The Children's War (178 page)

She knew what would happen if they were discovered. Death was certain for her and Peter. Alone she might be able to construct an elaborate alibi, but since she was in his company, they would not believe it for even a minute. Only the child stood some tiny chance of survival. If someone took a liking to her, decided she could be adopted, then she might survive the journey down the mountains. She would grow up then, never knowing her parents, never knowing her heritage, never knowing what had been done to her.

Zosia started contemplating their options. She knew she should ask Peter to leave, but how could she say that to him? It would tear him apart. She examined another option: they could try keeping a lookout and defending the cabin against any troops that passed through. But with only the two of them and in her weakened state? And what sort of defense could they mount with two pistols and a couple of knives? Sit quietly and slaughter one or two soldiers as they stumbled in the door? Then what? Wait for bombardment or for the barrage of highpowered rifle shots through the walls or be burned to death? It was hopeless.

They could not flee either. There was nowhere to go except into the fighting. If the cabin was discovered, they could not hide in the woods, not even for a short while. Their tracks would be obvious. Maybe they could set off on their skis deeper into the mountains. But to where? Any other cabin would offer the same dangers; anything else would condemn them to freezing to death.

Maybe they should try to reach the bunker. Three or four hours on skis? A baby wrapped in their arms, slowly freezing, a trail of blood from between her legs. Did she have the energy to do that? And what would they find? Enemy soldiers? A smoldering ruin? Heavy fighting?

Peter asked her if she wanted breakfast. She shook her head. “I’m going to nap,” she lied, and closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, wouldn’t have to tell him he should leave. She thought about her previous delivery, Joanna’s birth. It had been so different then! The thought made her happier and she pursued the memories into dreams. Everything was so secure! Adam was home, had made a point of not going anywhere for weeks beforehand. Her mother and father were still living in the bunker, Marysia was nearby. The day had been beautiful, she and Adam had gone for a walk in the woods along a stream. He had stopped and pointed to the stream and suggested she remember it when her time came and she was in pain. She remembered staring at the brook, letting the rippling waters and the sparkling sunshine sink deep into her memory. Adam’s arm was around her shoulders, his voice gently speaking to her.

Then there had been the delivery. He had held her throughout, had walked her up and down the narrow corridors. Her mother had held her hand and given her water to drink. Adam had whispered encouragement. Marysia, experienced Marysia, had assisted the birth. Zosia knew there was medical help nearby, but
with her family and husband there, she felt sure it would all go well. Afterward she had looked at Joanna’s tiny face and had hugged her tightly to her breast. Adam looked on with absolute adoration. He reached forward toward the child and stroked her head. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” she heard him say.

“Oh, Adam, she certainly is!” Her own voice woke her up and she opened her eyes in alarm. Something wasn’t right. Adam stared down at her with a look of dismay, as though he was hurt but not at all surprised.

“Oh, God!” Zosia muttered as she realized her mistake.

Peter turned away and walked over to the fireplace. He stood with his back to her, staring into the flames for a long time. He watched as they leapt upward into the chimney. Too high probably, they were wasting fuel. The fire crackled, the warmth was reassuring. He wanted to throw his thoughts into the flames, to let them burn and rise through the chimney and be scattered in the wind. He wanted desperately to feel something other than what he did. He wanted to feel nothing, but instead he felt hurt and disappointed and trapped.

“Peter . . . ,” Zosia said softly.

“We should put this thing out. Save fuel. It’s warm enough for a while and we don’t want them to see the smoke,” he preempted her.

“Peter . . . ,” she called again gently.

“I
don’t
want to hear it,” he snarled. Speaking quickly before she could say anything, he added in a calmer tone, “I should leave. You’ll be safer without me here. If we’re discovered, I’ll be the death of us all. Without me, maybe you could convince them to take you prisoner or tell them you’re German and concoct some story. If necessary, we can ransom you or spring you and the baby later.”

“If you think that’s best.”

He turned to look at her. “Yes, I think it’s best. There’s enough food and fuel here for a few days. I don’t know what you’ll want to do about the fire; I’d advise keeping it going. If there are troops passing through, they’ll probably notice our trail here whether or not there’s smoke from the chimney. Do you think you’ll be all right alone?”

She nodded, blinking repeatedly.

“I’ll head toward the bunker. I’ll tell anyone I find about you.”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“I’ll come back for you both as soon as I can, I promise.”

She began to cry.

“I’m sorry, Zosiu. I’m sorry I’m a liability. I’m really sorry.” He resisted saying that he was sorry that he was not Adam, as he had once done, long ago. He walked over to the bed, picked up the infant, and held her in his arms. “
Goodbye, little one. You’re all I have in the world now, and I can’t stay to take care of you. I’m sorry, little girl. Don’t hate me.”

He knew he should not tarry, but he did not want to let go. He held his daughter and quietly sang a little song to her. He held her and looked into the tiny face, trying to memorize its features. He held her and prayed to no one in
particular to spare her life. He felt sure he would never see her again, so he pressed her close to him and kissed her forehead and whispered to her, “Remember, no matter what else happens in your life, I loved you—just as you are.”

