The Children's War (53 page)

Adam grinned at him.

“Where the hell did you get it? Did you smuggle it through customs?” Alex asked in alarm.

“No, don’t be stupid. Why would I want to smuggle guns
into
America? No, this one’s a free sample from that arms dealer I talked to last night. I just want to find somewhere I can test it.”

“How are their prices?” Alex asked.

“Too high if they’re giving out samples,” Adam replied, lighting his cigarette.
“But that doesn’t stop me from accepting their little gifts. I want to try it out and see if it’s any good. If I like it, I’ll see if I can’t get some at a better price from someone else. I’ve got a couple meetings down by the fish market tonight, so don’t wait up!”

“Be careful.”

“Me? I’m always careful!” Adam laughed as he opened the door. He gestured a dramatic farewell as he strode down the hall, holding his cigarette in hand, the outline of his holster just barely visible under his jacket.

“Hope he doesn’t shoot anyone,” Alex muttered in prayer, and shook his head with bemused affection at the retreating image of his son-in-law.

53

“T
HE
FACE AGAIN?”
Roman asked plaintively, hoping just this once to evoke a response.

Peter looked up from the pavement and stared at Roman with leaden eyes, then quite deliberately he turned his gaze away and looked across the plaza.

“Everyone misses you. Are you going to come back soon?”

Without taking his eyes off the plaza, Peter shook his head ever so slightly.

“Look, the boys took up a collection. They sent you this,” Roman whispered as he reached under the counter and extracted a hip flask. He discreetly shoved it across the counter toward Peter. “We need the flask back, but we thought the contents might help.”

Peter looked at the flask, but did not move to take it.

“Take it, already!” Roman hissed. He glanced worriedly behind him. “Quick.”

Still Peter did not move, he just returned to gazing across the plaza.

A patrolman paced not far behind Peter, and Roman leaned forward, awkwardly draping his arm over the flask. “Are you nuts?” he asked angrily. “You’ll get us in trouble. Come on!”

“I’m not giving him any excuses,” Peter explained, still refusing the gift.

“He doesn’t seem to need any,” Roman commented as he deftly secreted the flask back under the counter. “What was it this time?”

“None of your business.”

“Man! He’s been going at you nearly every day for months! You’ve got to do something. If this keeps up, he’s going to kill you!” Roman warned.

“Leave me alone.”

“What are you going to do?”

Peter turned his gaze back to his friend. “Are you saying it’s my fault?”

“No! That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what are you suggesting? I should file a complaint?” Peter asked bitterly.

Roman scanned the plaza and glanced behind himself as if nervously preparingto impart a secret, then quietly suggested, “Maybe you should leave.”

“Looking like this? How far do you think I’d get?”

Roman bit his lower lip worriedly.

“And where should I go?” Peter added angrily. “Do you want to hide me in the bakery? Under a table? Shove a roll in my direction every other day? Huh?”

Roman shook his head.

“In all your years, have you ever heard even one whisper of a place I could go?”

Roman hesitated, then admitted, “No. Never.”

“Then you’re advocating suicide.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Roman whispered helplessly.

“If you don’t have anything useful to say, then don’t say anything. Give me that much peace.”

“Peter!”

“Look, I’m not ready to die. Do you understand that? I’ve survived worse than this, I’m not going to throw it all away now! I’m not going to risk anything. I know him; he’ll grow bored. Until then, I’m going to lie low and wait him out, and sooner or later it will just stop.”

“Yes, of course,” Roman agreed helplessly. “It will just stop. Maybe even today.”

Maybe today, Peter thought as he stopped momentarily to snatch a breath of the bitter, damp air.

“What are you doing? Work!” Karl snapped angrily.

Peter thrust the spade back into the cold sod and turned up another shovelful.-Maybe today, he thought over the pounding of his heart, maybe today Karl would finally be sated. Maybe this interminable revenge would finally cease.

“Deeper, put some effort into it!” Karl ordered. “I want this dirt soft, I want it to produce!”

Or maybe tomorrow, Peter amended. He wiped a bit of sweat from his brow and plunged the edge of the spade back into the hard earth. It clanged against rock, sending jarring vibrations up his arms. Not today, tomorrow. It would end tomorrow.

“Is there a rock?” Karl asked, peering down. “Get it out, get it out now! I don’t want rocks in my garden!”

“Yes,
mein Herr,”
Peter agreed tiredly. He pulled the shovel out and wedged it in at a different angle, trying to find the edge of the rock so he could work it out. Tomorrow? Whenever. He no longer cared.

“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Karl stepped in closer. “Don’t do that, use some muscle!”

He could not work out what Karl wanted, but that was not unusual. He acknowledged the order and tried ramming the shovel in at a different angle, twisting it to loosen the rock.

“Work, damn it!” Karl yelled, raising his fist threateningly.

Peter threw his weight onto the handle. Abruptly a piece of the rock chipped off and the shovel flew up, smacking Karl in the shin.

“Oooowww!” Karl howled.

For the briefest moment, Peter felt there was some justice in the universe. “I’m sorry,
mein Herr.
It was an accident.” His lips trembled with the urge to laugh as he watched Karl hopping around.

Karl reached down to rub his shin, then straightened. He was livid.

“It was an accident,
mein Herr.
I swear, it was!” Peter repeated, suddenly aware of the danger he was in. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Are you all right? Can I get something for you?”

