The Children's War (128 page)

Peter shook his head as he read the words, rejecting outright the prophecy. Nevertheless, he also felt a strange comfort in knowing that maybe someone out there truly understood what he felt. Perhaps since those words were printed, the writer had found hope? Maybe he could trace the man or his writings and see if there was some solace to be had in his story. He turned to the footnotes at the back of the book and there read the man’s name and a brief biography. An Austrian who had fled to Belgium because he was Jewish, he had been tortured for his role in the Belgian resistance and deported to Auschwitz. He had escaped during the uprising there in 1946 and fled to America. After writing several treatises on his experiences and being largely ignored, the writer, apparently unable to escape the demons that continued to pursue him, committed suicide in 1978.

Peter gasped. He did a mental subtraction: thirty-two years. Thirty-two years and the man had still not escaped! Carefully he set the book back on the shelf.e went back to where Zosia was studying her book and convinced her to take a coffee break. They went into the little coffee bar, Zosia still clutching her book as though it would run away, and settled down with some fancifully flavored coffees. Peter told her about the cryptology volumes he had found.

“Yeah, my father told me about them when they were published,” she responded.

“Oh, why didn’t you tell me?”

“He wanted to buy them for you and give them as a gift when you arrived, so it was a secret. But when he went to buy them, he found out they’re restricted to citizens only—not even a residency document is good enough. So he couldn’t get them.”

“That’s stupid. That’ll never stop the Germans from laying their hands on them.”

“I know. Us neither. It’ll just take a bit longer. After that we have to get them out of the country, but sooner or later you’ll see them.”

“Thank your father for his effort in any case,” Peter replied, still distracted by the quote he had read. Was it a prophecy? Was he doomed to never truly be free again?

“I think it’d sound better coming from you.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll do that.” He sipped his coffee, then to change the subject he told Zosia about the curious music book he had seen.

“How odd! To think someone would do research on something so useless!” She sighed and shook her head, then switching to quiet German in the interests of privacy, she added, “They really do have shallow lives, don’t they.”

“Oh, what makes you say that?” he asked, also in German.

“Well, they don’t seem to have any purpose. They just go to school and work, buy a house and a car, and then they die. It’s so meaningless.”

“And you think we have meaning?” he asked somewhat sharply.

“But of course! Don’t you?” she responded with surprise.

“No. Or rather, less than they do.”

“How can you say that? We have a cause. We have a purpose to our lives.”

“In your terms, it’s a pointless cause,” he countered mordantly. “Think about it. Our cause, our entire purpose for living, is to overthrow the government and establish national independence. In the best of all possible worlds, if we succeed, and if all turns out well with no civil wars and everybody working together”— his voice took on a sarcastic note at that thought—“the most we can hope for is to be their poor cousins. With smashed economies, uneducated populations, and a devastated environment, our greatest achievement would be to be like them. If we started today, it would take us at least a generation or two. At least! They’re already there. Doesn’t that make us the ones with pointless lives?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Zosia disagreed, shaking her head for emphasis. Still she could not quickly formulate a reply; she just knew intuitively that he was wrong.

“We’re struggling to be like them. If you think they’re shallow, maybe you should rethink what you’re doing for a living.”

“No, no.” Zosia continued to shake her head. Something in what he said really bothered her, but she could not put her finger on it. She didn’t think it was the idea; rather it was something like the hopelessness in his tone, the way he so blithely devalued everything they did. “No,” she said as she finally formulated a reply, “I’m sure it will be different. It would be madness to give in just because we’re not sure of where the future will take us.”

“But once again, you’re blithely able to condemn that which you do not understand. You think that because that woman over there doesn’t have to kill to survive, her life is meaningless?” He discreetly indicated the young woman at a table near them.

“No, that’s not what I said!” Zosia replied, annoyed.

“Well, what would you have them do? What would give meaning to their socalled shallow lives? Do they need a revolution just to keep themselves ideologically sound? Would their lives be more meaningful if they had to fear arrest at every turn?”

“No!” Zosia grew slightly angry. “You’re taking it all out of context!”

“Well, if it’s not the outcome that makes our struggle meaningful, are you
saying then it’s the stress and weariness and fear? Does spending our lives looking over our shoulders or sleeping badly give us purpose? I, for one, am sick to death of it!”

“Why are you badgering me? I just said it to make you feel better about the books!”

“But you quite willingly trash other people’s lives because they don’t conform to exactly your standards!”

“Oh,
that!
Come off it. Look, I apologized, but you
wanted
my opinion. You
asked
me, remember!”

