Her list went on, but I won’t bore you. The upshot was, she thinks I’ve been meddling too much, and now, of all times, she’s decided to draw the line. The old hag! Her ostensible reason is that she really is going to use you in a more active role with the British, once things have settled down here. Maybe she’s telling the truth. Anyway, I talked to Marysia and she said there was no point my trying to get her overruled. Everybody thinks I’ve been mixing my work and my personal life too much—and unfortunately, that means anything to do with you. Sorry.
I’ll let things cool down and try again later. A direct request for a transfer-from you sent through a source other than me might help. Try Konrad—nobody will accuse him of anything if he presents your request. Or even Tadek. In the meanwhile, I have a lot to think about. Not to sound grumpy, but I’m fairly annoyed by their reaction. True, I have been involved in personal issues this past year, but I have otherwise given my entire life to my work. I should think they would cut me a bit of slack. Their lack of appreciation, blah, blah, blah. You get the point.
Irena’s doing well. Her yawns are incredibly infectious. She stretches in the morning just like you! Sometimes in the night, she sobs a bit in her sleep and in my confusion I think it’s you. Then I open my eyes and see her tiny little face. She has your eyes—those English eyes, you know, with as much eyelid below as above. Poor girl, maybe with luck she’ll grow out of it. I hope you’re sleeping better now. Rest well, darling. I’m sure we’ll manage something soon. There is no need for an immediate reply.
Zosia
P.S. Ah, so you’re not there yet! I’m sure your companion will be discreet in keeping our private affairs private. (Especially if she wants to keep her commission. I am willing to meddle at least once more!)
He reread the letter several times, then just sat and stared at it for a while. So, he was on his own and in exile for an indeterminate length of time. Ironic, he was back in London and still so far away from home.
60
A WEEK LATER, as they finished breakfast and Peter prepared to go down to open the store, Barbara stopped him. “Here.” She shoved a small box at him. A ribbon was tied around it.
“What is it?” Peter asked as he took it in his hands. He was in a lousy mood. Despite their promises to be careful and discreet, Barbara and Mark had been spending an inordinate amount of time together. During the past week, they had taken up occupation of the bedroom for the first half of the night on four occasions. Each time Peter had had to throw Mark out in the middle of the night so that Peter could get some sleep, and two nights ago there had been a bit of a scene with a drunken Mark accusing Peter of trying to steal his woman.
“Open it, you’ll see,” Barbara replied elusively.
Peter untied the ribbon and removed the lid. Inside on a bed of cotton lay a solitary slip of paper. On it was written an address. “What is it?” he repeated warily.
“It’s sort of an apology. Go to the address. You’ll see.”
He handed the box and paper back to her.“No,” he answered simply. “I’ve had enough of your games.” He turned to leave.
“No, wait! It’s not a game. It’s your brother’s address!”
“My brother? Where’d you get it?”
“It took some finding,” she said, not answering his question. “He’s phoneticized his name.”
“Huh?”
“Chase. He spells it T-s-c-h-e-j-s-s.”
Peter made a noise of disgust, then asked again, “Where’d you get the information?”
“I had Mark ferret it out,” Barbara responded proudly.
“So he’s in on this, too? What else have you told him?” The other night, Mark had not failed to invoke Peter’s subhuman classification as justification for his drunken accusations. It still irked that something Peter had revealed in an attempt to warn the boy away from danger had so quickly been used against him.
“Don’t worry, nothing. I just had him get the address for you. Your brother’s address!”
“Why would I want that?”
“Don’t you want to see him?”
“No.” Peter shook his head. He realized by the look on Barbara’s face that she was serious and that her gesture had been well-intended. As he headed for the door, he added apologetically, “Thanks for letting me know he’s okay. That’s information enough.”
“He has four children.”
Despite himself, Peter stopped in the doorway. Erich had been married but childless the last time he had checked on him. Four children. Still he could not bring himself to ask.
“Two girls and two boys.”
“How very loyal to the Reich,” Peter replied sarcastically. It would be stupid to hope that somehow a family could make a difference. Pointless. Asking to be hurt. Stupid.
“Their names are Katerina, Anna, Karl, and”—Barbara paused dramatically—“Niklaus.”
Peter remained silent, his back still toward Barbara.
“Don’t you get it? He’s named them all after his family, including you!”
“I can see that, I’m not an idiot.”
“He wants to be forgiven.”
Peter shook his head, but the motion was too slight for Barbara to notice. She grabbed his arm and turned him around. “Take it,” she insisted, shoving the slip of paper back into his hand. “Take it and go see him.”
He closed his fingers around the scrap as she pressed it into his palm.
Peter waited in a misting, cold rain outside the Technical Institute, where his brother worked. He wrapped his hand nervously around the identification wallet that he carried and scanned the workers as each left the building. When he saw his brother emerge, he approached him, snapped the official-looking identification open and shut in front of him, and said, “Herr Tschejss, may I have a word with you?”
Not surprisingly Erich blanched, but nodded his agreement.
