The Children's War (134 page)

“Now you have,” the man taunted. His torturer had punished him for that insubordination by having two of the entourage hold him and, with the help of other hands pulling brutally at his face, ramming the device down his throat. When the trigger was pressed, an excruciating current raced through his body. He remembered hearing his own muffled screams, remembered his convulsive struggling, remembered how timeless moments later they had surveyed him, commenting on the device’s effectiveness as he lay crumpled in agony on the ground, drooling blood and drenched in excrement.

A voice or voices emerged through the roaring waterfall of his pain. “Are you all right?” he heard. Marysia, Konrad, Zosia . . . No, someone else, and English
words, not German. He was looking across at a face so he had to be standing. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked again. “Are you all right?” an intense-looking, thin, bearded man behind a table asked again.

Peter turned half around and saw the woman he had been talking to. “Are you all right?” she echoed.

“Did they use these on you?” the man asked, his concern suddenly turning to avid interest. He interpreted Peter’s stunned silence as an affirmation. “Could you speak on behalf of our group? We really need to raise consciousness. Could you speak for us?”

Peter shook his head and said softly,“No.”

“Please! We really need to raise funds, to get legislation passed. You must!”

“No,” Peter repeated softly.

“You must speak out!” the man pressed almost angrily. “It’s not fair! You must help us!”

“No,” Peter mouthed. He kept shaking his head and saying “No” over and over even as he backed away, even as he thought of Teresa’s word for him. Courage? “No,” he said, crossing the room to the exit. “No,” he was still whispering as he left the hall.

The following day there were two magazine interviews. Both were mass circulation, nonintellectual newsmagazines; both had not been interested in his story when offered exclusive interviews before his arrival. Peter had scanned both magazines to determine their styles before the interviews, and other than for the typeset and paragraph layout, he was unable to discern a difference between them. They were identical competitors for the same soft-news, gee-whiz market, and he responded to each reporter’s identical questions with identical answers.

“Should have just shown the second one a videotape of the first interview,” he told Zosia over the phone.

She grunted as she pulled on her stockings while holding the phone against her shoulder with her head. “Did they take photos?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll make the cover.” He laughed. “We went into the park for the one magazine. Settled for the lobby with the other.”

“Did you at least get lunch or dinner out of them?” Zosia struggled with her other stocking.

“Lunch from the first one. But Alex said there’d be food at England House tonight, so I turned down dinner.”

“Are you ready yet?”

“Yeah. You?”

“No, not yet. And I’ve got to help Joanna. I should get going.”

“Okay, uh, Zosia, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Do I have a bodyguard now?”

There was an embarrassed silence, then a quiet,“Um, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Since that incident with the Nazis,” she answered reluctantly.

“Was that your idea?”

Again a silence.

“Was it?”

“Yes. Why? Do you mind?”

“Yes, call him off.”

There was another silence.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes. All right,” she agreed, resigned.“I’ll see you there,” she added and hung up.

61

T
HERE WAS DINNER,
a very nice dinner. The reception had been organized in honor of a substantial donation from the estate of Lillian Rose Devon, and therefore, though Peter drew curious glances, he was not the center of attention.

“Next year,” the woman next to him at the head table confided, “we’re going to establish a Devon award for notable contributions to the Underground cause. I’m sure you’ll be a shoo-in for that!”

“That would be a singular honor,” Peter said agreeably, thinking that next year, they would be hard-pressed to remember his name. He did not bother to ask how they hoped to honor people who by the nature of their work needed to remain anonymous. Instead, he made polite conversation about the award and the Devon family while scanning the tables to see if he could locate Zosia. Finally he spotted her. He continued to look in her direction, hoping to catch her eye, but she was deep in conversation with someone and at length he gave up.

He was not asked to make a speech, was not even mentioned by any of the speakers. Apparently the invitation had been solely to win him over rather than to have him win over the audience. Indeed the audience—volunteers, government officials, Underground liaisons—was already completely committed to the cause and had no need to hear from him. It was a relief, and in a rush of gratitude he felt slightly guilty that he had not mentioned an English organization on the late-night show. They had rescued him from the streets, had provided him with a raison d’Ítre, were fighting for his homeland; didn’t he owe them some loyalty?

