Two Fronts

Chapter 25

“C’mon, you whore. Let’s clean your cunt.” Ivan Kuchkov shoved the pull-through into the barrel of his PPD submachine gun. Sasha Davidov was tending to his PPD, too. He raised a dark eyebrow. “You know, Comrade Sergeant, anybody listening to you would think you were talking about something else.”

“Fuck your mother, Zhid! Like I give a shit,” Kuchkov told the skinny little point man. His voice held no particular malice. That was just the way he talked, to his weapon and to the people around him. He listened to the phonograph record in his mind of what he had said a moment before and started to laugh. “All right, fuck me, too. That is pretty cocksucking funny.”

Along with the men in his section, he crouched in a clearing in some bushes near a stream. Artillery muttered in the distance. There were Germans within a couple of kilometers, but not far within that distance. Ukrainian nationalist bandits were liable to be prowling around, too. They might be closer than the Fritzes; they were commonly better at sneaking up on things.

They were also dumber than the Fritzes. Couldn’t they see that, regardless of whether Hitler or Stalin won the war, they were going to get it in the neck? Did it really matter to them whether they got it from the Gestapo or the NKVD?

For now, without orders to move against the Hitlerites, Kuchkov didn’t intend to do one single goddamn thing but sit here and play with his dick. He fought when he had to. He didn’t mind killing Germans, not even a little bit. But they could kill him, too. Why give them unnecessary chances?

Somebody off in the distance made a noise. Bushes were good for all kinds of things. They kept people on the other side from seeing you, and they warned you when trouble was on the way. Kuchkov quickly reassembled his PPD and slammed the big snail drum of a magazine into place under the weapon. If that noise meant trouble, he could throw a lot of rounds at it before he had to worry about reloading.

His men were all grabbing for their weapons and making sure they had a round chambered. Everybody here had been through several fights-no blushing virgins at this dance.

One of the sentries Ivan had posted around the encampment called out a challenge. Ivan heard some kind of answer, but couldn’t make out what it was. He didn’t have long to think about it, because a split second later a rifle shot rang out.

“C’mon!” Ivan said to Sasha Davidov. As quietly as they could, they scrambled through the bushes toward the gunshot. Kuchkov picked the Jew because his quiet was likely to be quieter than anybody else’s.

And so it proved. Sasha and the sentry coming back to the encampment nearly ran into each other. “Bozhemoi, Vitya!” Davidov barked. “I almost scragged you there.”

“I halfway wish you did.” Vitya Ryakhovsky’s face was white as new-fallen snow, his eyes wide and filled with horror. “At least it’d be over quick then. I just shot the politruk.”

“Fuck me in the mouth!” Ivan said. He had to bite down hard to keep from adding You stinking bitch! I wish I’d done that! However much he wished it, it wasn’t one of the things you came out with, not unless you wanted to hand your buddies your balls forever. Instead, he stuck to business: “What the piss happened?”

“I was there, where I was supposed to be,” Vitya answered. “I’d dug a good foxhole, and stuck branches and stuff in the dirt to hide it. I heard a noise-somebody pushing through the bushes.”

“We all heard it,” Sasha broke in. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they heard it back in Kiev.”

“Uh-huh.” Still pale as death, the sentry went on, “So I challenged. But this guy told me to tie my cock in a knot. That’s not the word, so I fired. I figured he was a Ukrainian bandit or something. And I hit him. Only-”

“It was the political officer,” Ivan finished for him. That stupid, arrogant answer sounded like a politruk, all right.

Vitya nodded shakily. “It was. Christ have mercy, I didn’t know!”

“Is he dead?” Sasha Davidov asked.

“He’s dead, all right-dead as makhorka.” Ryakhovsky nodded again, grimly this time. “I got him right in the bull’s-eye, just above his nose.”

“Let’s make fucking sure,” Kuchkov said. “Take us to him.” Wounding a politruk might be even worse than killing one, if such a thing were possible. A wounded political officer would testify against you, and of course they’d listen to him first and to you not at all. That was how things worked.