“This may take a bit of time,” Peter informed him. “We can talk over in that public house there.”
“That’s English,” Erich cried as he followed Peter’s gesture.
“Are you saying, Herr Tschejss, that we would not be welcome there?” Peter asked in his best obtuse, official accent.
“No, I, er . . .” Erich waved his hand randomly. “No, of course, we’d be welcome anywhere.”
“Good, come with me,” Peter ordered, and crossed the street in the direction of the pub.
They entered and Peter scanned the crowd. It was a popular place, noisy and large. When Peter spotted Barbara sitting at a corner table, he headed casually in that direction. She simultaneously chose to relocate to join her friend at a nearby table, nodding ever so slightly to reassure Peter that the surroundings had beenchecked. Jenny and her husband occupied a table close to theirs, and several of Mark’s friends sat at the only other nearby table.
Peter and Erich took the vacated seats, and Peter waved peremptorily at the waitress who took the orders of customers who did not bother to order directly at the bar.
“May I ask what this is about?” Erich prompted after Peter had finished ordering beer for both of them.
“I assume you drink beer,” Peter replied.
“Yes. Thanks. Now, could you tell me what this is about?”
“I’ve come from Berlin to pursue an investigation,” Peter finally answered.
Erich fell silent at the name of that city.
Peter took the opportunity to look directly into his brother’s face. He could easily discern the cocky sixteen-year-old he had known in the features of the man opposite him. “I have some questions concerning your family.”
“My family? Is something wrong? Are they okay?”
“I’m talking about your parents, and”—Peter paused slightly—“your brother.”
Erich stiffened. “That was all cleared up ages ago. I am completely loyal!”
“Ah, we feel there is further need for investigation. First I’d like you to tell me, what happened to your brother?”
“He ran a
way from home at twelve, or I guess thirteen. Drowned himself in the Temms.”
“Suicide? Was he emotionally unstable?”
“I would say so. He was a spoiled brat, did nothing but make trouble for our parents.”
“You named a son after him.”
“He was my brother, even if he was troubled,” Erich huffed.
“And your parents? What happened to them?” Peter asked somewhat disappointed that he had used his only edge so quickly and unwisely.
Erich stared gloomily into the crowd. “Certainly you must know, they were arrested. I never saw them after that.”
“Why were they arrested?”
Their order arrived and they fell silent. Half of Erich’s beer had already been spilled on the waitress’s tray, and the glass that held Peter’s beer was obviously dirty. Before she could place the sticky glasses on the table, Peter waved her away. “Get rid of those,” he ordered, annoyed by the interruption. He stood and, telling Erich to stay put, went to the bar. He dove into the scrum, out of sight of his brother, and using English, ordered two pints of bitter from the bartender. He returned with clean, full glasses, set them down, and as he seated himself, repeated, “Why were they arrested?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“No! I, um, there was . . .”
“There was a warrant for your brother, isn’t that true?”
“Yes, so I’ve heard.”
“You were the informant of record. You turned him in, didn’t you?”
Erich did not look up from his beer. He sighed. “Why are you asking this?”
“Herr Tschejss, it is in your interest to cooperate.”
“All right, yes! I mentioned to the Kommandant of the camp where I was interned that I thought my brother was engaged in some sort of illegal activities. I had worked my way up to a position of some authority in the camp and had the Kommandant ’s trust.”
“Ach. The Kommandant was your mentor?”
“I guess.”
“Did you say your brother was in the Underground?” Peter studied his brother’s face for a clue to his thoughts.
“Not exactly. I wasn’t really sure. I just knew he was up to no good.”
“Is that why your parents were arrested?” Peter asked, hoping to edge Erich into an act of contrition.
Erich misinterpreted. “Yes! I don’t doubt he got them involved in something without their knowing it! He got them killed!” Erich snapped angrily, but somewhat unconvincingly.
Peter stared in silence across the room. He didn’t really know where to go next with the conversation; it certainly wasn’t going the way he had expected. Finally he said, “What if I were to tell you that your brother, at that time, was not involved in anything; that to the best of our knowledge neither was your mother or your father.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what this investigation is about, Herr Tschejss,” Peter continued, adlibbing. “You see, I’m from the Bureau of State Security and Oversight. We’re trying to track what we believe is police misconduct which may have stemmed from political motivations. Your father may have been the victim of a vendetta, and you, with your petty denunciation, provided the flimsy excuse needed to carry out what was, to all intents and purposes, a political murder.”
“A vendetta?”
“Do you know what happened to your parents after their arrest?”
“No.” Erich shook his head slowly. He shifted uncomfortably.
“Your father died within days, under interrogation. He was beaten to death.”
Peter saw how Erich’s muscles tensed as he clenched his jaw, but his brother remained silent.
“Now that, for a prisoner of his status and considering that he was, at least officially, only a secondary arrest—that is, he was suspected of providing your brother with an escape and an alibi—that, as I was saying, is very unusual. Very unusual. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Erich shook his head in confusion.
