The Children's War (176 page)

“But you shouldn’t and neither should she. She knows that.”

Peter stared grimly at the floor.

“She also blames herself. All along she’s been reckless with security on your account. She told me about your jaunt in Berlin, and there was the time she took you to see Ryszard without checking with anybody. She did it because she wanted to prove to you that you were trusted, and she wanted to prove you were trustworthy to everyone else. And it cost her Joanna.”

“So why agree to my being sent away?”

Again Marysia paused. She licked her lips nervously. “I guess she didn’t want you to see that she blamed you. She knew you’d see through her act, and she was afraid of what that would do to you.”

“Rightly so.” Without his realizing it, his hand reached impulsively toward the gun he carried inside his coat.

Marysia recognized something in his look. “Peter! Don’t!”

He fingered the grip absently, stroked the rough surface as if seeking answers, then pointedly he brought out his hand and showed it palm up to Marysia. Empty. “I won’t.” Thinking of his unborn child, he added, “It’s not even an option.”

Marysia sighed her relief.“How about that drink I promised you?”

“No, thanks.” He turned toward the door. “I have a lot to think about.” It was not fair that Zosia blamed him, but it was understandable. If she thought she could not adequately hide her accusation, and if she felt that it would destroy him, then sending him away was not as cruel as it seemed. And now that he knew, there was no reason anymore for him to go. Was it that simple? Was it love that had motivated her cruel disregard for him? Was it love?

“Stay, Peter,” Marysia pleaded.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid, Marysia, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“It’s not that. I just think you should talk more.”

“Why? You’ve told me what I need to know.”

“You should discuss these things. Both of you keep too much inside. Let’s go and get Zosia and clear the air.”

He shook his head.“No, I need to be alone for a bit.” He went out the door.

Marysia watched as he headed down the corridor past his own rooms and toward the exit. She stood undecided for a few minutes, then drawing her robe around herself, she went and knocked on Zosia’s door.

“Come in.” Zosia’s soft voice sounded expectant. When she saw Marysia, she added, “Oh, it’s you.”

“We need to talk.” Not even considering the possibility that Zosia would disagree, Marysia poured herself a drink and sat down next to her.

Peter spent about two hours walking around outside, trying to think. If what Marysia had said was true, then at least some of Zosia’s behavior was explicable. But that wasn’t everything. What about the fighting? The constant misunderstandings? The cold disregard she seemed to show him? Was it all his fault?

He shivered. He had not dressed adequately and the night was bitterly cold. Finally, near midnight, he decided it was stupidity to stay away like some runaway child. He had to face Zosia and their problems. Marysia was right, they needed to talk. He returned to the flat but it was empty. He went over to Marysia’s and knocked on the door. She greeted him tiredly.

“Do you know where Zosia is?”

Suddenly Marysia looked worried. “She isn’t with you?”

“No. I was outside.”

“She said she was going to look for you.”

“Oh, shit! I better find her. Did she head outdoors?”

“Yes. She said she had heard enough and she asked me to leave. She started to pull on her winter clothes as I was going out the door. And, Peter . . .”

“What?”

“She dressed heavily. Do likewise.”

44

H
E PUT ON SOME WARMER CLOTHES,
then stopped at the bunker entrance before he headed out. The boy had not mentioned anything to him about Zosia when he had come in, but perhaps he had not made the connection between the two of them, or more likely he had thought it was none of his business to notice their comings and goings.

“Have you seen my wife?” Peter asked. The boy looked blank. “Colonel Król!” Peter amended angrily.

“The colonel took off in that direction.” A young woman who was preparing to go out preempted the boy’s answer and pointed to the right. “On skis.”

“Shit,” Peter swore. Zosia was an excellent skier; he would never catch up with her on foot. He, on the other hand, had never bothered to use them, and now they were his only hope of catching up with her. He stepped back inside the entrance, surveyed the row of skis.

“Can you help me?” he asked the young woman. What was her name? He knew it, but it had escaped him.

“Of course, Captain,” she responded, indicating that she certainly knew him. She glanced at his boots, estimated his height, and selected a pair of skis off the wall. “Take these. The bindings will work with your boots.” She then selected a set of poles. “These look about the right length.” She handed them to him.

