The Children's War (191 page)

The three men walked along and planned for some time, then before it got so late that Barbara became frantic, Stefan walked Peter back to the car and he was driven back to the shop.

63

I
T WAS ODD BEING INSIDE
the laboratory that had for so long been a target of his observations. So many hours of his life had been spent acquiring its secrets: purchasing documents, decoding their contents, filtering useless data, analyzing their results. Now, here it was all being presented to him with obsequious smiles and sly glances at his clothing.

Ryszard had forgone his usual nondescript suit and decked himself out well, aware that outside of Berlin and Göringstadt he might not be recognizably important without such plumage. The sharp black uniform with its medallions, ribbons, and insignia had the desired effect, turning heads and opening doors. Peter had chosen to wear something less imposing, hoping that once they had an entróe into the laboratory, he could win some confidences from the personnel by implying his credentials were much less terrifying than Ryszard’s. Nevertheless his boots resounded ominously down the hall as they marched toward their next destination, and he found himself enjoying the sensation of power in the face of his adversaries.

“But what about something truly useful to the Reich?” Ryszard asked petulantly as they viewed yet another work station where the grinning, terrified laboratory technicians ran through their paces like rats in a maze.

The lead chemist was somewhat less intimidated. “All our work is useful, Herr
Traugutt. I know that it is difficult for one unfamiliar with the sciences to understand that a great deal of research must go into each discovery
before
the discovery is made, but that is the way of our craft.”

The director, who had been leading the tour, stiffened at the interruption and eyed his subordinate balefully. Stefan pulled a file out of the case he was carrying and handed it to Ryszard, who perused it as the director blathered patriotic nonsense to try to cover the chemist’s ill-tempered reply.

“Herr Niedermeier—oh, wait, I see here we’ve been misaddressing you. It’s Niedermeier-Jones, isn’t it?” Ryszard asked the chemist snidely. “How did you manage to get such an interesting name? Oh, wait, here it is, your wife’s name is Niedermeier. So, you’re really Herr Jones, or should I say,
Mister
Jones?”

The chemist’s face reddened to match the color of his sparse hair. “It’s Herr Doktor Jones, if you wish to be pedantic.”

“An interesting bank balance you have here,” Ryszard added, ignoring the reply and continuing to read the document Stefan had handed him.

“My group gets results!” Niedermeier-Jones snapped with angry fear.

“Indeed, many results. Many good results with chemical weapons,” Ryszard acknowledged. “But these bank balances . . . Hmm. I don’t know, I just don’t know, Jones.” Ryszard left the threat hanging in the air. It was a totally unnecessary act and not at all central to their mission, but Peter could see how much Ryszard was enjoying the man’s discomfort. Earlier Ryszard had mentioned that he already planned to shut down this branch of the laboratory because Jones’s group had indeed been producing good results and far too many of them. The fact that he, like most of his colleagues, had been taking his “fair share” of the research money for his personal needs only made Ryszard’s job easier.

“Ah, gentlemen, I’m sure all this will be sorted out in due time. We should be moving on! There is so much to see,” the director insisted before the confrontation could go further and destroy his job.

“Of course,” Ryszard agreed pleasantly. “Now, what about this fellow, Chandler . . .”

“Chandler? Chandler? Who’s he?” the director asked in confusion.

“A subordinate of mine,” Niedermeier-Jones answered irritably. “I see no reason why you’d want to talk with him.”

“No reason?” Ryszard asked, raising an eyebrow. “No reason?” he repeated ominously.

“Herr Traugutt . . . ,” the director wheezed fearfully.

“Herr Traugutt,” Niedermeier-Jones interjected, “I meant no disrespect. I was only surprised that the activities of a subordinate would interest you. He’s not been very productive of late, but I can certainly show you to his laboratory.”

“By all means,” Ryszard replied.

Together they marched down the hall, toward the section containing Chandler’s laboratory. As they passed by a large office containing a typing pool, Peter turned abruptly away from his colleagues and entered the office. He stood
at the entrance scanning each of the women as they worked. The one nearest him looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I thought I saw someone I know,” Peter explained as he struggled to work his way through the myriad faces. During his days in the Underground, at least two of their regular informants had been young women whom he suspected were secretaries. All he knew about either of them was that they sold the information and were therefore involved in espionage for the money rather than any ideology. One, he guessed from the accents, was German, the other English. He tried to remember their faces and mentally added a dozen years to the images; then, as he continued to look, one woman glanced up at him and he recognized her.

