The Children's War (187 page)

57

“Y
OU HAVE SOME NEWS FOR ME?”
Ryszard asked as he spread the p‚tó on his toast. Stefi sat opposite him smoking a cigarette and sipping her wine. The flame of the candle danced in the faint breeze caused by a passing waiter; its light cast shadows across Stefi’s face, and for a moment she looked old and careworn. A father-daughter dinner: that’s how they had presented it to Kasia; just a chance for Ryszard to spend time with his little girl. The waiters no doubt assumed otherwise, but they were well trained enough to maintain facial expressions of complete disinterest.

“Yes, Wolf-Dietrich is leaving for London in three days time, for that laboratory I mentioned earlier,” Stefi answered. “I couldn’t get any specifics out of him, he’s very cautious nowadays, but he did mention the name of a scientist there: Shantler.”

“First name?”

“Don’t know. Just said something about having to talk to this chap.” Stefi studied her empty wineglass and then scowled off into the distance searching for their waiter. Within seconds the young man dutifully approached the table and poured more wine for her. “Lousy service,” she muttered after he had left.

Ryszard ignored her complaint. “Good job. How did you get him to give up that much?”

“Oh, when he said he’d be gone, I threw a fit and accused him of seeing another woman. That got the information about the lab out of him. When he received a phone call, another wave of hysteria on my part got Shantler’s name.”

“He really likes you?”

“He’s hooked.”

“What do you think of him?”

“He’s a really nice guy. His father’s a bastard, but I can’t hold that against him,” Stefi replied impishly.

Ryszard pushed away the remains of his appetizer and lit a cigarette. “Are you sleeping with him?” he asked as casually as he could manage.

Stefi stretched provocatively in her seat; there was something very catlike in her movement. She picked up her glass and sloshed the wine gently around, then sipping it, she moaned as if deeply satisfied. “The more I talk to him, the more I’m convinced that what I told you earlier in the week is true,” she said, suddenly businesslike. “It seems like his father has some connection to information from the NAU. Whatever they’re up to has something to do with the division of the Hamburg lab that was shut down, you know, the sterility program; that’s why the son was brought into it, he worked in that lab and had some connections with the scientists there. I think Schindler senior is doing everything in London now because that’s within his jurisdiction and nobody will question him on his orders.”

Ryszard nodded and wondered if he should ask his question again. He decided against it and commented instead, “I guess I’ll be heading out to London again.”

“Be careful. Last time . . .”

“Yes, I remember. Don’t worry, I won’t stay long, but I have to try and get something on the man.”

“Will Uncle Peter be there?”

Ryszard winced at the title. “Yes, Zosia’s husband should be back there soon. That reminds me, I’m supposed to send him some files.”

“There’s one other thing,” Stefi said as she peered at her reflection in the wineglass.

“What’s that?”

“Wolf-Dietrich started bragging about a computer he had access to; he heaped scorn on the best we have in Berlin. I challenged him to put his money where his mouth was and he did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he showed me a small, compact computer that was as good as the best I’ve seen in Szaflary.”

“Which is that?”

“The one in the cryptography office. Olek’s been using it, but he said it belonged to Uncle Peter and that it came from the NAU. This one looked just like that. Clearly American-made. Wolf-Dietrich said he’ll be taking it with him to London to translate some information they have there. I assume that would be the device that was passed on from that American agent.”

“I wonder why they’ve waited this long?” Ryszard mused.

“I think they only just got their hands on the computer they need. Wolf-Dietrich certainly acted like the proud father of a newborn with it.”

Ryszard nodded, impressed by his daughter’s efforts. “I’m glad you mentioned
that. I’ll see if I can’t get permission from Katerina for Peter to take his computer back to London with him.”

“So I lost the bet,” Stefi concluded.

“Do you owe him money?” Ryszard asked, wondering how much he’d have to cough up.

“No. I just had to sleep with him!” Stefi laughed.

Ryszard coughed. Before he could say anything, a waiter came with their entróes. He sputtered silently for a moment, and by the time the waiter had left them alone again, he had regained his breath. Before he could ask anything, Stefi volunteered, “Don’t worry, Dad. It wasn’t a sacrifice. Like I said, he’s really nice and a great lay.”

“I’m not sure—”

“Don’t be prudish.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Ryszard bristled. “I’m just concerned that you may become attached to this man. He is, after all, the enemy.”

“You needn’t worry, Father,” Stefi stated icily. “Remember, I liked Til, too.”

“Ah, yes, Til. I’m sorry about that, little one. It was his own fault, he made it necessary.”

“I know. I was just reminding you, I never forget where my loyalties lie.”