“And you were so certain you knew what it was all about.”

And so it went, neither giving ground, both offended that their enjoyable little-break had been spoiled by the other’s obstinacy and ill will. They argued for nearly an hour, slowly dragging in one thing after another. The topic strayed, the passions were directed here and there, but the rancor was a constant. Neither had the sense or the ability to realize they were hot and tired and stressed. Finally they both managed to fall silent simultaneously and for long enough to realize that they had argued over nothing. Yet again.

“I think we should go,” Zosia said quietly and in English. Their strategy of speaking German had probably protected the topic of their conversation, but it had naturally drawn much more attention than they had anticipated. It was clear as bits of their language were overheard that the patrons had wondered, what were two Germans doing in the Free City?

Peter nodded his agreement and they both stood. The number of people who watched them as they rose and left was embarrassingly large. At the barrier that separated the coffee shop from the bookstore, he turned to face the curious stares and said, “Yes, we’re from the goddamned fucking Reich, and no, we’re not goddamned fucking Nazis so you can stop your fucking staring at us!”

Zosia slipped away and waited at the first bookshelf as he spoke, beside herself-with embarrassment. When he turned away from his audience and joined her, she grabbed his arm, dropped her book on a convenient shelf, and rushed them out of the store. Outside, they avoided looking at each other. She was angry at the scene he had inflicted on her; he was furious at her lack of loyalty and the way she had rushed him out of the store. They walked in silence trying to cool down, each painfully aware from previous experience that although the argument was about nothing, it would return and would take ages to dissipate.

Finally, several blocks away, Zosia ventured, “We’ve got to do something about this.”

“Oh, everybody argues. It’s no big deal,” he said, trying to reassure himself more than her.

“It
is
a big deal. We do it all the time and about nothing! Things are going well and we still can’t handle it. What if there were genuine trouble in our lives?”

“You think our lives are going well?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

He sputtered his derision. “Yeah, sure, everybody spends the best years of their lives hiding from the authorities in an underground bunker.”

Zosia chose to ignore his sarcasm.“Maybe you should see a psychiatrist while you’re here. Maybe they’ll help you with your dreams and stuff. After all, they’re not Reich-trained. I’m sure they can help.”

“So, it’s all my fault. I’m nuts and that’s why we argue,” he responded bitterly.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s just that maybe—”

“I get it. It’s me. If I weren’t so fucked-up, we’d get along fine. Just like you and Adam did. The perfect couple, the perfect husband,” he grated, walking along even more rapidly, as if he could outpace his anger.

“Peter, maybe they can help!”

“No!” He stopped walking, grabbing her arm to stop her as well. Several people-collided with them, and it was a moment before he could continue,“No fuckingway!”

“But—”

“Was this all your idea? Bring me here for these interviews just so you could get some head doctor to look at me? Was it?” He tightened his grip on her arm.

With deliberate, calm strength, she removed his hand from her arm. “Don’t do that again,” she warned quietly. She waited a few seconds so her warning could sink in; a sea of people flowed around them as they stood in silent confrontation. “It was not a plot. I just thought it might help.” She raised her hand to silence his nascent objection.“Let me finish! I know our bringing you here hasn’t helped, but you’re getting almost paranoid. It has got to stop. Isn’t it about time you got over it already?”

The words he had only just read played through his mind.
Anyone who has suffered torture never again will be able to be at ease in the world. . . .
Is that what someone had said to the author, thirty-two years later? Get over it already? He lowered his head. His shoulders rose and fell with each deep breath. “I wish I could,” he said at last.“But the one thing I know is that I need to do this on my own.”

“I know you’ve always been self-reliant, but maybe this is the one time you really need help. I’ve tried to give it but I don’t know how and I’m afraid all I’ve done is make things worse. Maybe it’s time to accept outside help?”

Faith in humanity . . . is never acquired again.
He shook his head. “They won’t be able to help if I don’t trust them,” he whispered.

“All right. I’m sorry. Let’s just go.”

56

O
THER THAN FOR
his appearance on the current-affairs program, Peter’s visit had not attracted as much media interest as Alex had hoped. The network show was, nevertheless, a genuine accomplishment and would in itself have been
worth the visit. It was the result of Alex calling in a few favors and the producer’s own background: his family had fled Austria in 1938 and had lost everything they owned. The reputedly irascible old man would do anything to embarrass the Nazi regime, including airing a risky and possibly audience-losing interview with a strange and eloquent Englishman.

