The Children's War (69 page)

He felt woozy and considered how he could rearrange himself so that he could sleep without waking Zosia. Before he could move, though, he heard someone approaching the sentry outside the tent. Words were exchanged and then a man ducked under the entrance and faced Peter. He took in the scene in a
second, scowled at Zosia’s sleeping form, and muttered something. He was tall and lean with dark brown hair and icy gray eyes. He had a look of unquestioned authority, and without the slightest gesture of greeting he nodded toward Zosia and said, “Wake her up.”

“Who are you?”

The man did not answer. Avoiding looking at Peter, the man leaned forward and nudged Zosia.

“We need you now.”

“Hmm?”

“Zosiu, wake up! We need to discuss matters with you.”

Zosia looked up. “Oh, Tadziu, it’s you.” She looked around, confused. “Good Lord, did I sleep here all night?”

“You’ve slept about half an hour,” Peter replied. “It’s dawn.”

“Oh my God, I had no idea. Is Joanna okay?” Peter had learned during the night that Joanna was Zosia’s three-year-old daughter.

“She’s fine, Marysia’s watching her now.” Tadek sounded less than approving; he said something abruptly to Zosia in Polish, then he turned and left with the clear intention that Zosia should follow.

Zosia looked at Peter, and as she stood, she said gently, “I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

“Wait. What did he say to you?” Peter asked, standing up as well.

Zosia looked embarrassed, then said quietly in English,“He said that my husband is hardly cold in his grave and here I am falling asleep in a stranger’s arms.”

Peter desperately did not want her to leave, so he grabbed at the first question that came to his mind to hold her just a few seconds longer. “What does
kur-vah
mean?”

Zosia looked at him sharply.
“Kurwa?”
“Yes.”

“Did he call me that?”

“Yes. I think. Why, what’s it mean?”

She walked to the entrance of the tent, and as she was leaving, she turned and answered cryptically, “It is not complimentary.”

The tent seemed empty without her. Peter sat as though stunned on the edge of the cot, then wrapping the blankets around him, he lay down and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

69

S
OMEBODY SHOOK HIM INTO
wakefulness. It was still early morning; the sun, barely visible over the horizon, streamed into the tent, momentarily blinding
him. Grunting with incomprehension, he shielded his eyes and struggled to understand what was being said to him.

“Come with me. The Council wants to talk with you.”

He got to his feet, stretched, and groaned. The young face of a wide-eyed boy stared at him expectantly. Clearly a response was in order, but Peter could barely remember his own name. Finally he managed to ask in a hoarse whisper, “Why?”

“Just come. They’re waiting for you.”

“Why? What do they want? Have they made their decision?”

“I was told to bring you.” The boy was either adamant or ignorant.

Peter shook his head in vague disgust. What now? He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. The sunlight seemed excruciatingly bright—why did he feel so ill? Oh, yeah, vodka, no sleep, life and death, all that. Yeah, that would do it.

Zosia appeared at the entrance. She looked tired and almost apologetic. “Sorry to wake you.”

“How long have I slept?”

“It’s been a little over an hour since I left you.”

“Ah.” That at least explained the exhaustion.

Zosia clearly had something more to say. She looked at the boy, said, “I want to talk with him,” and nodded toward the door. The boy saluted and left quickly, but Zosia remained uneasily silent.

Peter sat on the edge of the cot, trying to rub some life into his face. Eventually, he felt awake enough to hear what he knew must be bad news. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“I see.”

“The vote was six to four against. Marysia and I, well, I think we convinced everybody that you’re okay. Your story basically checks out. The problem is excess caution.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s not who you are—I mean, we know that Halifax existed, and we’re fairly sure that you are that man, or at least look a lot like him—it’s your motives. What was your motive for coming here?”

“But I told you, I had no idea you were here!”

“Then how did you know to turn off the main road, just before our roadblock?”

“I didn’t.” Peter shook his head helplessly. “I didn’t. And I was stopped anyway, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, but no one expected you to go there. That’s why Olek was alone. Except for Marysia, of course.”

“I told you what I was doing. I told Marysia,” Peter moaned. “It was random chance!”

“And that’s unprovable,” Zosia sighed. “If there was any reason the government could convince you to work for them, that’s exactly the story you would
use. I, personally, don’t think that’s the case, but . . . It’s just that the tiny chance that you are an infiltrator . . . Well, it would be disastrous for all of us. There are so many lives at stake. And you’re only one . . .”

“And a stranger.”

“Yes.”

“And not even the right nationality.”

