The Children's War

1

"AS THE LONDON DIVISIONS of the glorious troops of the Fatherland march proudly past the gauleiter’s podium, they salute the Thousand Year Reich! the announcer intoned pompously. Following them, in impressive formation, are the noble soldiers of our great allies, the Red Army! Together our victorious armies will defeat the evil empire of capitalist gangsters across the Atlantic and claim our rightful place as the only superpower of the millennium!"

It was enough to make him get up and turn the television off. The room went dark, illuminated only by the thin strip of orange light that scattered off the night fog to find its way through the gap between the shade and the window frame. The ominous thump, thump, thump of a police helicopter flying low overhead rattled the thin glass of the windowpane. Neither of them took any notice of it.

Allison slumped onto the pillow on his bed and took a deep drag off the cigarette he had momentarily abandoned. Did you go? she asked, waving her hand at the television to indicate the parade that they had just seen on the news.

Of course! You know me, always the patriot!

Yes, our little blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan boy! she enthused comically.

There’s more brown than blond, he sniffed, and my eyes are gray!

It has always bugged you, hasn’t it, looking like one of their poster boys? she guessed with an indulgent smile.

No. Other people have always bugged me, trying to convert me, trying to get me . . . He stopped, suddenly aware that she had been teasing. He smiled sheepishly at his folly and she laughed in response.

So why did you go to the parade? she asked.

It ran right past the restaurant, so I didn’t get much choice. We all stepped outside, waving our little flags. Look. He pointed at the bedside table. I brought one of each back for you.

She glanced at the two flags lying intimately one on top of the other, the hammer and sickle obscuring most of the swastika. Ah, yes, so we’re allies again, she observed.

Seems so.

They did the switch rather fast this time.

That’s because nobody gives a fuck anymore, he guessed as he returned to the bed and gently removed the cigarette from her fingers. He stubbed it out, then turned to look at her suggestively. I certainly don’t, do you?

What’s this? She picked up an official-looking piece of paper that was lying underneath the little flags.

Ach, a notice from the neighborhood committee. I’ve missed three meetings this month. Don’t worry, I’ll get the restaurant to say I was on the evening shift.

I do worry, she countered. You should go to these things. It doesn’t look good to miss so many.

He waved his hand in exasperation. Every time I go, the local matrons swoop down on me like vultures so they can introduce me to eligible and near-eligible women. ‘Not married! How are you ever going to get a flat?’ he mimicked. Sooner or later they’re going to march me and some other poor unfortunate to the registry office and we’ll be married before we can sober up enough to object.

Maybe you should get married. Find someone you could trust, you know, from the organization.

He sat next to her on the bed and gently curled one of her dark locks around his finger. Then there’d be two divorces necessary, wouldn’t there?

She smiled wanly. Isn’t it about time we go pick up those papers?

He shook his head. No, I was warned off our contact this morning. May be tainted.

So there’s no work for tonight? she sniffed. I canceled going to a concert with . . .

Your husband? he asked as he leaned into her and kissed her neck, then her cheek, then her lips.

Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead you, I only just found out this morning. There’s still time if you want to go. His hand slid down her arm to clasp her hand.

Her fingers wove into his. I’d like to stay, she murmured.

Do you have any idea how much I love you? he whispered, choking back the intensity of his need for her.

She reached out and pulled him onto her, and there, in the darkness, in the privacy of the simple room he rented under an assumed name, there, where no one would find them, he made love to her, to the woman he loved, to the woman he loved more than life.

To a woman who was dead. Dead for four years.

His thoughts choked on this paradox, and gasping at the inconsistency, he opened his eyes. There was nothing but darkness surrounding. He frantically searched for a meaning to this part of his dream, but he could see nothing, not a hint of light. Jarring memories swept through him: fighting for his life, crashing noises, dizzying pain. Blackness. A nothingness as horrible and irremediable as Allison’s death. With a slow, burning terror, he realized he was not dreaming.

He blinked his eyes and forced them to focus. Still nothing. Something was pressing against his eyes, and he tried reaching for his face but could not locate his arms. He finally found them by shaking them a bit, and as they awoke, he reached for his face again but they would still not move. He tried moving his legs, but they were frozen into place, numb from inaction. He tried to shake himself free and became aware that he was constrained in every direction.

Was he dead? Is this what death felt like? Dark, silent, immobile. He knew though that he was alive: a splitting pain in his skull made him feel certain of that. Not dead. Just surrounded by silent darkness. Maybe he was in a coffin. Maybe they thought he was dead. Maybe they had buried him. Or maybe they knew he was alive and had buried him anyway.

Oh, God.

The muscles of his chest tightened; he could not breathe! He panted uselessly, his throat constricted in panic. He licked his lips but his mouth was dry, and he choked on the dust he imagined surrounded him. He struggled to gain control of himself, swallowed hard, and nearly retched. Something was in his mouth! Cautiously, he concentrated one step at a time on determining what was going on. His tongue probed forward and tasted cloth: he was gagged. He moved the muscles of his face and recognized that he was blindfolded, too.

He explored further, concentrating on his arms. With an effort, he was able to move his hands a fraction of an inch—enough to determine that his wrists were bound together and tied to something else. He pulled sharply upward, and sharp pains shot through his arms and back. Clearly he had been in this position for some time. As his nerves awoke and he rediscovered each bit of his body, he ascertained that he was sitting with his arms wrapped around his legs and his wrists bound by a short length of cord to his ankles. If he dropped his head forward slightly, it could rest on his knees.

So, he wasn’t in a coffin, not unless it had a very odd shape. As he calmed down, he began to wonder how he had remained upright for so long in such an awkward position. He rocked from side to side gently and felt something brush his shoulder on either side. He tried rocking back and forth, and he felt something supporting his back and could just scrape something with his feet. With growing dread, he raised his head as high as he could and felt his hair brush against something rough. It smelled like wood.

