The Children's War (149 page)

17

O
VER TWO DAYS,
the bookstore manager showed Peter and Barbara what they needed to know about the management of the store, the codes and contacts, and the equipment they would use. After that, with a satisfied grin that she was finally going home, she vacated the attached flat and the two of them moved in.

Barbara immediately set about making the place into their home—unpackingher clothes, dividing up closet space, sorting out the kitchen. Although she was supposed to help Peter manage the store and handle the contacts and communications, she had also obviously decided to assign herself the role of a proper housewife, and before he had even managed to finish the cup of tea she had made him, she had unpacked his suitcase and begun preparing a dinner for the two of them.

He sat unmoving on the couch, listening to the sound of something frying in the little alcove kitchen just around the partition, and thought about the codes and equipment and contacts. The job did not require his special skills, and his thoughts bifurcated between a growing resentment at this waste of his talents and wondering how soon he could send a personal message. Their communications were relatively secure—they depended on equipment that was smuggled in from the NAU and was allegedly years ahead of what the security services could handle—but there was always the possibility of detection and arrest. Their messages might be secure, but the senders definitely were not. It was a stressful and lonely job with a great deal of risk and little tangible reward. There was no sudden joy of breaking a code, no surge of accomplishment as a train line was dynamited, no congratulations on a job well done. In fact, nothing was ever completed; they were nothing more than a cog in a huge machine passing dangerous information back and forth between directors and operatives or from one political ally to another.

Katerina had indicated to him that on account of his rank and experience and being a native Englishman, he would probably be asked to do more than simply file messages back and forth, but he was sure that she was only softening the blow. Neither side had any reason to trust him politically: the British had lost contact with him too many years ago, and he had never established himself among the Poles. The diplomatic fiasco of his interactions with the British government in exile would not soon be forgotten, and in any case he had spent too much of his life in the hands of the enemy. Collaborating, as Zosia would say.
No, he would not be put to use as a diplomat between Underground groups, he was far too tainted for that.

“Look, Dad!” Joanna’s sweet voice broke into his thoughts. He glanced around, but of course, she was not there. He missed her so! Such a happy child, so full of life. In her brief time, she had given so much to him, so much hope, so much confidence. Never before had he felt so unconditionally loved, wanted, and at home. He thought then of his other daughter—little Magdalena, whom he could not see. What lay in store for her? Would she harry her servants mercilessly, held back by no social convention; permitted, encouraged even, by society to be infinitely impatient and demanding? Would she be like her mother? The thought of Elspeth left him feeling cold, and he jumped to his feet as he felt her hand stroke his hair.

“Sorry,” Barbara’s voice came from behind him, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh.” He turned around, thoroughly abashed. “It’s just that I thought for a second you were Elspeth.”

“Who? Oh, yes, Frau Vogel! Did she come up from behind and stroke your hair when you were sitting?” Barbara teased.

“I wasn’t permitted to sit,” he replied obscurely.

She looked at him questioningly, but then decided that sizzling noises from the kitchen took priority. “I just wanted to ask you to set the table—the dinner will be ready soon.”

“Of course,” he responded absently.

After the nice little dinner that Barbara had prepared, they cleaned the kitchen, relaxed a bit, and then retired for the night. Tomorrow would be their first day on the job, and they were both intrigued and a bit nervous. As he undressed, Peter reviewed, once again, all that he had learned. He was sufficiently distracted that it took a few minutes for him to notice that Barbara, sitting on the bed in her nightgown, was staring at him. Once he noticed the vague look of horror on her face, he stopped to consider its possible source. Only a double bed was provided in the apartment; perhaps his assumption that they would share it was the problem?

He looked at her quizzically. “Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” It would not be particularly practical since the couch was not large or comfortable, but there was nowhere else readily available.

“No, no,” she said as if in a daze, still staring.

“You don’t mind sharing?”

“No, of course not. If anyone should sleep out there, it should be me. After all, you’re the senior officer.”

Peter smiled at her gentle euphemism. “Then?” he asked, hoping she might explain.

She shook her head at him, chagrined by her obvious gaffe. “I had no idea . . .”

He glanced down at his scarred body. “Oh, yes, of course.” Fucking sons of bitches, how he hated each and every one of them who had trampled on him so happily.

“Do they hurt?” she asked, motioning toward the injuries.

He shook his head. “Only when pretty young girls point them out to me,” he teased.

She reddened. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think . . . I, it’s just that . . . Oh!” She threw herself facedown onto the bed in a fit of girlish embarrassment.

“Barbara. It’s okay, I was joking!” He laughed. “Here, I’ll turn out the lights.”

In the dim shadows he saw her emerge from her self-imposed exile; he could just barely discern her face. “Would you put the lights back on?” she asked timidly.

“Why?” he asked as he reached for the switch.

“If we’re supposed to be married, I think I should know what you look like. I’m sorry about . . . It was unprofessional.”

He nodded and, turning on the lights again, let her look at him as he stood there.

“Would you come sit by me so I can look more closely?”

