West and East

Chapter 2

Shanghai had seen better days. Pete McGill snorted when that piece of brilliance crossed his mind. It was a good thing he was a Marine corporal. He made a fine leatherneck. If he'd gone into the detective racket instead, his deductions wouldn't have put Sherlock Holmes out of business any time soon.

Of course Shanghai had seen better days. He couldn't think of one spot in China that hadn't seen better days, better years, probably better centuries. Peking, where he'd been stationed till just a little while before, sure as hell wasn't the same since the Japs occupied it.

Japan occupied Shanghai, too. The Japanese had dominated the area since the early 1930s, and threw the Chinese out in November '37, a year and a half ago now. The battle, not far outside of town, was supposed to have cost 300,000 Chinese casualties and 40,000 Japanese. The ratio said a lot about the quality of the two armies involved. That the Chinese stayed in the fight after taking such losses again and again said how much they hated the Japs.

The USA had pulled most of its Marines out of Peking to help protect Americans in Shanghai, who were far more numerous than in the former capital. That was what the United States loudly proclaimed, anyhow. If you read between the lines, you saw that Marines in Peking were trapped. If trouble with Japan flared up, the garrison at the U.S. Legation would have to be written off. Shanghai was a port. Troops here had some kind of chance of getting on a ship and heading for Hong Kong or Manila or… somewhere.

McGill didn't worry about it. Worrying about foreign policy wasn't in a corporal's job description. He worried about making sergeant one of these days. He worried about the twenty bucks U.S. he'd lost in a poker game on the train down from Peking. He worried about finding a good, cheap whorehouse; he hadn't much cared for the couple of places he'd visited here. Till he found some suckers and won back what he'd lost-how often did you run into four sixes, for crying out loud?-cheap came first.

He didn't like worrying about the Japs anyway, so he did as little of it as he could. Like any Marine, he was convinced he was part of the best fighting outfit in the world. Back when Peking still belonged to China, he'd brawled with Japanese soldiers. He'd cheered the American baseball team against the Japanese nine.

But things weren't the same any more. Now that the Japs were at war with China, they didn't go in for friendly brawling. They'd mob you if you messed with them. It was an article of faith that one Marine was tougher than one Jap. One Marine sure as hell wasn't tougher than six or eight or ten slant-eyed little yellow monkeys, and that was how things worked out nowadays.

American, British, and French warships lay alongside Japanese naval vessels in the harbor. Their guns were supposed to give the Western powers bargaining strength against the Chinese and the Japs. They'd done the job against the Chinese… till the Chinese didn't hold Shanghai any more. Against Japan? Japan had far more firepower here than all the Western powers put together.

And Japan had fighters and bombers galore, which the Western powers here didn't. The crew of the American gunboat Panay could have preached a sermon about that. Japanese airplanes had sent her to the bottom of the Yangtze. Oh, the Japanese government apologized and paid an indemnity afterwards, but that didn't do the dead sailors a hell of a lot of good.

So Americans, and Westerners generally, had to watch themselves in Shanghai these days. But you could still have yourself a hell of a good time if you did watch yourself. Things cost more here than they did in Peking. With only a corporal's pay, Pete noticed the difference. Still, compared to Honolulu or even Manila, Shanghai remained a pretty good deal.

It had compensations Peking lacked, too. Most of the dance-hall hostesses at the clubs here were White Russians, refugees first from the Red takeover and then from the Japanese domination of what was now called Manchukuo. McGill couldn't remember the last time he'd danced with a white woman in Peking. He wasn't sure he ever had. Here, he could do it as much as he wanted, for anything from ten cents to a dollar Mex a dance, depending on how fancy the joint was. And some of the White Russian gals were real stunners, too.

Stunners or not, a lot of them were vampires who could put Bela Lugosi to shame. Their main goal was separating soldiers and sailors and businessmen from cash. Between dances, they wanted to drink. You ordered them champagne or wine or whiskey. They got ginger ale or apple or grape juice or weak tea. It went on the chit as booze, though. You paid-through the nose. Some of Pete's naive buddies wondered how the girls could drink so much and never show it.

