West and East

Chapter 10

Hans-Ulrich Rudel and Albert Dieselhorst both eyed their Stuka, then turned to each other with identical bemused smiles. No, not quite identical, because Dieselhorst could say something Hans-Ulrich couldn't. The sergeant not only could, he did: "Well, sir, this was your idea."

"I know," Hans-Ulrich answered. When he'd taken it to the armorers and then to the engineers, he'd been convinced it was a good one. So had they. They'd been so convinced, they'd gone ahead and given him exactly what he said he wanted. Now that he saw their handiwork in the flesh, so to speak, he wasn't so sure he wanted it any more. That said something about life; he also wasn't sure he wanted to know just what.

"You know what it looks like?" Dieselhorst said.

"Tell me," Rudel urged. "I didn't think it looked like anything."

"Oh, it does." Sergeant Dieselhorst looked at him the way a hard-bitten sergeant naturally tended to look at a minister's son. "It looks like our plane's got a hard-on, that's what. Two hard-ons, in fact."

"It-" Rudel started to tell him it looked like no such thing. The words clogged in his throat, because the Stuka did look as if it had seen a lady airplane it fancied. Mounted under the wings, the gun pods they'd fitted had barrels that stuck out almost as far as the prop. Each pod came equipped with a sheet-metal chute for ejecting spent 37mm cartridge cases. Sighing, Hans-Ulrich said, "You've got a filthy mind, Albert."

"Thank you, sir," Dieselhorst replied, which wasn't at all what Rudel had wanted to hear.

Since he hadn't wanted to hear it, he pretended he hadn't. "Now we get to find out how it flies with all that extra weight. It'll be a pig in the air-you wait and see."

Sergeant Dieselhorst nodded, but Rudel's forebodings didn't faze him. Again, he wasn't shy about explaining why: "Not to worry, sir. A Stuka's already an airpig." Luftschwein wasn't really a German word, which didn't mean Hans-Ulrich had any trouble understanding it.

Again, Rudel wanted to tell him he was wrong. Again, he couldn't, because Dieselhorst wasn't. Even the biplane Czech Avias had been dangerous to Ju-87s. Over England, the Stuka was nothing but a disaster. Hans-Ulrich knew he'd been lucky to make it back to the Continent from his handful of flights against the United Kingdom. The Luftwaffe had to pick targets carefully here in France, or too many dive-bombers wouldn't come back. For putting bombs right where you needed them, the Stuka couldn't be beat. For reaching the target and for getting away afterwards… Hans-Ulrich had managed so far-except once. And he and Dieselhorst were over German-held territory when they bailed out. So that didn't count-not to him, anyhow.

"We won't be pigs. We'll be wild boars," he said. "If this works the way it's supposed to, no panzer will be safe from us." He paused as a new thought struck him. "Do you suppose we could use the cannon to shoot down enemy planes, too?"

Dieselhorst gave him a crooked grin. "Don't know, sir. I'll tell you one thing, though-we'd only have to hit 'em once, that's for goddamn sure."

He was right yet again. The weapons the engineers had chosen for panzerbusting were antiaircraft guns. Their shells were supposed to knock out planes from the ground. No doubt they could knock them out from the air as well… if they hit. As the sergeant suggested, hitting would be the tough part.

Now that Rudel had his guns, he was wild to find out what they could do. No one tried to hold him back. Had his fellow flyers liked him better, they might have tried to restrain him from rushing out with untried weaponry. Nobody said a word. He didn't even think anyone might have. He didn't know how unpopular he was, and wouldn't have cared if he had known. He had his convictions, and the courage thereof.

As soon as he got the redone Stuka airborne, he realized he would need all the courage and conviction he could find. Sergeant Dieselhorst's prediction that the plane would be an airpig was, if anything, optimistic. The twin cannon and their pods weighed down the Ju-87 and loused up its aerodynamics.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Albert," Rudel said through the speaking tube.

"Why?" asked the veteran in the rear-facing seat. "We aren't fast enough to run away, and we can't maneuver for beans, either. Best chance we've got is if the bastards on the other side don't spot us."