But the soldiers wouldn’t have to worry about that here. Maxim Zabelin lay crumpled on his side, his own machine pistol next to him. He still looked pissed off; his features hadn’t relaxed into blankness yet. The hole above his nose was small and neat. Going out, the round from the Mosin-Nagant had blown off most of the back of his head.

“What are we going to do?” Sasha Davidov whispered.

Kuchkov had been worrying at that himself. Reluctantly, he said, “Vitya, we’ve got to take it to the lieutenant. All the bastards at the camp heard your dick shoot off, y’know? We can’t fucking cover it over in hay. Some cocksucker’ll get toasted and blab, and then you’ll catch it ten times as bad.”

“Couldn’t I just run off?” Ryakhovsky asked miserably. He didn’t like the odds, and Ivan didn’t blame him.

But Sasha said, “No, you can’t do that, Vitya. Not this time. They’d think you murdered Lieutenant Zabelin on purpose and then did a bunk. If they grabbed you after that …” He didn’t go on, or need to. Vitya could paint those gruesome pictures inside his own head.

“Listen to him. He’s a goddamn smart sheeny,” Ivan said. “You better come. You got a chance, I think. The lieutenant, he’s a halfway decent prick.” For an officer, he thought, but he didn’t say that. Vitya had plenty to worry about without it.

The luckless (or lucky, depending on how you looked at things) sentry came along almost apathetically, as if he knew he couldn’t do anything about whatever was going to happen to him. No, not as if. He couldn’t, and that was the long and short of it.

Lieutenant Obolensky and the men with him had camped several hundred meters east of the stream in a ruined farmhouse whose surviving walls would shield his fire from the Germans’ eyes. “What’s up, Sergeant?” he asked when Kuchkov and Ryakhovsky and Davidov came back to him.

“Comrade Lieutenant, we’ve got us one cunt of a problem,” Kuchkov answered. He elbowed Vitya in the ribs. “Tell the lieutenant what the fuck happened.”

Stammering, Vitya did. “I wouldn’t’ve fired if he’d given me the word. Honest to God, Comrade Lieutenant, sir, I wouldn’t’ve!” he wailed at the end.

Lieutenant Obolensky didn’t say anything at all for more than a minute. By his face, he was thinking hard, though. “I believe you,” he replied at last. “But I’m not sure how much good that does you. I’m going to have to report this, too. I’m sorry, but I am. My dick gets cut off if don’t.”

“Yes, sir,” Ryakhovsky said in doom-filled tones.

“Don’t give up yet,” the company commander told him. “Zabelin may have been a politruk, but he was a jerk, too. The higher-ups in the regiment know it. He’d be plenty dumb enough to try something like that, and of course he paid for it.”

“The higher-ups in the regiment may know it.” Vitya didn’t sound any happier. He had his reasons, too: “But do the Party higher-ups?”

They might not. Ivan knew it, and so did Vitya. Party higher-ups had too good a chance to be jerks themselves. That often seemed part of how you got ahead in the Party.

Lieutenant Obolensky couldn’t say any such thing, of course. He did say, “I’ll do what I can for you. Fuck your mother if I don’t.” With that, Ryakhovsky-and Ivan-had to content themselves. Fighting the Germans was straightforward enough. When you had to deal with your own side, though …

Hermann Witt beamed at the new panzer. “Isn’t that the prettiest thing you ever saw?” he said. “The prettiest thing without a pussy, anyhow?”

“Sorry, Sergeant.” Adi Stoss shook his head. “A Tiger is the prettiest thing I ever saw that didn’t have a pussy. But this is next best.”

Theo Hossbach found himself nodding. That didn’t count against his daily word ration. A Panzer IV with a long-barreled 75 couldn’t match a Tiger, no. But it pretty much could match a T-34. After the Panzer III with its doorknocker of a gun, that was definitely within shouting distance of heaven on earth.

Lothar Eckhardt, who’d had to try to keep the whole crew alive firing that doorknocker, nodded along with him. “It’ll be nice not to see our shells’ drive bands sticking out of a Russian panzer’s armor for a change.”