He swallowed hard several times before he allowed himself to realize that he was inside a crate just large enough to accommodate his curled-up body. He focused on breathing slowly, deeply, and tried not to notice how stale the air was. Tried not to think about the weight of earth that must be pressing down on him. Tried not to think about death by asphyxiation. Tried not to think about his lonely body moldering away to an unidentified skeleton.

Sunshine! Yes, he would think about sunshine. A bright, sunny, breezy day in the distant future. A desert, in fact. Endless sand cliffs and sunshine. For some reason, the distant future was sun-swept and barren with red dust and a cloudless, crystal blue sky. The sun beat down mercilessly on an empty landscape of ravines and canyons. There was no sign of life, or was there? The scurry of a rat, the cry of a distant hawk circling high above, two children playing, poking into the sand, digging up odds and ends. By a ravine. And what’s that? A bit of wood sticking out from the cliff edge. No. An investigation, people standing around, curious. No, stop this! A box. Careful, don’t break it! No, no! Look! A crumpled skeleton! No, it doesn’t have to be like that! Poor bastard must have died in torment, wonder why. Perhaps religious significance? No! And so alone, some voice intones.

No, no, no, no, NO!

Despite his efforts, his breaths came in shorter and shorter gasps and he began to tremble. Not here. Not alone. Not now. Not like this! Oh God, oh God, oh God, they had buried him alive! Bound and gagged and blindfolded in a crate. Oh, God, not like this, not like this! He threw his head wildly backward, struck the wood hard. The shock brought him up short. Had it given slightly? As if the crate were not packed in earth? And where was the smell of dirt? He stifled his breathing and listened carefully. Were those sounds? Industrial noises? A train?

If they had wanted to strike terror in his heart, they were succeeding. But who were they? Clearly, somewhere along the line, he had been betrayed back into the hands of the Reich. Time to go home, boy. That’s what those thugs had said. The very last words he had heard: Time to go home. Home to endless uniforms, to the stomp of boots, to ranting propaganda. Home to snooping neighbors, to droning officials, to permits and permissions. Home to fluttering flags, to ubiquitous swastikas, to gray and lifeless cities. Home to prison.

He listened intently, heard no sound over the pounding of his heart. Had his ears deceived him? Had they just left him somewhere to die horribly in a wooden crate? Was this their revenge, their sentence of death? If they had wanted to kill him, why not just do it? Why suffocate him or starve him or whatever? Surely, he had not been left to die; it was just too bizarre. As bizarre as quicklime-laden railway carriages, as bizarre as gas chambers . . .

The blackness closed in on him. Impotent surges of energy tormented his limbs. He needed to move! He needed to see! He did not want to die like this! Alone, ignorant, abandoned. He began to struggle mindlessly against his bonds, threw himself against the walls of the crate, attempted to scream through the cloth that choked him. After an unmeasurable time, he stopped, exhausted. Sweat streamed down his face, bright flashes danced before his eyes with each pound of his heart, his wrists were raw and slick with blood, and no one had come to him.

He struggled to keep his panic at bay, searching his past for something to fill the blankness. His grandmother’s flat, sitting on the floor, his head resting on his knees, eyes shut tight against the sight of the dingy, moldy concrete of the walls and the leaden skies outside. The phonograph’s volume so low he had to listen with his entire being. Music drifting around him: There’ll be bluebirds over, the white cliffs of Dover . . . As the old, illegal song ran through his mind, he worked quietly on removing his blindfold. By scraping his face against his knees, he managed to work the cloth off his eyes and over his forehead. There’ll be love and laughter . . . Next he forced the gag from his mouth, down his face, and let it settle around his neck. Elated by his progress, he began working on the knots that held his wrists in place. . . . when the world is free. As he contorted his wrists in his struggle to untie himself, the words ran out and silence closed in. He could not remember any more of the song! The melody became garbled with his confused effort to remember. The darkness pressed against him, seeping like a cloud of death into his ears and eyes and mouth, working its way into the depths of his being, seeking out his soul and destroying the music. He tried to divert the pressing blackness with other thoughts, with laughter and light and fresh air, but the effort of untying his hands broke his concentration, and time and again the darkness threatened to envelop his being.

There’ll be bluebirds over . . . He pushed his terror back. . . . the white cliffs of Dover. He could see them now, could hear the sound of the waves pounding against the seawall. He felt the sting of the bitter salt air as he had awaited the ferry those four years ago. It had been a dark day, a terminal day was what Allison would have called it. It’s a terminal day, she would state, indicating that the mood of the weather was like some sort of ending. It was never clear whether terminal days were good or bad; they just were. He remembered the impenetrable barrier of gray on the horizon and had nodded his head in agreement. Yes, it had been a terminal day.

The wind had been high, or at least so it seemed to someone who had lived his life in the confines of a city. Seagulls mewed incessantly, and he had looked up at them to try to determine if Allison’s spirit animated one of them. It had been only a month since her murder, and he still did things like that: he still looked for signs. There was nothing though; the birds were just birds. Flags slapped and banged noisily against their poles as the wind whipped around them, their clanging competing with the normal din of an industrial port. The ferry terminal was surrounded by flags, one on each post of the barbed-wire fence, the familiar red with its white circle around a black swastika—the flag of his country, the flag that had, so many decades ago, before he was even born, won its right to dominate his island home.

Hundreds of boys were around him, shifting uneasily, cold and anxious to get under way. He remembered feeling distinctly out of place among all those kids. There were some other men, but the vast majority were sixteen-year-olds; that was the age when every able-bodied male from the conquered nation was required to serve his Reich. They received their notices with their sixteenth birthday and were marshaled once a week at the local train station. From there, hours of travel and even more hours of organization brought them tired, hungry, and cowed to the docks at Dover.