Yet again, Hans-Ulrich couldn't argue even if he wished he could. He flew toward Paris. If the froggies and Englanders had massed panzers anywhere, they'd done it in front of the French capital. Rudel's right hand tightened on the stick. Had Paris fallen the way it was supposed to, the fighting might be over by now. Wouldn't that have knocked France out of the war? And how could England go on without a continental ally?

His hand tightened on the stick again, in a different way this time. Through the palm of his leather glove, he felt the wire that led up to the new firing button the engineers had mounted near the one on the stick that worked the Stuka's forward machine gun. If panzer-busting Ju-87s ever got manufactured from scratch, the installation would be neater. For now, this would do.

Contemplating purpose-built panzerbusters wasn't what made him squeeze the stick, though. Even if France went under and England made peace, the war wouldn't necessarily end. A thousand kilometers off to the east, or however far away it was, things were just starting to boil.

Hans-Ulrich nodded to himself. Russia was the real enemy, all right, Russia and Communism. If only the French and English would see what lay right in front of their noses, they could follow the Reich in a crusade against the godless Bolsheviks. Rudel remembered Red rabble-rousers from the days when he was a boy. They'd spewed their poison, their lies, all through Germany back then. The Fuhrer'd taken care of that, but good. If he got half a chance, he'd take care of Russia, too, in spite of the stupid Western democracies.

First things first. Rudel suddenly stiffened in the cockpit. There were panzers, and those weren't German machines. Even from 3,000 meters, the difference in lines was unmistakable. "I'm going down, Albert," he said. "And I intend to come back up again, too." He tipped the Stuka into a dive.

"You'd better," Sergeant Dieselhorst answered. "Fly us into the ground and I'll be a long time forgiving you."

"Heh," Hans-Ulrich said as acceleration shoved him against the padding and armor in the back of his seat. The enemy panzers swelled before his eyes. English machines, not French, he thought. He'd decided he wanted to hit them from behind if he could. The armor over the engine compartment would be thinner than anywhere else. If he couldn't do that, he'd shoot them in the side.

Soon now. It should have been sooner still. Configured as a panzerbuster, the Stuka even dove slower than it had before. His forefinger found the new firing button. He pushed, hard.

That fired one round from each underwing gun. Shooting a pair of 37mm shells from a Ju-87 gave a whole new meaning to dive brakes. The recoil made the plane stagger, and almost seemed to stop it in midair. Machine guns were nothing beside it.

He hauled back on the stick, hard, to bring the Stuka's nose up again. "How'd we do?" he asked Dieselhorst, who could see where they'd just been.

"You got him!" the rear gunner said enthusiastically. "He's burning like billy-be-damned! It's easy-as long as there aren't any enemy fighters around, anyway."

"Ja." That reminded Hans-Ulrich to look around once more to make sure he had no unwelcome company. He didn't see any. Since he didn't, he gave the dive bomber more throttle and climbed up into the sky. "Let's do it again."

"Warum denn nicht?" Dieselhorst said. Rudel couldn't think of any reason why not. Down roared the Stuka. He picked his target. Muzzle flashes on the ground meant the Tommies were shooting at him, too. They always did that. The dive-bomber's engine was as well armored as the cockpit. Small-arms fire was unlikely to hurt the plane.

Two 37mm cannon, on the other hand… Blam! The Stuka staggered in the air. He clawed for altitude. "How about it, Albert?"

"You killed another one! Jesus Christ, sir, this is fun!"

Rudel wouldn't have taken the Lord's name in vain. Well, he hoped he wouldn't have. He'd been known to slip in combat… and every now and then when he wasn't in combat, too. He hoped God would forgive him, although his father's stern Lutheran deity was longer on retribution than forgiveness.

And Dieselhorst proved right yet again. This was not only easy, it was fun. The enemy panzers couldn't hide, and they were even slower running away from him than he would have been trying to flee a Spitfire. Dive… Blam!… Climb… Dive… Blam!… Climb… Fish in a barrel…

After they'd smashed half a dozen machines, the rear gunner said, "Sir, maybe we'd better get back. If they come after us in the air… Mm, that's not my notion of fun."

"Mine, either," Hans-Ulrich admitted. He wanted to keep right on doing what he was doing. No matter what he wanted, pretty soon the Tommies or the French would scramble fighters. Best not to stick around till that happened. And he could report that the twin cannon worked-worked even better than he'd hoped they would, in fact.