“We’re going to have to practice like mad bastards on the sights and fire-control system, though,” Witt said. “They’re a lot fancier than what we’ve been using. They’ve got to be, ’cause we can hit from so much farther away.”

“We’ll do what we need to do,” the gunner told the commander. “We don’t want to get any closer to T-34s than we have to, even in this baby. If we can hit them when they’re likely to miss us, that’s how I like it.”

“You guys back in the turret have all the hard studying to do,” Adi said, a certain gloating note in his voice. “My controls and my instruments are almost the same as the ones in the old III, and Theo’s got the same radio set and the same machine gun as he did before.”

“My coaxial machine gun hasn’t changed any.” But Eckhardt couldn’t help adding, “The cannon sure has, though.”

Theo thought Adi shouldn’t have bragged that way. The same notion must have crossed Sergeant Witt’s mind, because he said, “The suspension and the engine aren’t the same. You guys can take the lead on dealing with the differences.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Adi said. Theo sent him a look that meant something like I’ll get you later. Anything that had to do with the suspension-working a thrown track back onto the drive sprocket, for instance-involved backbreaking heavy labor.

“You’re welcome. My pleasure,” Witt said. His grin meant it would indeed be his pleasure to watch somebody else busting his hump over heavy labor like that. But the smile also promised he would get in there and help when the labor did get heavy. He was a good commander, and good panzer commanders did things like that.

“Best way we can practice with the new fire-control system is to go hunting Russians,” Kurt Poske said.

“The whole company will be doing that,” Witt said.

“I bet you’re right,” the loader answered. His own smile slipped. “I bet we find the fuckers, too.”

No one said anything after that for a little while. Poske was much too likely to be right. Even though it was spring, the Red Army still held the initiative in these parts. Too many German soldiers and panzers and planes had headed west to keep England and France from breaking into the Reich to let the Wehrmacht mount any major strikes against the Russians. Rolling with the punches seemed to be the order of the day.

If we can roll with them, Theo thought. Of all the Landsers on the Eastern Front, he might have been the least likely to come out with that thought where a National Socialist Loyalty Officer could hear him. Of course, he might have been the Landser on the Eastern Front least likely to come out with any thought where anyone else could hear him.

His position in the right front corner of the Panzer IV’s hull was very much like the one he’d had in the older panzer, though the mounting brackets for his Schmeisser were in a different place. He’d have to practice reaching for it till he didn’t need to think about that. The leather on the radioman’s seat still smelled like leather, not like old sweat. Russian panzer crews sat on cast-iron seats. When the Ivans plundered wrecked German panzers, they cut off the leather and fashioned it into boots and belts. They were chronically short of everything-except soldiers and munitions and hate.

The Panzer IV’s engine sounded as if it was working harder than the Panzer III’s had. It wasn’t much bigger, and it had more weight to haul around. The Panzer IV with the big cannon had been uparmored as well as upgunned. Unlike a Tiger’s, even a new Panzer IV’s armor probably wouldn’t keep out a hit from a T-34. But the panzer’s long-barreled 75 could also pierce a T-34’s steel shell.

Adi Stoss thought along with Theo, as he did so often. “We can kill them, and they can kill us,” the driver observed. “Maybe both sides ought to be careful for a change.”

German panzer crews had been careful ever since they first met the T-34. If you weren’t careful around the Russian monsters, your folks got to decide whether your death notice should read Died for Fuhrer and Vaterland or just Died for the Vaterland. Neither choice struck Theo as inspired.

Witt rode head and shoulders out of the cupola, the way he had in the Panzer III (and, for that matter, in the Panzer II before it). You could see so much more than you could through the periscopes in the cupola. Of course, you were also more likely to end up a casualty. Good panzer commanders from every army took the chance.

“Steer a little farther to the left, Adi,” Witt ordered. “Might be something behind that little swell of ground.”

