The Children's War (139 page)

The cold knife edge danced over his skin. With a brief prayer to no one in particular, Peter resigned himself to losing his vision. He summoned up the last bright image that he had—Joanna looking down at him, asking if he was all right—and ceased trembling. He would probably not survive long in any case; it seemed unlikely, given the Führer’s interest in him, that the encampment would
be able to effect a rescue, and even if they chose to try to bargain for him, he doubted that he was ransomable. He had offended the powers-that-be, and no price save his life would satisfy them.

Then suddenly, the teasing stopped, the knife was pulled away and plunged into his thigh. Peter screamed and opened his eyes to see the knife embedded deep in his flesh. Blood seeped warmly into the fabric of his trousers. The interrogator smiled sheepishly, then turned to look, almost apologetically, at the officer. The SS officer, looking somewhat bored, shrugged his indifference.

“Not yet,” the interrogator said with an air of disappointment, reaching forward to remove the knife. He primly wiped the blade, closed it, and put it back into his pocket. He looked pensively at the blood as it continued to seep into the material—the flow indicated a muscle wound, no major blood vessels cut. He shook his head in genuine annoyance at having exceeded his orders, but the flow was slow enough that the wound did not need to be bound, and he decided to ignore it and continue his monologue.

“Not yet, boy. You still need them—there’s something we want you to see. In Berlin, in person, there you can provide some amusement. Live entertainment! Isn’t that what those idiot Americans say? Live! Heh, heh—at least for a time. No, it will have to wait a bit, then we can remove your eyes properly, perhaps with a sharpened trowel, hmm?”

The interrogator paused as if expecting a response. As there was none, he continued, “And then let you eat them for us—how will that be? Eh? Will that solve your problem?”

Aware of the camera, Peter was torn between trying to reason with them and wanting to spit in their faces. He could think of nothing sensible to say in the face of such madness, and in the sure knowledge that he was going to die, he wondered if they couldn’t perhaps just get on with it. They were going to drag it out, that was clear, but maybe once he was dead, the Council could ransom Joanna. Once they had their revenge, maybe then she would be safe. By that reasoning, he could not kill himself: they would feel cheated and might turn to Joanna as a substitute. No, he would have to bear whatever they did to him—at least until he knew she was safe or until he was dead. The prospect of what the next few days or even weeks might hold for him terrified him.

The interrogator beamed. “Well, now, as promised we have a special treat— something we want to be sure that you see!” His voice assumed an air of authority, as though reading a judgment, and indeed he was reading something. “Let it be known, that you have been judged to have offended against the dignity and pride of the Fatherland. You have insulted the person of the Führer himself. Your disloyalty has caused untold distress, and now we shall return the favor.” He paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “The Führer himself is interested in seeing that this crime does not go unpunished. He wishes you to understand the distress you have caused for all our peoples with your disloyalty. He wishes you to understand how, after all the mercy that has been bestowed on you by the
Fatherland, you have behaved like a thankless child. It has been determined that the best way to teach you this lesson is to take your own child from you.”

Could they possibly mean . . . ? Peter prayed that he had misinterpreted the threat. His mind worked feverishly for some sort of response, something to stop the madness, some way to buy time. Fervently he begged, “What if I were to apologize? Publicly. I can make an appearance—denounce everything I said, swear it was all lies. Why don’t you go find out what your superiors think about that?”

The interrogator ignored him, motioning toward one of the guards to go out and bring Joanna in.

“No, wait!” Peter pleaded. “Before you do anything—contact your superiors, I’m sure they’d want to hear what I have to say. Go call them, I’ll wait, I promise! It’d be a mistake to do otherwise!”

The interrogator did not respond; the guard continued as if programmed. He had Joanna stand in the middle of the room, only a few feet from Peter and facing him but out of sight of the camera, then he withdrew to stand by the wall. Joanna looked at Peter and bit her lip but did not betray any other emotion. She waited silently to learn what role she should adopt.

“She’s not my child!” Peter asserted in a voice shaking with terror, his glib line of defense vanished.

“But close enough.” The interrogator smiled.

“No. I hardly know her. She’s just a kid. Let her go!” he begged. He was aware of the camera recording his emotion, knew how much pleasure his agony would give someone, but he was oblivious to all but the need to save his daughter. He struggled to hide his fear, to sound unconcerned: at any moment, someone would come bursting through the door, machine guns blasting, and they would all be saved. At any moment. He searched for the bravado to continue to make offers, to play for time.

But there was no time. The interrogator nodded toward one of the guards—a large man with a blank expression. “Strangle her,” he said bluntly.

The guard approached Joanna.

“I am a German!” Joanna’s confidant voice rang out. “And if you touch one hair on my head, you will be made to pay the price.” She spoke flawless German, played her role perfectly. Her years of training had not been wasted.

Peter felt a surge of pride in her; she was so convincing, so utterly confident!

The large man stepped back, somewhat worriedly.

“I said strangle her!” the interrogator demanded.

“But . . . ,” the guard stammered. If there was some sort of cock-up, he knew exactly who would be the scapegoat.

“She’s a Pole!” the interrogator asserted angrily.

“I am a German!” Joanna retorted haughtily.