Colonel Steinbrenner would be pleased. He'd probably be astonished, too. But so what? Hans-Ulrich was more than a little astonished himself. No more climbs and swoops, not now. Whistling in the cockpit, he flew off toward the northeast. CHURCH BELLS PEALED in Munster, celebrating the Admiral Scheer's safe return to Kiel. Protestant, Catholic-it made no difference to the authorities. They wanted celebration. What the Nazis wanted, they ordered. What they ordered, they got. So it seemed to Sarah Goldman, anyhow.

The maddening thing was, most of the time the Nazis had little more use for pious Christians than they did for Jews. Believers had loyalties outside of the all-holy State, and the brownshirts and their grim, clever bosses hated that. Most Protestant ministers were so-called German Christians these days: Christians who leaned toward the Reich first, and only afterwards toward God. Catholics still looked to the Pope, but Pius was a long way off, the local Gauleiter very close.

Equally maddening was that her own family, like most Jews in Munster and throughout Germany, would have celebrated the Panzerschiff's return, too, if only the Nazis had let them. Sarah knew her father would have. In spite of everything, he still insisted he was a German as well as a Jew.

Much good that did him, or any other Jew in the Reich. He wore the yellow Star of David on his ever more shabby clothes when he went out to his work gang every morning. He hadn't said any of the goyim in the gang gave him trouble on account of it. Just because he hadn't said it didn't mean it hadn't happened, though. Sarah knew Samuel Goldman kept all kinds of things to himself. She knew she didn't know all of them. By the very nature of that kind of conundrum, she couldn't, could she?

Trying not to borrow trouble-she didn't have enough already?-she helped her mother fix supper. It wasn't exciting: boiled potatoes and something the label on the package insisted was cheese. If the label hadn't insisted, Sarah would have guessed it was half-dried library paste. You could eat it. Sarah had, many times. It tasted more like paste than cheese, too. Her mother was a good cook, much better than Sarah was herself. Even Hanna Goldman couldn't make the nasty ersatz appetizing.

"I think the rations are getting worse," Sarah said as she cut a potato into quarters so it would boil faster.

"How can you tell?" her mother asked. That kind of tart comeback usually emerged from her father's mouth. When her mother said such things, the rations really were going to the dogs… except dogs wouldn't want to eat them, either.

But Sarah went on, "They really are, Mother. Not just for Jews, either. For everybody. Haven't you heard the Hausfraus complaining in the shops?"

Her mother only sniffed. "Some people don't know when they're well off." If that wasn't bound to be so, Sarah didn't know what would be.

Her father came in then. He looked exhausted-clearing bomb damage and repairing roads didn't come easy for a middle-aged professor of ancient history. But he also looked pleased with himself, which didn't happen every day. With the air of a magician pulling a coin from a spectator's ear, he reached under his coat and displayed a small package wrapped in stained butcher paper. "Look what I found," he said. It wasn't as dramatic as Ta-da!, but it would do.

"What is it?" Mother exclaimed. She tore the paper open. At first, Sarah thought it was a chicken. Then she realized it wasn't. "Oh! A rabbit!" her mother said.

Rabbits weren't kosher. They were cute, at least when they had their fur on. Sarah cared about none of that. Spit filled her mouth. "Hassenpfeffer!" she said.

"The guy who had it said it was a rabbit," Samuel Goldman said. "It may meow when you stick a fork in it, though. How fussy are you? I ate all kinds of things in the trenches, and times are pretty hard now, too."

He was still proud of his service in the Kaiser's army. And the wound he'd got and the Iron Cross he'd won meant the Goldmans had it better than most Jews in Munster-not much better, but a little. Sarah didn't need long to give him an answer: "Right now, I'd eat it even if I thought it was a rat."

"Me, too," her mother said.

"We didn't eat those," Father said. "We knew they ate us when they got the chance. Damned fat hateful things." He shuddered.