A few cold drops of rain were carried on the wind. They slapped into his face and he closed his eyes to savor the salt breeze, but it felt hot and the salty taste trickled into his mouth. He opened his eyes to the terrifying blackness and the enforced paralysis of his bonds. He had known it was there, but the reality nevertheless shocked him. It could have been hours later; hunger gnawed at his thoughts, thirst was driving him mad. The knots refused to budge. He could not work his fingers around far enough to get a good grasp on the ropes. Finally, he stopped, tasted the sweat that dripped into his mouth, and wondered what he should do next.

He closed his eyes against the darkness and tried to hear something. There was nothing though, nothing at all. Before the insanity of silence claimed him, he let his thoughts slip back into his memory. He heard the buzz of conversation around him: boys making friends, telling where they had come from, exchanging insights. Most of them had probably never left their native district, and now they were to be sent away for six years to work somewhere on the Continent as Pflichtarbeiter. For some it was like a great adventure, a welcome break from the crowding, the shortages, the tedious routine of their homes. For others, the ones who had an intuitive understanding of just how long six years was, it was a painful separation from all they knew and loved.

It had been different for him. Instead of a birthday notice, he had been pulled out of his London prison cell early in the morning and shoved into the last carriage of a troop train heading south. There, along with a few other men, he had remained, manacled, until they had arrived at the docks. Then, somewhat inexplicably, the handcuffs had been removed and they were integrated into the general population of arriving boys, and there he stood, a convicted criminal with twenty years of forced labor to look forward to, guilty of that most basic and heinous of crimes in a police state: the possession of bad papers. A conscription dodger with insufficient and incomplete identity documents had been the best he could manage: a fake name, a fake history, inadequate papers, and a twenty-year sentence were still preferable to death by firing squad.

The wind caught at his hair and he impatiently brushed it out of his eyes. A few more drops of rain splattered heavily. After a time, the great doors of the ferry were opened and they were herded into the hold, divided into groups of about twenty and shoved into small, smelly compartments. The only light was from the hallway, and as the doors were shut, only a narrow beam from the tiny window cut its swath through the thick air.

He began to gasp as the foul air choked him. The dim light of the hold was swallowed by the darkness surrounding, and his dreamlike memories evaporated like wisps of hope. His muscles ached fiercely and he longed to stretch. Timidly he pushed against his bonds but they did not give, so he stopped before his lack of mobility could provoke panic. Again he tried to undo the knots on his wrist. He worked feverishly, his fingers aching with the effort at pulling. Then he heard it, the clear, unmistakable sound of a train. So, he wasn’t underground; he was near a rail line, or maybe even on a slowly moving train. He tried to determine if there was any movement, but he was shaking so violently from fear and exhaustion that he could not tell. At least now he felt sure he was being sent back. Whether they intended for him to survive the trip, whether they would kill him at the other end, he could not know, but at least now there was an end in sight. Whatever it was.

2

THERE WAS NO END in sight, Richard Traugutt thought as he tapped his fingers lightly on the arm of his chair and hummed a waltz under his breath. He was a tall, lean man with dark brown eyes and dark, almost black, wavy hair that was streaked through with gray here and there. Not the prototype of an Aryan Nazi, admittedly, but he had done well within the system and was moving rapidly upward—rewarded for his brains and devotion if not his looks. He took a sip of his coffee and blinked slowly as he sat in his uncomfortable chair, savoring that precious moment that he did not have to look at the speaker or his interminable slides.

He wondered if he could make some excuse and leave the room or if he had tried that gambit once too often. He lit a cigarette and decided to stay, since the presentation was almost entirely for his benefit. Besides, it would soon be over and it would do well for him to sit all the way through one of these things once in a while. He did not want to get a reputation for being rude, after all.

The cloud of smoke he exhaled obscured his vision for a few seconds, but when it cleared, the room and its tedious occupants came into focus once again. The speaker was a handsome young man with an aristocratic demeanor and a fine mustache that he fussed over incessantly.

Here we have an overview of the organization’s structure as determined so far, the speaker explained. It was difficult extracting this information from our prisoner, but we convinced him to cooperate!

The small audience chuckled appropriately.

Unfortunately, it seems our suspicions have been confirmed. The bombings carried out in the center of Krakau were done by a small group of terrorists who are not in any way connected with the Home Army. Desirable as it is, our total annihilation of this little group will not in any way impinge on that other organization.

There were scattered groans of disappointment from around the room.

Richard’s thoughts turned to that other organization, the Armia Krajowa, the Home Army: a Mafia, some said; a terrorist army according to others. Whatever it was, it was the bogeyman for the Nazi Ordnung enforced upon the subject peoples of the land. It lived and breathed among the occupiers, its heartbeat thumped ominously beneath the city streets, its breath hissed out of dark alleys and struck fear into any who crossed its path. It was everywhere and nowhere, powerful and impotent; its very real threats of retaliations affected the actions of each and every officer posted to the eastern Reich, yet it did not even exist. Their enemies were defeated, subjugated, annihilated, they were told, so it could not exist.

A murmur of approval penetrated Richard’s consciousness. The speaker was showing before and after photographs of the prisoner whom he had personally interrogated. Richard glanced at the pictures, then back at the speaker, and could not stifle the word arsehole as it slipped in a whisper past his lips. Always the same thing, always the most brutal, least effective approach. The man should be transferred, Richard decided, and he began to plot. There was a new installation near Breslau, a reeducation center being established inside a large military complex. They could lose this idiot by sending him there—he would no longer be under Richard’s direction and it would almost look like a promotion. The arsehole would do well there with his clubs and his chains and his penchant for inflicting pain with mindless abandon. Yes, Breslau, that would get him out of their hair.