“Then,” the interrogator asked her directly,“why were you with this terrorist?”

Joanna hesitated.

“She’s a hostage. Her father is rather high up,” Peter answered for her, “and we
were using her as a shield. I hardly know her, there’s no point in harming her— she’s meaningless to me.”

Joanna straightened and looked at the interrogator with brave determination.

“Kill her,” the interrogator demanded.

The guard looked confused.

“They’re lying, you idiot!”

“No, she really is a hostage! If you harm her, you will be in deep trouble,” Peter reiterated. Joanna’s acting was so good, he almost felt confident of their success.

The interrogator raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“She’s one of yours. She doesn’t mean anything to me,” Peter assured him.“If you touch her, you’ll just be harming an innocent kid for no reason at all. One of yours!”

“Then why,” the interrogator asked as he pulled a piece of paper from the file that had been placed on the table, “was she with you in America?” He shoved a facsimile under Peter’s nose.

Peter gasped involuntarily. Along with some printed details was a reproduction of a photograph of him with Joanna sitting on the steps of England House. Somebody had scribbled “Halifax” under his picture. Beneath Joanna’s picture was a question mark, which had been scratched out and “Przewalewski” written below it. It was a good shot of the two of them—he held a cigarette in one hand, his other arm was draped around her shoulders, both of them were smiling. The photograph was obviously taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, probably from somewhere within Central Park. He knew the precise moment: he had just promised her he would quit smoking.

He fought back his shock and dismay to assert, “That’s not her—you have the wrong child.”

The interrogator shook his head, unconvinced.

Glancing at the photo again, Peter decided to change tack. “You have me,” he offered desperately, his voice strained with emotion. “I’m the one who spoke out.
You have me!
Take it out on me, I’ll do what you want, whatever you want. I’ll say what you want. I’ll make killing me enjoyable for you. You can drag it out for weeks and I’ll do whatever you say.
Whatever
you want. Anything, really!” He indicated the camera with his head. “Look, does he have any tapes where the victim cooperates? It will be unique! Don’t give up that chance. I’ll help you out, I’ll do what you want! I’ll do it to myself, with a knife or whatever! It will be a unique tape. Just don’t hurt the little girl. I don’t even know her!”

The interrogator hesitated, he glanced at the SS officer, who shook his head in response.

“Go ask someone, you’ll see, it’s what the Führer will want. Please!”

Growing suddenly angry at the delays, the interrogator motioned to one of the guards standing behind Peter. “Shut him up!” The wire was jerked taut and as Peter choked in response, a cloth was shoved into his mouth and held in place by a hand. Joanna stiffened but said nothing. She knew that she was not supposed
to care about what happened to her captor. That done, the interrogator turned toward the reluctant guard. “She’s that terrorist Przewalewski’s grandchild! Now strangle her! That’s an order.”

Still uncertain, the guard glanced questioningly at the SS officer. The officer nodded in response.

Reassured, the large guard with his spadelike hands approached the little girl and placed them around her neck. The last view Peter had of Joanna was with tears appearing in her eyes as the massive hands closed around her throat. As her body was lifted from the floor by her delicate neck, the interrogator snapped his fingers in Peter’s direction and the gag was removed from his mouth. He roared in agony, trying to say something, anything that would stop them. He struggled with every fiber of his being against his bonds to try to stop them physically, he pleaded, he begged, he threatened, he offered bribes and deals, he screamed “No!” as the massive hands tightened their hold. He fought like a wild animal, to no avail.

It took an eternity to wring the life out of her little body. With her tiny fingers, Joanna tore at the hands that strangled her, dug little fingernails into callused skin; she kicked wildly but in vain. Her struggles ceased; a bit of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth, urine trickled down her leg, then her executioner dropped her like a rag doll onto the concrete floor.

As he saw her body drop, Peter stopped struggling abruptly. All his words stopped. He stared forlornly at the lifeless form, hoping against hope that she was still alive, that it was all part of some insanely cruel game. Apparently the interrogator had the same thought for he ordered brusquely, “Finish the job.”

The executioner seemed to know exactly what that meant, for without hesitation he stooped and grasped Joanna’s ankles. Standing a few feet from the wall, he swung her body with vicious force. Peter screamed silently as he heard her skull crack against the concrete, as brain matter spattered messily against the pristine surface. For good measure the executioner swung her body again as Peter continued to scream his voiceless dismay.

The guard dropped her battered body to the floor and backed away. Peter’s entire body shook, his muscles seemed frozen, and he was unable even to gasp for breath. His ankles and wrists were slick with blood, but the ropes and handcuffs still held him bound. Blood or saliva dripped from his mouth, and the wire that had held his head up hung loose about his neck. He stared wide-eyed, almost uncomprehending, at the body in front of him. They all ignored him; the SS officer left, motioning for the guards to follow him. The interrogator, taking only enough time to reattach the wire to the chair—more securely this time, left as well, quietly closing the door behind him.

They left him there with Joanna’s body and the camera rolling. Left him to contemplate the evil of his ways and the words he had spoken so boldly in public. Left him to suffer before the camera so that his audience could have their revenge. He heard himself ask Ulrike:
Do you think that babies and toddlers did something?
Did a bright and happy five-year-old girl?