After the dinner they mingled over cocktails, made with real alcohol, thank God! Alex was in his element. Some of the government officials had not seen their homeland since the fifties, and therefore their memories were no different from Alex’s. They talked together like old buddies and reminisced about the place as if they had been there only yesterday. They spoke of a land that no longer existed, discussing policy for a people they did not even know.

Zosia fit in naturally as well. She spoke animatedly to a small group of second-generation exiles using a nearly neutral accent that was neither her father’s nor her husband’s. As Peter stood next to her, listening to her speak, he marveled at how she had nicely canceled both their influences.

He looked around and noticed Anna and Joanna sitting off to the side. Anna was becoming more familiar with English with each passing month, but she was still obviously uncomfortable in sustained conversation. He whispered his excuse into Zosia’s ear without interrupting her continuous stream of conversation and went over to join Anna and his daughter.

He lit a cigarette, one of the ones he had brought from home, and offered Anna one. She shook her head.

“Oh, that’s right. You’ve quit,” he said in German.

“Did the police get hold of you?”

“The police?” he repeated, alarmed.

“They wanted to interview you about that incident with the neo-Nazis. They called Alex today to try and track you down. We told them where you were.”

“No, they haven’t called yet,” he muttered.

“They said it shouldn’t take long, they have everything they need on the videotape.”

“Good. For some odd reason, I have an aversion to police.”

Anna nodded her understanding. “What do you think of them?” She indicated the surrounding British exiles.

“It’s nice being able to just relax at a gathering. I appreciate that.”

“Do you feel at home?”

He shook his head. “Naw, I don’t know these people. Maybe I read their names on a directive in the distant past, but I don’t
know
them. And they,” he added quite pointedly, thinking of the growing distance between the government and the governed, “don’t know me.”

“I wonder,” Anna mused, misinterpreting, “I wonder how it is that no one recognizes you or your story.”

“I’m glad they don’t. The idea scares me a bit.”

“You’re assuming they don’t know what really happened.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” He scanned the crowd yet again. Did he want to be discovered? Might they be able to tell him what had happened all those years ago?

Anna studied his face for a moment. “You really loved her, didn’t you?” Her tone carried none of the accusation of their previous conversation.

He nodded without looking at her.

“It may be your only chance, son. Go see what you can find out. Somebody here must know.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll walk around the room a bit.” He kissed Joanna, then kissed Anna on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

He wandered the large room, mingling with the crowd, sipping the champagne
provided, and conversing with the occasional person who came up to him. There did not seem to be anyone who could offer him further information or explanations on his past, and he was about to give up and rejoin Anna and Joanna, when behind him he heard a familiar voice.

He turned carefully and studied the speaker: a man, not much older than he, talking knowledgeably, or at least pompously, to a small knot of English-Americans, that is, second- or third-generation exiles. The voice and the face belonged to a man he had known as Graham. Peter had given the Council what little he knew about Graham, but nothing had turned up in the files: he was not an acknowledged German agent nor had he been arrested nor was his name linked to their arrests. That was not surprising—Graham had been his immediate superior and their link to the rest of the organization; most of the group did not even know him, and nobody but Peter had known how to contact him.

Peter waited until Graham had finished his current exposition and had not yet launched into the next to walk up to the group and say, “Excuse me.”

Graham turned toward him, as did all the others. There was a pause as Graham studied him, then he smiled and said, “Yardley.”

Peter was stunned and it took him a moment to say, “So you
do
know me?”

“Yes. It was hard to tell from the TV since not everything in your story matched up. You know, you changed a few dates, added a wife . . .” Graham paused significantly, then suggested, “That was Allison, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Peter responded somewhat embarrassed.

“So, you finally got your chance to marry her. At least in your imagination, eh?” Graham added snidely.

“I amended my life under advice,” Peter replied calmly.

