The Children's War (103 page)

32

“W
ELL, COLONEL?”
he asked mischievously.

“Yes, Captain?” she responded with a luxuriant stretch and a satisfied smile.

“Was that a reasonable salute?”

“Um-hmm.” She stretched, moaned, and turned over in the bed so her face was away from him.

He raised himself up enough to lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re marvelous,” he whispered softly into her ear.

“Umm,” she responded, already half-asleep. He continued to lean over her and watched as she drifted off. With her eyes closed, her long eyelashes looked even more seductive. And whatever she had done to her hair to smooth it down was wearing off—obstreperously frizzy curls were beginning to emerge here and there. He looked at the curve of her face, ran a finger gently over her cheekbone and down along to her chin. She continued to smile even as her breathing became regular.

Peter settled back down among the covers, resting his hands behind his head. He had not slept the night before, he had endured a miserable day, the adrenaline surges from two life-and-death situations had left him exhausted, and Zosia had agreed to marry him. Despite his fatigue, he did not feel like sleeping.

It had been so long since he had slept with a woman. A year and a half? No, better not to think about that;
that
was not sex—it was something else: a quid pro quo, a bargain, a way of staying alive. Besides, he had never told Zosia about it. It had embarrassed him too much: that selling of the very last bit of his soul in exchange for a little peace in his life. And until Elspeth had hit him in the plaza, in public, he had thought it had worked. He thought that he had bought some human dignity from her. But when she had hit him like that, for voicing his opinion, then he had known he would never be human in their eyes. That was when he had known there was no price he could pay that would satisfy them. That was when he had known he had to leave, whatever the cost.

He smiled to himself. Just as well: look at what he finally had now! Zosia would be his wife, Joanna his daughter. He had a home, friends, and a purpose, and given his outing alone in Berlin, the doubters in the encampment could not fail to trust him now. He had proven himself. Even the disastrous encounters of the past day had served their purpose—he had shown what he was made of, had proven his loyalty. They would have to accept him.

He got out of bed and went over to the window. It had still been daylight when they had begun making love and they had not drawn the drapes. He wondered if anyone had seen them. Now, the night sky was lit a brilliant orange as the omnipresent security lights reflected off the dusting of snow on the sidewalks. The overcast sky merged into the mist of orange making the city look somewhat like a dimly lit backdrop in a theater. It was still reasonably early, but the streets were nearly deserted. A patrol paced along the pavement under the window; a few soldiers emerged from a bar across the street and debated the direction they should take. A taxi turned a corner and disappeared from view. The usual workings of a city. A city gone discreetly mad.

Peter lowered the shutters and returned to the bed. He should sleep; they were not yet home safe, and the last thing Zosia needed was an exhausted partner
if anything should happen during their stay in the pension. She had already saved his life three times, he did not want there to be a fourth. And he hoped he would never have an opportunity to try to repay the debt. What he wanted was a chance to live something akin to a normal life. A chance to be human.

That thought brought Elspeth to mind. He grimaced in annoyance, she did not belong here in his happiness! Was it only three days ago he had watched her leave the house with her servant? Had daydreamed about harassing her? Now all he wanted was to be rid of her, her and her stupid husband—may he rest in peace! But how would she cope if Karl was dead? Did she have a pension? Would she have to move out of the house, sell the slave? Would she miss Karl? Or would she secretly be pleased? Funny, he had never learned what was inside her head; sometimes he suspected that she herself could not have answered the questions. She was such a paradox.

What had he said that day that had finally caused her to take action? She had told him his behavior was totally inappropriate, and he had answered something like, she wouldn’t have him any other way.
Ah, yes,
gnä’ Frau,
but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
He remembered saying it with a flippant air of complete disregard. He had just buried that sparrow and had found himself, once again, thinking about his own death. The realization that he had accepted it as a given, that he would die in the near future, there, as an unfree man, had left him feeling somewhat freed from all the constraints of his life. So he had smiled at her when he had seen her; he had found within himself the broad and happy grin of a man who had accepted his fate and had ceased to care. And she had chided him for it in that strange way she had of seeming both pleased and displeased simultaneously. Sometimes, sometimes when she forgot who she was and the seriousness and probity of her position in society, sometimes she even looked attractive.

He had come inside, scraped the dirt off his boots, washed his face and hands, and presented himself in the kitchen ready to make whatever she would later take credit for. There was, however, no cooking or baking that day; she had changed her mind. “We’ll just buy something from the bakery later,” she had said while scanning him from head to toe. He had been used to the way she looked at him, so he had not really taken much note of her action. Not until she had said, in that strange tone of voice, “Come with me.”

She had led him to her bedroom and shut the door. Uwe was in his room napping, the children were at school, Karl was at work. “You look tired,” she had said. “Take off your shoes and lie down.”

“Gnädige Frau,”
he had protested, shaking his head, “it is forbidden.”

“No, it isn’t. I have commanded, so you are permitted.”

“I cannot.”

“Yes, you can; are you telling me that you will not?” she had said with only the slightest hint of malice.

