The Children's War (152 page)

21

S
HE DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO ASK
the next time; in fact, he was not even quite awake. Still, his need was obvious, and Barbara reached over to be helpful—as a friend. Peter woke with her hands working their magic and his body on fire with desire.

“Stop it,” he muttered while trying to hold on to the dream she had inspired. Allison, of all people. She used to do that, wake him up like that. After all these years, he had been dreaming of Allison. What would Zosia think? What would Barbara think?

In response to his feeble command, Barbara draped one of her legs over him. He could feel the damp heat between her thighs. She continued to tease him and he moaned with agonized pleasure.

“Please, Barbara, stop it,” he said, trying to put some conviction in his words, pushing her hand away. It didn’t work. She held him closer, grasped him more intimately, and kissed him passionately on the shoulders and neck. He tried to wake himself, to call up all the arguments against letting her continue, but it was too late, and still half-asleep he gave in and without in any way reciprocating he closed his eyes and enjoyed her kisses and caresses.

He jerked convulsively and the movement woke him up. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His hand compulsively wiped his face, but there was no blood there, nothing at all. Barbara was sound asleep and he guessed hours had passed. He felt the familiar dread, that awful fear of sleeping, and sighing his resignation, he got up. He made himself a cup of tea and spent some time writing a letter to Zosia. Then when his eyes had grown tired, he closed them and began thinking about where his life was going and wondering what to do about Barbara. It seemed stupid that two people could have such desire and suppress it. Whom would it hurt? Zosia didn’t care what he did; he could even tell her and she would just shrug her shoulders, if she even bothered to listen. She didn’t even love him, had just sent him away into this impossible situation. Why in God’s name was he showing her a loyalty that was not only meaningless to her but probably undeserved? Doubtless, she was finding comfort in Tadek’s arms whenever she needed it.

He wondered momentarily why he had never asked her outright what her relationship with Tadek was. She would probably tell him the truth—that is, if she deigned to answer. More likely, she would grow angry at the implied constraints on her independence. So, she guarded her independence and privacy jealously, while he pushed Barbara away just for the sake of some idiotic and unappreciated loyalty. Where was the sense in it all? Whom would it hurt?

Zosia didn’t care, he would satisfy his physical needs, and Barbara would
finally have a chance to express her love for him. She had tried in so many ways. She made their little flat as comfortable as one could want, she cooked lovely meals and did most of the shopping and cleaned everything before it was even dirty. They went for walks together and she listened with rapt attention to anything he had to say, she took an interest in anything he was interested in, she studied English and tried to learn about English culture. She did everything to make herself attractive, not only physically but as a companion. A lifelong companion.

And there was the rub. If he began a liaison with Barbara, she would be sure to misinterpret it. No matter how clearly he laid out the ground rules, she would think that he either loved her or would soon love her. The simple fact was that he didn’t. He found her pleasant and pleasing, physically attractive and a comfortable companion, but he did not love her. There was too little feedback. She was like a mirror, working to reflect his ideas and desires; it was fun and flattering, but it was terribly insubstantial. He needed someone with experience, with independent and vociferous opinions. He needed a partner, not an appendix. He needed Zosia.

With years and experience, Barbara was sure to grow into a wonderful maturity, but it would take time, and if she were to spend that time as his companion or wife, he suspected they would never escape the almost father-daughter relationship that their friendship resembled. He would teach her and she would learn, but her experiences would be those of a student. She would have nothing to offer him except what he himself had helped develop. It could work, but it was more likely not to. And more to the point, they would be working toward the possibility that he might one day love her. Everything would hinge on his emotions developing according to a plan while she would have to maintain an almost infinite patience. It would be pointless and insulting. He would be trying to turn her into some gentler version of Zosia, and if Barbara ever understood that, she would learn to hate him forever.

