, out of earshot.

  “That line always bothered me,” Zosia commented when Peter reached the end of his song.

  “Which line?”

  “ ‘The cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.’ ”

  “What about it, the violence?”

  “No, the repetition of cradle. You’ve already said it will fall, so why say it again?”

  “Hmm. Don’t know. Maybe I got the words wrong.”

  “Yeah, maybe that’s it.” Zosia paused to rearrange Irena.

  “Any word on Olek?” Only the day before Olek had stepped on a mine while working down near the front. He had survived but had been severely injured. Peter had been utterly stunned when he had first heard the news, but even more shocked to learn that, of all people, Olek had specifically requested Peter’s presence as he was carried to the hospital. Peter had visited the boy again that morning, and he had looked much better, but once Olek had slipped into an anesthetized sleep, the surgeon had confided that there was not much hope for his legs.

  “He wasn’t awake when I left,” Zosia answered.

  “Is he going to keep his legs?”

  “They’ve already removed both below the knee. He’ll probably have the right taken off above the knee.”

  Peter covered his mouth as if trying to physically contain his dismay and bowed his head in sorrow.

  “That’ll be in the negotiations,” Zosia said inexplicably.

  “What?”

  “Clearing the mines. They have the equipment and maybe even maps— although maybe not, the way they hightailed it out of there. In any case, we’ll let them in to clear up the mess they left, and then they’ll have to clear out.”

  “Will they do that?”

  “Katerina will make sure of it. She was furious about that. She’ll make sure of it.”

  “Who else is negotiating?”

  “Konrad. He’s in charge of defense. And someone to take the minutes.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah, that’ll probably be it.” Zosia l
ooked up at the trees overhead. They would probably be meeting about now, in the city, in Kraków, or as it was called now, Krakau. It would be warmer there, and they could sip tea as they debated the terms of a new peace.

  Peace. What a word for it! If only.

  55

  “AH, FRAU KALISCHER, so we meet again!” The elderly man stood and greeted Katerina, clicking his heels and bowing slightly.

  Katerina nodded to him and to the assembled mass of negotiators and advisers, most of whom were already standing, but some of whom were too boorish and uncultured to know to stand for a lady. The man who had greeted her was Herr Kolisch. They had initially met during the negotiations after the 1970 invasion attempt. After that, she had encountered him infrequently as they had occasionally met to discuss topics of interest to both sides and to exchange information about prisoners and dead soldiers.

  Katerina scanned the other faces in the room. There were some she did not know, and of those, many had a look of curiosity or contempt. So, this was the enemy! An old woman! How could they possible expect to negotiate seriously about military matters with a woman? She recognized but did not react to Ryszard’s presence. Good! He was moving up in the world. A few more years and he would truly be well placed.

  The negotiations were entirely political: Ryszard’s attendance was an indication not of his position in the government, nor of his rank in the Party, but rather of a certain indefinable presence in the hierarchy of current and future policymakers and powers-that-be. If he plays his cards right and has a bit of luck, thought Katerina humorously, we might make him Führer yet. She wasn’t sure of what use that would be, but that was a bridge that could be crossed after it was built. She made sure she was not looking at him as she allowed herself a short laugh of pleasure. She probably wouldn’t live to see it, but it would be such a wonderful irony!

  “Frau Kalischer, what do you find so amusing?” Herr Kolisch asked obsequiously.

  “Just the number of negotiators you bring with you each time. So many brave men against one frail woman and her lone adviser. Przeciwko kilku myslom . . . co nie nowe.”

  “What’s that?” Herr Kolisch asked suspiciously.

  “The last line of an old poem. Roughly it goes: ‘Enormous armies, brave generals, secret police: Against whom are they ranged? Against a few ideas . . . which is nothing new.’ ”

  Herr Kolisch scowled. “It shows how we honor you.”

  “Honor us with our land and our freedom,” Katerina replied to put an end to the stupid pleasantries. They sat down and the Germans arranged themselves according to rank at the table. She and Konrad and their recording secretary on one side, a row of Nazis on the other, each with an adviser or two in tow. Ryszard sat behind a man who was only two places away from Herr Kolisch. Very, very good. And quite a fast move since his arrival in Berlin. But Ryszard was good at what he did; if he survived, he could go far. Maybe Führer wasn’t out of the question.

  Yes, he’s good at his job, takes it seriously, not like that flighty sister of his, Katerina mused. Of Alex’s six children, Ryszard and Zosia were the gems, shining brilliantly among a bright and brave group. Ryszard had applied himself steadily and patiently over the years to building up his position. Zosia had seemed to take an almost opposite approach, skittering from one job to the other, always doing excellent work, always on the verge of disaster. Perhaps it was frustration at being a woman in a man’s world. She could never infiltrate the way Ryszard had done, could never have placed herself as anything more than someone’s wife—and she would have none of that. So, she had followed in her mentor’s footsteps and taken to assassinations. Would her next step be to chair the Council? Or run for a position in the government in exile? It would suit her well and she would do a good job. Katerina nodded to herself, yes, that should be Zosia’s career path. But first she needed to settle down, needed to spend more time away from that husband who seemed to cause her so much emotional turmoil.