It wasn't hassenpfeffer Sarah's mother made. She cut up the rabbit and put it into the boiling water with the potatoes. The less fuel they used, the less trouble they would land in. The smell of cooking meat made Sarah even hungrier than she already was. She hadn't thought she could get hungrier, which only showed how little she knew. When was the last time the Goldmans ate meat? She couldn't remember. Some sausage earlier in the year, she thought.

"What did you pay for the rabbit?" Mother asked Father.

"Isn't it a nice day today? Sunshine all day long," he answered.

She sent him a look, but asked no more inconvenient questions. She did turn to Sarah, saying, "Why don't you put the shredded cheese in the icebox? As long as we've got the rabbit to go with the potatoes, we won't need it tonight."

"Sure." Sarah was glad to do that. The less she had to do with the horrible cheese, the happier she'd be. She would have liked to toss it in the trash instead of putting it in the icebox. But rabbits didn't fall out of the sky every day. Too bad! she thought. If another rabbit didn't appear tomorrow, they would need the cheese again. Wanting it was another story.

"That was good," Samuel Goldman said when supper was over. From somewhere, he'd got himself a small leather tobacco pouch. He rolled himself a cigarette with casual aplomb. Sarah wondered where the tobacco came from. Right after they'd made Jews wear the yellow star, the Nazis had cut off the tobacco ration for them: one more way to make life unbearable. Was her father reduced to scrounging butts on the sidewalk and in the gutter? The idea was enough to make angry tears sting Sarah's eyes. Father was the very image of bourgeois dignity. He had to be dying inside whenever he bent to grab a dog-end. That evidently didn't stop him from doing it, though. Along with the smell, which she didn't like, all of a sudden Sarah had a new reason for being glad she didn't use tobacco.

When he'd smoked the handmade cigarette down to a small butt, he carefully unrolled it and put the few remaining shreds back into the pouch. That made Sarah sure he was getting his smokes from anywhere he could. When he noticed her watching him, he shrugged in faint embarrassment. "I have a habit," he said, as if he were talking about injecting himself with morphine. "I feed it as best I can."

"All right." Sarah wasn't sure whether it was or not. But if smoking meant so much to Father that he would let goyim laugh at him for guddling in the gutter, she didn't know what she could do about it. No, on second thought she did know: she couldn't do a thing.

Then she forgot about such trivial matters. Who would pound on the door right after supper? Fear lanced through her, because that was a question with an obvious answer. The Gestapo would. The Gestapo did whatever it pleased.

Someone out on the front porch shouted, "Open up, you stinking Jews, or we'll make you sorry!"

"Happy day. Something to settle supper," Samuel Goldman remarked as he got up and limped toward the front of the house.

He came back a moment later with three blackshirts in his wake. One of them pointed a pistol at him. They all leered at Sarah. She didn't look at them. Her father seemed as calm as if they were graduate students here to discuss a textual problem in Plutarch.

"Where's your murdering bastard of a son, Jew?" the one with the Luger snarled.

"I don't know," Father answered. That was a lie, but everything was fine as long as the Aryans didn't know it was a lie. Trying to show them how much they did know, he went on, "I'm sure you would have found out if we did. You must be keeping track of our mail and what we say on the telephone."

"Bet your ass," the Gestapo man said. "But somebody told us he might've gone and joined the Wehrmacht. Just what the Reich needs-a lousy kike lugging a rifle!" He rolled his eyes-blue, naturally-in disgust.

Fear made the unexpected feast churn in Sarah's belly. If Father felt it, too, he didn't show it. "You must have heard that Saul and I both tried to join up when the war started. Think what you please, sir, but we would have fought for Germany. I did in the last war, you know."

That blackshirt looked as if he'd found half a cockroach in his porridge. "Ja, ja. You were going to capture Paris all by yourself till they shot you. Damn shame they didn't blow your brains out."

"Anyway, this isn't about that," one of the other Gestapo men added. "Or we don't think it is. It's about after he smashed in that Aryan's head. He's a dangerous character, your kid."

Good! Sarah thought fiercely. She almost screamed it in the secret policeman's face. That wouldn't have been so good.

Her father only shrugged. "You know more than I do, I'm afraid. We haven't heard from Saul since… since it happened."

"If we ever find out you're lying-" The Gestapo man glowered fearsomely.

"You wait and see what you'll find out then. You'll wish you'd blabbed, and you can take that to church."