Once the old man saw samples of the footage, he decided to take an even greater risk and asked the reporter to put together an hour-long show. Marcia Long was more than happy to oblige. She knew that not only the man’s story but the man himself was intriguing. And who could blame her if she gloated at the prospect of an hour-long show to herself! Her reputation was well established, her interviewing techniques superb, her background work impeccable, and now—now the payoff! The show would win an award, she was sure of it. She and her staff worked feverishly and together came up with an hour-long segment with all the appropriate background footage.

The network advertised the program, and it drew a reasonably large audience, which, surprisingly, grew as the hour progressed. Peter could not watch the show for embarrassment, but the rest of America did. It struck a chord. All the protectionist, isolationist whining had raised the hackles of a silent majority of Americans, and they had felt a growing sense of shame at their inability to act on the world stage. What was this withdrawal into rural utopia? Were they not a world power? Were they not the most advanced country—or countries—in the world? Was their word, given long ago to their defeated allies, worthless? Calls flooded into the station, and telegrams, faxes, and electronic mail. The word came from across the continent: the people were interested! And the media sat up and noticed that there was news to be had here. Good, easy news: no dangerous travel, no difficult background to understand, no complex issues to uncover, just a man and his story. They lapped it up as the free information-entertainment that it was.

Overnight Peter became a celebrity. Overnight the great American publicity machine kicked into gear and looked for a way to make a profit. Overnight, his calendar for the rest of the month became booked solid and he lost his privacy to a host of sympathetic, concerned journalists, television reporters, handlers, and interested onlookers.

Within a week the media ceased to report explicitly on him; rather they filled their pages and shows by reporting on the media attention given to him. Then there was the analysis of what it all meant, what the American people wanted, and what the politicians should do. It worked like a charm. The agenda was set, and the debate was heavily weighted against the isolationists. Luckily for them, the isolationists rapidly evaporated from the political scene. The Nationalists took a nosedive in the polls, the Republicans restated their policies, more carefully explaining that they had never meant to abandon America’s brave allies, and the Democrats rallied to the obscure plank of their platform that had always supported international involvement. Politicians rushed to be seen with the appropriate freedom-fighting support organizations, and the debate ended in a
draw: everybody agreed that withdrawing support had never really been an issue and that the foreign governments in exile were not only welcome but had the full sympathy and support of the various American governments. At least for the time being.

Peter bore the attention with stoic calm. It was a flash in the pan and he would be forgotten not long after he left, but the damage to the isolationists would be done, and with that he could feel some satisfaction. He did not fool himself into thinking he was important; it was not his story that had fueled the political firestorm—the tinder had been there waiting for ignition, and Alex had been right, his story was the perfect match but indeed nothing more than that. He would, at the end of it all, go back home and sink into obscurity.

An obscurity that was looking ever more blessed, he thought, as he walked onto the set of a very popular and extremely crass live talk show. This one would be tough, but it was going to reach the widest audience, and as Alex put it, low IQ or not, they still had a vote, they still had money.

Peter waited in the comfortable little room provided while the first guest chatted to the host. He had a TV set in the room and could follow the dialogue onstage if he so desired, but he preferred sipping the coffee and daydreaming as he looked at the tasteless art on the wall.

“. . . And finally, what do you think of all the fuss being made about our next guest?” the host asked his guest.

Fuss
sounded rather pejorative, and Peter listened with interest to see if the guest took the bait.

“Just another diversion from the true issues which are dividing this country,” the woman asserted. “Why should Americans be concerned about what happens over there when every day there are thousands of crimes against people of color in this country? We’re facing genocide—we cannot and must not divert precious resources from solving our problems at home to policing the world!”

She continued for some time in her diatribe, repeating in various ways the same theme and misquoting history and statistics. Peter looked more carefully at the screen and noted for the first time that she was what Americans referred to as black or African. Judging from her words, she seemed to be a professional at it. Since his first encounters with Africans had been at diplomatic functions where he had served canapós, he had come to associate the term
African
with the extremely dark skin of the people he had served; it was something of a shock to him to discover that so many African-Americans were incredibly light-skinned and looked not at all like the stereotype promulgated in Reich propaganda. He reached over and picked up the photocopy of the guest list and read her credentials. An academic trained in sociology and an author of some note. Well, she had not been required reading at the Horst Wesel Academy.

There was a light tap on the door, and a well-dressed young woman came to escort him to the stage. He groaned inwardly and smiled in response. She brought him to the edge of the stage, indicated when he should step out, and
then left him to proceed alone. The host announced him, and Peter stepped out, aware of the awkward distance he had to walk under the scrutiny of so many unseen viewers. His legs hurt worse than usual, and in spite of his best attempts, or perhaps because of them, he could not hide his limp. The host grinned at him with big, white, shiny teeth. He shook Peter’s hand, introduced him to their first guest, and indicated his seat.