“I’m doing it, Sergeant.” Stoss used his steering levers to slow one track and speed up the other. He was still learning how much force he needed with this new machine to get the amount of turn he wanted.

Then Witt barked, “Panzer halt!”

“Halting, Sergeant.” Adi stood on the brake.

The turret traversed with the smooth near-silence of hydraulics. Through his vision slit, Theo watched the long gun barrel stop at around ten o’clock. The barrel rose slightly. Theo couldn’t make out what it was aiming at, but he had only the slit, not the magnifying scope that was fitted into the precise new sights.

A shell clanged into the breech. The gun moved again, microscopically. Then it roared. God knew it sounded more authoritative than the old 37mm. Impressive flame belched from the muzzle-and out to either side through the openings in the muzzle brake. Theo wouldn’t have wanted to be standing to either side of the Panzer IV when the main armament went off. With all that fire and hot gas spat sideways by the muzzle brake, getting too close might prove a fatal blunder.

“Hit!” Witt and Eckhardt yelled the same jubilant word at the same time. They were the ones who could see it best. A moment later, a cloud of black smoke in the distance and a fireworks show of ammo cooking off left Theo sure they were right.

“We’re out more than a kilometer,” Adi said. “Can you imagine killing a T-34 at that range with the old beast?”

“No,” Theo answered, startled into using a word.

“Me, neither,” Adi said. “A good gun, good shooting-a kill. I wish we’d had these a year ago, or two. We would’ve done better, that’s for sure. The Ivans had T-34s two years ago, damn them.”

“Ja,” Theo agreed. That was one of the nastiest surprises the Wehrmacht had got during its Russian adventure. Too many good people had died of surprise then.

“Wonder what’ll happen to our old III,” Adi mused. “What do you want to bet we sell it to the Hungarians or Romanians so some of their guys can get killed in it instead of us?”

“No bet,” Theo answered. He wouldn’t touch that one. It struck him as much too likely, and as just the sort of thing the Reich would do. The really scary thing was, even that beat-up old Panzer III would be better than what Germany’s allies were using now.

When the sentry brought the two officers into the encampment, he looked scared. When Ivan Kuchkov saw the blue arm-of-service color on the officers’ caps and collar tabs, he felt scared, too. He was damned if he’d show it, though. That wouldn’t do him any good, and might screw him.

One of the NKVD men was a major, the other a captain. “Ivan Ivanovich Kuchkov!” the captain said. “Vitaly Alexandrovich Ryakhovsky!”

“I serve the Soviet Union, Comrade Captain!” Vitya Ryakhovsky gulped.

“I serve the Soviet Union!” Ivan echoed. You couldn’t mess around with the Chekists. They got paid to give people grief. They commonly enjoyed it, too.

He was tempted to pick up his PPD and empty it into them. But if he did that he would have to run to the Nazis or to the Ukrainian nationalists. The nationalists were losers; he could see that. He thought the Nazis were also losers, at least in the Soviet Union. Besides, even if they weren’t, what was the Gestapo but the NKVD in a different uniform?

“We are here to investigate the death of Lieutenant Maxim Svyatoslavovich Zabelin, the company political officer,” the captain declared.

No shit, Kuchkov thought. And all the time I figured you’d come to the front to see if we had enough fucking belt buckles.

“You killed the company political officer, Ryakhovsky?” the major asked ominously.

Gulping again, Vitya said, “I did, Comrade Major, after he would not give me the password. I had no way to know he was not a Ukrainian bandit trying to infiltrate our position.”

“So you say.” The major’s sneer announced he didn’t believe such nonsense for a minute. He rounded on Ivan. “You, Kuchkov, you were with him when he shot the political officer?” He used the full phrase every time. He might never even have heard the word politruk.

“Not me.” Ivan shook his head. “I was back by the campfire when the fucking shot went off.” He talked the way he talked. Even when he made a stab at standard Russian, mat crept in.

“What did you do then?” the major asked.

“I went to see what the fuck Vitya was shooting at,” Ivan answered. “When I got to where the political officer was at, he was one dead whore.” He did remember not to give forth with politruk himself.