Richard’s assistant, Til, walked over to him and crouched down so he could whisper something in Richard’s ear. Richard leaned in attentively.

There have been a lot of complaints from Party officials, Til whispered earnestly.

Richard nodded his head to show he was listening but kept his eyes on the proceedings.

It seems after the sixth or seventh child, they say their wives don’t feel, um, to put it delicately, don’t feel quite as snug.

Um-huh. Richard maintained a look of concerned interest. His wife was only pregnant with their fifth, but still he recognized the problem.

So the health ministry has been studying the situation, Til continued to whisper. And it seems they finally have a solution.

Really? Richard asked, and sipped his coffee as the speaker showed another gruesome photograph.

Yes, quite simple, actually. They recommend one buy a large ham, shove it in, and pull out the bone.

Richard sputtered, spitting coffee in the process. The speaker turned around to glance questioningly at him. Richard motioned that it was nothing.

The speaker continued to proudly explain his techniques. Til smirked and went back to stand where he had been before. Richard glanced at his watch and wondered if he would be late getting home that evening. It was not really important, since his wife was away visiting relatives. It would be difficult for her. She was Volksdeutsch, a woman who had declared herself German after discovering appropriate blood relations long in the past. One of the many curious cases of people discovering lost Germanic roots decades after the establishment of the Reich. Even more curious, but not atypical, none of her family had found this connection or decided to use it.

Richard’s own past was pristine: a father who had served the Reich well, living in London and raising his child there, a bloodline that had been documented pure as far back as his great-great-great-grandparents, active service in the military, Party membership, a brilliant career in government that was advancing quickly; only his wife, Katrin, or as he called her at home, Kasia, was a weak link in this otherwise impeccable background. Though, by all legal measures, she should have been using the language since she was born, she still spoke German with a noticeable accent, and even worse, her relatives insisted on retaining their Polish identity. Richard sighed and wondered how things were going for her. Conceivably, listening to an arsehole drone on ad nauseam about his prowess with a truncheon was preferable to what his poor wife was encountering at the hands of her family.

*  *  *

Kasia paced up and down the platform. The train screamed its warning and slowly chugged its way out of the station. Fifteen more minutes, she thought. Fifteen more minutes. Maybe they’ve encountered difficulty finding transportation, or maybe there is a roadblock and their papers are being checked. But it was none of those things, she knew. No one was coming for her. They did not welcome her visit and they would not greet her at the station—no matter how many advance messages she sent. She checked her watch and paced a bit more. Ten minutes, she thought. If they don’t come in ten minutes, I’ll go on my own. She paced a bit more and absently wiped the tears from her cheek as she checked her watch yet again. Five minutes. Five minutes more. Surely they would come to the station to meet the daughter and sister they had not seen for years? Surely they would not shun her in this manner. She checked her watch again and went to the taxi stand.

When she stated the destination, the driver shook his head. She tried the next cab and received the same response. When the third driver asserted that he would not drive into the neighborhood, she asked to be dropped off as close as possible and she would walk the rest of the way. The cabdriver whistled derisively but took the fare anyway.

Kasia stepped out of the cab at the edge of the township and looked across the vast array of hovels that her people now called home. Each and every resident could at one time have claimed another home: some hailed back to mansions and great estates, others to one-room tenements. All the residents had only two things in common: they had not cooperated with the regime and they had somehow survived. Every now and then the neighborhood withstood a purge as the Germans marched in and seized various people guilty of political crimes or Jewish ancestry or whatever. Every now and then the neighborhood withstood mass kidnappings as soldiers took the children of illegal marriages for use as slaves or for adoption by good German families. Every now and then the neighborhood withstood roundups, where able-bodied men and women were seized as Zwangsarbeiter, forced labor, to work without wages or even the most minimal rights in the Reich’s factories and farms or as domestic slaves for the Reich’s overworked Hausfrauen. Every now and then the population of the slum dropped precipitously either through the intervention of their overlords or through disease or hunger. Still, despite all the purges and winnowing of the population, they survived, scrabbling for life on the edge, reproducing and hoping for the future, teaching their children a forbidden culture and a forbidden language. Teaching stubbornness and determination and history. Teaching hate.

Gathering her courage, Kasia pulled her shawl more tightly around herself and stepped off the road and into the dirt alley that led to the stinking piles of garbage and staring faces of her brethren. She had dressed as inconspicuously as possible, but her presence drew attention as if she were wearing a sign saying INTERLOPER. She walked with a knowledgeable stride down the paths, afraid of showing even the slightest hesitation. She took a left at an unfamiliar junction and realized that she had probably taken a wrong turn somewhere. Nothing looked familiar.

Kasia decided not to turn around, fearing that if she showed she was lost, she might invite trouble. She continued to walk purposefully, picking her way through the debris, agilely leaping over the sewage ditches, holding her head high with a look of calmness that belied the tumult of fear inside her. She turned a corner and was in a central square. A small fountain in the center was no longer running, but someone had neatly planted flowers around the base. A group of youths played a boisterous game of soccer with a battered old ball that they kicked with reckless abandon. Someone sent the ball flying toward the flowers, and to Kasia’s surprise one of the boys thrust out an arm and batted it back with his hand into the field of play. No one chided him for his action, and Kasia guessed the flowers were sufficiently off-limits to merit violation of the most sacred rules of the ball game.

She walked over to the flowers and read the little hand-printed card that lay buried among them. In Polish was written: These flowers are planted in memory of those who died fighting for our freedom. Kasia picked up the card and saw that on the back was written in German: This card was placed here by A. Mandartschik, who takes sole responsibility for it. No hostages need be shot. It was signed using a non-Germanized spelling, and below the signature was an address and a tiny map that would help the Gestapo arrest the culprit if need be.