He knew better than that, anyhow. If the girl he was dancing with was pretty enough, he didn't care… too much. And Vera, tonight, was all that and then some. Her hair was the color of Jean Harlow's. If a peroxide bottle helped it along (as it was supposed to have done for Harlow), Pete didn't feel like fussing. She had big blue eyes, a button nose, and a mouth as red and sweet-looking as a strawberry. Moving south, she came equipped with everything else a girl needed, too.

And she could really dance. She danced well enough to make Pete, a man born with two left feet, feel like a good dancer himself. She also clung to him tighter than a coat of paint. If that wasn't inspiration, he didn't know what would be. She must have felt his hard-on bumping against her, but she didn't seem to mind. She let him kiss her, too. Her mouth turned out to be even sweeter than it looked.

They went on clinging to each other after the music stopped. A slinky Chinese gal in a dress slit up to there brought fresh drinks to the sweating Chinamen in black tie who played some pretty good hot jazz.

Somebody tapped Pete on the shoulder. Distracted, he half turned. There stood a buddy of his, a Marine named Puccinelli. Grinning, the dago said, "Why don't you make an honest woman out of that broad, man? You looked like you were gonna lay her right here on the dance floor."

"Why don't you get lost, Pooch?" McGill suggested sweetly. If he'd thought Vera would go for it… She might have been pouring down phony drinks, but Pete hadn't. He'd guzzled enough real whiskey to make it seem like fun, not craziness.

Vera tugged at his arm. "A little champagne?" she said. "Dancing makes you thirsty, yes?"

Dancing made Pete horny. "How's about you and me go off somewhere quiet, just the two of us?" he asked.

Even half in the bag, he watched the cash registers chinging behind the White Russian girl's big baby blues. He gave his own mental shrug. It wasn't as if he thought she was with him because of the charm of his own blunt, ruddy features. If you were looking for love, or even for a facsimile that seemed reasonable while it was going on, in places like this, you needed to keep your wallet in your hand.

"Sixty dollars Mex," Vera said.

That was four times the going rate for a Chinese girl in a Shanghai brothel. It was also fifteen bucks American, or a goodly part of a month's pay. But when John Henry started yelling… you really wished that asshole on the train hadn't had four of a kind. "Ouch," Pete said.

Vera considered. She wasn't like a whorehouse whore-she had some discretion about clients and prices. Her features softened a little. "All right, Yankee. For you, fifty Mex," she said.

She does like me-some, anyway, Pete thought. He also knew damn well she wouldn't come down twice. "Where can we go?" he asked.

She took his arm. "Follow me," she said. Right then, he would have followed her through ice or fire or a minefield. He didn't have to go that far: only to a little room over the dance hall.

It had a bare, dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, a mattress on an iron bed frame, one cheap chair, and a nightstand with a pitcher and basin and a couple of folded towels on top. It was astringently clean and astringently neat, which made it stand out among the many whores' rooms Pete had visited.

"You like it?" Vera's mouth twisted as she slid out of her dress. "It is my palace."

"Sweetheart, any room with you in it is a palace," Pete said hoarsely. He might regret blowing so much jack tomorrow, but he sure didn't now. She looked even better naked than she had in the tight-fitting silk. He hadn't dreamt she could.

She gave him a wry smile. "An eager one like you, almost I forget I do this for money."

Pete wished she hadn't said almost. But, right this minute, he didn't care why she was doing it, as long as she was. He flicked off the light and reached for her. Even in the sudden darkness, he knew just where the bed lay. LIEUTENANT COLONEL BORISOV GLOWERED at the assembled Red Air Force pilots and copilots. "You people have been sitting around on your asses too damn long," the squadron commander growled. "High time you went out and earned some of the rubles the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union are paying you."

