The Children's War (129 page)

He was then prodded by the host to briefly recount his life history for the “one or two hermits” who had not yet heard about him. He dutifully did that, concluding with, “But I managed to survive by holding on to the hope that one day we might be free, that we might one day be like America, and that one day the Americans would rise up as a people to help us in our hour of need.”

Dr. Whitmer rolled her eyes and made a slight snorting noise, but did not dare to interrupt. She had bargained for her position as the opening act on a highly publicized show only on the understanding that Halifax would be allowed to speak when it came to his turn. She had made the pact in order to have a huge public forum, and now she had to stick to her part of the bargain in the interests of future speaking engagements.

Peter found himself silently agreeing with Dr. Whitmer’s snorted opinion: it was crap, but he had learned that such sentiments went down well with audiences, and indeed, the audience was soaking it up.

As his guest spoke, Jerry Mann worried a bit. He was rightfully famous for the controversial nature of his shows, and this little festival of warmth would kill his reputation and eventually the ratings. Yet, to turn on a debate between his two guests seemed unwise; for one thing, the Englishman seemed uninterested and nearly unprovocable on the race issue—he honestly felt no white man’s guilt and would not even pretend to feel it. Nor would it help to let that Whitmer woman rant at him—she was just plain boring without opposition. He should have got a member of a Nazi sympathy group to go on opposite, but after last year’s onstage melee and murder, the government had vetoed the idea. Damn censorship. So, the job was left to him to provoke something. The question was, what would get a response? As Peter finished speaking and the audience applauded warmly, Mann came to a decision.

“Very interesting, very interesting. But certainly you could have avoided such unpleasantness?” Mann asked.

“Which part in particular?” Peter asked, unwilling to rehash every detail.

“I mean, someone as bright as you. You are hardly typical or average, now are you?”

“I’m not sure who is typical,” Peter responded, confused by the direction of the questioning.

“Certainly not someone as educationally elite as you! We all heard about your doctorate from EUM. And in mathematics!” Mann gasped his astonishment.

“The English University of Manhattan doctorate was honorary,” Peter explained. “Just part of my visit.”

“Ah, yes, but I heard it was truly earned. You have an extensive education in some very arcane subjects, isn’t that true?”

Peter wanted to ask if there was supposed to be something wrong with that, but then he saw the direction that Mann was heading. Add elite and overeducated to Dr. Whitmer’s denunciation of him as a white European male and the next logical step was pampered, whining aristocrat who pined for lost privilege and did not merit the support of the honest, simple, and hard-pressed American working class.

“Perhaps,” Peter answered carefully, “I had no opportunity to compare my experience with others since higher education is essentially forbidden to my class.” He let slide that his class was essentially self-defined by an unwillingness to collaborate. In any case, it was sufficiently true in that higher education, and in many cases any education, was denied to numerous people. “You see,” he continued, turning toward the audience, “that is one of your freedoms that we value so highly. The right to learn. We know how hardworking Americans educate their children and work to put them into university so that they might better themselves and make this a strong and just country.”

Dr. Whitmer opened her mouth to say something, but Peter, acknowledging her with a nod, continued, “And we recognize, as you do, that equal access to education is crucial. We recognize your struggle to make your educational system fair and available to all your citizens, just as you recognize the hardship our children must endure as they read illegal books in dark cellars, as they study forbidden texts, fearing arrest at any minute, fearing that their parents will be taken because of their commitment to learning . . .” Peter continued, weaving a tale of two noble peoples separated by an ocean: the one society struggling to regain basic rights, the other striving relentlessly for a better, fairer society.

Mann tried other questions, tried different accusations. He laid them subtly, never daring an outright attack, and Peter answered them just as subtly, never taking offense, never noticing the way the host tried to twist Peter’s words or reinterpret his message. With each answer, Peter tightened the web around Mann, and the audience loved it—their love-hate relationship with the host having swung toward hate for the moment.

From their living room, Anna and Alex together with Zosia and Joanna watched the live program. Alex smoked nervously; Anna kept leaping up to refill someone’s glass with tea or to offer snacks; Zosia, sprawled on the floor, chewed her thumb. Only Joanna, sitting on the floor next to her mother’s prone form, remained calm; she knew her father would do well.

“I wonder why Mann decided to go after him?” Anna asked as she once again shoved a plate of cheese and crackers in front of Joanna.

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted. “I never watch this show. But Peter’s handling him well.”

“I would have snapped that woman’s head off,” Anna admitted. “She has no clue how lucky she is.”

“Yes, but Peter’s right, there is no point in debating her. It would only make
him look unsympathetic. Better to go the route he’s taken and suck up to the Americans.”

“I wonder how he manages to say all those obsequious things with such a straight face,” Anna commented to no one in particular.

“Just part of the service,” Zosia answered bitterly, thinking of how he must have spoken to Elspeth. And herself as well? “Seems he has a whole slew of personalities he can use when he’s in the mood.”

“So which one is the real thing?” Anna asked.

Zosia shrugged. “I’d be surprised if even he knows.”