Both his friends thought that was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. The one who hadn't said anything was smoking a pipe. To Sarah, it stank like smoldering garbage. But it kept them from noticing the smell of Samuel Goldman's cigarette. Sarah didn't think gathering dog-ends was against the law for Jews. Anything could be against the law, though, if the Gestapo decided it was.

"Sir, I am very sorry for what my son did," Father said. "If the government had let him join the Wehrmacht, he would have fought the Reich's foreign foes, as I did in the last war. But you must know I do not know where he is." A couple of things he didn't say hung in the air, at least to Sarah. One was What have you done against the Reich's foreign foes? None of the blackshirts looked old enough to have served under the Kaiser, and they obviously weren't at the front now. And the other was If you thought I did know where Saul was, I'd be in Dachau now, and you'd be tearing out my toenails.

The blackshirts got the second of those; fortunately, not the first. "Yeah, well, we got this report, and we had to check it out," said the one who did most of the talking.

"Wherever you got it, I think you should put it back," Samuel Goldman said. "Of all the places where my son might be, I'm sure the army is the least likely."

"So are we," the Gestapo man with the pipe said, taking it out of his mouth for the first time. He didn't notice Father hadn't said Saul wasn't in the Wehrmacht-and a good thing, too. He nodded to the other blackshirts. "We've done what we needed to do. We found out what we figured we would-diddly-squat. Let's blow."

To Sarah's relief, they blew. Her father's shoulders slumped. He let out a long, deep sigh. "Do we have any schnapps?" he asked Mother. "I could use a drink."

"I'll get you one." She hurried away.

"You were terrific!" Sarah exclaimed. "You-"

Before she could say anything more, Father shook his head and pointed to a lamp and to a picture on the wall. The Goldmans hadn't found any microphones in their house. Just because they hadn't found them didn't mean the microphones weren't there-the Gestapo certainly claimed they were. Even if they had found them, what could they have done? Breaking the gadgets would only have convinced the secret police they had something to hide. They did, but convincing the Gestapo of it they needed like a hole in the head.

Mother came back with not one but three little glasses of schnapps, carrying them on a brass tray. She set the tray on the table in front of the sofa. Everybody took a glass. Father pointed again to places where listening devices might lurk. Mother nodded. She raised her glass. "To peace!" she said.

"To peace!" Sarah choked a little on the fiery schnapps, but it felt good when it got to her stomach. Not even a Jew could get in trouble for toasting peace… she hoped. PEGGY DRUCE HAD ALWAYS had a knack for complicating her life. She wouldn't have been in Marianske Lazne when the Nazis invaded if she hadn't. That wasn't the first time she'd done exactly what she wanted to do and worried about the consequences later. It wasn't the first time consequences got up on their hind legs and bit her in the ass, either.

But she'd never done anything like this before. She'd been married to Herb since before the War to End War-another wistful hope shot to hell. She'd gone plenty of places on her own in those years, too; she liked traveling more than Herb did. Plenty of men had tried to get her into bed with them. None had had any luck.

None… till Constantine Jenkins.

She had all kinds of excuses. She'd been away from home, away from Herb, an ungodly long time. She'd been drunk as a skunk. Christ! Had she ever! Her hangover the next morning almost called for a blindfold and a cigarette, not four aspirins and bad German ersatz coffee. And she'd been so sure the young American diplomat was queer. Even drunk she would have been more on guard if she weren't so sure.

Maybe he did like boys better than girls. But he was at least a switch hitter, as she had reason to know.

She muttered to herself, there in her hotel room. The young American diplomat… Her mouth twisted in rueful self-mockery. He wasn't young enough to be her son, not unless she'd started at an age that made people crack jokes about Mississippi and Alabama. He wasn't far from it, though. That had to be one more reason she hadn't had her guard up.

"Shit," she said distinctly. She could come up with all kinds of reasons, all kinds of excuses.

One of these days, she still expected to get back to the States. When she did, she expected a happy reunion with her husband. She hadn't written him about what the dog did in the nighttime-and it wasn't nothing, dammit. She didn't intend to. Lots of people (including several friends) carried on affairs that lasted for years without the other spouse's being any the wiser. She wondered how they managed. Maybe they'd had their consciences surgically extracted.