Karl approached, his face purple with rage. Peter continued to apologize profusely even as Karl snatched the shovel from him. He expected Karl to throw the shovel down and out of the way, and he braced himself for the retribution that would follow.

“Goddamned swine! You did that deliberately,” Karl howled, swinging the shovel, not to the ground, but at Peter’s legs. “I’ll teach you to hit me!”

Only a lightning-fast instinct saved Peter as he leapt backward, out of the way. He tripped, fell, rolled, and scrambled to his feet as Karl swung again. The shovel caught the side of his legs. He fell back to the ground and rolled, all the while trying to apologize over Karl’s incoherent shouting. The shovel thumped brutally against the dirt next to him. He tried again to regain his feet; the shovel slammed into the back of his thighs; he fell and rolled again as it came down where his knees had just been. Karl anticipated his next maneuver and smashed the shovel against his right shin. He clawed at the dirt to try to pull himself to his feet. He struggled forward as again the shovel was pounded against his legs. Trapped on the ground, he heard his own cries of pain, his own pleas for mercy, as though they were someone else’s.

“Hello there! What’s up?” Karl’s neighbor called out, distracting him from his hysteria.

Peter rocked back and forth on the ground, holding his legs, moaning in anguish. His legs! Oh, God, his legs! Had even a minute passed?

Still holding the shovel, Karl meandered over to the fence to chat. “The bastard hit me with this!” he explained as he gasped for breath.

“Oh, terrible, terrible. But I’m sure it was an accident,” the neighbor soothed.

“That’s what they always say.”

“Yes, I’m sure they do. In any case, I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“Not now it won’t!” Karl chuckled, looking at Peter as he lay on the ground. “Get up, you bastard!”

Peter ignored him. His legs! Crippled! Oh, God, senselessly maimed because of a stupid piece of rock!

“I said, get up!” Karl growled.

Peter tried to move, but he was paralyzed by the fear of what he might discover, terrified of a broken bone.

Karl left the fence to come and stand over him. “Lousy, inferior, worthless dog! You’re all alike! Now you see what happens when you get ideas. Get up and get back to work, you swine, before I kick some sense into your worthless hide.”

Peter struggled to his hands and knees. He paused to find his breath, then forced himself into a crouch with most of his weight thrown onto his left arm. One leg gave way under the strain, and he slid back to the ground. He tried again; his whole body trembled with the effort of pulling himself up. His right arm reached uselessly for a support—Karl was near enough to grab it but stood aloof, watching Peter struggle with a detached curiosity.

Finally he found enough balance and strength to pull his weight off his left arm and stand erect, knees bent with pain, hands hovering uselessly. Karl pushed the shovel into Peter’s hands with the clear implication that he should return to work. He used it to steady himself. Pain sliced through him as he straightened to his full height. Like a newborn fawn he stood gasping at his accomplishment on wobbly legs—battered from every angle though they were, they still functioned. He looked down at them: there were no splinters of bone protruding, no unnatural bends. Silently rejoicing at his luck, ignoring the agony he felt, unable to thank the brave neighbor who had saved him, he stumbled back to his work.

Over the weeks that followed, lurid bruises—red, black, purple—discolored his legs; huge, painful lumps as hard as rocks formed beneath the skin. The swollen surface burst here and there to release pus and old blood and ichor. He wrapped his legs and washed them and wrapped them again, praying to no one in particular that they might be whole again.

Elspeth observed him with growing concern during this time, and as she stood by the window watching him wash the car, she came to a decision. She chewed her thumb as she considered her strategy, then glancing back at her husband as he read the Party newspaper, she said suddenly, “How are things at work, dear?”

It took three repetitions, but finally Karl growled, “Ach, all right,” from behind the paper.

“This is the third time in two weeks you’ve come home early.”

“Not much has been happening in my section,” Karl explained brusquely. He continued to read for a moment, then decided to add, “What makes you ask?”

Elspeth’s long silence drew him to his feet. He came to stand by the window next to her. “Have you heard something? Is your mother spreading gossip? Or your brother-in-law?”

Elspeth turned her attention away from the window and smiled with disarmingreassurance at her husband. “No, no! Nothing like that. You just seem so tense lately, I thought perhaps something was wrong.”

“I haven’t been tense! Have you heard something?” Karl asked worriedly. “What makes you say I’m tense?”

Elspeth threw a glance out the window. “You have been rather rough on him of late.”

“Him? That’s . . . You know what that’s about.”

“But that was ages ago, darling. Surely it’s time to be over that.”

“No.” Karl shook his head. “No, he’ll never learn, he’ll never be trustworthy. We just have to keep him on a leash and tug on it now and then to remind him who’s boss.”

“Yes, of course. But you do realize, it looks bad—I mean, just the other day, when he worked up at the Reichstag Annex, he looked like he was dragged there out of a camp!”

“Pff.”

“It does influence people, they think we’re out of control. Just look at him.” Elspeth turned her attention back to Peter, and Karl followed her gaze. “He really is a good boy. He tries hard to do his job right.” They both watched as Peter, on one knee in the driveway, carefully polished the chrome of Karl’s car. He hunched over his work, oblivious to anything beyond his task. “He has learned, you know,” Elspeth added quietly. “Has he shown even the slightest disrespect recently?”

“Naw! He cringes anytime I even get near!” Karl laughed. “He knows that half the time he’s going to get whacked for something!”