“No. That doesn’t help,” Zosia agreed. “It all boils down to the fact that we don’t know
why
you came here.”

Peter closed his eyes. He had to swallow a lump of anger in his throat as he realized that nobody would accept the reality of randomness in the universe. The foundation of all modern science was insufficient to save his life. When he was able to look at Zosia again, he had accepted his fate. “Yeah, I understand. I can’t really blame them. But”—and at this he smiled without humor—“do forgive me if I take it personally.”

“But . . .”

“Is there any chance of my escaping?”

“No. You’d be dead before you got ten meters.”

“Ah, well, at least it would be quick,” he said stoically.

“There is still a hope.”

“What? Prayer?” he asked sarcastically. They had spoken of religion the previous night, and he meant his remark to sting. He was angry, and even though he did not want to be, he felt annoyed with Zosia for having led him to believe he had a chance.

“That’s not what I meant, though it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a bit of humility,” she shot back angrily. She paused, took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Look, the Council—”

“Perhaps you could keep me in some sort of quarantine? I don’t need to meet that many people.”

“For how long? The rest of your life?”

Was one life worth so much trouble? It felt to him as if it was, but how could he convince them of that? “Well, then just escort me out of here. Watch me from a safe distance. You’ll see that I’m no threat to you.”

“You already know too much. And where would you go?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.” Without even noticing what he was doing, he ran his right hand up along the numbers printed on his left forearm and then back down again so that the left hand could circle the band on his right wrist. It was a gesture he had done a thousand times before, and every time there was a vague amazement in the back of his mind that the numbers did not rub off, that the band did not unclasp its hold on him.

“You see, we have to make a decision now.”

“And you’ve made it.” He looked at Zosia, had a sudden image of troops raidingthe mountain camp, dragging her off to a prison to be tortured and killed. He imagined Joanna screaming, torn away from her mother; if she survived,
maybe she’d be adopted, like Frau Reusch’s son. The image chilled him. They were right, he was asking too much of them.

Zosia bit her lip. “The thing is, the decision is not final yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to get your hopes too high. I feel I already misled you once, but, Marysia and I convinced them to meet you personally and hear your own arguments, before making the final decision.”

“Oh. Great.” He had not meant to sound so ungrateful.

“Well, it’s better than no chance at all.”

“Yeah. I guess I should thank you and Marysia for trying so hard to help.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So that’s why the boy came to get me.”

“Yeah. We should go now. They’re waiting.”

“Oh, Zosia, if you couldn’t convince them, what hope do I have?”

“Try. Tell them what you told me. You convinced me, I’m sure your story will move them.”

He shook his head vigorously. “I can’t do that. Those words are gone, I’m never going to speak about that again.”

“Never?” she squeaked. “No, no, no! You must! You have to be willing to talk! There’s no point, otherwise!”

“I’m sorry. It wouldn’t come out right.”

“It’s for your life!” she argued desperately.

He shook his head. “It won’t work. I know it. Those words are gone.”

“Peter! You must tell your story to them! You have to say something!”

“I don’t know what. I haven’t a clue what to say. I’ve hardly slept in two days. I’m hungry, I’m dirty, I’m hungover.
I wouldn’t listen to me!”

“How about if I get them to wait an hour or so, so that you can prepare?”

“I need to wash and shave.” He ran his hand over the two days’ growth on his face. “And I need a change of clothes. And some shoes.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

70

T
HE FACE IN THE
mirror stared at him as he shaved. A mirror! And a sharp razor, and shaving foam! Such unheard-of luxuries! It unnerved him slightly that even here in the middle of the forest they lived a more civilized life than he had been permitted. And now he had to think of what to say to convince them to risk their lives just to let him live. A stranger. A friendless stranger. He studied his reflection, saw no answers there; so he turned to the mundane tasks of making himself presentable.

A little over an hour later, he was ready to face his judges and potential executioners. He had washed, shaved, changed clothes, and eaten. He still felt a bit hungover and tired, and he cursed himself for his stupidity the night before, but there was no time to waste on regrets; instead he thought feverishly, trying to plan his strategy. He put aside his anger and disappointment and struggled to design an argument that would convince himself under reversed circumstances. It was difficult: he understood their fears, and eventually, he decided that was the approach he would take. He would not try to convince them that he was safe, he would simply try to convince them that their own ideology required them to take this risk.

