The Children's War (63 page)

“You remind me of my son,” she finally said.

He smiled slightly.

“He’s dead,” she added without emotion.

His smile faded. Had somebody in his cell taken a chance like the one he was asking this woman to take? Was that why they were all dead now? He sighed again. Anything he could think of saying sounded hollow. “If you kill me, you’ve become what you hate.”

She shrugged. “We do what we must to survive.”

He lowered his head so he could take a break from staring into the barrel of the automatic rifle. The exhaustion he had felt on the road crept up on him again. If only he could sleep. Finally, without really knowing why, perhaps it was simply to keep them talking to him, he said quietly, “If you do kill me, would you please bury my body? I don’t want to be dumped in the woods like some piece of garbage. Maybe you could say a little prayer over the grave? I don’t need a headstone or anything since anybody who might care about me is dead anyway.” He looked around. “I know the ground is rocky here and it will be a lot of work . . .” If he could divert their attention a bit, then perhaps he could dive into the woods.

It was the woman’s turn to smile. “Take off your clothes.”

He looked at her in horror. “At least let me die with some dignity! They can’t be that valuable to you.”

His anger amused her and she laughed lightly.“No, it’s not for the clothes. For some idiotic reason, I think I believe you. We won’t kill you, at least not right now. All I want to do is check you for bugs or homing devices. You won’t object to that will you?”

He didn’t. He began by removing his jacket, his fingers fumbling nervously over the military-style buttons. He was not sure whether he should believe her, and his mind kept racing as he tried to think of something he could say to them, something that would convince them that he was genuine and that he was worth the risk of keeping alive. But nothing sounded right. He was tired, perhaps it would be just as well to lie down in the moss and let them blow his brains out— at least his last moments could be spent with the vision of the beautiful forest and the sweet smell of gentle autumnal decay.

He removed his shirt. The woman’s eyes lit up with suspicion as the tape on his arm became visible. She stepped forward before he proceeded any further and unwound the tape herself; slowly, the gleaming metal of his manacle emerged. She turned his wrist and held it up to read the inscription and compared the numbers with those on his arm.“Why did you come here, into these woods?” she asked, letting his arm drop and taking a precautionary step back again.

“I chose them at random. I simply fled the city and drove as far as I could before dawn.”

“At random?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that a rather idiotic escape plan?” she asked sarcastically.

“Maybe it was my version of Russian roulette—I like to load five chambers instead of one,” he answered testily. “You just try and get the information I needed from where I was!”

She laughed. “So you just ended up here. Of all places.”

“Clearly I had to end up somewhere. And don’t tell me you weren’t watching me from a distance. It wasn’t so unbelievable that we happened upon each other. After all,
you stopped me.
If only you had watched a bit longer, you would have seen that all I wanted to do was dump the car. I took an exit off the autobahn and headed for the mountains. I thought I might find an old dirt track or even a lake into which I could dump the car.”

She did not comment on his assertion; instead she asked, “Why would you want to dump such a nice car?”

“I could be traced to this area if it were found; you see, it belongs to the man whose papers I took.” He hesitated, then added with quiet distaste, “The man who owned me.”

“Why not head toward England? Why here?”

“The photograph,” he said, indicating Karl’s papers. “I could never have made
the Channel crossing on those papers. And I figured that going to England is exactly what they would expect and that I’d soon be rearrested. It’s not like I can ever return to a normal life, not with these numbers burned into my arm.”

“They’re not burned on,” she said as if pointing out a flaw in his story.

“They are to me.”

She nodded slightly, then she looked up at the trees and sighed, “What a world we live in!” She made a visible effort to regain her detachment before she ordered, “Finish undressing.”

As he shivered in the cold autumn air with his hands on his head, the woman searched him thoroughly. She was gentle and asked his pardon as she invaded his privacy, but he could not help but notice that the muzzle of the automatic rifle never slipped from pointing directly at his heart. The boy’s steely gaze held him fixed: he would not be fooled again!

When the woman had finished searching him, she ran her fingers gently over the wounds on his back, satisfying herself that they were real. “When did you get these?” she eventually asked.

“I don’t know. I mean,” he hastily added, “it depends on which ones you are referring to.”

“So you have been beaten more than once?”

“Yes.” Beaten, tortured, by more than one person, on more than one occasion. Why did it embarrass him to admit it? Why did he feel as if he had somehow failed?

The woman looked up at him; clearly this revelation, and the physical evidence, made his story more believable. She surprised him by saying, “I am sorry.”

Before he could respond, she turned away and went to sit down by the pile of clothing he had left. The boy continued to hold him in his sights as the woman searched each piece. The thoroughness with which she inspected every seam and button implied that not only was she extremely experienced, but that the devices she was searching for were far advanced on the ones he had learned about so long ago in London.

She paused and looked up at him when she reached the waistband of his trousers. Before he could say anything, she slid the slim piece of metal out and inspected it. “A lockpick?”

He nodded. “Yes, I put it so that I could reach it even if my hands were cuffed to the front or the back.”