“So what do you think of Miss Whitmer’s assertions?” the host asked.

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear them,” Peter responded, determined to stay outside any messy all-America issues.

Dr. Whitmer, infuriated not least because of the host’s mistitling of her, broke in with, “Certainly you realize it is inappropriate for a white man to lecture us on slavery!”

“I’m just recounting my experiences,” Peter replied evenly.

“What could any
white man
understand about slavery!” She imbued the words
white
and
man
with such derision that she had no need of further adjectives to give her opinion.

Peter, seeing a minefield of possible answers, decided on, “And what could you?”

“You ignorant man! Don’t you know what the black experience has been? Don’t you know what my people have suffered? And are still suffering at the hands of the white power structure?”

“What have you personally experienced?” he asked calmly.

“I have seen my share of pain!” she boomed.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he responded quietly. “So have I. Perhaps we can learn from each other.”

“We have learned enough from the white man throughout history—to our cost! You could never understand the black experience!”

“Because I am white?”

“Yes!” she answered, infuriated.

“And you can?”

“Of course!”

“Even things you have not personally seen or experienced? Even things in the distant past?”

“Don’t act stupid!”

“My apologies. I’m just curious. You see, I’m afraid I don’t ascribe to racial theories of guilt or hypotheses of tainted blood, but I do know some people who do. Maybe you’d enjoy talking to them?” he asked disingenuously. The audience tittered.

“You!” Dr. Whitmer responded. “You with your blond hair and blue eyes! You weren’t oppressed, you weren’t targeted for your skin color or your religion! You brought your troubles down on yourself! You have no understanding of racism, you—”

“You’re right,” Peter interrupted forcefully. “I could have fit in and I chose not
to! That’s exactly the point, isn’t it? Don’t be fooled by the nonsensical ideas of Nazi mythology, they’ll happily change their tune whenever it serves their purposes. If it suits their needs, they’ll flatter and wine and dine representatives of peoples they claim are inferior—I know, I served the damn drinks! They’ll imprison and torture and enslave anybody who disagrees with them—no matter how pristine a pedigree they might have! That’s the way of these gangsters, they nd oppress anyone who stands in their path, anyone who disagrees with them. if you could, for just a few seconds, detach yourself from your precious groupthink politics—”

“You’re a fool! My people are oppressed as a group, they must react as a group!”

“And that makes you their ally!” he spat in reply, suddenly understanding Katerina’s anger during their first discussion. “The Nazis and their ilk would like nothing better than to have you think of yourselves as different! If you can’t see that we are more than just a member of a group, that we aren’t defined by hair or eyes or—”

“Get real! You’re a member of the ruling class! Even the way you are treated here shows that! Do you think you would be listened to if—”

“You don’t get it, do you? Why do you think I am speaking out? You have a substantial movement in this country to tolerate these criminals, to treat them as acceptable. You have people here who believe they would be immune from oppression because they belong to the right group or because they are Americans. They don’t know that their actions, their beliefs, the things they take for granted here, would be enough to mark them out as enemies there! Like me I did nothing but disagree with them, nothing at all! No one is safe when intolerance,
any sort
of intolerance, is accepted! That’s what makes us alike, more alike than any of our superficial differences that you’re so intent on pointing out!”

“We’re not alike!”
she almost howled. “One pathetic man’s experiences do not compensate for the oppression of centuries!”

“Who’s talking about compensation?” Peter began, but then he stopped. He was getting into exactly the sort of argument he had promised himself he would avoid. He frowned as his head throbbed with pain. What, he wondered, could he say to back out of the situation?

Dr. Whitmer used the pause to good effect, launching into a tirade against his uneducated, insensitive bigotry. Peter rubbed his chin thoughtfully and answered tersely on occasion, never saying more than that he had nothing but his own story to tell, refusing to again take the bait. After ten minutes had passed in this manner, with Dr. Whitmer showing no signs of letting up, the host finally restrained her.

“Let’s let Mr. Halifax here speak a bit. I think the audience would like to ask a few questions. I know I certainly am curious as to what he thinks about us and American society.”

At the prompt Peter launched into a pat speech about the wonders of the Land of Opportunity, and with a brief nod to his fellow guest he acknowledged
that there were problems to be solved but that America was a great continent, and with such a brave and dedicated people there was no reason why they could not offer help to their brethren overseas even while addressing the inequities that might exist at home.