Coup d'Etat

Chapter 23

Hans-Ulrich Rudel shivered. Snowflakes swirled through the air. His breath smoked. The ordinary Luftwaffe greatcoat wasn’t defense enough against the Russian winter. He’d have to go back to wearing his flying togs all the time, the way he had the year before.

The Wehrmacht had been caught short last winter. Even the Germans’ Polish allies laughed at them or, worse, pitied them because of their inadequate cold-weather gear. Nothing could embarrass German national pride worse than pity from a pack of slovenly, hard-drinking, wife-beating Poles.

Things were better this year. Proper winter clothing was reaching the Landsers who needed it most in something like adequate quantities. They wouldn’t have to steal lousy, flea-infested sheepskin jackets from Russian peasants, the way they had before. They wouldn’t have to tailor bedsheets into camouflage smocks for the snow, either. There were proper snowsuits, reversible between white and Feldgrau. Progress, of a sort.

But only of a sort. As a lot of invaders had discovered before Germany tried it, Russia was easy to get into. Getting out was a lot harder. You could win victory after victory… and then what? The Red Army kept throwing in fresh divisions as if it manufactured them in Magnitogorsk. And there were always more kilometers of broad, flat Russian terrain ahead of the men from the Reich.

Nobody talked much about having a bear by the ears. Get labeled a defeatist and you’d soon envy men who’d only been captured by the Ivans. Hans-Ulrich was sure, though, that if he’d started having doubts about what Germany could hope to accomplish here, other people had worse ones and had had them longer. He was automatically loyal to the Reich, to the Party, and to the Fuhrer. Others tried to separate the idea of Germany from the people actually running the country.

And there were other worries. Not long after the ground got hard enough to let them start flying again, Albert Dieselhorst sidled up to Rudel on the airstrip and spoke in a low voice: “What have you heard about the French?”

“Huh?” Hans-Ulrich blinked. “What do you mean, what have I heard about them? They eat frogs’ legs and snails. They make good wine, too, though you’d care more about that than I do. What else am I supposed to know?”

His radioman and rear gunner breathed out twin gusts of exasperation through his nostrils. “In a military sense… sir.” The military honorific plainly took the place of something more like you donkey.

“Well…” Hans-Ulrich chose his words with care, even with Dieselhorst. If he talked about the way the French had held the Reich out of Paris two wars in a row, he could still end up in trouble. So he stuck with the obvious: “They’re holding a stretch of the line not too far south of here.”

“Yes. They are.” The sergeant exhaled again, not quite so extravagantly this time. “How hard are they holding it?”

“Huh?” Hans-Ulrich repeated. This time, though, he didn’t stay a blockhead long. Even an innocent like him began looking for plots when the war wasn’t going so well. “What? Do you think they’re going to try and pull an England on us?”

“It’s… possible.” Dieselhorst seemed happier that his superior did have some kind of clue after all. “Are you ready to fly against them if we have to?”

“I’m always ready to fly against the enemies of the Reich,” Rudel answered, now without the least hesitation.

Sergeant Dieselhorst grinned crookedly. He reached out and set a hand on Hans-Ulrich’s arm. It wasn’t the kind of thing a noncom was supposed to do with an officer. It was, though, the kind of thing an older man might naturally do with a younger one he liked. “There you go, sir. I should’ve known you’d come out with something like that.”

“Well, what else do you expect me to say?” If Hans-Ulrich sounded irritable, it was only because he was. He was a falcon. Fly him at something, and he’d kill it for you. What it was didn’t matter, as long as you wanted it dead. He didn’t think of himself in those terms, of course. But then, chances were a true winged, taloned falcon didn’t think of itself in those terms, either.

“Not a thing, sir. Not a goddamn thing.” Dieselhorst paused, perhaps wondering whether to go on. After a few seconds, he did: “If the froggies screw us over, we’ve got a two-front war for real.”

“God forbid!” Rudel burst out. That had been the nightmare in the last fight, one that Germany hadn’t had to face this time around. If she did… Well, the war got harder.