Kasia raised her eyebrows, wondering what Richard would think of such a bold gesture. Carefully she replaced the card and continued on her way, asking directions from one of the old men who lounged in a group near the door of a bar. They explained where she should go, and within a few minutes she was back on familiar turf.

The door to her parents’ hovel was missing, and now only a heavy woolen blanket hung over the entrance. Kasia knocked forcefully on the wooden frame and waited. When she had been a young girl, her family had been evicted from its tenement apartment and had taken refuge here on the outskirts of the town now called Tschenstochau. In the distance the ruins of the ancient monastery loomed, its miraculous history insufficient to repel these modern invaders, its famous Black Madonna missing and no longer able to protect it from the vindictive destructiveness of the new occupiers. Around her were the squalid shanties of the dispossessed. They lived here illegally, unable to obtain legal residence anywhere, and as squatters, they did not merit even the most basic city services and were open to arrest and deportation without notice.

Kasia pounded on the wooden beam again and waited. The move into the squatters’ suburb had nearly broken her parents. They had found living in the tenement wretched enough and had at that time talked longingly of the old days when their families had owned town houses in Poznań. Their home city was now called Posen and the territory had completely and ruthlessly been denuded of all its Polish inhabitants as they had been murdered or forced to flee eastward when the area was incorporated into the Reich proper. Only one family member had shamed them in those terrible times. Kasia’s mother’s uncle had chosen to declare himself and his family Volksdeutsch and had been obliged to deny his heritage and adopt the German language and culture, but had in return been able to maintain his property and his family’s lives.

Kasia pounded on the doorframe a third time, then pulled the heavy curtain aside and walked in. The front room was completely different from what she remembered, but she did not hesitate long enough to wonder why; instead she marched through to the back room, since she thought she heard someone in there. Hiding from me! she thought angrily as she stormed in.

She stopped and blushed a shade of bright red. On the thin mattress on the floor was a couple having sex. Not just sex, but the most contorted version of the sport that she had ever seen! The man was bent over the woman, his head somewhere down near her thighs. He was older, his brown hair streaked with gray; his fleshy body was red and sweaty from his efforts, and in his panting determination to achieve his goal, he did not even notice her intrusion. His partner did. She looked up at Kasia and giggled in execrable German, If you could see your face right now!

Kasia blushed even redder.

The woman’s thin, wan face was framed quite nicely by the thick, hairy, sweaty thighs of her companion. With the casual disdain of a prostitute who had done enough for her money, she thrust her arms between the man’s legs as if swimming through a cave and somehow managed to pull herself up even as her client reached in confused lust for the disappearing parts of her body.

She stood and pulled on a robe as the man hugged himself and moaned, Oh, oh, oh, don’t leave me now. Not now!

The woman threw him a look of practiced pity, then asked Kasia, "May I help you, gnädige Frau?"

I speak Polish, Kasia shot back angrily, forgetting for the moment her own embarrassment.

The woman turned to a rough wooden table on which sat a bottle of vodka and a couple of dirty glasses. She poured herself some vodka and then, turning to Kasia, asked, You want some?

Kasia stared at the filthy glasses and shook her head.

Rolling on the mattress as if in pain, the customer continued to moan drunkenly, "Oh, oh, oh, I love you. Come back to bed, Schatzi. Don’t leave me like this!"

He won’t get it up tonight, that’s for sure, the woman commented, casting a glance at the man. She drank her vodka down in several gulps, then said, So, you’re not from the Morality Ministry. What do you want?

My family lived here, I thought they still did. I’m sorry for intruding, Kasia answered apologetically, regaining some of her civility. She knew it was pointless asking for information and so she turned to leave.

As she reached the threshold, the woman called out, Are you Frau Traugutt?

Shocked by the question, Kasia turned back. What makes you ask that?

The woman went over to a shelf in a dark corner of the room and extracted a small bundle of letters. She thrust them at Kasia, saying, They didn’t get these. I don’t know where they’ve gone. No forwarding address, she added, using the typical euphemism for vanished without a trace.

Kasia grasped the small bundle of letters, each addressed in her own careful handwriting. Fearing that she would burst into tears, she fled the hovel without saying a word.

3

IT WASN’T TEARS THAT streamed down his face, it was his eyes melting in the blazing inferno into which he had been thrown. That’s why he could see nothing, that’s why it was so dark. He writhed in agony as the flames consumed him, but he could not move. He was stiff and lifeless. Immobile. Dead.

He suddenly realized that the roaring of the flames was the thundering of his heart in his ears, that his blindness was the darkness of the box, that his immobility was the ropes that held him bound. He was drenched in sweat, his hands frozen into place with his fingers clawing uselessly at the knots. His breath came back at him hot and fetid, his sobs of despair echoed noisily in the impenetrable blackness. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry. He was gasping but still his lungs ached for want of air. God, he was going to die!

A huge door slammed into place, and the faintest whiff of fresh air reached him. He heard workmen clambering around, heard boxes being moved. He heard them approach and he struggled to find his voice. Like in some terrible nightmare, he found he could hardly make a noise. Eventually, he rasped for help.

Shut up! a rough voice called out as the crate was lifted up. Shut up, or we’ll put you down on your head.

The threat sounded real enough. The crate was carried some distance and then dropped unceremoniously. He heard them retreating and then heard the sound of a much smaller door being shut. Darkness and silence closed in on him again, and in self-defense he retreated into himself, moaning softly like a lost child, allowing the hallucinations of slow suffocation to claim him again.

Later the sound of the door opening brought him back to his senses. There was the familiar buzz of fluorescent lights, and the faintest glimmer penetrated the cracks of the box. Several people approached, and one inserted a crowbar into a crevice between the crate’s lid and side. Light and fresh air streamed in through the tiny opening. Light! Air! He felt a huge surge of joy and relief.

