The Children's War (171 page)

When he had completed all the paperwork and bound the documents into a thick file, he hand-delivered them to the appropriate office with the appropriate, hefty fee and received a receipt. Once that was done, he happened to find an unmarked envelope stuffed with cash on the floor, laid it on the counter, and departed, trusting the clerks to find the rightful home for the money. Now, it was simply a matter of waiting. The license was important to the shop—it allowed nearly any type of customer to come and go without suspicion, and that was important to their work, but besides that, it was profitable as well. English books were somewhat difficult to find, almost always being located in the less salubrious districts of the city, and the shop managed a good trade amongst the middleclass English of their mixed suburb, as they timidly rediscovered their own culture.

New Year’s Eve was celebrated in typical British fashion with everyone getting stinking drunk. Added to that were fireworks and every armed German shooting off his gun into the air. Early in the morning, the drunken revelers wandered back from the Central Square, or, as the locals called it, Trafalgar Square, singing
their out-of-tune love songs in a mixture of obscene English and broken German.

Peter opened the door to Barbara and Mark as they stumbled in close to four in the morning and, taking pity on them, let them have the bed while he made a space for himself on the floor of the living room by putting the coffee table on the armchair. The next morning, after a peaceful night’s sleep, he sat in relative comfort in the living room and took a unique pleasure in hearing one then the other of them stumble time and again to the toilet to empty their stomach. It felt good to be the healthiest one around!

Barbara tottered in some hours later and looked blearily at him. “What are you looking so cheerful about?” she asked with a surly scowl.

“Got permission last night to go home,” he answered happily. “I leave in a week.”

Barbara’s face fell. She glanced back with a guilty expression toward the bedroom, then asked in Polish in a whisper, “You’re leaving me?”

“It’s only temporary,” he answered gently. “Zosia will be giving birth soon. With luck, I’ll get there before it happens.”

“And then?”

He sighed. “Then I have to come back. That’s the deal.”

Barbara looked relieved, but said, “I’m sorry. I know you want to stay there.”

“Oh, well, there’s no point staying where you’re not wanted. That’s what my mother used to say.” He laughed and added, “Just before she sent me off to that German school!”

Barbara forced a little laugh as well, then groaning and grabbing at her head, she rushed off toward the toilet.

40

“O
H, WHAT THE HELL IS IT NOW?”
the Führer demanded into the phone.

Stefi uncurled herself from his body and sat up on her knees. As she heard his tense answers, she began to massage his neck, pressing her head close to his in a gesture of affection, which quite coincidentally meant she could overhear both sides of the telephone conversation.

Schindler spoke angrily on the other end of the phone. The Führer listened, nodding his head in agreement. Stefi moved closer to him so that her bare breasts were pressed against the naked skin of his back. He arched his back in pleasure. “Look, look, I can’t deal with this now. Haven’t you any decency, Günter? What’s wrong with you, calling me at home? Call me tomorrow, in the morning. I’ll think about it and give you an answer then.”

There was an angry diatribe. Stefi leaned forward and kissed the Führer along
his neck; moving up to his ear, she inserted her tongue such that he gasped his surprise. “Oh, it’s nothing!” he assured his listener. “Look, I said tomorrow. Got that? I told the secretary to pass on only emergency calls. Did you say this was an emergency? It isn’t you know!” There was more muttering and the Führer added, “Yes, I know, but I’m busy. Go away!” He slammed the phone down on the receiver, then turning to the servant, who had stood impassively silent in the corner the entire time, he barked, “Go tell them no calls. Not even these so-called ‘emergencies’!”

After the servant had left the bedroom, the Führer turned to Stefi. “Now where were we,
Schatz?”

Stefi grabbed his hand and laid it on her breast. “Here,” she breathed. As he tightened his hold on her, she asked, “Was that Günter bothering you again?”

“Yes, yes. He wants me to have your father investigated. Something about his poking his nose into affairs in England. I don’t know exactly.”