“God won’t forbid it. God doesn’t work that way.” Dieselhorst spoke about God with as much assurance and conviction as Hans-Ulrich’s father ever had. He went on, “People are going to have to take care of it. One way or another, it’ll be people. It always is.”

He sketched a salute and ambled off. No one, not even a National Socialist Loyalty Officer, could have made anything of the conversation if he didn’t overhear it. They’d been flying together since the start of the war: more than three years now. Of course they’d have things to talk about.

If France went bad, the Luftwaffe would have to fight back out of Germany itself. Well, out of the Low Countries, too. But all that seemed small consolation for so much fighting, so much treasure, so much blood. And if France let England back onto the Continent while the war against the Russians ground on… That could be very bad. Hans-Ulrich didn’t need to be a General Staff officer to see as much.

Two days later, he got up the nerve to ask Colonel Steinbrenner, “Sir, just how loyal are the French?”

The squadron commander blinked. “Et tu, Brute?” he said.

“Sir?” He might as well have been speaking Latin. After a moment, Hans-Ulrich realized he was.

Sighing, Steinbrenner dropped back into plain old Deutsch: “So you’ve heard the rumors, too, have you?”

Rudel also realized that, if he had, odds were everybody else in the squadron had been buzzing about them this past fortnight, or maybe longer. There was an encouraging thought. Not even winning the Knight’s Cross had made him less of a white crow. “Yes, sir. I’ve heard them,” he mumbled.

“Well, now that you have, you know as much as I do,” Steinbrenner said. “If they turn out to be true, we’ve got some new troubles. If they don’t, we’ve got our old lot. Any other questions?”

What came out of Hans-Ulrich’s mouth then surprised him: “Can I get a little bit of leave, sir? Long enough to go back to Bialystok? If things turn bad, I’d like to have the chance to say good-bye to Sofia.”

“You know, you ask so few favors, it makes me nervous sometimes,” Steinbrenner said. “Yes, I’ll give you leave. What you do with it is your business, not mine. Enjoy yourself, though.”

“Thank you very much, sir!” Hans-Ulrich stiffened to attention and saluted. Colonel Steinbrenner’s answer was more a wave than a salute, but that was a superior’s privilege.

Three days later, Hans-Ulrich was back in Poland. It was snowing in Bialystok, too. He didn’t feel so cold there, though. The tavern where Sofia worked wasn’t far from the train station. German and Polish soldiers crowded the place, drinking as if they didn’t want to think about tomorrow-and they probably didn’t.

The bartender stuck his head into the back room and shouted something in Polish that had Sofia’s name in it. She came out a moment later, trim and neat as always. The bartender pointed toward Hans-Ulrich, who sat at a small table against the wall.

She walked over to him. “You again. So they haven’t shot you down yet?”

“As a matter of fact, they did, but I managed to bail out,” he answered, which sobered her. He went on, “Bring me a coffee, will you?”

“You’ll make us rich!” she exclaimed, snippy as ever. Her pleated skirt swished around her legs as she went off to get it.

When she set it-almost slammed it-down on the tabletop, Hans-Ulrich said, “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep coming back here. We’re liable to get transferred.” He didn’t say anything about the possibility of flying from Germany again. Let her think he was going to the Ukraine or something. He assumed she was no spy, but he took no chances.

He waited for one of her patented zingers to come back at him. She surprised him by gnawing at her lower lip and not saying anything for a little while. Finally, she murmured, “Well, it was fun while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

“It’s not over yet,” he said quickly.

“You want to lay me some more, you mean.” That sounded like her, all right.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You’d be amazed.”

“It’s been more fun than I ever figured it could be, so maybe you’ll get another chance,” she said. “Maybe-if you wait like a good boy till I come off my shift.”

He clasped his hands on the table in front of him, as if he were eight years old and sitting at a school desk. Laughing, Sofia swirled away again.

Carlos Federico Weinberg yowled lustily in Chaim’s arms. The baby had La Martellita’s blue-black hair-a startling amount of it, when so many little tiny guys were bald. Telling who newborn babies looked like was a mug’s game-they mostly looked squashed. Chaim hoped this one would end up taking after its mother.