Ryszard looked into his daughter’s cold eyes; he did not doubt for a second that she was telling him the truth. “That’s my little girl. I’m proud of you.”

58

“T
HIS ARRIVED FOR YOU.”
Zosia handed a pack of documents over to Peter. “It was labeled confidential, so although they opened it, nobody but the translator and the censor looked at it.” She paused, then added,“Not even me.”

“I appreciate that,” Peter mumbled as he studied the resealed envelope. “Who the hell is sending me packages?”

“Ryszard apparently. I guess somehow he knew you were here, or didn’t want to risk sending it to London.”

“Yeah, I told him I’d be here.”

“When did you talk to him?”

So Ryszard still had not told anyone about his jaunt to England! Peter smiled at Zosia. “Confidential information, darling.” He had heard the phrase often enough, and it was an absolute pleasure using it on her for once.

Zosia’s face fell but she did not ask more. “I’ll leave you alone to read the papers then,” she said rather huffily, and giving him a quick peck on the cheek, left the apartment.

Peter scanned the documents. Ryszard had gathered some internal reports on
the politics of his father’s office. The Pure German movement merited a separate file, and together the papers showed that it had been especially active in that region at that time. The regional leader, a man named Mentzer, had occasion to know of Charles Chase, and though there was no explicit connection between the two, Mentzer was implicated in some actions against other English Conciliators, though none amounted to murder.

Peter had to read between the lines to determine what sort of harassment was common since the reports themselves were rather cagey about offending any possible political power. From the transfers list and from a separate complaints report, it seemed that the movement used petty vandalism, bureaucratic obstinacy, and scare tactics until the targeted individual requested a reassignment. The transfers were almost always to positions of less importance and were, within a few years, often followed by early retirement or resignation from the service.

Charles was apparently on the same track to be driven out of any meaningful position. He had filed several complaints with the local police about mysterious vandalism; those stopped abruptly as he began filing his complaints with his employer directly and reporting to the new investigative office that had opened. There were also a series of citations for minor civil offenses and several instances of his being reprimanded at work for petty bureaucratic offenses, none of which Catherine had recorded in her diary. Peter guessed that his father had never intimated this particular form of harassment to Catherine. A transfer request was submitted in Charles’s name and then withdrawn, the withdrawal claiming that the request had been bogus and filed by another party who remained unnamed or unknown. The special investigative office then noted his arrest and subsequent, unexpected demise.

There was an investigation into the death of a Party member at police hands. A young, inexperienced guard was assigned sole responsibility for having taken it upon himself to unofficially interrogate the English prisoner under his care. The short, slight boy apparently single-handedly entered the cell of the fully grown, well-built man and, without the aid of an accomplice or weapons or handcuffs, managed to pummel him to death. Under a plea bargain where he admitted his guilt and defended his actions as having been inspired by shock and outrage at the prisoner’s alleged denunciations of the Führer in the dead of the night, he was demoted and reassigned to Scotland.

As for Catherine, she was held without charge for three days and eventually released for lack of evidence. Her release occurred just hours after her husband’s death, and before she even exited the prison she was rearrested under charges of sedition and making inflammatory statements to other prisoners. She was tried several months later and sentenced to hard labor in a concentration camp for a period of ten years, sentence to be reviewed before release.

Ryszard had included a summary of Mentzer’s career, and shortly after Charles’s murder Mentzer was transferred to Holland without comment. Not
long after his transfer to Holland he was transferred again with a demotion, then again and once again, until his unsolved disappearance several years later from a branch office in Sicily. Clearly, he had offended someone, somewhere, but the report did not draw that conclusion nor was he ever held accountable for his alleged actions.

The cover-ups were obvious, there was no reason for them not to be. The relevant parties were silenced, the political egos that had been offended by Mentzer’s actions were assuaged. That was all that mattered. The murder of two apparently loyal subjects, the blackmail or bribery of a young guard, the destruction of a young boy’s family—none of it mattered as long as everything was nicely tidied up on paper. The ground higher up had shifted, Mentzer had pushed that bit too far, he had been taught a lesson, case closed until the political power structure shifted yet again and another Mentzer took his place with support from above.

Peter grimaced. So now he knew the reason, if not the actual mechanism. Still, he could easily imagine what his father’s last days had been like. His thoughts were mercifully interrupted by a knock on the door. A young sentry greeted him with a smile and handed him a note. He read the words without emotion and muttered, “No reply,” to the waiting boy. The borders were to be opened soon and arrangements had been made for his return to London.