“What are you doing?” the director asked, containing his annoyance with some effort.

“Oh, I thought I saw an acquaintance,” Peter explained as he noted the nameplate on the woman’s desk. She was staring at him as if flustered, but when she saw the director, she turned her attention back to the document she was typing.

“And did you?” the director asked. Ryszard and the others stood behind him in the hallway, obviously confused as to why they had retraced their steps.

“No,” Peter sighed. He glanced at the director and winked. “An old flame, you see. I guess it was simply wishful thinking.”

“Ah, yes. Well, if you want to join us now”—the director gestured toward the others—“we can continue.”

“Of course, of course,” Peter agreed cheerfully.

Eventually they reached Chandler’s lab; it was in the old section of the building-—the part that had once been someone’s house. Here there was plaster on the walls, the ceilings were higher, and the windows were the old-fashioned sort that opened up and down. Though Chandler himself was not there, several of his subordinates were. They eagerly explained that their boss was away on business of a nature that they did not know and just as eagerly showed what they were doing. As the subordinates continued their antics, trying to impress Ryszard, Peter paced around the lab benches looking for something of interest. The subordinates were working on trivialities, and their answers to his questions had revealed nothing. As the minutes passed and their enthusiastic demonstrations reached an end, Peter realized that they were going to leave empty-handed. He glanced at the only separate office in the enclosure, taking in the plethora of files littering the floor and the outmoded computer on the desk, then he scanned the layout of the lab benches, and finally he wandered over to the windows to survey the grounds.

Ryszard and the others joined him there. “Shall we go?” Ryszard asked, unable to come up with any further excuses for staying.

“I feel ill, I need some air,” Peter said, and suddenly reached for the window to open it.

“Don’t do that!” one of the lab technicians nearly screamed. As everyone turned to him in surprise, he explained somewhat more calmly, “The windows
are alarmed. If you open one like that, you’ll have a half dozen soldiers running in here, waving their guns at us.”

“Then how do I get air?” Peter rasped.

The other technician answered, “No problem,” and reached over to a small plug that dangled from a wire. The wire led into a soldered seam that ran around the edge of the windowpane, almost like a decoration. “You see, there’s a current around the edge of the window. If the current is disrupted, either by the window being opened or by the glass being shattered, then the alarm sounds. All we have to do is throw this switch over here”—the technician reached under a counter and threw a small switch—“and then unplug the wires here”—he pulled the small plug that led into the soldered wire—“and we can open the window for you.” He finished triumphantly by lifting the window a few inches.

“Thank you,” Peter responded, turning toward the window so he could breathe the fresh air and hide his smile.

64

“W
HAT’S UP WITH YOU?
You’ve been staring off into space and chewing your knuckles for days!” Barbara sounded exasperated.

“Huh?” Peter was surprised to see her. “I thought you were out with Mark.”

“I’ve been back for two hours!” she replied angrily. “For heaven’s sakes what are you mooning over? Are you in love?”

He was not provoked. “No, no, something else,” he answered distantly, effortlessly dismissing her from his thoughts. There had to be some way into that laboratory, some way to get his hands on the files he knew must be in Chandler’s section. The cursory look that he had been afforded with Ryszard had been insufficient to tell them anything; all that had become clear was that the director was probably unaware of Chandler’s work with Schindler. Peter could not decide if that was an advantage or not. If Chandler’s work had been part of the official laboratory routine, then the chances were that eventually someone would be willing to sell it. Of course, Peter could never come up with the sort of money that would be required, so he would, in that case, be excluded from acquiring it and it would be up to one of the Undergrounds to get their hands on the information.

That, however, was not the case. Chandler’s work was apparently secret, even amongst his colleagues. So, the information would be more jealously guarded and less likely to be pilfered and sold. That was a disadvantage in the overall scheme of things, but a personal advantage for him, because he not only wanted to find out what the American had been carrying and what Schindler was up to, he wanted to personally acquire that information so he could use it to bribe the Szaflary Council into letting him return.