Carlos screwed up his face and started to cry. “Hey, I’m not that ugly,” Chaim said, first in English and then in Spanish.

La Martellita rolled her eyes. She hardly ever thought his jokes were funny. “Give him to me. He’s hungry,” she said. “When he cries like that, that’s what he means.”

Chaim handed her his son. She handled the baby with practiced efficiency, where he was as careful as if he were taking a detonator out of a land mine. As soon as he settled Carlos in the crook of her left arm, she unbuttoned her blouse and gave the baby her breast.

She saw Chaim eyeing her. He could no more help it than he could help breathing. “They’re for this, too. They were for this before they were for men to stare at,” she said pointedly.

“I guess so.” Chaim didn’t want to argue with her. He just wanted to keep looking. Were women’s tits really for milking before they were for ogling? If men didn’t admire them and grab them and lick them and suck at them, how many babies would get born to nurse from them? Not many, by God!

It was like the chicken and the egg, only a hell of a lot more fun to think about. If he brought it back to the Abe Lincolns, they’d argue about it for days, if not for weeks. It was more interesting than what the lousy Nationalists were liable to try next, no two ways about it.

Deftly, La Martellita switched Carlos from one side to the other. He ate like a pig. If he didn’t know when he had a good thing going, he was no son of Chaim’s. When she put him up on her shoulder and patted his back, he belched as if he’d been drinking Coca-Cola instead of milk.

She reached a finger inside his diaper. “Wet again,” she said resignedly, and set about fixing that. Chaim would have been afraid he’d stick the kid with a pin. La Martellita wasn’t, and she didn’t.

Carlos wasn’t circumcised. Chaim had never seen a Spaniard who was. He felt a pang of tradition flouted. Jews had had that covenant with God for thousands of years. Never mind that the top of Chaim’s mind made a point of not believing in God. He felt the pang even so.

He didn’t say anything about it. If he were going to take Carlos and La Martellita back to the States, he might have. But they’d stay in Spain. Carlos would have to fit in as best he could. A funny-looking cock wouldn’t help.

He tried something less likely to cause trouble: “Thanks for letting me visit you. Thanks for letting me see my son.” Technically, they remained man and wife. She hadn’t divorced him yet. Having a baby probably kept you too busy to worry about something you could take care of any old time. He knew too well the writing was on the wall.

She nodded as she started rocking Carlos in her arms. The baby’s yawn showed off pink, toothless gums. His little crib only cramped her tiny flat even more.

“It’s all right,” she said. “You aren’t the best Communist ever, but it’s not like you’d go over to the other side.”

She really did think that way. Not whether he was a good guy, not whether he’d make a good father, but how good a Communist he was. Chaim admired such dedication without sharing it. He would have wanted to jump on her adorably padded bones if she were Marshal Sanjurjo’s mistress. Hell, he would have wanted to jump on her bones if she headed up Sanjurjo’s General Staff.

She hummed a lullaby to ease Carlos down into sleep. Chaim thought the tune sounded oddly familiar. Was it one American mothers used, too? Then he recognized it and started to laugh.

“ Now what?” La Martellita asked after making sure his silly noises hadn’t bothered the baby.

“Nothing-I suppose. But how many kids go nighty-night to the Internationale?”

“And why shouldn’t he?” La Martellita would have bristled more, but she was easing Carlos down into the crib. He made a little noise as she slid her arm free, but only a little one. Then he kind of sighed and went on sleeping.

“No reason at all,” Chaim said. “It did surprise me, though.”

A soft answer turned away wrath. Sometimes. When La Martellita didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to rip somebody a new asshole. Chaim braced himself for tsuris. It didn’t come. Instead, La Martellita sat down on the edge of the narrow bed where Carlos had got started. A sigh whistled out of her. “You have no idea how tired I am,” she said.