He stepped out with the equipment and thanked the woman as he pulled the skis on and fastened the bindings. He stood upright and gathered his balance, then began to move in the direction the young woman had indicated. It was not as difficult as he had expected, and within a few dozen meters he began to feel
comfortable with his stride. Still, he was new at this and Zosia was expert—the only thing he could do was hope that her pregnancy would slow her down or that she would stop somewhere to rest.

As he put some distance between himself and the entrance, Zosia’s tracks became clear in the snow. The terrain became more uneven as well, and he took several tumbles as he learned how to handle the gentle slopes and occasional turns that Zosia’s tracks led him along. After the first fall, he glanced backward and was relieved to see he was already out of sight of the sentry at the entrance.

He skied for some time, picking up speed as he gained confidence. After about an hour, there was still no sign of Zosia. The tracks had not been broken— no falls, no rests—and he began to wonder if perhaps he had picked up the wrong trail. Was Zosia already back at the encampment wondering where the hell he had run off to this time? Still he kept going forward; if she was out there, he wanted to make sure he found her and brought her back.

Another twenty minutes or so passed, and then he spotted her in the distance. He was moving faster than she—either she was fatigued or simply awkward with all the ill-distributed extra weight that she carried. He put on a burst of speed and managed to catch up with her in another five minutes.

“Ow! Leave me alone,” she greeted him. She made no effort to stop and talk. Clearly if she had gone out simply to locate him, she had changed her mind.

“What are you doing, are you nuts?”

“I said, leave me alone!” she yelled back, and skied steadily forward.

He had to struggle to keep up with her; the burst of speed had tired him and her anger had reinvigorated her. After several more minutes, he tried to speak.

“Zosiu—come back! At least stop. For heaven’s sake, woman, let’s talk back at home!”

“Talk!” she screamed back. “Why talk with me? Why not blather our troubles to everyone else instead!”

“What do you mean?”

“You went to Marysia and told her you wanted a divorce! You didn’t even mention that to me—you just went behind my back and told her!”

Good Lord, what had Marysia been thinking? “I didn’t think she’d . . .” He stopped that approach. What point was there in saying he didn’t think she’d repeat what he had said. Maybe Marysia had hoped to impress Zosia with the seriousness of the situation. He chased after Zosia for a few more meters, then yelled over the sounds of her panting, “I’m sorry! Please, stop this nonsense and come back home. We can talk there!”

“Divorce!” she moaned.

“I’m sorry!” They were crossing a clearing and could ski side by side. The stars twinkled enticingly in the sky, the night was clear, cold, and dark. He kept pace with her, hoping that she would eventually agree to turn around; his other option would be force, and that, he knew, would be disastrous.

“What the hell were you thinking? Talking about us behind my back!” she
accused after a few more minutes. He was making progress: she had not tried to outpace him this time.

“Me? What about you? You rearranged my whole life without consulting me!”

“That was official business!”

“Oh, Zosiu! Don’t try that on with me. You’ve been running my life behind my back all along, and now you’re going to go hysterical because I talk to Marysia about my concerns?” he responded furiously.

“Don’t call me hysterical! Ow!” she yelped.

“What?”

“I said—”

“No, I meant, what’s wrong?”

“You! Going to—”

“Not that! Why did you yelp?”

“Oh, that’s just a contraction.”

“A contraction! A fake one?”

“No, the real thing. Don’t worry, they’re not regular. And even when they are—I’ll have hours.”

“That’s on a first birth! God knows how long you’ll have once they’re regular!”

“I don’t care!” She skied forward.

He kept up with her and they argued back and forth. In between their mutual accusations, he pleaded with her to turn around and head back. She replied by increasing her pace and occasionally yelping with another pain.

Finally, when he was convinced she was gasping or otherwise indicating a pain far too frequently, he grew exasperated. Exhausted, he stopped dead and threw his poles down into the snow. “You’re an idiot!” he yelled after her as she continued forward. “Come back now!”

Zosia stopped and turned to look at him. She looked livid, and he braced for her scathing reply, but all she did was whimper the Polish version of his name: “Piotr.”

“What? What is it?”

“Piotr,” she repeated over and over between sobs. He picked up his poles and approached. For once she did not turn and flee.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not knowing what to make of her sobbing or that she had called his name as if he were not there, as if she could not find him.