He considered the possibility of blackmailing the informant whom he had recognized into stealing the information for him. There were several problems with that, the most obvious being that neither he nor the informant knew what should be stolen. Another problem was that the informant could not be driven too far: his only advantage over the informant would be pure bluff, and if the informant discovered something truly valuable, she would doubtless sell it to the Underground and seek their protection from his extortion. The upshot of that would be that the Underground would gain the information without his help and might feel obliged to sanction him in some manner for his extracurricular activities.

So, he had to get inside the laboratory himself. He knew he could extort something trivial from the secretary, but first he had to find out where she lived and some way of contacting her. Where could he get that information? Once he talked to her, he could probably convince her to leave a window or something open for him, but that would not be enough, he needed to know the security routine for the installation. Who could tell him that? Plus he needed tools: something to get through the fences, something for locked doors and files and desks. Now where could he acquire the appropriate tools without raising suspicions? A bit of backup would help as well, someone to keep watch as he rooted around. Then afterward, how would he travel to Szaflary? All without official assistance . . .

“. . . would consider it rude,” Barbara finished huffily.

“What?”

“Ignoring me. Some people would consider it rude.”

“Ignoring you? Ah, well, sorry,” Peter apologized perfunctorily. “What were you saying?”

“I was suggesting that maybe if you talk about whatever’s bothering you, it might help you to sort it out.”

Peter rubbed his chin. “Sure, why not. I’m getting nowhere like this.” He explained his situation to Barbara.

“Why not have Ryszard get you inside again?” she suggested.

“First, he doesn’t have the authority to assign me to the place. Our one visit was the best he could manage, and even that took conniptions to set up. Second, for some reason, he couldn’t stay here long. He had to return to Berlin to attend to business there, and I guess he can hardly be bothered to track down every loose thread that unwinds past him. He wants to hand it off and is only waiting because I asked him to. Finally, if he sets me up in there, he’ll expect me to hand everything over to him, and I’ve already said I’m less interested in us getting the information than in my getting it.”

“Rather selfish, aren’t you?” Barbara asked almost innocently.

“I’ve learned from experts.”

“That’s no excuse!”

“I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, little girl, and you will forgive me if my idealism is wearing a bit thin,” Peter replied impatiently.

“What about the English Underground? You could have Jenny ask for their help.”

“Same story. Once I tell them what’s going on, they won’t need me.”

“Maybe they’d be sufficiently grateful—”

“Pff. They adhere to Stalin’s view of gratitude.”

“What’s that?” Barbara asked.

“It’s a dog’s disease. No, I’m not letting this one out of my hands. The information is probably not all that important—just some boondoggle that Schindler has sunk his teeth into, but if I play it right, it should be sufficient to get me back home.”

“You really miss the place, don’t you?”

Peter stopped himself from replying angrily to what he presumed was sarcasm. “It’s my home,” he answered honestly. “It’s where my child is. I love the mountains and the forests and the blessed free air, limited though it is. I miss the people and the work, and believe it or not, I even have a few friends. Marysia cares about me, Olek, Konrad, Kamil, Romek, even Tadek has come through for me. Hell, I even miss Katerina.”

“Her?”
Barbara’s voice conveyed a complex mix of fear and awe.

“Yeah. I’ve finally realized why she was so determined to remind me that I was an outsider living on sufferance.”

“Why?”

“Because she was, too. I would guess she never got over feeling terribly, terribly-alone.”

“I just thought the old bat had killed every emotion that wasn’t deadly long ago.”

Peter nodded noncommittally. “Anyway, I want to go back and I don’t want to wait until the Council gets tired of holding me prisoner here. Trouble is, I can’t figure out how to get into that damn lab.”

“How about some help from your friends here?”

Peter snorted.

“No, I’m serious. You have Jenny and her connections, and me and Mark and all his friends.”

“I don’t think your boyfriend is all that fond of me.”

“Perhaps not, but he’ll be more than happy to help you leave this place. Besides, he’ll do as he’s told if he knows what’s good for him.”

Peter laughed. “Yes, I suppose I could use your help, if you’re really offering it.”

“I am,” Barbara answered sincerely. “Between us, we can track down that informant for you. The tools shouldn’t be much problem. As for the travel documents . . .”

“We can solve that later. There is one other thing though.”

“What?”

“I need an expert. Chandler is a chemist. I suspect that whatever he has will be in that field, and I don’t know enough to recognize useful information.”