“Investigated? Oh, no! You can’t do that!” she exclaimed, pulling away enough that he lost his hold on her.

“Huh? Don’t worry! Your father’s perfectly clean. If it will shut Günter up, why not?”

“Because he’ll manufacture evidence against my father! Don’t you know? Günter thinks my dad is having an affair with his wife!”

“Is he?”

“Rudi! I don’t know! But does it matter to one as important as you? Are you going to involve yourself in Günter’s petty vindictiveness?” Stefi asked pleadingly.

The Führer rolled onto his back and sighed expressively. “I don’t know. I guess not.”

Stefi leaned across him to kiss his chest. She worked her way downward, saying, “You’re the Sun God king! I knew you would never involve yourself in such trivial mortal affairs. Um, what’s this?” She stopped kissing and let her tongue begin exploring.

“Oh, you devilish little girl!” the Führer exclaimed excitedly.

“No, no!” Stefi admonished, reaching over to the side table for the riding crop. “I do believe you are the naughty little schoolboy!”

The Führer giggled excitedly. “Do you want to watch some of my tapes? Huh?”

Stefi shook her head. “No, I think you need some discipline right now! Your schoolmistress is very disappointed in you!” She swung the riding crop lightly at his chest.

“Ow!” he yelped. “Oh, you’re right! But you know what?” he asked, suddenly quite serious. He grabbed her jaw and turned her face toward him. “I have a surprise for you. I’m going to show you just how tough I am!” He pressed a kiss onto her lips. “I’m going to go to war for you, my little goddess!”

41

I
T WAS SO INCREDIBLY PEACEFUL.
White on black, crowned by somber green. A bird took fright, its wings beating an urgent message into the stark solitude, and a plume of snow drifted down from the branch and spread into a crystalline shower over his head. His steps were muffled, and the approaching dusk cast an ethereal light that caused his steamy breath to glow. His long wool coat dusted along the snow as he stepped through a lightly packed region. His feet sank to the top of his tall leather boots, and he mentally congratulated himself on his foresight in having carted them all the way to London and back. Peter took another step and sank into the welcoming embrace of the snow-shrouded woods of his home.

At the large pine by the bend in the creek, he turned off his direct path and headed to the location of Joanna’s memorial. He could not see the stone buried beneath the snow, but he knew it was there, and he knelt at the site and sent his love into the unknown, hoping she would hear him. He already keenly felt her absence, the lack of a snowball greeting, the haunting void where her laughter should have been, the sweaty wool of his scarf where her arms should have been hugging his neck. By the time he looked up, the last of the sunlight had disappeared, and he walked the rest of the distance in the dark.

“Welcome back, sir,” the guard at the entrance said with a smile.

“Thank you,” he replied, and entered the bunker. Zosia was nowhere in sight, but then she would not know the exact time of his return so there was no reason to expect her to wait at the entrance. He made his way to their apartment, greeting a few people along the way, thinking about her. He imagined what she would look like so near to her due date. He thought about the way he would hug her, and how he would tell her he loved her and was sorry he had not said so the day he had left. He would kiss her hands and her hair, and then, tenderly, he would kiss her lips. He would hold her and tell her how happy he was to be home, and then they would talk and touch and get to know each other again. He smiled as he walked through the corridors, his smile broadening into a grin as he reached the door of his home.

At the door he hesitated. Should he knock? It was his own apartment, but it would be polite not to just barge in and scare her. He glanced down at the boxes of tomato plants and herbs he had placed along the hallway; they looked well cared for and recently harvested. Probably Marysia. Actually, it was against the rules to block the hallways in any way, but he had constructed the boxes so that they were narrow and pressed against the walls and nobody had complained. The bunker had its own hothouses, but with his little indoor garden, using the perennially shining lights of the hallway, he was guaranteed a nonrationed supply of fresh vegetables and herbs. And the air was a bit fresher, too. He smiled
and tapped on the door lightly; there was no response so he knocked a bit louder, waited a moment, and then turned the handle. The door was unlocked and he pushed it open, but it stuck halfway. He peered around the corner to see what the problem was and spotted a bunch of clothes lying in a heap on the floor.