The Nazis probably had a medical center somewhere that did exactly that. Hitler would have been the first patient, followed by Himmler, Goring, and Goebbels. Everybody who'd joined the SS would have followed suit. Real heroes could get the job done without benefit of anesthesia.

Peggy shook her head. If she wasn't punch drunk… But that wasn't the problem. The problem was that she'd cheated on the man she'd loved for almost her entire adult life. And she hadn't had her conscience removed, no matter how convenient it would have been.

He'll never know. She'd been telling herself as much since she woke up next to Con Jenkins. Con… She shook her head again, even more ruefully. She hadn't known someone with such a formal-even formidable-name had that one-syllable nickname. She hadn't known all kinds of things about him. Oh, no!

But Con Jenkins wasn't the point, even if he'd given her the problem. Herb Druce was. And so was Peggy herself. He'll never know wasn't the point. She knew. She couldn't forget, and she couldn't forgive herself, either. She was going to have to deal with this, dammit.

She also couldn't drop Con like a live grenade. Had she done something stupid with one of the Germans who'd shown he was interested, she could have cut him out of her life from then on. That would have helped her get back her good opinion of herself.

But if anybody could help her go home at last, Constantine Jenkins was the man. If he got angry at her, how hard would he work to send her back to Philadelphia? And, now that she'd slept with him once-and, by all the signs, enjoyed it in a drunken way, even if she hardly remembered it now-how the hell was she supposed to tell him she didn't want to go to bed with him any more?

On the other hand, if she took him to bed again in the hope that that would make him move heaven and earth to get her out of Berlin, how was she different from the ladies of the evening who prowled the blacked-out nights, looking for anything in pants and looking to get the men they found out of their pants as fast as they could? I'm classier, she thought. As with He'll never know, it wasn't enough of an answer.

And something else occurred to her. If she kept laying the embassy undersecretary, how hard would he work to send her home? Wouldn't he have the best reason in the world-from a man's point of view, or at least from a stiff dick's, assuming there was any difference-for wanting to keep her available?

"I'm screwed if I screw him, and I'm screwed if I don't screw him," she blurted, and started to laugh. She could still she how ridiculous this all was, anyhow. If she were reading a novel, she'd keep turning pages like nobody's business. It was still funny in real life, but with a bitter edge no novel could match.

The telephone chose that moment to ring. Peggy jumped, then sprawled across the bed to pick it up. "Bitte?" she said.

"Hello, Peggy." Of course it was Constantine Jenkins. Who else would it be? Just to drive me crazy, she thought. Um, crazier. He went on, "I know you speak German pretty well."

"Fair," she said. "Better than when I got here. I know a lot more French-and much good that does me."

"As a matter of fact, so do I," he said. And he really was fluent auf Deutsch, while Peggy struggled to make herself understood and to follow what other people said to her. If he did speak French better… But he was after something else, because he asked her, "How well do you write German?"

"Write it?" Peggy could hear herself squeak in surprise. "I don't think I've tried since I was in high school. I'd make a horrible mess of the grammar-I'm sure of that. How come?"

"Because I want you to write a letter to Adolf Hitler," Jenkins answered. Whatever he thought of the Fuhrer, it didn't show in his voice. Peggy had a good idea of his opinion. No Gestapo man tapping the phone line would, though. The blackshirt might wonder if he'd gone round the bend, of course.

And who could blame a hard-working blackshirt for that? Peggy wondered the same thing. She also wondered whether her own hearing had gone south. "You want… me… to write a letter… to Hitler? In German?"

"He doesn't read English, and I don't want his secretaries to sidetrack this. They may anyhow, but if it comes by way of the American embassy you have a chance of getting him to look at it," Constantine Jenkins said. "Sometimes you have to go straight to the top here, if you can do it."

"What should I say?" By now, Peggy was beyond flabbergasted.

"Tell him what you've been telling all the other Germans. You're a neutral, you're stuck here, and you'd appreciate it if he'd make it possible for you to go back to the USA and to your family. A couple of paragraphs should do it."

"You really think that will work?"