46

T
HE TWO SOLDIERS APPROACHED
with trepidation. Next time they’d know enough to let the sergeant win at poker. God, how could they have been so stupid as to cheat him of all people! It had seemed a good idea at the time, but now as they invaded these mountains as if they were held by someone else, as if they had not been part of the Greater Reich for decades, now it seemed like the dumbest idea of their lives. The sergeant had not been able to prove they were cheating, so instead he was giving them every shit job available. “Check out that cabin,” he had said. “Report to me if it’s clear.”

Clearly someone was living in the little hut. Why didn’t they just blast it off the face of the earth? Could be one of ours inside. Could be useful stuff in there. Could be valuable prisoners. Could be the sergeant didn’t care if they got their arses shot off. As they approached, each cringed in anticipation of the rifle shot that would end his life then and there, each urged the other to go first. Slowly, stealthily. Sneak up on them. But how across a snow-covered clearing?

They reached the edge of the trees and glanced back at their comrades who were supposed to cover them when the shooting started. Then they looked at each other; each took a deep breath, counted silently, and sprang into action, bounding across the open stretch like terrified rabbits.

Neufeld had his eyes closed, composing his eulogy as the imaginary bullets rained down on him. There was no response from the cabin. Nothing. They reached the door. Without bothering to clamber over the snow to look in the window, they simply kicked the door in and leapt inside, rifles at the ready.

A man, standing by a bedside holding a baby, turned to look at them; a woman, lying in the bed, looked at them as well. They seemed exhausted. Neither made a move toward the pistol that lay in a holster on a table a few feet away. The man could perhaps have leapt for the gun, but his arms were wrapped around the child and he did not attempt to move.

The soldiers held the pair in their sights; one of them motioned to their sergeant to come inside while the other poked around the room. The sergeant walked in and confronted the fugitive pair. What were they doing here? Peasants hiding? Partisans? Refugees en route to somewhere else?

Poor sods. He should shoot them immediately, he thought; it would save them a lot of pain and suffering. If they arrested the pair and the babe—obviously
ously a newborn—then they would have to assign someone to hold them prisoner at the cabin or drag them around the mountain as they advanced. The baby would almost certainly die, the mother might collapse from loss of blood and exhaustion. If they survived their journey into town, the man would be hanged or shot out of hand, she would be sent to a camp, and probably, if she survived the train journey, she would be dead within a matter of days of her arrival.

The sergeant did not guess he was looking at officers of the Underground, wanted criminals; all he saw was a bewildered and exhausted couple who had inexplicably taken refuge in the mountains to have their baby. Poor choice of location, poor timing, poor decision. Perhaps it was the only one they could make. Perhaps it was
Rassenmischung.
Perhaps, out of love, one of them had sacrificed everything for the other. The woman looked pure Aryan: Was she a settler who had gotten herself tragically, illegally pregnant by some
Untermensch?
Had they fled the inevitable retribution of society to try to preserve the baby?

He walked over to the man who stood so silently holding his child. The officerreached for the man’s left arm, twisted it around. There was no resistance to his action, the man just adjusted his hold on the child to make sure it remained secure in his arms. As the sergeant had suspected, there were numbers etched into his arm. An escapee. He glanced at the woman’s arm. Nothing there. Maybe the woman had been a camp employee, or a daughter of someone associated with a camp. Or perhaps the man had worked in her house. Still the pair remained silent. Were they so terrorized they could not speak?

Then he noticed the man was wearing a wedding ring. The woman was as well. That was rather poignant—they would not have been allowed to marry; she could not legally marry him, and he could not legally marry at all. Yet, they had felt the need to have some pathetic marriage ceremony, probably carried out in hushed tones in front of a plastic statue in some back-garden shed. It was illegal, he told himself, immoral; it would weaken and corrupt their society, dilute the purity of their blood. He told himself what he was supposed to, rehearsed his catechism as he had been taught, but it was useless, for he felt, despite himself, that it was touching, romantic, and rather sad.

The sergeant looked down at the tiny baby. The man followed his glance down, and despite his terrible predicament, a smile flitted across the man’s face as he contemplated the bundle of life he held. The sergeant continued to study the baby. Despite all his ideology and training, despite a lifetime of propaganda, he could see no evil in the child. It looked like a baby. Not an abomination, just a little baby. It made a face at him—sort of wrinkled its nose as if in amusement. A tiny baby, new to the world. So new. Like the one his wife had given birth to only two months ago.

The sergeant walked over to the table and removed the gun from its holster, tucking it into his belt; he left the knife where it lay. He then spun on his heel, walked toward the door, and announced to his men, “There’s no one here.
Nothing worth taking. Let’s move on.” They left and pulled the broken door shut behind them.

Peter and Zosia let out their breath simultaneously.

“Was that a deliberately eloquent silence?” Zosia asked.