Stepping into the room, he turned on the light and looked around. The place was a mess. Clothes and books and dirty dishes were everywhere. “Zosia?” he called out gently, but there was no answer. He made his way to the bedroom and peered in, but she was not there either.

He stood for a moment wondering what he should do, whether he should go looking for her. Then he looked up and noticed that the shelf of books he had left had been emptied and replaced with her stuff. He looked around again at the incredible mess wondering what it all meant, then sighing, he cleared a place for himself on the sofa and sat down. His right leg hurt from the long climb through the snow, and he leaned forward to massage the muscles.

“Dad?”

“What, honey?” he asked, looking up to confront the dim emptiness around him. He thought he heard a noise by one of the piles, like that of a little girl hiding, preparing to jump out and surprise him, but he knew nothing was there. He sat back and brought his hand up to brush away the tears from his eyes, and he scanned the room again, looking for something, not knowing what.

The bitter loneliness of the empty flat made him feel nervous, and he wished fervently that Zosia would return quickly. There was, though, no telling how long she would be away, no note, nothing. He got up and checked the kitchen cupboards, but they were essentially empty. He looked into the refrigerator and recoiled at the fuzzy green objects inside. He looked back in the cupboard; there was some barley in a jar he recognized from when he had left, a can of beans, some tinned herring, and a few bits of garlic shriveled in the corner. He turned to the cabinet and found the vodka, poured himself a stiff drink, walked over to the mirror, and tapped his glass against it. “Welcome home,” he toasted, and downed the vodka in several gulps.

He took off his coat and cleared a space on one of the hooks by the door to hang it up. Then he removed his boots and went into the bedroom with his bag to unpack and change clothes. He had not brought much with him since he had left a reasonable amount of clothing behind, but when he looked in the closet, he found the space had been usurped. Exasperated, he buried his head in his hands and tried to remember where Zosia had stored Adam’s stuff when she had brought it out for him. Some locker several levels down: it would take ages to find everything, if that’s where it was.

On an impulse he went and checked Joanna’s wardrobe. Everything was as she had left it the day they had gone into town. He stood stock-still staring sightlessly at the neat piles. Just like Anna’s clothes, neatly stacked in her little cupboard, even after her death. He touched the cloth, stroking the fabric as if it were
still cloaking Joanna’s skin. Reluctantly he withdrew his hand, and then, as if dropping the blade on a guillotine, he shut the door.

He turned to Zosia’s jewelry box and opened it. He knew what he would see: nestled there in the box was the necklace he had bought her, and beside it was the gold ring he had placed on her finger not even a year ago. In the back of his throat, spreading down his arms, he felt an old, familiar pain. His fingers ached with the sensation he knew so well. He did not try to stop the pain he felt coursing through his body; he had learned long ago how useless that was. He had learned to accept it as an almost daily fact of life. It was only a deep and abiding sense of being alone. Nothing more.

He showered and put back on the clothes he had worn up the mountain although they were still damp with sweat. He thought for a moment of visiting Marysia, or one of his friends, and getting something to eat, but then opted instead for the herrings, beans, and a lone tomato that he found on the vines. As he chewed his food, his mind strayed to the heaping quantities of meat that the Americans had served. Heaping quantities of everything, in fact. The volume of meat that he was expected to consume was particularly unappealing, and quite ironically the dinner conversation often turned around weight-loss programs as each person had shoveled more onto his or her plate. He laughed at the images as he carefully ran his finger around the sharp edge of the tin so he could collect the last of the oil clinging to the metal.