Slowly, as if speaking to a moron, Peter explained, “Somebody killed him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Herr Tschejss, let me be blunt. Your father was a Party official taken into custody because of minor suspicions about his son. There is no reason for him to have been investigated that brutally; ergo, his death was not an accident.”
Erich looked utterly blank.
“Don’t you understand? He was murdered!”
“What happened to my mother?” Erich asked quietly, apparently unable to take it all in.
“She was sent to a labor camp, probably to keep her quiet. If they had released her, she would have doubtless made some noise and stirred things up. She was, by all accounts, a strong-willed woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“So, she was left to die of disease or starvation or overwork. Officially, I believe it was typhus,” Peter finished coldly.
“Just to keep her quiet,” Erich repeated softly.
“Yes, that’s what we believe.”
“But why are you investigating all this now?” Erich asked plaintively.
“Well, the reason we think your father was murdered was not personal, or even really political. You see, there is a xenophobic movement among the upper echelons of the police, and they have a great resentment of any foreign involvement in the Party or in government. Your father was probably killed simply because he was English and making his way within the establishment.”
The color drained from Erich’s face.
“You can see where this could lead. We believe that this group has not been eradicated and that their activities have not ceased. Clearly from our point of view, we cannot afford to have loyal Party members removed simply because they have what might be called second-class blood. From your point of view, well, I think it’s obvious.”
Erich remained in stunned silence.
“I don’t think you quite understand the danger you are in,” Peter added, not sure of where he was heading. He had wanted to see if Erich was contrite, but all he was managing to do was scare him; it was hardly the right approach to getting an apology.
“But I have a German wife, my family—we’re totally integrated. I, there’s nothing English about me, nothing at all.”
“There is your brother.”
“What? What do you mean? I had nothing to do with him! He drowned ages ago!”
“Yes, the poor suicide, unable to cope with the stress. Interesting that it was you who had him declared dead. Do you know what really happened to him?”
Erich shook his head.
“A great deal. A great deal of unpleasantness,” Peter replied tersely. He stopped himself from saying more and lit a cigarette, watching with a sort ofdetached disinterest as the smoke trembled heavenward. Joanna would have to forgive him this time, but he was having trouble keeping himself sufficiently calm and detached. Once he had regained his composure, he continued, “The upshot is, he managed to gain some fame, or rather infamy, for himself. He went to America and denounced the Fatherland and besmirched our good name!”
“Oh my God!” Erich exhaled. “I don’t have anything to do with him. You know that! I thought he was dead! He’s nothing to do with me!”
“No, of course not,” Peter agreed. “But perhaps, after your three denials, a cock should crow?” he asked snidely, and ignoring Erich’s blank look, he picked up the glasses and returned to the bar to have them refilled.
When he reseated himself, Erich asked, “What does all this have to do with me? I mean, if you know who murdered my father . . .”
“Well, we don’t really know that. I was hoping you’d have some additional information that might clarify our case, a name that your father had mentioned, or something. But I guess you don’t.”
“I’ve told you everything I know. My father never mentioned any names. Look, what can I do about these people? You say they are still around. Is there something I can do to protect myself and my family?”
Pe
ter leaned back and pensively tapped his fingers. “How do you feel, Herr Tschejss, about the Party?”
“The Party? I’m an associate member! I am utterly loyal.”
“Only an associate?” Peter asked, noting the slight bitterness in his brother’s tone.
“These things take time,” Erich answered defensively.
“Ah. And what about the Party’s involvement in the death of your parents and the subsequent cover-up? Doesn’t that bother you?”
Erich stared at his beer. “Mistakes were made, I guess. My dad was loyal, just like me.” Erich raised his head and scanned the room, then summoning up what seemed to be the last of his courage, he asked, “But why question my loyalty?”
“Oh, it’s not me,” Peter answered breezily. “It would be the xenophobes who might look for the slightest excuse to trap you. Like they did your father.”
“But there is nothing they could say! I am completely loyal!” Erich protested somewhat loudly; he was already most of the way through his second pint.
Peter smiled and made a shushing motion. “You don’t want to protest too much! After all, loyalty doesn’t matter to the xenophobes, all they need is a reason to take you in.”
Erich writhed in his seat. “I trust the Fatherland to do what is right.”
At that point, Peter wondered if he was making any headway at all. He sighed, then said, “Perhaps you do have some information, but can’t recall it. Maybe if we jog your memory a bit. Tell me about your family. What do you remember of them?”
Erich described his mother and father and even Anna. He recalled some incidents but avoided mentioning his brother at all.
Exasperated, Peter said, “You remember nothing of your brother?”
“No, not really. He was always in trouble. A real smart-arse. Too independent.”
Almost to himself Peter whispered, “Yes, that fits in with his story.”
“He told you this?”
“Weren’t you listening? He told everyone of this! He told the Americans, our enemies!” Peter replied angrily.
“The traitor!”
“But it was the truth!”
“Still, he’s a Nest-Beschmutzer.”
The Children's War Page 162