As the side of the crate was pried off, a million suns exploded into view. He squeezed his eyes shut against the flood of light and drank in deep gulps of air. Somebody reached in and grabbed his shoulder and jerked him out of the crate. He landed heavily on his side on the floor. The rough concrete curved gently to a drain in the center: the floor of a prison cell.

Phew! Put the hose on him!

Look, he’s lost his blindfold, and the gag!

Those damn morons can’t do anything right.

A heavy jet of water pummeled his body. It felt glorious and he slurped at the water running down his face as he lay trussed on the floor. He coughed and sputtered and tried to turn away when the hose was aimed at his face, but still it felt wonderful to be alive and free of his coffin.

Okay, that’s enough. Let’s start the interrogation.

He was enjoying the sensations of life too much to be as terrified by that sentence as he should have been. A knife was used to saw off his bonds, then he was dragged to his feet. He could not stand on his own though, and someone had to hold him up. They fired questions at him rapidly, hoping to get information from him while he was still groggy and disoriented. He did not answer then; he could not, even if he had wanted to.

They kept at him over the next several hours, or perhaps it was days, incessantly questioning him and beating him to elicit the truth. They knew plenty already. They knew the name he had been using, they knew that he had been arrested with inadequate documentation. They knew he had been sentenced to twenty years and had served four. They knew he had escaped from his work camp to Switzerland, but they did not know how.

Over time he answered their questions, concocting a story about his escape that was essentially the truth. He gave it to them piecemeal, so they would be further convinced of its veracity. He left out only a few essential bits of information to protect his friends: there was no blackmail of the Kommandant, no damning pieces of paper held in reserve by them. Rather, to explain the Kommandant’s cooperation in his escape, he claimed they were lovers and the Kommandant had engineered his escape in order to join him later in Switzerland. The details of the escape were essentially the same after that: the uniform, the papers, the driver, being dumped on the other side of the formidable border, returning everything but a set of civilian clothes to the driver. Standing alone, free for the first time in years, surrounded by a profusion of promiscuous autumn flowers.

He told them of his first days of freedom. He left out the kindly old couple who had taken him in and fed him, he left out that they had kept him for three days to build up his strength. Instead of mentioning how they had borrowed a car to drive him into town, he told his interrogators that he had wandered into the town hall on his own. He recounted the great, noisy hall with its clattering typewriters and ringing phones. He told them about the prim young woman who had given him numerous forms to fill out in his bid for asylum. He explained how he had been diverted from one overfull waiting room to another, on the top floor. But you know about that, don’t you? he asked. That part was all yours, wasn’t it?

They didn’t answer him, they just pressed for more details and he went on, because there was no harm in telling them what they already knew. The door locked behind me, I was alone in this so-called waiting room. It looked like a storage room. By the time I had decided not to try and scale the roof, your henchmen came in. They had clubs, I was unarmed. I don’t really remember the rest.

Once he told them his story, he kept his silence, but they continued to question him, demanding details that did not exist, wanting names of accomplices and scapegoats. He refused to implicate his friends, had no names he would give them, so they kept at him, day after day until he lost all track of what they were even asking, until they lost track of why they were asking it, until it became nothing more than part of the routine.

His stoic courage, his brave determination to remain human in the face of such inhumane treatment, rapidly gave way to an obliviousness born of overwhelming pain, fear, and boredom. He lost track of his name, forgot his legend. He stood when pulled to his feet, sat when pushed into a chair. He swallowed blood as it filled his mouth. He stared mindlessly at his tormentors as they carried out their mindless rituals. Their act centered around him, yet he was no longer a part of it; he remained an object in their hands, sometimes questioned, sometimes beaten, sometimes ignored.

Sometimes they would even take a tea break in the middle of an interrogation. Others would wander into the room and he would listen through the pain fog as they talked about what their children were doing, about sports teams or office politics. Sometimes one of them would offer him some tea, unfastening his hands so he could hold the cup, wiping away a bit of blood from his mouth so the taste would not be spoiled. Once in a while someone would even give him a cigarette, and he would sit there trembling and smoking, unable to answer their jovial questions about who he thought would win the league title that year.

They laughed at him, teased him for being slow to answer or confused by their questions. Once, when his head had fallen to the table, someone pulled it up by his hair and pushed a doughnut at him so that he could have a bite and join in their tea-break conversation. They all laughed at the cream and sugar smeared over his mouth. The blood that dripped onto the pastry looked like raspberry jam, someone remarked. Don’t waste good food like that, someone else chided. Then the break ended, the extra bodies filtered out, and they began their work on him again.

Finally a week passed when nobody came to get him. A local purge had occurred and the prison had suddenly filled with suspects, all of whom had to be interrogated so that they could implicate their comrades and coworkers. Compared to such ripe targets full of names and ideology, he was rather boring. In due course, he was presented with a neatly typed confession and asked to sign it. He did so without even bothering to read the document. The single sheet of paper was added to his file indicating that his questioning had been completed and he was to be bound over for trial.

4

"OW!" ZOSIA YELPED. She lay on a high pile of hay under the dark beams of an ancient barn, young and beautiful, naked and covered with a light sheen of sweat in the chill autumnal air. She had untamably curly, golden blond hair, blue eyes, and an athletically muscled, exquisitely curvaceous body.

Adam licked his lips in anticipation just looking at her. He was also naked and even more sweaty. His hair was blond as well, but it was paler than Zosia’s, straight and strangely streaked with dark brown, as if it were changing color. The two of them had exuberantly abandoned their cross-country run and taken refuge in the barn to have a private last-minute encounter. He leaned over the slight bulge of Zosia’s belly and gently kissed the exposed skin.

What’s the matter? Adam asked. The little one kicking you?