“So you are not completely devoid of talents.” She pocketed the lockpick, then continued her inspection. When she had finished, she handed him his clothes, but left the jacket, belt, socks, and boots to one side. She answered his questioning glance by saying, “They’re too difficult to search by hand; we’ll get to those and your bag later. You can walk barefoot for now. We’ll finish questioning you at camp.”

After he had dressed, she tied his hands behind his back and took a moment to inspect his gun before she handed it to the boy. He inspected the gun as well,
checked the clip, and then slung his rifle over his back and pointed the pistol at Peter. They then set off into the woods with the woman leading the way, Peter in the middle, and the boy following, keeping his prisoner under constant guard.

They dove into the woods, ducking under saplings and trampling over roots and stones until eventually they turned onto a narrow trail. The rocks cut into his skin, the roots twisted around his ankles, loose stones slid out from under his feet, and with his hands bound behind him, each time he stumbled he had no real ability to recover his balance. He fell a number of times, crashing in an ungainly heap, twisting his ankles and bruising his shoulders painfully. Each time they waited patiently, but did not help as he struggled to his feet.

Their path wound up the slope; at points they turned from one path onto another; sometimes they left the trail altogether only to join another a few meters away. Each time they fought their way through the underbrush, Peter was scraped by branches and briers he could not hold out of the way. He tried to keep his head low and lead with his shoulders; nevertheless, his face was soon covered in scratches.

They took their time covering ground; frequently Peter and the boy would rest while the woman disappeared into the woods, presumably to check to see if they were being followed or observed. Nevertheless, Peter felt exhausted: his feet were battered and bruised and covered in mud, his face and arms were covered in scratches and insect bites, and his muscles ached from his numerous falls. He was shivering from the cold, he was hungry and thirsty, and he had an urgent need to urinate. Eventually he had to ask them if he could please stop to piss.

The woman held the gun on him while the boy helped him. Peter was beyond feeling humiliated though—it was such a relief to finally relieve himself! After he was done, the boy used the opportunity as well, and the woman laughed quietly at the odd camaraderie. The boy shrugged, said something to the woman in a language Peter did not understand, they both laughed, and then all three continued their march.

The ground became soft with moss and dead leaves. Birds twittered high above in the branches. The clouds had yielded to a brilliant blue sky, and whenever there was a break in the canopy, sunlight streamed down to the forest floor with a magical dappling of light. Eventually the path they were following dropped down to run along the edge of a small stream. The sunlight created fantastic patterns on the surface—a thousand diamonds dancing to the tune of the water bubbling over the rocks. Peter asked if they would stop for a moment so he could drink.

The woman and the boy waited patiently as he approached the stream and knelt in the shallow water. As he leaned forward, he had a sudden thought, and he straightened and turned to look at them. Why weren’t they drinking? “Is this water safe?”

The boy shrugged. The woman pursed her lips, said, “I think so. Your folks— the Germans, I mean—have no access to its source.”

He wondered at her slip of the tongue. Were they just taking him deeper into the woods to kill him? The path they had followed had seemed incredibly erratic, as if they were heading nowhere in particular. The water beckoned, his thirst overrode his concerns, and he leaned forward and drank deeply.

They continued along the stream for a long while. The ground was soft and felt good underfoot. Eventually, they came to a large fallen tree that spanned the creek. The woman leapt onto the trunk and began to cross. Peter stopped cold and considered what he should do next. If he slipped off the impromptu bridge with his hands tied behind him, he would probably break his arms falling onto the rocks, but it seemed unlikely that he could convince them to untie him.

The woman was already on the other side and eyeing him suspiciously. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of water?”

“No,” he grated, and plunged into the stream. It was less than a meter deep and only about five meters wide, but it was still a challenge not to slip on the mossy stones. He dragged his elbow along the edge of the trunk to help stabilize himself and finally emerged on the other side, dripping wet, but none the worse for wear.

Once he was on the other side, the woman held his arm, guarding him so the boy could cross unhindered. When they were all together, she left the path and scrambled up the bank and up a bracken-laden hillside. Their progress sent up clouds of gnats, which hovered around their faces and seemed to be preferentially drawn to Peter’s soaked clothing. He shook his head frantically from side to side to try to disperse them, but they clung to him. He coughed and spit as he realized several had gone into his mouth.

The woman, noticing the commotion, stopped and turned. She took the several steps back toward him and waved her hand wildly at his face. He threw his head back, flinching defensively, his instinctive response a split-second faster than his realization that she was swatting at the bugs. He reopened his eyes and grimaced with embarrassment at his display of fear. She gave him a long look but said nothing, turning instead to resume her climb.

Gathering himself, Peter followed, scanning desperately for any sign of a path. There was none as far as the eye could see. Nor was there any sign that anyone had recently trampled through the bracken. They were clearly breaking a new path. Where the hell were they going? He became increasingly convinced that they were leading him nowhere.

The bracken gave way to a steeper slope of mud and roots and an occasional sapling. The woman climbed up that as well, frequently using her hands to grab on to a root to pull herself up a slippery section. Peter struggled to follow. He wedged his foot into a root and leaned against the slope as he gasped for breath. Behind him he could hear the boy climbing. He looked back and saw the gun still trained on him. “Keep moving,” the boy advised.