So, anything they began was doomed to be temporary. Even so, it might be a pleasant diversion if only Barbara weren’t so in love with him. Even worse, he would, as far as he could guess, be her first sexual partner. What a history to establish! Her very first man would be doing nothing more than using her to make up for missing the woman he loved. All her hopes of cajoling him into loving her would be used against her. When it all ended, as it surely would, she would have nothing more than the knowledge that the man she had dearly loved had treated her so shabbily. She might well come to loathe herself or the feelings that had led her into such a trap, and she would surely have nothing but contempt for him. Two years from now, could he stand the look of disdain that she would give him? He could hear her thoughts of the future: there he is, that loser, that louse who used me just because I was momentarily in love with him. How could I have been so stupid, how could I have not seen how contemptible he is?

He did not want to hear that about himself.

So, Barbara was out of the question. Not so much for the sake of his loyalty to Zosia, but for his own self-esteem and for the sake of his friendship with Barbara. As a friend, he would advise her against getting involved, and as a friend, he would do what he could to prevent her from making a mistake. Someday, perhaps after she had gone through some relationships, after she had more experiences and had formed her own opinions; someday after Zosia had kicked him out for good; someday when they could approach each other as equals—then perhaps she would be available to him. But by then he was sure she would not want him anymore.

The next day he was determined to bring up the subject with her. It had to be a daylight conversation, one where he would not be influenced by irrational desires. Breakfast was too early and a bit too rushed as he got up late. During the workday, in the shop was inappropriate—there were too many interruptions. Lunch was impossible because one of them had to keep an eye on the shop while the other ate. So, it had to be at dinnertime.

Barbara shopped and cooked again although Peter offered to take a turn at it. She claimed to enjoy it, and besides, he looked tired, was it a bad night? He had to admit that his sleep had been pretty brief and unsatisfactory. Too bad, she commiserated, perhaps tonight would go better. And with that she disappeared to do the shopping as he relaxed through the afternoon, keeping an eye on the customers and helping them to find the books they needed.

The meal was lovely, and they finished it off by splitting an orange that she had splurged to buy from one of the German-only shops. He told her how the children in his neighborhood had used to refer to the rusty, sludgy water as orange juice, and they both laughed at his humorous description of drinking the muck.

After cleaning up the dishes together, they relocated to the couch and had another glass of wine while chatting about various things. She asked for more stories of his childhood, pointing out that it was useful research for her, and he willingly obliged, glad to have a reason to put off the difficult discussion he had in mind.

He told her about how his brother, Erich, and he used to turn off the water to their father’s showers and how they would roar with laughter at his discomfiture. “It was quite unusual to have a shower to ourselves, and I think he was proud of it—so it was all the more painful for him when the water inevitably and inexplicably gave out each time he was all lathered up. We worked out a really convoluted signaling system from our hallway down into the cellar, and one of us would get to sit upstairs and watch the fireworks.”

Barbara shook her head in amused disapproval as he continued relating some of the things he and his brother had done. It had been nice then, when he and his brother still got along, when they weren’t competing for what seemed like a limited supply of love and attention.

“You should go see him,” Barbara suggested.

“Erich?” Peter was astonished at the suggestion.

“Yes. See what he has to say for himself.”

“I don’t think so.” The security implications alone were horrendous. Besides, what in the world would they have to say to each other? “No,” he reiterated as if Barbara had argued with him, “no, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” He paused, then added, “Anyway, I don’t know where he is.”

“Oh, I think you can assume he didn’t move from London.”

“No, perhaps not,” he replied distantly. Funny, they could stumble across each other on the street and not recognize each other.

Barbara picked up the bottle and poured the rest of the contents into their glasses. Then she slid over on the couch and, curling her feet up under herself, leaned against him and said,“Here’s to families,” and tapped her glass against his.

He draped his arm around her and agreed, “To families.” It felt nice with her curled up against him. Peaceful and friendly and not worth disrupting with complicated discussions about their strange relationship. Besides, he was getting tired and it was nearly time to retire for the evening. Better to leave it to another day.

22

“W
E’VE
GOT TO DISCUSS THIS!”
Karl exclaimed. He had managed to remain calm as he had walked down the hallway and snapped at Richard’s secretary in a normal fashion, but once he had entered Richard’s office and closed the door behind him, he could maintain calm no longer. They were sunk! “What are we going to do?” he wailed.