Actually, Chaim thought he did. La Martellita had done a lot for the Republic and the revolution, but he didn’t believe she’d ever fought in the line. When you spent most of a week on a couple of hours’ worth of snatched catnaps… Some battles petered out just because both sides got too goddamn exhausted to keep going any more.

But if, for once, she didn’t feel like squabbling, Chaim wouldn’t go out of his way to provoke her. All he said was, “I know raising kids isn’t easy.”

La Martellita nodded. “It would be harder still if I’d had to invent a last name for Carlos, or if he had to do without one.”

“I’m glad to give him mine,” Chaim said, fearing he knew what was coming next.

“I’ll bet you are.” La Martellita smiled cynically. “You got the fun that goes along with being married.”

Got. Past tense. Chaim’s Spanish wasn’t perfect-nowhere close-but he understood that, all right. He felt as if he were defending the Ebro again, back in the days before England and France went to war with Germany. Not much hope, but he was damned if he’d retreat. “Bits of it,” he said, “when I could come back into Madrid. And if you didn’t have some fun with me, you ought to be in the movies, on account of you sure acted like it.”

She flushed. He’d managed to hit a nerve, even if that was all he’d managed. “There were… moments,” she admitted.

“There could be more.” Chaim wanted like anything to sound debonair and suave. He had the bad feeling he seemed horny and desperate instead. Well, he was-both.

“No. It’s over.” La Martellita, by contrast, sounded altogether sure of herself. When didn’t she, dammit? “I have gone to the Palace of Justice to register the dissolution of our marriage.”

In the Republic, that was all you needed to do. Very simple. Very clean. Very civilized. “Aw, shit,” Chaim said in English. He’d known all along it was coming. That should have made it easier when it got here. Somehow, it didn’t. La Martellita didn’t speak English. He translated for her: “Mierda.”

“I don’t mind if you want to keep seeing the baby,” she said-she really was trying to be civilized. “But…” She didn’t go on, or need to. If he tried to touch her again, he’d leave without his cojones.

“Shit,” he said again. No, it didn’t hurt any less. More, if anything. He got to his feet. “Take care of yourself, querida. You could do worse than me.” He couldn’t help a little vinegar: “And I bet you do.”

“My worry. Not yours.” La Martellita looked toward the door. Out Chaim went. He headed for the bar a few blocks away, the one from which he’d taken her on the night they started Carlos. He brawled with a guy half again his size, and left him moaning and bloody on the floor. El narigon loco — the crazy kike-was on the loose again.

Vaclav Jezek listened to the impassioned Yiddish pouring out of the American International. The Czech guessed he was getting maybe two words out of three. That was plenty to understand what was wrong with the other guy.

“Women,” he said in his own slow, clumsy German when the American finally paused for breath. “Nothing better than a woman to drive a man nuts.”

He hadn’t cared about any one woman since he had to leave Czechoslovakia. When he got the urge, he went to a whorehouse and laid his money down. It was easy and quick. If it didn’t give him everything he might have wanted… Well, what did? Especially in wartime?

“Man, you got that right,” Chaim said. “I never thought I’d get this one to begin with. To get her and then to lose her like that-it’s a bastard and a half.”

“You had her for a while. That’s better than not having her at all,” Vaclav said.

“Is it? I fucking wonder,” the American replied.

Was it? Wasn’t it? Vaclav was trying for sympathy, not philosophy. He didn’t know. He didn’t think anybody could know. And, right now, it wasn’t his worry any which way. He unbuttoned his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Here. Have one of these.”

“Thanks. You’re a mensh, you know?” Chaim had an American lighter he fueled with brandy these days. Its blue flame was almost invisible, but lit his cigarette and one for Vaclav. They smoked together, and both stashed their tiny butts in tobacco pouches-waste not, want not. Chaim went on, “That was good. Not as good as pussy, but good.”

“You do what you can,” Vaclav answered with a shrug.

“Yeah. And when you can’t, you don’t.” The International reached out to touch the long barrel of Vaclav’s antitank rifle. “I hope you do, pal. I hope you blow that cocksucker Sanjurjo’s head from here to Bilbao, you know?”