“What did you do then?” the major asked. Hadn’t the dumb prick looked at Lieutenant Obolensky’s report? What was being able to read for, if not for seeing shit like that?

“I thought, This poor cunt’s in trouble, and I bet I’m in trouble, too,” Ivan answered.

“Why did you think that?” the captain asked. “Did you have a guilty conscience? Had you been undercutting the company political officer’s authority, as is much too common in underdisciplined front-line units?”

“Not me, Comrade Captain. You can ask the company commander. You can ask any of these assholes here, too. I don’t do shit like that,” Ivan said. I’m not that motherfucking stupid, was what he was thinking. You started badmouthing the politruk, somebody was bound to squeal on you. Then you were dogmeat waiting for a dog-or a pack.

What was interesting was that some front-line sergeants-maybe even officers-evidently did go around telling their men that politruks were dumb fucking blowhards. As if the men couldn’t see that for themselves! But what you could see mostly had nothing to do with what you could say.

“We have spoken to your company commander,” the major said.

“And?” Ivan pressed. He didn’t think Lieutenant Obolensky would sell him down the river, but you never could be sure what somebody would do when he was afraid his own nuts might wind up on the chopping block.

“His story largely matches yours,” the major said in grudging tones. “What this proves, however, is questionable at best. Front-line officers have an unfortunate tendency to preserve fighting strength irregardless of the cost in ideological purity.”

Ivan had trouble following that. He thought it meant They’d rather stay alive than make good Communists. He approved of staying alive. If you had to be dead to make a good Communist (for a while during the Great Terror, that seemed to be about what it took), wasn’t the price too high?

No price was too high if you were a Chekist. Ivan understood that the way he understood he needed air to breathe. He said, “Comrade Major, it was a fuckup. That’s all it was. Vitya’s a pretty fair soldier. The political officer, maybe he was farting around and thought he was funny. Shit, I don’t know. But he didn’t say what he was fucking supposed to say, and he paid the price for that. If Vitya’d plugged a real Ukrainian bandit the same way, you’d be here to pin a big old whore of a medal on him right now. You wouldn’t be knocking pears out of trees with your dicks on account of this crap.”

The NKVD officers looked at each other. Did they even know the mat phrase for wasting time? Ivan decided they had to. They were Chekists. That meant they naturally had a lot to do with zeks. What were Chekists for but putting zeks into camps and dealing with them once they were in there? And all the good, juicy mat, the mat with some flavor to it, came from zeks.

“We have to make sure no anti-Soviet activity is involved, that this was a genuine accident and not crime or rebellion disguised as one,” the captain said.

Ivan wanted to tell him to fuck his own cunt with his little pine needle of a dick. He swallowed that, too. Pissing off the NKVD men would make them discover anti-Soviet activity whether it was there or not. Kuchkov didn’t have to be any kind of big brain to see that. He just had to know what Chekists were like.

They rounded on Ryakhovsky again, trying to get him to admit he’d fired at the politruk on purpose. Vitya blubbered like a four-year-old after a spanking, but he didn’t admit anything of the kind. No matter how scared he was, he understood he’d get the shaft but good if they could pin that on him.

“Easiest way to solve the whole thing would be to toss them both in a penal battalion,” the NKVD captain remarked to the major.

That made Kuchkov’s eyes slide toward the PPD again. Going to a penal battalion was a death sentence without a quick, neat bullet to the nape of the neck to get things over with in a hurry. If they aimed to do that, he had nothing left to lose. Neither the Ukrainian nationalists nor the Nazis could do anything worse to him than that.

But the major said, “Their CO does strongly vouch for them.”

“We could throw him in, too,” the captain said.

“We could,” the major allowed. “It’s a little more complicated with officers, though.” He talked about men’s fates the way a butcher talked about bacon and ham and chitterlings. All part of the day’s work to him. Would a butcher talk that way in front of swine who could understand him? Some might. They just wouldn’t care. This Chekist sure didn’t.