Richard glanced down at the calendar. Four weeks until the U.S. elections, just about right. “We?” he asked innocently.

“You’re the one who told me to deny everything!” Karl fumed. “Now they’ve gone and proved the videotape was made here. Some technical details I don’t understand.”

“They have a different video system there. I never told you to claim the videotape was made in America. I just said to say it was not authentic!”

“But they’ve got his identity documents. They’ve released them to the press!”

“Who are they?” Richard asked out of curiosity.

“I don’t know! Someone just gave the documents to the American press. They clearly state his history, and most of it matches his story! We’re sunk!”

Richard smiled at Karl’s naive addiction to pieces of paper. He made a common assumption—that once something was on a document, it was the truth. Karl stared at Richard, desperate for a response, but Richard let him stew a few seconds longer as Richard ground out one cigarette and calmly lit
another. Satisfied at the delay, Richard said, “Now, tell me exactly what
they
have done.”

Karl explained that his presentation had, to his surprise, been shown on American television exactly as Richard had predicted. Karl was sure it had had a good effect, but unfortunately, not long afterward, the documentation that Peter had taken with him when he’d left was released to the American media. Also the original videotape had been analyzed, and it had been ascertained that it was unlikely that it was produced in the NAU.

“So,” Richard summarized, “they know the videotape was made here and they have some documents. Is that it?”

“Yes.” Karl seemed stunned by the simplicity of it all.

“Okay. The technicalities of video systems are beyond me. Let’s concede that point. Maybe it was made here. But,” Richard continued before Karl could interrupt, “the production of fake documents is hardly a fine art. I suggest you claim the documentation is fake and that all they’ve done is film the videotape using our type of equipment. Clearly they have such—otherwise they would never have been able to play the tape.”

“Oh,” Karl replied, at a loss for words.

“You were thinking along those lines, right?”

“Yes, of course. I just wanted to see what you thought,” Karl replied quickly.

“Now, tell me,” Richard added coolly, “did those documents specify you as the owner?”

“Yes,” Karl admitted, clearly worried by the implications.

“And did your name appear on the original presentation, the one you put together?” Richard asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Karl answered even more worriedly.

“Wonderful!” Richard applauded, to Karl’s surprise.

“Wonderful?” Karl could not help asking.

“Yes! What better person to deny the whole thing! You never met the man! Obviously, when they faked the documents, they chose your name because it was the only one they knew, because of your presentation!”

“But that isn’t what happened,” Karl moaned. “I
did
own him!”

“Karl,” Richard sighed, wondering yet again what had happened to the incredible German war and propaganda machines of decades ago, “the Americans don’t know that. Tell them you never even saw the man before he appeared on television. Tell them it’s all made up. Every word. So they made the videotape here instead of there. Big deal. And they faked a few documents. So what? Child’s play.”

Karl nodded, trying to memorize every word.

“Oh, and throw in the kid’s age.”

“Huh?”

“The child—she was five. That’s inconsistent with his own version of events. He was, by his own words, otherwise engaged at the crucial point in time.”

“Oh, yeah. How did he have a daughter that age?”

“Don’t know. But the inconsistency is there. Let them chew on that!” Richard grinned.

Karl left with a script and complete instructions. All his own idea, of course. All of it had nothing to do with Richard. Karl’s friend had simply helped him clarify his own brilliant thoughts. They both agreed emphatically on that point. In parting, Richard subtly insisted that Karl make sure he had a good translator. Somewhere, somehow, Richard had heard the translation was a bit rough, and this time he wanted to be sure the message was clearly heard by the American people.

As Karl left the office, Richard lit another cigarette. He started coughing uncontrollably, and it was a moment before he could inhale the sweet perfume. As his cough subsided, he chuckled. He really looked forward to Karl’s next ridiculous propaganda tape and to the release of Joanna’s adoption papers and the photograph—an innocent one—of Karl speaking to Peter.