Was she trying to prove her cool by being so clinical? He nodded and went to sit by her. Without even asking, she ran her hand over his back and along his arms. He turned his head away slightly so she would not see how much her presumptuousness annoyed him. She may have thought she was being sympathetic and open, or perhaps even seductive, but all it felt like to him was the prodding and poking of so many others who had given themselves the rights to his body.

As she caressed him further, he grabbed her hand, forced a smile onto his face, and holding her hand in both of his, assured her as gently as he could, “That’s probably enough for now.”

She nodded, suddenly aware that she had offended him and grimaced as she turned over to hide her face in the pillow once again. He turned out the light and crawled under the covers without bothering to console her.

“Niklaus, wake up! Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes to see Barbara’s anxious face peering down at him.

“What’s the matter?” he asked sleepily. The dream was there—or rather the nightmare. Damn, if only he could have slept through it. The vision was still painful.

“You were shaking!”

“So?” he snapped angrily, stunned by the unnecessary cruelty of her waking him. He might have slept through it, would have forgotten it by morning, but now it was there in his memory. Damn it, sleep was so precious, and now it was lost!

“I thought . . .” Barbara fell silent, then tried again. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I thought that I might . . .”

He felt a sudden pity for her confusion. How was she to know? Masking his anger as best he could, he said, “It’s okay, don’t worry. Thanks for, uh, the concern.
But next time, if possible, please don’t wake me. I get little enough sleep as it is. Okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed sheepishly.

“Do you think I’ll bother you?” he asked, trying to soothe her feelings.

“No, no, I’ll be all right. Now that I know.” She turned over as she said that and buried her head under her arm.

He reached over and stroked her arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m just an idiot,” she said forlornly.

They lay silently for a long time, each thinking the other was asleep. Barbara occupied herself with her thoughts, Peter tried not to occupy himself with his. Finally after several hours he fell back asleep.

The bomb exploded silently this time. It all happened in silence. The blast, the way he threw himself down on Joanna, the terrible wind of shrapnel impaling him with thousands of daggers as he lay there. He rolled off the child, felt again the stabs of pain as each piece of glass dug its way deeper under his skin. There was mayhem; he looked down, saw the piece of glass in his leg. He was standing, swaying dizzily, and then he screamed at Joanna to run, to run as far away from him as she could, to run and hide. Sound bombarded the scene as he yelled his warning. He could hear her footsteps as she took flight, could hear the glass still tinkling to the ground, could hear the people running about, trying to help. He felt himself pitch forward, saw the ground coming up to meet him, but Joanna was gone, she was safe, she had run away.

He awoke panting. Why hadn’t he told her to run? Surely there must have been time! The scene had played itself out in his mind so many times—both asleep and awake—that he knew each terrible microsecond.
Run!
How long does it take to say that? Why hadn’t he told her to run?

The word repeated itself over and over in his mind as if trying to tutor him. This is how you say it, this is how to do it next time. Run. Run away and hide. How many times did he have to hear himself say it? Over and over he heard himself speak, saw her take flight in his imagination. He greeted her again back at the encampment sometimes; congratulated her on her escape. “You said run,” she told him, “so I did.”

He sat up in bed and rubbed his face. It was going to be one of those nights. Though he was exhausted, he rose and went to the desk, gathered a few sheets of paper and a pen, and decided to write a long letter to Zosia. It would be ages before it reached her; perhaps there would be no opportunity to send it at all. It was futile, there would be no comfort to be had from her reply if there even was one, but still he wrote. Without preamble, he told her about his dream, that was uppermost on his mind; then he wrote about his memories of Joanna and the good times the three of them had had together. He mentioned over and over how much he missed Zosia, how much he loved her.

“I wish I could write poetry,” he wrote, “so that I could let you know just how much I miss you. It’s like a physical pain, hell, it is a physical pain. Oh, Zosiu, I love you so much, why do we have to be apart? What have I done?”

He looked at the words and realized he had written something almost identical-only a few paragraphs before. Such repetition looked foolish; better to write something else. He let his thoughts wander, and he began telling her about his impressions on his return to England:

“Both Chase and Halifax are far in the past (other than those few weeks just before my arrest), and nearly all my memories of this place come from Yardley. He was such a different fellow—not the lonely boy, not the determined and rebellious youth. He went to pubs and slept around (before A.) and violated curfew to watch the stars at night (there are some dark corners near the river—and yes, we do have an occasional cloudless night!) and generally he had a pretty good time of it all. Confident, happy—if a bit lonely—he would have gone mad for you and your adorable daughter. I don’t know if you would have liked him though. Maybe better than you like me (I’ve gathered that’s not saying much anymore), maybe not at all. I wonder how much of him was me, I wonder how much I can become him again. And do I want to?”

Peter scowled at the page. It was stupid referring to himself in the third person, but it seemed apt. He wasn’t Yardley anymore, and he hardly remembered how he could ever have been so unfettered. Worse though, was that last parenthetical remark. He wanted to remove it, but it was in ink and he’d have to rewrite the entire page. Maybe he could scratch it out? Knowing Zosia, that would only convince her to find out what lay underneath and she would then give it even more significance for the difficulty of discovery.