It should have taken more than that; it should have required threats or something, but he knew the game, he knew the score, and he knew there was no way
he could win. So he had immediately conceded defeat and tried to snatch whatever advantage he could from the situation. If they were caught, it was the death penalty for him; but he was dying anyway and the particular impetus for his death was irrelevant.

He could have failed to satisfy her since that would easily have been explained and easily excused: the fear, the poor living conditions, the coercion. But he was frighteningly lonely as well. So, he had opted for treating her as a lover, for telling her sweet lies, for responding to her touch, for closing his eyes and thinking of Maria. He had initially tried to think of Allison, but it was too much of a stretch, so he had thought of Maria and smiled at the irony. He remembered Elspeth telling him then that he looked happy, and he remembered agreeing. “I’ve always wanted you,” he had lied with disturbing ease.

Zosia stirred and moaned in her sleep. He raised himself up on an elbow and looked at her as she slept. The covers could not hide the deep arch of her waist, the way her hips curved up and then her body gently tapered along her thighs. The sweet smell of her sweat perfumed her skin and encouraged even more curls to emerge from beneath her temporarily tamed hair as it lay scattered in a mass about her head. She was so beautiful! He loved her so much.

He remembered his first night of freedom—the night they had spent talking and watching the stars move. At the time he was uncertain whether it would be his last night on earth, but he had enjoyed it all the more for that. He remembered how they had huddled together against the cold of the night, how she had fallen asleep in his arms with the coming of the dawn. They had shared so much, learned so much about each other on that night. More than most couples learn in a lifetime. And now, finally, the love that had been planted then would come to fruition. Was it possible to be happier? He sighed contentedly and lay back in the bed ready at last to sleep. At long last he could wash away Elspeth’s memory.

“Can I wash?” he had asked, indicating the bathroom suite in her room.

Elspeth lay in the bed, smiling dreamily. “What’s the hurry?”

“Work,” he answered tersely. “A shower would be nice.” A shower with hot water and enough soap to scrub away the feeling of complicity. A shower, because Karl always bathed.

“No”—she sounded annoyed—“use the cellar. I don’t want you to mess everything up in there.”

Now there was a concept, he thought. I clean the bloody bathroom every day but I can’t be trusted to use it. But of course he knew the real reason. She might stoop to having sex with an
Untermensch,
but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him use her bathroom—it was just too personal!

He pulled on his clothes and shoes, finished tying the laces while sitting on the edge of the bed, and thought of Elspeth’s refusal to let him shower. He turned to contemplate her as she lay on the bed with the covers pulled demurely up to her chin. “Is there anything else,
gnädige Frau?”
he had asked with more than a little sarcasm.

“No,” she had answered quite seriously, assuming her usual distance, “you may go. Oh, yes, go see if Uwe needs anything.”

“Of course,
Gnädigste,”
he had said, and left to check on Uwe.

As he lay next to Zosia, he remembered how that first afternoon, as he served the coffee to Elspeth’s friends, she had smirked at him. She clearly wanted to reveal her triumph to her friends but did not dare, at least not with Frau Schindler present. Elspeth kept eyeing him, and he remembered feeling disgusted, embarrassed, and used as he realized she was not looking at him as a man, but rather as an object that she owned. Owned completely.

Zosia turned toward him. “Aren’t you asleep?”

“No, just thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?” She yawned.

“Nothing important.” He rolled toward her. “You are so incredibly beautiful.”

She yawned again, managed to reply, “You’re not half-bad yourself.”

“Do you want to do it again?”

“Are you up to it already?” She sounded tired.

“I think so. Anyway, there’s lots to do in the meantime.” He grinned at her and reached tentatively toward her to stroke her skin. “You’re so beautiful, I just want to touch you. All the way from your hair down to your toes—starting here.”

She rolled onto her back but did not pull away from his touch.“Umm.”

“Go back to sleep, if you want. If you don’t mind, I just want to feel the contours of your body.” He ran his fingers along her face, enjoyed the rise of her cheekbone, the down of her cheek, the curve of her jaw.

“No, I don’t mind,” she replied sleepily.

He let his fingers stray across her lips. Such sensuous lips! “You are so heartbreakingly lovely,” he whispered.

She sighed, wet her lips with her tongue.

He traced around her ears, felt the folds and the curves, the soft skin of her earlobe. Slowly, savoring the sensation, he let the back of his hand slide along her neck, felt the delicate pulse of her life’s blood beneath his hand, the wisps of hair that strayed into his path.

“That feels good,” she murmured dreamily.

“Your skin is so incredibly soft here.” He lingered at the base of her neck just above the swell of her breasts, traced little circles just to feel the softness of her skin. But then his hand was drawn farther down.

“Yeah, I think I’m ready for some more,” she sighed as his fingers caressed the soft skin of her breast, teased her nipples to harden.“Umm. Definitely ready.”

“So am I,” he whispered in reply, bending down to kiss her, letting his lips follow the progress of his hand.