“You do what you can,” Jezek repeated. People kept telling him to finish off the Nationalist leader. Nobody told him how, though. Wait till he shows up, then shoot him. That was what it boiled down to. If it were so easy, by now Sanjurjo would have as many holes in him as a colander. But only another sniper would understand that.

Or maybe not. “You can do it,” Chaim said. “Honest to God, you can. That Big Bertha you carry, it can reach farther than those Nationalist tukhus-lekhers really imagine.”

“If he shows up, I’ll try.” Vaclav didn’t know how many times he’d said that since reaching the Madrid front.

“Kill him. If you can’t fuck, killing’s the next best thing.” Chaim thumped him on the back and mooched away. Vaclav scratched his head. He didn’t get any kind of charge from shooting Fascist officers. The most he took from it was an artisan’s satisfaction at a difficult job done well. Some people had other ideas, though.

Trenches got muddy in fall. Rain made them even less livable than they were when it was dry. Rain also made sniping with the elephant gun harder. Yes, you could still kill somebody two kilometers away. Rain didn’t bother bullets a bit. But if you couldn’t see anybody two kilometers away, how were you supposed to kill him?

Vaclav still went out to one hidey-hole or another between the Republican lines and those of the Nationalists. If he had more trouble finding targets, the enemy would have more trouble finding him. Sometimes he would come back after dark without firing a shot. Better not to fire if you couldn’t do anything worthwhile. He told himself as much over and over again. It was frustrating all the same.

“Don’t worry about it,” Benjamin Halevy said after he blew off steam in the Jew’s ear.

“Easy for you to say,” Jezek snarled.

“Probably.” By refusing to take offense, Halevy only annoyed him more. “But you aren’t obliged to get yourself killed by being stupid. You’ve lived through another day. Maybe the chances tomorrow will look better. As long as you’re still here, you can find out.”

“Well…” Vaclav looked at that from every angle, trying to get angry at it. Try as he would, he couldn’t. “Do you have to be so sensible all the goddamn time?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do my best not to let it happen again,” Halevy said.

Vaclav wondered if Jews were usually that way. Then he thought about Chaim the American. Whatever else you could say about him, sensible he was not. Jews probably differed as much from one another as anybody else. From where Vaclav had started before the war, that made a pretty fair leap of tolerance and understanding.

It started raining harder. Halevy had a shelter half. He draped it over his shoulder for a poncho. “I hate winter in the field, you know?” he said.

“Tell me about it.” Vaclav’s shelter half dated back to the Czechoslovakian Army. He shrugged it on, too, but wondered why he bothered even as he did it. A lot of the rubberized fabric once coating it was long gone. That meant it let in water just like any other piece of cloth. “Next time we fight a war, let’s do it in Panama or the Belgian Congo or somewhere like that.” He named the places he could think of that were least likely to be afflicted with winter.

“There you go.” Benjamin Halevy nodded. “Good to see you’ve got it all figured out.”

“My ass. If I had it all figured out, I’d be lying on the beach on the Riviera or somewhere like that, next to a girl with hardly any clothes and even less in the way of morals.”

“Sounds good to me,” Halevy said. As a Jew in the French Army, he could have left the service when France threw in with the Nazis. Had he headed down to the Riviera, he could have found a girl like that. From everything Vaclav had seen, France was full of them. But Halevy chose to come to Spain and leave his life on the line. When you looked at him like that, who said he was so goddamn sensible?

Like animals, they both curled up and got what sleep they could. Vaclav woke before dawn-again, like an animal. He gnawed on garlicky sausage and hard bread, then went out into no-man’s-land. There were ways through the wire, if you knew them. Vaclav did-he’d made some of them.

What was left of a smashed house out there didn’t offer a whole lot of cover, but Vaclav didn’t need much. Most important were concealing the outline of his helmet and making sure the Nationalists couldn’t spot the antitank rifle’s long barrel. The ruins let him do both well enough.

He draped the shelter half over the big gun’s telescopic sight. Keeping it dry mattered more than keeping his carcass that way. War was at least as much about tools as about the men who wielded them.