59

B
ARBARA HANDED
PETER
A CUP OF TEA,
then skirted around him to sit next to Mark on the couch.“Now, tell us all about what happened.”

Peter hadn’t been in the flat for more than ten minutes, but he understood her impatience. She had quickly passed on her news—the most relevant bit being that the license had been renewed. Now she and Mark waited eagerly to hear what he had to say. Everybody knew that something had happened, but nobody had the details; they had waited for his return to get news directly, and his delay in returning had only alarmed them further.

Despite receiving the succinct note that he was to return, he and Zosia applied to the Council to rearrange his assignment. The Council would hear nothing of it: there was too much going on for them to instigate any unnecessary disruptions, and he was finally told, politely but firmly, to leave. Any changes would have to be handled in due course.

Peter sipped the tea and wondered about Zosia’s role in his leaving. She claimed that she wanted him to stay and was working toward that end, but when his case was finally called before the Council, it was dismissed within minutes with a warning not to waste their valuable time. Zosia had remained silent
throughout, and he had left the Council room feeling humiliated and quite alone.

“Well?” Barbara pressed impatiently.

“Your family is okay,” Peter assured her.

“And?”

“And I have a baby daughter. Her name is Irena,” he announced with a surge of pride. The tiny face appeared in his mind’s eye and he smiled at the memory. It had nearly broken his heart to part from her, but he had promised her and himself he would soon return, whatever it took.

“Congratulations,” Barbara offered. “Now tell us what happened there!” She slapped the table in annoyance.

“All right,” Peter agreed wearily. “Sharing my joy can wait.”

He spent several hours telling them everything he knew about the invasion and its aftermath. He was even drawn into explaining what he was doing during the initial attack and in that way was able to celebrate the birth of his daughter. As he told them about their close encounter with the soldiers in the cabin, Barbara leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Peter’s face. Her fingers dug into Mark’s hand until he yelped and brusquely pulled his hand away.

“I thought we were all dead then,” Peter continued, ignoring Mark’s jealous look.

“What happened next?” Barbara asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

“He survived obviously,” Mark pointed out sardonically.

Peter nodded and continued the tale. He described how the soldiers had left and how he later found them dead along the trail. Then he described the lifeand-death encounter with the sole survivor of the ambush. Barbara leapt to her feet as though she could not stand sitting anymore and paced the small area near the couch.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Mark snapped. “Sit down, woman. It’s only a story!”

Barbara spun around to face him, absolutely livid. “What the hell do you know about it!” she spat at him in English. “You and your cozy little Underground here! What could you possibly understand!” Her English faltered and she slipped into Polish, denouncing Mark in words he could not understand, though he could not fail to interpret the flinging of hands and the furious looks.

Peter listened to the torrent, gave Mark a small smile when the boy looked to him for a translation, and shook his head. As soon as there was a break in Barbara’s temper, Peter concluded, “And that brings us up to the point where I’ve already told you about everything.”

Barbara stopped her tirade, stared at both of them with a look of absolute embarrassment. Peter took the opportunity to refill his cup of tea, and as he poured the water from the kettle, he heard Barbara saying softly to Mark, “I’m so sorry. It’s just that, sometimes I feel so far from home. And now, what with . . .”

Unable to procrastinate longer, Peter returned to the room. Barbara was
already sitting next to Mark again, holding both his hands in hers. They gazed into each other’s eyes with that sickly sweet intensity that only new lovers could manage. “We have something to tell you,” Barbara cooed without looking up.

“What’s that?”

“We’re getting married,” she whispered dreamily.

“No, you’re not,” Peter answered matter-of-factly.

That got their attention.“How can you say that!” Barbara scolded.

“You have no right!” Mark threatened.

Peter sipped his tea before answering, “Yes, I do.”

It took several minutes for them to quiet down enough for him to continue. When he could finally speak uninterrupted, he explained, “As her commanding officer, I have every right to delay a marriage which would be disastrous for our mission. Besides that, she has to get clearance from the Council, and I don’t doubt that you, Mark, have someone you have to answer to. I know things have changed since I was here, but they have not changed that much.”

“It won’t be a problem to our mission here,” Barbara argued.

“I get to be the judge of that. Besides, have either of you considered the practicalities? How old are you both? Nineteen?”

“I’ve turned twenty!” Mark interjected with injured pride.

Peter ignored him. “What in heaven’s name is the hurry?”

“I’m pregnant,” Barbara announced triumphantly.

“God Almighty!” Peter howled. “You stupid, stupid children!” It was his turn to stand and pace a bit. “How far along are you?” he asked once he had gained control of his anger.

“Seven weeks,” Barbara answered.