The Council consisted of ten members. They were seated casually on large rocks and fallen tree trunks in a sort of semicircle on a slope under the pines. Some of them had mugs of tea or coffee; it looked like a small, cozy gathering of friends. He was led to a spot in front of them, and then his guard withdrew, leaving him alone to face his judges. They had, probably deliberately, positioned themselves uphill with their backs to the sun, which was low in the sky. He squinted against the bright light, struggling to see their faces. He looked around at his surroundings: at least three armed guards within easy distance, probably more out of sight, and a few of the Council members had pistols sitting in front of them at the ready. It was obvious he would not be allowed to escape if they decided against him. He scanned the dirt at his feet: there was no obvious place for him to sit. He decided that in any case he was too nervous to sit still and would be better off standing, pacing now and then to alleviate his tension.

He began by thanking them for hearing him speak. He thanked Zosia for relaying his story and reiterated his thanks that they had checked all the details that they could. At this point he hesitated. He feared that it would be viewed as inappropriate to ask questions of them, but he was afraid of missing what might be his only opportunity. They looked at him expectantly.

“If I’m not mistaken, you did check all the details you could. Am I right?”

There was a general murmur that he was right.

He paused again, bit his lip, then plunged in. “Could you tell me then, what happened to my parents?”

There was a shocked silence. Finally, the man Zosia had called Tadek answered, “Your father died within days of being arrested. Your mother died after about seven months in a concentration camp.” Tadek’s eyes narrowed and he continued, “At least, that’s the story.”

Peter did not say anything. He looked up into the sunlight. For a moment he stared unseeing into the inferno, but eventually the excruciating brightness forced him to close his eyes. To his horror he felt tears rolling down his face. Impatiently, almost angrily, he wiped away this betrayal of his privacy. He had long suspected the truth, and it surprised him that hearing it verified hurt so much. So they were indeed dead.

The Council waited silently as he collected himself. He needed to continue with the business at hand, but something else compelled him. In a voice that cracked with tension he asked, “Were . . . were they collaborators?”

Zosia answered quietly, “Apparently most of the files from that time have been wiped or removed from active access; we could find little more than the arrest warrant. Your father was a Party member, about as high up as one could expect a working-class Englishman to reach in the hierarchy at that time. Did you know that?”

Peter stared at her, devastated by the revelation. Finally he managed to stammer, “No.” So that’s how they got him into that school. Suddenly, lots of little pieces fell into place.

Noting Peter’s expression, Zosia hurried to add, “It doesn’t really mean anything—I mean, if they were infiltrators, that’s what he would have done.” She continued, her voice tense with a determination to convey the information as gently as possible, “The records are unclear as to why they were arrested. Our experience has been that they could have been arrested for anything. They may have been collaborating and simply annoyed a political superior. Or they may have been in the Resistance. Or it might mean they were completely innocent of any activity.”

Peter nodded. A Party member? Evening meetings, yes, of course. Locked drawers, yes, it all fit. Those trips to the exchange to make telephone calls, comments from the local police, occasional taunts—yes, now it all made sense. But was it all a ploy? Was it some insane, brave, hopeless plot? He stood stunned before the Council, his hand poised over his mouth as if to prevent words from spilling out; yet he said nothing. He had to say something, but still he could not find his voice to defend his own life. An image of his parents together—on a Sunday walk—her hair pulled back into a ponytail, his father’s eyes lighting on her face. Both smiling, laughing, swinging their hands as they walked along the street. The image shifted as death claimed them and the flesh dropped from their bones in putrid lumps. Worms and mold and stench replaced their lively presence. Maybe Zosia was right, maybe believing in a God made it all more bearable. It would be so much easier to believe in their spirits soaring to the heavens, freed from the pain of earthly existence, while their corpses became nothing more than castoff cocoons.

Marysia interrupted his thoughts. “You could not have saved them. Your name was on the arrest warrant as well. If you had been there, you would have been taken.”

Peter smiled at her kindness. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Dead for all these years and now he did not have time to mourn them. With an effort he removed the images of his mother and father from his mind and concentrated on the ten faces waiting for him to speak.

He began by asking if they had any unanswered questions. There were a few,
but clearly Zosia had been fairly thorough in relaying his story. He answered their questions and then continued by telling them what he had felt as he had driven away from Berlin. How his spirits had lifted the farther he was from the core of Nazi power. He explained what he had felt when he had driven into the woods and breathed the clean air as a free man. The shock and despair he had felt when he thought he had driven into a secret Nazi military installation, and the surge of hope that had followed when he had realized that he was probably among friends.