As dawn poured thin gray light over the landscape, Jezek suddenly jerked as if a scorpion had stung him. That was a summertime worry here, but not in weather like this. The Nationalist soldier crawling toward this wreckage, however, was. He’d fixed bushes to his Nazi-style helmet with a strip of inner tube, a trick Vaclav also used. And his rifle had a telescopic sight, so he was probably a sniper on his way out to see what harm he could do the Republicans.

But he’d had a mild case of manana, the common Spanish ailment. He’d had it, and he’d never get over it. Jezek shifted the elephant gun’s barrel so the massive piece bore on the oncoming Spaniard’s track. At less than a hundred meters, he hardly needed the sight. He used it, though. He didn’t want to miss.

When he fired, the gun almost took his shoulder off, as it always did. The Spaniard sank down like a punctured tire. He twitched a few times, even after a hit from a round that could pierce three centimeters of hardened armor plate. Human beings were damned hard to kill. Vaclav chambered another round, just in case. He quickly decided he wouldn’t need it.

He thought about crawling over and getting the enemy sniper’s rifle. It would be a good weapon to bring back. Not while it’s light out, he thought. Somebody might be watching. After darkness would be time enough. You had to be patient if you were going to play this game.

Another trip out of town to raise funds for the war effort-and, on the side, for the Democratic Party. Peggy Druce was more relieved than not to get out of Philadelphia. She never would have felt that way before she went to Europe.

It wasn’t her fault. She understood that. It wasn’t Herb’s fault, either. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just one of the things that happened when two people, even two people who loved each other a lot, got separated from each other for years at a time.

Maybe things would get better pretty soon. Peggy kept hoping so. She had no doubt Herb did, too. Till they did… Sometimes, she was just more comfortable when she didn’t feel that mild awkwardness, that slight constraint, while she was in the same room as her husband.

Carbondale was north and east of Scranton, not very far from the border with New York. It was exactly what its name declared it to be: a coal town, one of perhaps 20,000 people. Most of them were Welsh and Irish-the primarily Slavic mining towns lay farther west. As their ancestors had since the early nineteenth century, the breadwinners went down under the ground to grub out anthracite.

US Highway 6, the main drag, twisted like a snake with a bellyache. What Peggy could see of where people actually lived looked to be on the grim side. Even so, the man who met her at the train station-a plump druggist named Vernon Vaughan-had his own small-scale civic pride.

“Carbondale’s come through the Depression better than a lot of places,” he declared, watery sunlight glinting off the silver rims of his bifocals. “The mines always stayed open. They had to cut back some, but they didn’t shut down. Most people had some money most of the time. That meant the merchants didn’t go under, either.”

“Good for you,” Peggy said, and she meant it. Plenty of towns Carbondale’s size, all across the country, might as well have closed up shop for good after the market crashed in 1929. Since she was here on business, she felt she had to add, “I hope that means you’ll reach for your wallets when it comes time to buy your war bonds.”

“Well, I figure we will.” Vaughan’s double chin wobbled when he nodded. “People here are proud to be Americans. They work hard, sure, but they know they’re better off than they would be if Great-Grandpa stayed in the old country. The Irish, now, they got out ’cause Great-Grandpa was starving. My folks didn’t have it quite so bad, not from the stories I’ve heard, anyway. But I went Over There in 1918, and I was proud to do it.”

“Good for you,” Peggy said again. “My husband was the same way.” She didn’t tell him that she and Herb had lived more than comfortably enough even when the country hurt worst. She didn’t tell him she’d had enough money to stay in Europe for a couple of years, either. The way things worked out, she wished she’d never boarded the liner to begin with.

“There you go,” Vaughan said. “Let me grab your overnight bag there, and I’ll take you to your hotel. It’s only two, three blocks away. And the Rotarians’ hall where you’ll talk is right next door.”

“That all sounds great,” Peggy said, again most sincerely. Some places were better organized, some not so well. Vernon Vaughan seemed to have things under control.