Looking as if she had only just begun to comprehend what she had done, she moaned, “It’s too late. They’ve been coming more frequently. I’ll never get back.”

He glanced at his watch. Three in the morning. Had they really been skiing for three hours?

Zosia shook her head. “I’m exhausted, I’ll never make it back.” She continued to whimper and sob in a way that terrified him. He had never heard her sob like that, had never heard her express quite so much fear. She was so brave, so resolute, so rational! And now she was staring at him with wide, fear-crazed eyes. It was as if some animal spirit were possessing her.

“We’ve got to get you back!” He glanced around desperately. “We’ve got to get some help from a patrol!”

“There won’t be anyone nearby,” Zosia explained, her rational control reasserting itself. “We’re out of the central sector. They’re thin on the ground here and I imagine most have gone up to the front anyway.”

“Front?”

Zosia groaned and doubled over.

“We’ve got to get you to some shelter.” Could he possibly carry her, on skis, that sort of distance? It did not seem likely. Walking would be impossible, he would sink too deep into the snow even without her weight.

“We have to go forward,” Zosia announced.

“Ahead? We have to get you to shelter!”

“The cabin is ahead.”

“Which cabin?”

“The one we used on our honeymoon.”

Ahead? They would be alone, without any supplies, and he had no knowledge about childbirth. What if something went wrong? As Zosia again bent forward in pain, his nascent urge to chide her for her stupidity evaporated. She was right, they would never make it all the way back. “Okay, ahead,” he agreed.

Zosia straightened up, but she continued to cling to him. They turned in the direction they had been heading and set off. He wanted to try to help her along, but it was essentially impossible, so instead he let her lead the way, following and offering useless encouragement as they went.

They passed through a light stand of trees and across another small clearing. There was a downhill slope, a small stream, and then a rise that gave Zosia particular trouble. A few meters up the rise, the trees began again, and Zosia indicated that the cabin was in a tiny clearing through the trees. Peter marveled at her sense of direction and knowledge of the terrain—he would never have found the place and could not, even now, recognize this approach to it.

Once they had clambered to the top of the rise, Zosia turned to say something before she disappeared into the dark woods, but she was preempted by an ominous series of whistling noises. They both threw themselves down into the snow and covered their heads as the distant sky behind them lit up with the impact.

“Oh my God!” Peter whispered. The bombs were quite distant—probably at their borders, but the noise had not ceased with the first barrage. In between the aerial assaults they could hear the sound of distant gunfire.

“Oh my God,” Zosia repeated. Peter clambered up the short distance to her. He helped her to her feet and they moved several yards until they were under the trees. There they stopped and looked backward to watch the assault upon the partisan encampments on their borders.

“I guess he finally decided that inaction against us is politically more risky than our threats of retaliations,” Zosia commented. “We knew this was coming.”

“It has happened before, hasn’t it?” Maybe if they reiterated previous successes,
then they might encourage success this time as well. It was just superstition—his answer to not being able to pray.

“Ahhh!” Zosia pressed herself into him. After a moment, she released her hold and replied, “Yes, frequently at first. We even lost the whole area in 1954. They had to evacuate over the mountains and scatter into the woods and towns. Lost a lot of good people then and it took all of 1955 to retake it. Since then we’ve moved underground, expanded the bunker, relocated some critical establishments, and never lost complete control. The last big attack was 1970. After that we established the protocols.”

“Do you think they have a chance of taking the area?”

“I don’t know. I guess it depends on what they decide to use and how much priority they’re giving this operation. From what Ryszard’s been saying, any action that isn’t immediately successful will be politically impossible to sustain. Let’s hope he’s right and we can hold out long enough to get them to pull back. And I hope someone in Berlin has the sense to avoid going nuclear. If they blanket us with nuclear weapons, Peter, not only are we lost, but we
will
retaliate and . . .” She groaned again.

He held her as the pain buffeted her body. He did not even resent that he had been privy to none of the information she had just mentioned, but it did explain why everyone had been so tense.

“Ow!
Psia krew
,” she swore.“My water broke!”

“How far is the cabin?”

“Just through the trees. About five minutes,” she replied through gritted teeth.