“I hate to leave these bastards alone,” the captain said. “Other fools will think they can get away with murder, too.”

“Could be worse. We’re pushing forward here. Chances are these cunts will get expended any which way.” Aside from the mat-which he wouldn’t have wasted on them-the major might have been talking about mortar bombs or belts of machine-gun ammunition, not human beings. He went on, “Besides, we don’t have to fill out as much paperwork this way as we would if we stuck them in one of those battalions.”

“Well, you’ve got something there.” The captain sighed. He couldn’t push his superior too hard. “All right, Comrade Major. We’ll do it like that.”

The major didn’t even waste time warning Ivan and Vitya to keep their noses clean from here on out. He just spat on the ground and walked away. The captain followed in his wake.

“Did I hear that right?” Vitya asked wonderingly. “They didn’t bother sending us to a penal battalion because … because …”

“Because filling out all the shitass forms’d be too fucking much trouble,” Ivan finished for him. He pulled his water bottle off his belt and drank. It was full of vodka, not water. Those lazy pricks! That was how Russia worked, all right. And it didn’t change one goddamn bit if you went and called it the Soviet Union instead.

“Move along, you stinking Jew!” shouted an angry-looking man in a black uniform with SS runes on his collar tabs.

Sarah Bruck ducked her head and scurried around a corner. Munster was full of men from the Gestapo and the SD and whatever other security agencies the Reich and the National Socialist German Workers’ Party boasted. They’d descended on the city the way vultures would spiral down toward a dead cow in a field. Munster had publicly protested against the regime and its policies not once but twice. Obviously, the local authorities couldn’t keep order-or keep the lid on, assuming there was a difference. So blackshirts from all over the country would take care of it for them.

Officially, nothing was going on. Not a word about the swarm of security men showed up in the papers or on the radio. Goebbels wasn’t about to let the rest of Germany know Munster had been kicking up its heels. That showed better sense than Sarah usually credited the Nazis with. If people in Munster could do it, people in other places might try to get away with it, too.

Sarah didn’t go into the square that fronted on the cathedral. Nobody could go into that square. It was indefinitely off-limits. To make sure the locals heeded the order, SS men had set up sandbagged machine-gun positions in front of the house of worship. They weren’t just ordinary blackshirts, either. They were from the Waffen-SS. They’d been fighting in Belgium or in Russia before Hitler and Himmler decided they could be counted on to shoot at ordinary Germans, too.

An old man came up the side street carrying a stringbag with a few wizened little potatoes and a head of cabbage in it. He limped the same way Sarah’s father did. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d also got shot in the last war.

Behind horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes flicked to the yellow star she wore. As they passed each other, he spoke in a low voice: “The SS is our misfortune!” He stumped on. Sarah stared after him in astonishment, but he didn’t look back. He just kept walking.

After a moment, so did she. What else could she do? But if he took the Nazis’ favorite anti-Semitic slogan and aimed it at their enforcers … If he did that, he couldn’t be the only one thinking such things. Nowhere close, in fact. And if he was nowhere close to the only one thinking such things, well, no wonder the Party needed to flood Munster with SS men and mount machine guns in front of the cathedral.

Could the Reich fight its foreign enemies and its own people at the same time? Wasn’t that how, or part of how, Kaiser Wilhelm’s government came to grief? Whether it was or not, Hitler seemed determined to try. The Fuhrer always seemed determined. Right? If you believed Goebbels, he was. Of course, if you believed Goebbels you were bound to have other things wrong with you as well.

She hadn’t got far past the old man who didn’t like the regime when another blackshirt shouted at her: “Show me your papers, kike!”

“Yes, sir.” Letting them see they’d got your goat meant they’d won a point. She meekly produced her identity card. He scowled at it, but even he didn’t have the gall to claim it was out of order. Scowling still, he thrust it back at her and waved her on.

Clocks rang five throughout the city. The bells in the cathedral tower stayed silent. They’d been silent since the latest riot. The Nazis wouldn’t let anyone in to ring them.