“Hmm. That is a problem, none of us have any expertise there. I doubt Mark knows anyone either—that’s not what his group is into.”

“I suppose I could just peruse what I find and trust my luck and intuition.”

“Or you could recruit your brother,” Barbara suggested.

“My brother!” Peter sputtered, but then he thought about it. His brother was trained in chemistry and worked in a government institute; he would almost certainly know enough to recognize something important and interpret it. A grin spread across Peter’s face as he thought about forcing his brother to help him. He nodded to himself, pleased with the images that his thoughts provoked. “Yeah, I could do that. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to cooperate with me. Good idea, Barbara, great idea!”

Two weeks later Peter was at the door of his brother’s flat. The dingy thirdfloor hallway belied the impressive rent the building almost certainly commanded. It was in a good location: not quite a gated community yet nevertheless a well-policed area with low crime and reliable utilities. Peter had walked uneasily through the streets, feeling, as he always had as a youth, that something in his clothes or demeanor would betray him as English and therefore unwelcome. Now at least, he carried appropriate papers and as Niklaus Jäger would not be challenged; nevertheless, he had felt ill at ease and had been glad that he could finally duck into the doorway of one of the monstrous apartment buildings that overlooked the river.

A modestly dressed, slightly overweight woman answered the door. Not surprisingly, she was not particularly attractive, and Peter did not expect that she would have a sparkling personality: her birth certificate alone would have been enough to lure his brother into marriage. Peter explained to her that he was a colleague of Erich’s and asked if he might have a moment to talk to her husband about some unexpected work at the institute. She surprised him by inviting him in for a cup of tea, explaining that her husband had gone out but that he was expected back shortly. Peter accepted the invitation and sat down in their living room to await his brother’s return.

As Erich’s wife handed him some tea, he smiled pleasantly, then, to satisfy his curiosity, said, “Thank you, Frau . . . Oh, I’m sorry, do you use the name Chase?”

“No.” She shook her head somewhat sadly. “I wanted to, but Erich wanted to use my family name, Schwarz, for our family. Turned out, it was almost impossible for him to change names, but not so difficult to use it for the children. So, he’s the only one who uses that name. More’s the pity.”

“Why?”

“I think a wife should use her husband’s name,” she replied primly, then relaxing, she added, “But call me Gretchen! I like this new habit of using first names.”

“Gretchen. What a lovely name.”

She confided with a titter, “Oh, you have no idea how many people bought
me the ‘good-girl Gretchen’ books when I was a child! What was worse was that my poor brother was named Hans, so he’d get the ‘heroic Hans’ series. The house was simply inundated!”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded sympathetically. “Well, please call me Niklaus.” That, as he had expected, reminded her to introduce her children, who had sat throughout in obedient silence, doing their schoolwork at the supper table, which was at the far end of the largish room. Upon her command, they lined up like little martinets and were introduced to him. He looked hard at each of his nieces and nephews; one of the girls had his mother’s eyes, otherwise there was nothing to remind him of his parents. He asked them a little about themselves, what their plans were and how they were faring in school, and then, on a whim, he asked in English, “Do any of you speak the slightest bit of your father’s native language and the language of the people who live all around you and serve your needs?”

They all stared at him blankly, recognizing the language but nothing more than that. Gretchen, also clearly unable to answer the question, frowned worriedly at what it could all mean. Peter smiled reassuringly and said in German, “Our department is trying to recruit students who speak English because we’re beginning to increase our ties to the North American Union. You know,” he added impishly, “one must know one’s enemy!”

They nodded their understanding, and the children returned to their studies. He and Gretchen continued their pleasantries, killing time as they awaited Erich’s return. While Peter chatted, he surveyed the room. There was the obligatory portrait of the Führer and another of Hitler, this time blessing little children who were bringing him flowers. A framed map was mounted over a bookshelf, and he got up from his seat to have a closer inspection of both. The map was of the Greater Reich, and he noted with some disdain that it did not show a “Carpathian Exclusion Zone” or any other unconquered territory in the region. A nice fiction, this total domination of the land and peoples of Europe! In the bookshelf he read the standard titles of a good German household. Nothing in English, nothing exceptional. Other than the fact that the bottom shelf was devoted to some texts on chemistry and biochemistry, there was nothing there that he would not have expected to find at the Vogels’.