“Since then, I have come to realize that this must be much more than a small encampment of partisans—your caution alone has indicated to me that there are much higher stakes involved. But I still can’t help but feel that despite that, despite the obvious importance of the work you do, whatever it is, I can’t help but feel that we are allies and should be friends. Your fight is my fight, it is the work I carried out for years before I was arrested. And that work is to rid our respective lands of their occupiers, to free our people from slavery and death.

“I know that you fear me, and I understand why. I know well what a lack of caution can do—I’ve lost everybody who was ever dear to me and I still don’t know why or how. But I also know that fear must not be allowed to excuse barbaric acts. I know we sometimes have to make hard choices, sometimes we do things we would not do if we were not at war. But we are fighting, after all this time, not just to defeat the Nazis, but to maintain a way of life, an ideology of justice and human rights. And we cannot apply those rights only when it suits us. I know these are dangerous times, but they have been dangerous times for decades and we dare not assume the methods of our adversaries, for then we will become like them and then our actions will make us nothing more than terrorists.

“Ever since they have conquered our lands, and even before, in their own land, the Nazis have ascribed value to a human according to his nationality, language, culture, or religion. According to his ‘race.’ They then used fear to justify their actions. They saw the Jews as a force within, out to destroy their society, and they used these fears to persecute their Jewish population—to murder them in cold blood.

“Now, because I am not one of you, because I do not speak your language and you do not know me, you fear what I might do to you. I have offered every proof I can that I am not a threat to you, but your fear is stronger than anything. I tell you, I understand your fear, but you must not act on it. To murder me in cold blood because of your fear—a fear which is virtually unjustified given all the evidence you have that I am who I say I am—such a murder would destroy your own ideology. You will have murdered me because I am alien. For no other reason and you know it.”

He paused, hoping he had not offended his listeners by what he had said. He took a deep breath and concluded, “You have to take a risk now. You have to let me live—otherwise you lose your very purpose. Don’t use their methods, don’t
use their justifications, don’t kill just because you fear. Don’t become what you hate!”

He stopped. There was much more that he could say—he could tell them the same thing many other ways—but he could tell by the look in their eyes that they had heard him and so he had said enough.

At this point Tadek spoke. “All right, we have heard you. Your guard will escort you back to the tent, and we’ll let you know our decision shortly.”

Peter shook his head.“No.”

The Council members stared at him, dumbfounded by his audacity. “No. If you want to kill me, I want to hear it from your lips,” he stated calmly.

He felt very unsure of his chances. He may have swayed one or even two of the six, but he felt they could easily be swayed back against him in his absence. Zosia had indicated to him who had voted against him and which ones were the most likely to change their mind, and now he surveyed the Council and matched her descriptions to the people sitting in front of him.

He turned to one of the ones who he knew had voted in his favor, a woman called Hania, and asked, “Do you think it is necessary for me to die?”

“No, I think it would betray our mission to kill you, or any innocent person.”

“What about you?” he asked another who had voted for him. If he had identified him correctly, this was a man called Konrad.

“No. I think it would be unnecessary—and therefore murder.” The speaker looked pointedly at Tadek. Clearly he had made this point earlier.

Peter looked to the naysayers. Among them was the man Bogdan, who had spoken with the Austrian accent; according to Zosia, he was the most likely to be swayed. He looked tired, and even as Peter looked in his direction, he was distracted with stifling a yawn. Peter knew he was taking an enormous risk: if the man held his ground, then all was lost. He waited until Bogdan noticed him and looked him in the eye.

“Do
you
vote that I must die?” Peter asked softly.

Bogdan stared at him, then looked helplessly at his colleagues. None of them offered any advice. Finally, reluctantly, he mumbled,“No, I guess not.”

Peter noticed Zosia sighing with relief. He did not allow himself the luxury of enjoying his small victory—he knew a five-to-five vote would be debated and overturned. He had to get the other Council members—at least one of them—to vote in his favor.

He turned his attention to an old woman who sat to the side. She looked thin and frail, but he knew that although she had not in any way indicated her rank, she held the Council chair. Zosia had said that her name was Katerina, that she had been an able assassin in her day, and that she was, consequently, extremely practical in her views of life and death. Though she did not fear betrayal for her own sake—she felt she had already lived a full life—she was protective of her younger colleagues.

“Do you think murdering me would further your beliefs?” he asked her.

“It would not be murder if it did,” she answered evenly.

He felt slightly exasperated by her pedantry. “Then,” he rephrased his question, “must I die?”

Katerina cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips as if weighing up all the possibilities. “I don’t believe you should be party to this decision.”