The hotel would never make anyone forget the Ritz Carlton. But it would do. She’d stayed in plenty of worse places on the other side of the Atlantic: she didn’t have to trot down the hall to the bathroom, for instance. And she wouldn’t have to scramble for the shelter when air-raid sirens started shrieking.

She talked about that when she went next door to speak. “They’re still having air-raid alerts on the West Coast, though,” she said. “We have to make sure no enemy can ever strike at us at home. Not ever! When I was in Europe, I saw for myself how horrible that was.”

People applauded her then. But they sat on their hands when she talked about helping England now that she was back in the fight against Germany. Carbondale wasn’t the ideal place for that line, even if she realized as much half a minute later than she should have. What had Vernon Vaughan said? The town was full of Irish and Welsh. And why had their ancestors crossed the ocean? To get out from under their English landlords and overlords.

Time to ad-lib, then. “You may not love England,” she said, “but if you think Hitler’s a better bargain, I’m here to tell you you’re out of your ever-loving minds. If you get on England’s bad side, she’ll break you if she can. If you get on Hitler’s bad side, he’ll kill you-and as many of your friends and neighbors as he can catch, to make sure they don’t get any nasty ideas like freedom on their own.”

That drew a little handclapping, but not much. Peggy went back to laying into Japan. Sooner or later, she expected, there would be a reckoning with the Nazis. But it would probably have to be later. People like the ones in the Rotarian hall here showed why FDR couldn’t go and declare war on Germany. If old Adolf had declared war on America, now…

Well, it hadn’t happened. The best thing the USA could do now against the evil day was strengthen herself as much as she could. If that meant whipping up hatred against the Japs, okay, she’d whip it up. We were fighting them, after all. And we weren’t doing any too well against them right this minute, either.

“Show your hearts with the red, white, and blue!” she finished. “Everybody talks about being a patriot, but patriotism takes more than talk. Put your money where your mouth is, folks. You can’t fight a war with nothing but talk. I wish you could, but you can’t. It takes cash, too.”

She hadn’t expected much. This wasn’t a big city, or even a medium-sized one. And Welshmen, at least, had almost the same kind of name for stinginess as Jews.

But she did great. The bonds the men of Carbondale bought wouldn’t mature for years. Washington could spend the greenbacks they forked over right now. Both sides seemed to think it was a good bargain.

Afterward, Mr. Vaughan took her to dinner at an Italian place down the street. The tablecloths were red and white checks. There was a poster of a Venetian gondolier on one wall, and of the Leaning Tower of Pisa on another. Despite the cliches, the spaghetti and meatballs were fine. Peggy could see the cook. He looked more like a mick than a wop, but he knew what he was doing.

And he had the advantage of American abundance. With plenty of food and plenty of fuel, if you screwed up the food it was your own damn fault, not that of your ingredients the way it might be in screwed-up Europe.

As they ate and drank red wine, Vaughan did his best to put a move on her. Peggy pretended not to notice. He wasn’t her type-not even close. Still and all, getting noticed that way felt good. It reminded her she was alive. It wasn’t that Herb never acted interested. Even so…

“Well…” The druggist put a fin on the table, which made him an extravagant tipper. He climbed to his feet. “Let me walk you back to the hotel.”

“Thanks.” Two glasses of ordinary Chianti didn’t make Peggy susceptible. She was more amused that he kept pitching than anything else.

She had no trouble shedding him in the hotel lobby. That behind the front desk stood a large, strong-jawed maiden lady who plainly disapproved of everything enjoyable under the sun only made it easier.

Up in her room all by herself, she pulled out a mystery story and read till she got sleepy. What with the wine and all that filling food, it didn’t take long. Vernon Vaughan wouldn’t have had much fun with her even if he had got past the dragon downstairs-not unless he enjoyed necrophilia, he wouldn’t.

He was there to take her back to the station the next morning. “Sorry if I got out of line last night,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Peggy told him. “I’m heading home, that’s all.”

So she was. And before long she’d look forward to getting out into the boondocks again. How smart had she been to ignore him, then? That she could wonder said not everything in Philadelphia was the way she wished it would be.