“You’ll have to get rid of it.”

“That would be murder!” Barbara shrieked.

“Don’t be stupid, you have to get rid of it.”

“I won’t!”

Peter prevented himself from launching into a tirade of orders or threats. He could not force her, nor would he if he could. His mother’s words about her second pregnancy came back to him and he felt suddenly quite ill. He lowered himself back into the chair and breathed deeply to fight back his nausea. “Will you love it?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” Barbara and Mark both agreed enthusiastically.

“Whatever it is?”

Barbara furrowed her brow. “Of course!”

“We’ll have to pretend it’s mine,” Peter whispered.

“But it’s not!” Mark objected angrily.

“I know that, you stupid boy,” Peter snapped in reply. He had, though, been around seven weeks ago, so he added rather more gently, “She’s been faithful to you.”

Mark flushed red but looked a bit happier nonetheless. Barbara leaned
toward him and said softly into his ear, “Mark, it’s like I said, he’s never meant anything to me. He’s too old! And married! You’re the only man I’ve ever loved.” Mark had turned to face her, so he could not see the way Barbara eyed Peter as she spoke.

Peter winced at Barbara’s words, but continued in a businesslike tone, “The matter of your paternity is not in doubt, Mark; still, as far as the authorities are concerned, it will have to be mine. Or rather, Herr Jäger’s.”

“No! I won’t have that!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Peter chided. “Barbara is supposedly a married German woman almost five years your senior. If she were to claim you as the father, she could face charges of adultery and God knows, with your pedigree, they might even push
Rassenmischung!”

“My pedigree? I’m pure English!”

“You’d be surprised how inappropriate ancestors can be found when it is convenient for them.”

“No, that’s impossible! Both my parents have their documented bloodlines!”

Peter smiled at the naÔvetó. “You have an arrest record, don’t you?” he guessed.

“Well, yes, a couple of misdemeanors, ages ago.”

“I hardly had worse.”

Mark looked confused.

“He’s a condemned convict,” Barbara explained reluctantly. “Numbers and all.”

“They threw in an
Untermensch
classification, just for laughs,” Peter added. “No blood proof, nothing!”

Barbara blushed with embarrassment, and well she might, since she took orders from him. She knew that the classification itself was enough to confirm an inferior status in almost everyone else’s eyes—even the most committed revolutionaries had difficulty ignoring a lifetime of propaganda. Only in Szaflary, among the prewar generation and the untainted native-born, and in America, where such ideas of government classification generally had no currency, had Peter been free of the stigma that came with the official label.

Pursuing the advantage of Mark’s fear, Peter clarified, “If you try and put your name on this child’s birth certificate, the moral outrage of one bitter bureaucrat might be sufficient to destroy your life! You could be charged as an adulterer, or reclassified and charged with
Rassenmischung.
That’s still a death sentence for the inferior male partner, you know.”

Mark shifted uncomfortably.

“And what name would you use? How old are you supposed to be? Do you plan to stick with one identity for the rest of your life? Have you thought out any of the details?”

They both looked a bit sullen, but neither argued with him. Peter remembered being told to “grow up” at about the same age. He imagined he had that
same look on his face at the time. The memory dissolved his anger a bit, and he added by way of explanation, “It would all be pointless. Barbara and Niklaus Jäger are supposed to be married, therefore, any child would be considered his—I mean, mine—no matter what any of us might say. That’s the law. The only thing you would accomplish by advertising your paternity is that you’d be exposing yourself to an unnecessary risk. You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to give them any excuses to treat you the way I was treated.”

Mark bit his lips.

“All right already!” Barbara objected. “We’ll register Niklaus Jäger as the father. Maybe someday Mark can assume that identity. After you’ve returned to Szaflary.”

“He’ll have to age himself considerably and learn a fuck of a lot of German,” Peter observed.

“Still, it doesn’t matter what names are on the certificates,” Barbara consoled herself and Mark. “At least we’ll be married.”

“Presumably you’re talking about something not involving the authorities.”

“Yes.” Mark perked up a bit. “We have our own registry.”

“What about your family? What about everyone back home?” Peter asked Barbara.

She shrugged. “I don’t need their permission.”

“I’m not so sure about that. In any case, don’t you want them to be a part of your life anymore?”

“I’ll make my life here.”

“What sort of marriage is it going to be: not officially recognized, Mark living with his parents?”

“He’ll live here!” Barbara protested.

“No, he won’t,” Peter disagreed.

“He has to! How will we raise our child together if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, you should have thought of that before.”

“How can you possibly say no!” she nearly shouted.

“There’s no room,” he answered matter-of-factly.