Anna looked at her daughter, wondering at the source of her remarks, but did not say anything because Alex shushed them both. “I want to hear him! hissed, leaning closer to the television.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mann watched the reaction of his audience and felt elated. He did not care that he was the object of their hate at the moment— he’d rectify that situation soon enough—all he cared was that they were involved. They were beginning to make noises, small cheers, occasional boos. It was great. It was perhaps the most intellectual discussion he had managed to maintain for any length of time without losing them utterly. With a glance he looked toward his guest. The man was tiring of the harassment; a few more good swipes, and he should change the pace lest he look too mean and petty.

Despite all his intentions to the contrary, Peter found himself rubbing his forehead. The pain was excruciating. It was those damn lights—they were in his eyes and had bothered him from the moment he had stepped onto the stage. He felt certain in a few more minutes the pain in his head would overwhelm everything else, and he was afraid of the consequences.

As the host asked yet another aggressive question, Peter decided to take a small risk. He indicated with his hand and a brief smile that he had heard the question, then said, “Excuse me, just a second here,” and reached into his shirt pocket for his sunglasses. He bowed his head to put them on, mostly to rest his eyes and stretch his neck, but it looked quite humble to the audience, and on the close-up monitors most of them could discern that he was shaking. Still quivering, he looked up, smiled sheepishly, and explained, “I’m terribly sorry, but my eyes were damaged over the years, and these lights are causing me excruciating pain. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“Damn it! What’s he doing?” Alex growled.

“Have you noticed, his accent has changed?” Zosia pointed out, ignoring her father.

“Yes, now that you mention it . . .” Anna looked intrigued. “Why did he do that?”

“It’s unintentional,” Zosia explained. “He slips into that tone anytime he’s angry or stressed. I don’t think he’s even aware he does it.” She was though. The
distance, the distinct courtesy—as if he were talking to a stranger. It was offensive when he used it with her, and he used it all too often, pronouncing her name with a disapproving precision that irritated the hell out of her.

“However he speaks, I want to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing!” Alex grated.

“Don’t worry, this will work,” Anna assured him. Whether it was deliberate or not, the tone of voice, the courteous wording, the apology, even that sheepish, pained expression: it was all there. It worked for her—she wanted to hug him and apologize for anything she had ever said, so she knew it would win over the audience, or at least the women. She glanced at the scowl on her daughter’s face and amended to herself, at least those women who did not love him dearly and apparently, painfully.

It did work. Peter had not intended to look pathetic, he was just in pain and quite embarrassed by that fact; nevertheless, he looked heroic as he suffered in brave silence. The audience felt suddenly protective of him, and as one they turned toward Mann daring him to try one more aggressive question.

But, no, Mann realized it was time to save his own image, and this thing with the eyes gave him a great idea for a publicity stunt. His audience, his beloved audience, ready to rend him limb from limb at the moment, would in a minute do a complete turnabout and be the heroes of the day. The American public, they were wonderful, generous to a fault, and they loved themselves and that image of themselves quite dearly. They would happily pay to keep that image, and Mann knew exactly how to get them to do that.

He made a discreet hand gesture to his offstage staff and then went into the audience to have them ask the questions. The tone changed markedly—no more innuendo, no more vague accusations. Suddenly Mann was the epitome of concern, nodding his head sympathetically as someone asked, “What exactly is wrong with your eyes?”

“I wish I knew,” Peter answered tiredly. “My vision comes and goes, and bright lights provoke phenomenal pain.”

“Will it lead to blindness?” an older woman asked.

“I don’t know. We don’t really have the facilities to diagnose something like this.”

“What caused it?”

“I don’t know. Chemicals maybe. I was exposed to a lot of”—he shrugged— “junk. There are no safety requirements for us, just use us until we drop dead.” His voice had taken on a bitter edge. The pain was making it impossible for him to keep up the faÁade he had so carefully constructed. He could hardly construct a coherent sentence, let alone try to sway an audience toward supporting armed insurrection in distant lands.

It was the perfect opportunity for Dr. Whitmer to jump in, to point out that any money spent abroad was a criminal waste of resources when there were so
many unsolved problems at home. He would never be able to stay calm in the face of another attack, she was sure of that, but she knew instinctively that even if she managed to pummel him verbally, he would win any debate in terms of audience sympathy. She weighed her pride and urge to argue against that insurmountable truth and kept silent, consoling herself that at least she had managed to reach a much wider audience than usual and that she had already said her piece.

“Or maybe it was simply physical abuse,” Peter continued. “I was hit in the face a lot.” He paused as if remembering something or someone, then repeated distantly, “A lot.”

“What about treatment?” someone asked.

Peter shook his head. “That’s not available to my class of people. We work—in whatever conditions—until we drop dead. Now, of course, after speaking to you all, if I made myself known to the authorities, I’d simply be shot out of hand.” He thought for a moment, then added with a winsome smile, “If I were lucky.”

“So you
are
planning to return?” Mann jumped at the implication.

“As I have said, I cannot comment on my plans.”

“But what about here? In America?” Dr. Whitmer felt inclined to inquire. “Surely you could find something out?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought about that. I’ve thought about lots of things. Having my legs broken and reset, having this tattoo removed, tracking down these headaches, sorting out my vision problems, talking to psychiatrists to soothe my nights. Lots of things. I don’t know what’s possible; probably there’s nothing much that can be done about most of it. Not at this late date.”