No, it’s this damned hay, Zosia grumbled. Who in God’s name suggested we make love in a haystack?

You did, my dear, Adam murmured as he continued to plant little kisses in a line along her stomach. A faint, dark stripe, caused by her pregnancy, extended from her navel down between her legs, and he intended to follow its guidance.

Well, I want to be on top, Zosia interrupted him, sitting up abruptly. I keep getting poked by this damned straw!

Adam leaned back, stretched, and yawned. Fine with me, you can do the work!

Do you call it work? Zosia asked, easily miffed.

Adam observed her wryly. With you, sometimes. The look of disappointment turning to anger on Zosia’s face warned him that she was in no mood for jokes, but he was tired of her moods, so he crawled off her and over to his clothes. He rooted around until he found a cigarette and lit himself one.

Are you nuts? Zosia screeched. This is a haystack! You could burn the whole barn down!

Adam shrugged. Ah, the peasants will rebuild it. They have nothing better to do now that the harvest is in.

That is exactly the sort of attitude that causes them to resent us, Zosia warned, shivering in the October chill. Without Adam’s body heat, it was quite cold in the hay.

It was a joke, my dear. Besides, the little ingrates have no idea how good they have it. They should be kissing our feet in gratitude for defending their freedom.

If you’re into feet-kissing . . . Zosia pointed suggestively at her toes.

Adam smiled at her. Not now, pumpkin. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and extracted his watch. It’s nearly time, we should go.

Just like that, Zosia grumbled. First you get me all excited, then you decide we’re running late.

As talented as I am, I can’t change the heavens, love. He held up the watch. Look, we’re supposed to be getting married in two hours. Our friends will be waiting for us.

Ah, let them wait, we can do it some other time, Zosia suggested, stretching languorously in the straw.

No, no, no. You’re not getting out of it that easily, you little minx. I’ve got your word, now you’re coming to the ceremony and we’re making it official. I’ve done my part, you’re knocked up, now it’s time you do yours!

Ah, you’re no fun! Already acting like an old married man!

Come on, we should get back to the bunker and get dressed up.

I still haven’t decided what to wear, Zosia protested.

Adam took one last puff from his cigarette then carefully stubbed out the end on the heel of his foot. I think you should wear that sleazy prostitute’s dress. All the makeup, too. The priest will love that!

Zosia picked up a handful of straw and threw it at him.

Is that any way to treat your husband-to-be? You should show some respect! Adam teased.

Zosia picked up a bigger handful, crawled over to Adam, and ceremoniously dumped it on his lap. Here’s your respect, O lord of the manor. She reached down into the neat little pile and Adam smiled with anticipation, but Zosia fooled him. Instead of fondling him as he expected, she picked out a long, sturdy piece of straw and poked him with it. Time to get going! she ordered. Move it! Up and at ’em!

It was not the sexiest gesture on earth, but it had its effect, and Adam lunged at her and together they tumbled back into the straw.

*  *  *

Zosia’s preparations for the marriage ceremony were rushed at best. She hurriedly showered and combed the last of the straw from her hair, then she grabbed the white dress that Adam’s mother, Marysia, had offered her and threw it over her head. From the cupboard, she took out a large lace curtain that had hung on a balcony window of her grandmother’s town house before the place had been confiscated; she wrapped that around the dress and draped the end of it over her head like a veil. She used a belt to cinch the whole ensemble securely into place, grabbed a bunch of flowers out of a vase, and squeezed her feet into a pair of nice shoes that her sister owned.

Zosia’s mother, Anna, shook her head in dismay as her daughter rushed around knocking over things and spreading mayhem throughout their tiny, underground, concrete flat. I’m sure Adam has been preparing all morning, her mother chided.

Zosia smiled at the image of Adam on his knees, straddling her in the straw, his muscular body glinting with sweat, his red-blond pubic hair reflecting the light that had come in shafts through the gaps in the barn wall. Naturally, she replied. In fact, I’m sure he’s been to confession. Probably been on his knees all morning, but that’s only because he knows how lucky he is to finally get me!

Speaking of being gotten, or begetting, are you going to announce your pregnancy after the wedding?

Naw, I’ll just let them all count on their fingers when I give birth. It will give the gossips something to do.

Anna was momentarily silent, and Zosia knew it was out of an old-fashioned sense of embarrassment. Finally Anna managed to overcome her hesitation and said, Zosiu, there are certain things . . .

Zosia stopped her frenzied activity and gave her mother her full attention. Not because she was interested in hearing what her mother had to say, rather because she was intrigued by her mother’s attempt to say anything at all.

I mean, Anna continued unsteadily, I know you must have already . . . Well, it’s obvious you don’t need my advice about . . . It’s just that . . .

Yes, Mamusiu? Zosia asked with sickening sweetness.

Marriage is serious, Anna plunged in. So is parenthood. Why didn’t you wait until after the wedding to get pregnant?

Wait? Hell, this is the reason I’m getting married! Do you think I’d tie myself down for any other reason?

It’s an accident? You don’t want the child?

No, it’s not an accident and of course I want the child! It’s a husband I’m not keen on, but Adam refused to make a baby unless I promised to marry him. I guess he thinks it will settle me down, Zosia said laughingly.

I thought you loved Adam.

I do. Really and truly. I’m just not ready to be married to him, or anyone else for that matter. But time marches on and I want to have babies, and this seems the best way. Anyway, kids need fathers. Especially my kids, especially with my schedule.

But why before the wedding? Anna moaned.

I had to be sure Adam was up to the job of making babies before I tied myself down with him. That’s all.

That’s hardly romantic, Anna commented sourly.

Romance? What did that get you, Ma? Six children, the love of a thoughtless man, your goals and aspirations on permanent hold? Zosia snorted. You’ve worked like a slave for him all his life and now he’s shooting up the political ladder and you have to struggle to find time to keep a seat on the Council! Romance! Ha!