After eating, he cleaned some of the mess, stacking things into the corners so he could clear a path for walking. Then he sat and waited. After a while he decided to nap and finally fell asleep. It was late by the time Zosia returned. She came in yawning and squeaked her surprise when he sat up to greet her. She looked awkwardly large and carried herself uncomfortably, but still she was achingly beautiful to him.

“Oh my God, you scared me!” she gasped.

“But you knew I was coming back today.”

She smacked her forehead. “Forgot!”

“Why were you out so late?” he asked without thinking.“You should be resting.”

“Don’t start telling me what to do!” she snapped angrily as she maneuvered herself through the room.

Stunned by her response, he almost snapped back at her, but managed to say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just getting worried.”

She sighed. “Look, I’m tired, can we talk about this in the morning?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever . . .” She turned toward the bedroom.

“Zosiu.”

“What?” she responded tiredly.

“Do I get a hello?”

“What? Oh, hello. Sorry about the mess, I kept thinking you were coming back tomorrow,” she said between yawns.

“No problem,” he lied.

“Did you get something to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Good night, then. I’m exhausted.” She yawned again. “Oh, I don’t know if anyone told you, we’re on alert. Make sure you carry your weapon whenever you’re outside and follow strict procedure.”

“Why?”

She turned back toward the bedroom.“Nothing special. Good night.”

“Good night,” he replied quietly as she disappeared into the bedroom. A moment later he called out, “Zosia?”

“What?”

“Do you want me . . . should I stay on the couch?”

“Wherever you’re comfortable,” she called out in reply. “Good night.”

The next morning he cornered her long enough to find out where all his stuff had been stored, and then she was off to do whatever it was she spent the day doing. He tapped his fingers a bit, wondering at his penchant for setting himself useless, thankless tasks; then giving in to his inclinations, he spent the day cleaning their apartment and restocking their pantry. By seven in the evening he was exhausted but finished. There was still no sign of Zosia so he poured himself a cup of tea, picked up a volume of the cryptanalysis books that Alex had managed to send him, and had just begun to read when the door opened and Zosia came in.

He stood to greet her and was surprised to see Tadek follow her into the flat. Peter looked questioningly at her, but she was too busy looking around. She then turned to Tadek and said, “See! I told you it would be clean!” She turned back toward Peter and asked, “Did you cook anything for dinner?” as she tossed her files onto the coffee table and sat down heavily.

“No. I only just finished cleaning this place.”

“But you were reading!”

“I said I only just finished. I haven’t thought of preparing anything yet,” he explained with exaggerated patience. He glanced meaningfully from her to Tadek and back again, but he could think of no clear way of expressing his feelings.

She nodded her understanding. “We can wait.”

We?
he mouthed, but Zosia did not notice as she was busy motioning Tadek into the room.

Tadek looked somewhat hesitant. “You didn’t know I was coming?” he asked Peter.

Peter shook his head.“No, we haven’t spoken about anything yet.”

Tadek threw Zosia a rather annoyed glance and said, “I think we should do this some other time.”

“No, don’t go! I’m sure Peter will throw together something nice. Won’t you?” she asked, turning her attention from one to the other.“Use the meat ration.”

“We only got two pieces of rabbit for the entire week,” Peter protested.

“I know. This rationing! Still, I’m sure you can make something nice. Come on, Tadek, pour us a drink, just water for me, okay? Then come and sit down!”

Tadek shrugged, moved past Peter into the kitchen, and began pouring drinks for the three of them.

Peter stood still, contemplating her, considering his options. He had wanted to be helpful, that was the stated reason for his return. He looked at the puffiness of her face, the bloated feet and hands. That must have been why she had removed her ring. She looked tired and there was a light sheen of sweat on her face even though it was quite cool in the room. And both she and Tadek had been working all day. Was it so unreasonable to make a meal for the three of them?

She interrupted his thoughts to ask, “So, any news?”

“At least one thing. I have a way of getting through the bad nights without drinking.”