"I don't know. It may. Lots of leaders will do favors for little people because it makes them look good and doesn't cost anything much. And if he says no, how are you worse off?"

Peggy had no answer for that. Even though he couldn't see her, she nodded. "Okay, Con-I'll take a shot at it. I'll bring it by the embassy this afternoon."

She thought for a moment, then called the front desk. "A German-English dictionary?" said the clerk who answered. "Ja, we can supply one. Please wait. A bellboy will deliver it sofort." As Jenkins had before him, he hung up.

It didn't come immediately, but it didn't take long enough to annoy her. The bellboy was at least sixty-five, with a bushy white mustache and a limp. What had he stopped in the last war? She tipped him more than she would have if he were some kid. "Danke," he said gravely, and brushed a forefinger against the brim of his cap.

She felt like cheering when she found the dictionary included a table of declensions, and another one for conjugations. She'd still write bad German, but it wouldn't be quite so bad.

Fuhrer, she began-he wasn't Mein Fuhrer, not to her. She set out her problem and what she wanted as simply as she could. As Jenkins had predicted, it didn't take much more than half a page. I thank you very much for your help, she finished, and signed her name.

She put the letter in an envelope but didn't seal it: Con Jenkins would want to look it over before it went out. Before it went to the Fuhrer. She laughed again. Would Hitler see it? What were the odds? But, as Jenkins had also asked, if he didn't see it, or if he said no or just ignored it, how was she worse off?

She set the dictionary on the check-in counter as she left for the embassy. "I hope it was useful to you," the desk clerk said.

"It was. Danke schon," Peggy answered.

Jenkins certainly didn't treat her like a lover when she got there. She had to cool her heels for half an hour before she could see him. Again, he was closeted with the gray-haired naval attache. Well, that fellow probably had enough on his mind and then some. The whole business with the Admiral Scheer and the Royal Navy had played out right on the USA's front porch, so to speak.

"Let's see what you've got," the undersecretary said briskly when she made it into his office at last. She was just as happy to stay businesslike. She handed him the letter. He read it, then grinned at her. "Oh, this is fine, Peggy. Much better than I expected. You didn't give your German enough credit." She told him how she'd borrowed the dictionary. He clapped his hands. "Good for you, sweetheart!"

He didn't sound like a fairy being arch. He sounded like a lover praising his lover. Peggy wished he would have seemed more faggoty. At least he didn't say something like I'll show up at your hotel tonight so you can thank me the right way. Peggy asked, "How long do you think it will take before I know?"

"Hitler's staff will have the letter tonight," Jenkins said. "What they do with it, what he does with it-that's out of my hands."

"Okay," Peggy said. "Thanks again." She got out of there as fast as she could without being rude.

Three days later, the telephone in her room rang at a quarter to five in the morning. At first, muzzy with sleep, she thought it was the air-raid siren going off. When she realized it was the phone, she got good and pissed off. What asshole would call at this ungodly hour? It was getting light, but even so-! "Bitte?" she snarled.

"Sind Sie Frau Druce?" A man's voice.

"Yes, I'm Peggy Druce. Who the devil are you?"

"Adolf Hitler here," the voice answered. And it was. As soon as he said it, she knew it was. She'd heard him on the radio too often to have any doubt. "You are having trouble leaving my country?"

When Hitler said it was his country, he damn well meant it. "Uh, yes, sir," she managed.

"The trouble will end. Whatever neutral nation you wish to visit, you may. Never let it be said we keep anyone who does not wish to stay," the Fuhrer told her.

"Uh-" Peggy kept saying that. She'd never expected a call from one of the two or three most powerful men in the world. She'd never expected anything to come of her letter, truth to tell. "Thank you very much, sir!"

"You are welcome. Have you any questions?" He spoke slowly and clearly, to make sure she could follow. Even over the telephone, the weight of his personality made her sag.

"Uh-" There it was again! "Why are you up so early?" she blurted.

He actually chuckled. How many people could say they'd made Hitler laugh? "I am not up early. I am up late. The enemies of the Reich do not sleep, and neither do I. Good-bye, Mrs. Druce. Finding a problem so easy to solve is a pleasure, believe me."

"Thank you." Peggy finally managed not to say Uh, but she was talking to a dead line.