“No,” Peter responded. “I just couldn’t think of anything plausible to say.”

“Me neither. Did you have a plan?”

“Only a vague hope we might take them hostage and bargain with the ones outside.”

“Yeah, I put all my money on my gun here in bed with me, but with three of them and the baby in your hands, I wasn’t sure when I’d get a chance.”

“Me neither. I’m glad you waited.”

“I wonder what he thought,” Zosia mused. “I wonder why he let us go.”

“Probably thought it would be a messy situation and it was better to ignore it.”

“Did you get his name or his serial number off his uniform?”

“Afraid not.” Peter had steady nerves, but not that steady!

“Ah, too bad, neither did I. I must be slipping. Getting old,” Zosia fretted.

“You just gave birth, darling.”

“We could have tracked him down and converted him later.”

“You mean blackmail, don’t you?” He marveled at her coolness.

“Whatever. If a system is so unjust that a soldier can’t spare a baby’s life without fear of demotion or imprisonment, then blackmailing him to betray that system is doing him a favor.”

“That’s pretty convoluted.”

“It’s a complex world, darling.”

“Indeed.” He went over to the window to check that they had really left. Their tracks led straight away from the cabin; there seemed no point in following them further. “I guess I should stay awhile.”

“Yes, we need to make sure you don’t stumble into them. They wouldn’t give you a second chance.”

“I’m worried about the trail though, it leads straight back to the bunker.”

“Most trails do. It’s inevitable. We’re aware of that and our defenses are appropriately arranged.”

“Will I have trouble getting back?”

Zosia fell silent.

“Well?”

“I don’t know! I hadn’t thought about that. Do you have an armband?”

“Yes.” He reached into a deep coat pocket to pull it out. Technically he should wear it anytime he was out, but no one bothered with that under normal circumstances. “Will it be sufficient?”

“Should be.”

He examined the cloth, wondering if he could bet his life on it, thinking that it would really stink to be shot by his own side. The thought made him laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“Oh, just the number of times I’ve been afraid of being shot by my own side. It’s getting quite silly.”

“One of life’s little hazards, dear. It’s nothing new.”

“Nothing new,” Peter repeated disconsolately.

He stayed several hours in the cabin. He helped Zosia use a bedpan and then buried the bloody urine as well as the afterbirth in the woods. Somebody had told Zosia that the placenta was edible, but neither he nor she knew how to prepare it, and the foodstores looked sufficient, so they decided to discard it. There wasn’t much in the way of creature comforts in the cabin—the extras that had been there for their honeymoon had been removed—so he washed the blood out of the towels and cloths they had used and hung them by the fire to dry so that Zosia could use them later. Then he pumped some water and set it by the fire to warm so she would not have to use her muscles too soon. He looked around, tried to plan and do what he could so that she would not have to exert herself, but his efforts seemed inadequate.

He was worried about leaving her alone there. If there were no more incursions, she would do fine over the next several days; already the bleeding had abated and she looked much more energetic. The problem was, what then? If someone did not fetch her within a few days, she would be forced to make her way out on her own. And if no one had come within a few days, it would mean either he had not managed to convey her location to anyone or, even worse, that there was no one left who could come. Then she would be obliged to surrender with the baby and take her chances with the enemy. It was not a comforting prospect.

Still, if he stayed, he was not sure he would be much use. He could get fuel and probably food, but he would consume food as well. He might be able to defend them against the odd straggler, but Zosia was just as capable of shooting an intruder as he was. And if they were forced to surrender, he would only taint them with his presence.

“We could say you owned me,” he suggested, trying to design some scenario where it would make sense for him to stay with her.

“What, you mean if we have to surrender?”

“Yeah, you ran off into the woods with an unwanted pregnancy, took me with you to help . . .”

“I hardly look like a teenager in trouble.” Zosia laughed, then she added more seriously, “Besides, you don’t have a manacle and neither of us have papers.”

He grimaced. “Oh, yeah. I guess that’d make me a runaway.”

“And that would make me an accomplice. Thanks, but no thanks.”

His reason argued for him to go, his instinct pleaded with him to stay and defend his family. “Still . . .”

“Peter, give it up. If you survive the trip down the mountain, those numbers will tell them who you are! We don’t want that, not after . . .”

They both fell silent.

He finished pulling some of the supplies down from a high shelf and placing
them where they would be more accessible, and Zosia began again trying to get the baby to nurse. She sat in a chair holding the baby up to her breast as a milky fluid seeped out and splattered onto a towel she had placed on her stomach; still the little girl was uninterested.

“Do you think we’re deep into enemy territory?” he asked in order to break the silence.

“I haven’t a clue. Given those soldiers showing up at our door, I would guess so, but then again, did you notice there’s been no fighting around here? Those boys could have marched up to this cabin without encountering anyone. The patrols might have simply missed them, or I imagine they might have gone forward to the front, leaving us essentially undefended. It’d be stupid and against orders, but not surprising. Most of them are just kids.”

“What happens to the older ones? The ones who don’t move into the bunker?”