These were the hours when Jews could come out and shop. They couldn’t get much, but they could shop. Not even Aryans could get much. As it had in the last war, the Royal Navy’s blockade squeezed Germany like a python. The coils might not get stronger all the time, but they never got weaker.

Even the mangel-wurzels looked sad. She got some anyway. Mangel-wurzels were what you ate when things like turnips and rutabagas cost too much … or when they were the only vegetables left in the bins. Today, they were. Unless Father had had a good day scavenging, meals for the next little while would be even grimmer than usual.

Sarah managed to get home with only one more SS man swearing at her. The way things had been lately, that counted as a pretty good outing. Father came in not long after she got back. He hid no goodies under his jacket. Spreading his callused hands in apology, he said, “We were repairing a crater in the street today. No chance to go hunting.”

“Too bad,” Sarah said. “Nothing but rubbish in the stores.”

“That is too bad,” Father agreed. “But did you notice the moon’s just about full?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t pay any attention to it.”

“It’s a bombers’ moon, all right.” Father sounded pleased at the prospect. “We’ll see if they come over tonight. We’ll see what they hit if they do. And we’ll see how brave all the heroes new in town are if the RAF does decide to pay us a call.”

“Some of them will come from places like Dresden and Weimar, won’t they?” Sarah said. “Places that don’t get bombed much.”

“That’s what I’m looking at, too.” Yes, Samuel Goldman seemed to be looking forward to the RAF’s arrival. The bombs didn’t care that he was a Jew. They’d kill him as readily as they’d blow up an Aryan-more readily, because Aryans had better shelters. All the same, he went on, “Let’s see how they like it here in the northwest, where we know there’s a war on all the time.”

Sarah told him about the man who’d said what he thought of the SS. “I have no idea who he was, but he knew what I was, sure enough.”

“It’s that intriguing?” Father said. “I wonder how many more there are like him.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said. “If the bombers do show up, maybe something will come down in the cathedral square. Wouldn’t it be terrible if that happened?”

“Dreadful,” Father said. They winked at each other. He went on, “And I’ve got a story of my own to tell.”

Before he could, Mother called, “Supper’s ready!” from the kitchen.

She was a good cook. When you were fighting against miserable ingredients, that helped only so much. Cattle ate turnip greens. As with mangel-wurzels, so did people who couldn’t get anything better. It didn’t make them tasty. Sarah didn’t see how anything could.

After a while, she asked her father, “So what’s your story?”

“Story?” Mother said.

“The one I was going to tell before I got invited to this feast,” Father said. Mother looked wounded. He backtracked in a hurry: “I’m sorry, Hanna. It was a joke, but I guess not a good one.”

“No,” she said tightly. “Not. I’m doing the best I can, and I wish someone would notice once in a while.”

“We do,” Father said. Sarah nodded. Mother still didn’t look happy. Father sighed. “Well, I stuck my foot in that. Do you want to hear the story in spite of everything?”

“Please.” Sarah grabbed at anything that might turn the subject.

“All right, then.” Before Father started, he made a small production of rolling himself an after-dinner cigarette. Once he’d taken a puff or two, he said, “I was talking with another guy in the gang-Emil, his name is. He’s a pickpocket-a good pickpocket, too.”

“Not good enough to keep from getting caught,” Sarah observed.

“Nobody’s perfect,” Father said. “Anyway, though, he’s got a cousin who’s a Feldwebel in Holland, and he says his cousin says the Nazis asked the Wehrmacht to sit on Munster because things were getting lively here, and the Wehrmacht flat-out said no. I have no idea whether it’s true, but it makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“How could his cousin know something like that?” Sarah asked.

“Maybe he works the phones at the HQ of a division that would have occupied us. Maybe he plays skat with a lieutenant who’s a general’s son. I can think of ways,” Father said. “Or maybe Emil was making up the whole thing. That wouldn’t surprise me too much, either. So take it for what you think it’s worth.”

Not knowing Emil, Sarah wasn’t sure what it might be worth. But if there was a rift between Party and Army … Father was right. It did make you think.