“Naturally, of course, of course,” Graham rushed to assure him. “Well, other than the details, I still had trouble feeling certain it was you. Your accent’s changed. Milder, i’n’it? And you look a bit different. Older, of course. Or is it something else? Not sure . . .”

As Graham mused, Peter studied his old comrade for clues. Why wasn’t Graham, or whatever his name was now, accusing him, or at least questioning him? Why no curiosity?

“But in person,” Graham continued, “there’s no mistaking you!”

“Kind of you to remember me,” Peter said with subdued irony. His suspicions were growing stronger with each overenthusiastic word Graham spoke.

“Let me introduce you to my friends here.” Graham was all smiles. “This is my dear old friend Alan Yardley, also known as Peter Halifax, also known as, er, any others?”

“Some.”

“And this is . . . oh, the group.” Graham gave up in good-natured confusion.

There were several pleased-to-meet-ya’s, which Peter essentially ignored. “You seem to be doing well for yourself,” he said to Graham.

Graham’s grin broadened. “Oh, yes. I’m here permanently now as an adviser to the Home Office.”

“Working
in
the government? Congratulations.” Peter could hardly keep the sarcasm out of his tone.

“And you?”

“Surviving,” Peter replied tersely.

“Staying here?”

“Can’t say.”

“Oh, you should. You don’t want to go back there. It’s so . . .”

“Filthy?” Peter asked, using one of the typical complaints of the Americanized English.“Miserably damp?” he suggested into Graham’s embarrassed silence. “Or is it the appalling food?”

Graham glanced at his young friends and shrugged a chagrined apology.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ve said it all themselves. Horrid place full of ill-tempered, violent, chain-smoking—”

“Alan!” Graham looked abashed; his friends glanced at each other with guilty recognition.

“—alcoholics who insult them all the time and don’t appreciate the sacrifices they’ve made to come and learn about us and our vile culture.” Then, indicating Graham’s friends, Peter added, “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you think?”

None dared to answer, though several shifted uneasily.

“So you’re alive,” Graham said to say something.

“Obviously. And you’re not surprised?”

“A bit. But you always were slippery. If anyone was going to survive that fiasco, it would have been you.” Graham smiled at his young friends.

“Doesn’t that raise any questions in your mind?”

“What? Questions? Um, well, I guess I’m curious how you pulled it off. Bad luck about the arrest afterwards. Hey, where’d you get the lousy papers? Street purchase?”

“No, they belonged to me when I first joined.”

“Oh, that was clever.” Graham sucked on his cigarette. The little audience was fascinated, and he obviously loved being the center of attention. “But you know, you aren’t supposed to keep things like that.”

“Well, it’s not too late to issue a sanction,” Peter sneered.

“Oh, we’d never do that! No, my boy, we’re just glad you pulled through. Messy business, what?”

Peter rubbed his chin, then risked saying, “Yes, you don’t come out of it all that well, do you?”

“Oh, so you heard.” Graham’s voice conveyed disappointment.

“Yes, but I’d like to hear your version. It only seems fair.”

“It wasn’t anything like what you heard! I told them to warn you all immediately. I really insisted waiting was too dangerous. I argued so vociferously, I was nearly cited for insubordination!”

“Obviously. You know, I appreciate your concern. We all do, every last fucking corpse!” Peter stopped, then resumed in a more conversational tone,“But despite your best efforts, you couldn’t convince them.”

“No! But you know, they were in a bit of a bind. They could hardly go arresting-someone that high up without a reasonable suspicion.”

“Of course.”

“And I couldn’t disobey orders and tell you that he had your names. You might have let on that we were on to him!”

“Couldn’t have that, could we?” Peter replied coolly. He had noted Graham’s change from
they
to
we.

“No, you might have blown the operation. You know, gone into hiding or something.”

“And there was no reason for us to do that, was there?”

“Well . . .” Graham snorted with anger. “Blasted security! They just don’t take it seriously enough here! Why they ever let him get hold of so much information! They should have been more suspicious earlier on. Of course, that is what tipped us off in the first place.”