  Marriage! That was the problem. Men expected so much of their wives, they never provided them with unquestioning support the way dutiful wives did, the way Kasia did for Ryszard or Anna had for Alex. Husbands rarely even managed to be a neutral influence; rather they were usually a hindrance—demanding of their wife’s time, jealous of her commitments. No, a woman with an agenda simply could not marry. Look at herself! Look at what had happened with Marysia! Zosia should never have married, certainly should never have remarried. She had too much of a future to waste it on a man. Maybe, though, they could work around her marriage; keep those two separated. They needed to be apart, it was better for both of them, and he could be put to good use in England, where he was currently underutilized. He was at home there, he understood those soulless people—he’d be perfect for the job of fostering more cooperation. Besides, it would keep those two out of trouble with each other, give Zosia a chance to mature into a responsible position, give him a chance to find whatever it was he was so desperately seeking . . .

  Katerina allowed her thoughts and plans to play in her head a few secondslonger as Konrad poured a glass of water for her, then she brusquely cast aside all secondary thoughts and turned to the business at hand.

  56

  AS SOON ASPETERRETURNED to the encampment, he went to see Olek. He waited by his bedside until the boy awoke, and he was the one who broke the news to Olek about his legs.

  “What about higher up?” Olek asked, glancing downward in fear.

  “I’ve been told that’s fine.”

  Olek laughed.“Hey, then it’s all okay!” he joked nervously.

  Peter recognized the bravado and responded appropriately. Each day thereafter, he made a point of visiting Olek frequently, waiting for the right moment to help him through the difficult realization of what had happened to him. After a few days Olek was moved back into Marysia’s apartment, and again Peter visited. Olek was laid out on the couch, Peter sat in a chair, and they drank cups of tea and discussed work and the weather and the state of the world and how everybody in the encampment and the partisan camps were faring. Neither Peter nor Olek mentioned the pathetic stumps that hid beneath the sheet thrown over a metal frame, until at last Peter ventured to ask, “Are you going to keep working as the cipher clerk?”

  “I don’t think I have much choice,” Olek admitted ruefully. “Just as well I learned a sit-down skill, eh?”

  “Yeah. You’ll make a valuable contribution.” Peter glanced down at Irena, who slept in the crook of his arm, and it almost seemed he was speaking to her.

  “Thanks for teaching me all that stuff.”

  “You’re welcome. I guess I did too good a job though.” Marysia’s cat, Siwa, rubbed against his legs and then jumped onto his lap.

  “How so?”

  “Well, you stole my job.” Peter laughed. He shifted Irena a bit to make more room for Siwa and absently began stroking the feline’s fur. “Now they got me running errands in London.”

  “At least you can run,” Olek said without bitterness. He paused and looked hard at Peter’s legs. “Tell me the truth, did you ever envy my undamaged legs?”

  Peter looked away, down at the floor. The truth, hmm, that was difficult. Finally he looked back at Olek and said, “Yes. Yours and everyone else’s.”

  “Well, I guess the shoe is on the other foot now!” Olek laughed hoarsely at his own joke.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Peter said without specifying whether he was referringto his previous envy or to Olek’s current predicament. Both, he supposed. Siwa purred noisily, Irena snored quietly.

  “I was so sure I was going to come out of all this untouched,” Olek said as if in confession.

  So was I, Peter thought, but decided that was not much consolation. None of them felt vulnerable, otherwise they could never face the dawn.

  “I have these horrible nightmares about it,” Olek whispered as if embarrassed. “Do you still have those terrible dreams?”

  Peter shook his head. “No. Nothing since Irena was born. I’v
e even had some normal dreams, the sort I remember from years ago.” He supposed he had Irena’s birth to thank for the sudden shift, but he could not ignore the thought that her birth had coincided with his first killing, and he wondered if the stabbing of the boy and the shooting of the soldiers rather than the joyful birth of his child was what had brought him peace. Or possibly it was having seen his torturer in the flesh as a mere, and very petty, mortal. “I haven’t told anyone yet—I guess out of superstition.”

  Olek snorted. “So, even that. Shit, I always thought you were the fucked-up one. Now look who’s all messed up!” Olek’s voice grew unsteady and he added softly, “I’m only twenty-two, what am I going to do?”

  “You’ll cope, Olek. You’ll be an inspiration,” Peter replied softly.

  “An inspiration? Oh, jeez, Peter, I expected better than that from you!” Olek groaned. “Did you find any of your experiences inspiring?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Peter said apologetically.

  “Do you think you’re a better man for having suffered them?”

  Peter shook his head.“No. I’m less than what I was. There was no value to my suffering, there never will be. It was pointless. As pointless as you losing your legs. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have resorted to idiotic platitudes.”

  “Or if you did feel the need to say something stupid, you should have said, ‘Shit happens.’ ”

  Peter laughed. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it all up.” He continued to chuckle as he thought about all the people who had somehow implied that there had to be a point to it all. Not least, himself. And when he could find no redemption in the evil he had experienced, then he had looked for his own guilt. Something, anything, to explain it! But here was Olek, a lad of twenty-two, summing it up so nicely. Shit happens!