Your father is not thoughtless, Anna protested weakly.

I can’t wear these shoes! Zosia wailed suddenly. They hurt my feet, I can hardly walk in them!

Why don’t you borrow a pair from Julia? She has a lot of nice things and her feet are your size, aren’t they?

My size! Zosia squeaked. Impossible! Julia was Adam’s elder sister. Unlike her brother she was dark-haired and dark-eyed, but like Adam, Julia was tall and accordingly well-proportioned, and next to her Amazonian sister-in-law-to-be, Zosia felt rather small and delicate.

Zosia took another step in the painfully tight shoes and relented. Oh, all right, if they don’t fit, I can stuff something inside them. She slipped off her sister’s shoes and went to Julia’s flat.

Julia and her son lived in a tiny two-room apartment on the same wing as Anna and her family, so Zosia did not have far to tread down the dimly lit underground corridors. As she padded barefoot along the concrete floors, she did not smell the damp or hear the quiet hiss of the ventilation fans, nor did she think about the overwhelming weight of earth that shielded them all in their tunnels, for she, like Adam and Julia and many others, had been raised from birth in this strange military complex that existed as an outlaw outpost of the Home Army in the deep forests of the Carpathian Mountains and in the expanded bunkers and tunnels left over from the active warfare of decades ago.

They were the elite, the ad hoc Underground government of the entire southern region of their now invisible country and the military staff of a headquarters for scattered partisan encampments that defended their small piece of free land in the middle of the Thousand Year Reich. They regularly moved from one society to another using faked documents, faked histories, entire faked lives, to support their activities among the German occupiers. They continued a resistance movement dedicated more to cultural survival than active warfare, and as the decades had gone by they had turned more and more from guns and bombs and sabotage to education and economics and politics. Still, they were at war, and as they struggled to maintain contact with their thousand-year-old history and to keep the local population from sinking completely into the mire of ignorance and semistarved slavery, they did not lose sight of their need to remain a military outpost, defending their borders and preparing for the inevitably violent uprising that would overthrow their brutal oppressors and resurrect their ancient, beloved homeland.

Though it was not completely shut, Zosia knocked at the door of Julia’s flat. Olek greeted her with a broad smile. Eighteen years ago, when she was only eighteen, Julia had been assigned to infiltrate a government office in Berlin. She worked in the Security Ministry as a secretary, moving up from the typing pool to a trusted position handling an entire department’s files. She carefully maneuvered herself into advantageous personal relationships, including having a torrid affair with a young and handsome Party official, and after two years of patiently feeding information back to her people, she had an opportunity to complete her mission and plant a deterrent bomb in a suitable location. She returned not only having successfully completed her assignment but with a bulging belly. Though she refused to name the father, she decided to keep the baby, and the gangly, brown-haired, sixteen-year-old youth who greeted Zosia was the happy result.

Colonel Król! Olek snapped to attention and saluted Zosia with comic seriousness.

Cut the crap, Zosia snapped, fed up by all the teasing her new commission had earned her.

Just showing proper respect for our youngest female colonel, and, of course, the soon-to-be wife of a powerful Council member! Olek remarked with military precision. Not even thirty yet. Olek whistled his admiration.

I’ve been on active duty for sixteen years, Zosia retorted, and it’s well past time I get proper recognition. I should be on that Council!

Olek winked to try to ease Zosia’s irritation. I just figured that if they tolerate you and Uncle Adam, then they’ll tolerate anybody and there’s hope for me!

Sometimes her reputation as spoiled-brat-cum-golden-girl, the brave, talented, impetuous, and adored youngest daughter of powerful parents, annoyed Zosia. At other times, she used her position to exquisite effect. Right now, she simply ignored Olek’s gibes. Where’s your mother?

Olek shrugged. Out.

Drinking?

Probably.

I hope she makes it to the wedding. She’s my maid of honor, after all, Zosia fretted, but not very convincingly.

What do you need her for?

I don’t, I just need her closet, Zosia answered as she tromped past Olek into the apartment. Fashion emergency.

With a bit of stuffing the shoes fit well enough, and Zosia did not suffer unduly as she marched forward to take Adam’s hand. Adam looked quite dashing in the uniform he had chosen to wear. The uniform matched his most commonly assumed identity, that of an SS major, but he had carefully removed the obnoxious Nazi paraphernalia that was usually attached and had covered the German insignia with the shields and decorations of his own rank in the Home Army. Or rather, his mother probably had. Adam was not particularly handy with needle and thread or, in fact, any other domestic object. Nor was Zosia, and the pair’s combined gross domestic incompetence was the source of many jokes and wagers among their friends and comrades.

The ceremony was held outside in the crisp October air, and with the inspiration of the wind rustling the leaves and the bright sunshine glinting through the pines, Zosia and Adam quieted their natural exuberance and solemnly pledged themselves to each other. After the ceremony, the touching display of solemnity did not last very long, and the wedding party soon became raucous. Adam and Zosia joined in the dancing and drinking and merrymaking until early the following morning and then absconded quietly, mounting a horse and disappearing into the predawn mist that covered the pine woods in an ethereal cloak of gray.

5

GRAY. GRAYNESS EVERYWHERE. Gray walls, gray floor, gray ceiling. Even the wooden door had a gray patina. His clothes were gray from dirt, his skin, sallow and gray from imprisonment. As the gray fluorescent bulb flickered day in and day out, he thought he would go mad if he did not see the sun soon. He didn’t though. He just waited, aching, hungry, scared, and bored in a demihell of gray.

While he waited, a routine of sorts developed. They continued to feed him, delivering food in the morning and the evening; he was able to visit the toilet twice a day, just after breakfast and just after his dinner, but otherwise he never