Lieutenant Sergei Yaroslavsky stirred on his folding chair. That was monstrously unfair, and Borisov had to know it. It wasn't the flyers' fault that the unpaved Byelorussian airstrip turned to gluey mud in the spring thaw. Everything turned to mud during the fall and spring rasputitsas.

"Time to make the Poles sorry they climbed into the sack with that dog turd of a Fascist, Hitler," Borisov went on. "If they think they can get away with refusing the USSR's just demands, they'd better think twice."

Now Sergei nodded. That was more like it. Blame the enemy, not your own side.

Sitting next to him, Anastas Mouradian raised a thick, dark eyebrow. One of these days, the copilot and bomb-aimer aboard Sergei's SB-2 would end up in more trouble than he could hope to escape. An emotional Armenian, he couldn't keep what he was thinking off his face.

Enough propaganda. Just give us the mission and let us take care of it. Something like that had to be in Stas' mind. It was in Sergei's mind, too, but he had sense enough not to show it. What nobody saw wouldn't get reported to the NKVD.

Of course, the NKVD could haul you away and shoot you or chuck you into a camp north of the Arctic Circle with no excuse at all. But why make things easy for the Chekists? If you gave them a reason to jump on you, you were almost asking for it, like a girl in tight clothes that didn't cover enough of her.

"Our target is the railroad line that runs southeast from Wilno to Molodetschna," Colonel Borisov went on. Wilno to the Russians, Vilna to the Poles, Vilnius to the Lithuanians… one town with three names, depending on who was talking about it and who held it at any given moment. It was in Poland's hands now. Marshal Smigly-Ridz had refused to give it back to the USSR. The Lithuanians also wanted it again, though they hadn't ruled there for centuries.

Sergei didn't show annoyance, and he didn't show relief, either. Whether he showed it or not, he felt it. They weren't going to fly into East Prussia today. It wasn't that the Germans didn't have fighters and antiaircraft guns inside of Poland-they did. But they seemed much more serious about defending their own people than they did about protecting a bunch of Poles.

"Questions?" Borisov asked.

No one said anything. Borisov did not have a manner that encouraged queries. His face said, Don't waste my time. Not all questions did waste time, but the ones that didn't got asked no more than the ones that did.

After the meeting broke up, Sergeant Ivan Kuchkov asked his superiors, "Well, how are they going to fuck us over this time?"

"The railroad coming out of Wilno," Sergei answered.

"That won't be so bad," Kuchkov said. He was the bombardier, in charge of actually dropping the bombs on the enemy's head. It took brute strength, and he had plenty. He was short and squat and muscular. He was also one of the hairiest human beings Sergei had ever seen. People called him "the Chimp," but rarely to his face-you took your life in your hands if you did.

"I was thinking the same thing," Yaroslavsky said.

"I was hoping the same thing," Anastas Mouradian said, which sounded almost identical but meant something different.

Most of the winter whitewash had been scrubbed off their SB-2. What was left gave the Tupolev bomber's summer camouflage of brown and green an old, faded look. The SB-2 itself was starting to seem old and faded to Sergei. The two-engined machine had seemed a world-beater in the early days of the Spanish Civil War. It could outrun and outclimb the biplane fighters Marshal Sanjurjo's Fascists and their Italian and German allies threw against it.

But those days were long gone now. Sergei and his crewmates had fought as "volunteers" in Czechoslovakia. There, he'd made the unhappy discovery that the SB-2 was no match for the German Messerschmitt 109. Quite a few of his comrades who'd discovered the same thing didn't come back to the Rodina. Bf-109s had done far too many of the Motherland's flyers in this latest squabble with the Poles and Germans, too.

Better bombers were supposed to be on the way. Till they arrived, the SB-2 soldiered on. It was what the Soviet Union had. If losses ran high… Well, they did, that was all. Factories could crank out more planes, and Osoaviakhim flight schools could crank out more pilots.

Armorers wheeled bombs over to the plane. The carts didn't sink into the ground, a sure sign the rasputitsa was done at last. "Here's hoping they all land on the Hitlerites' cocks," Kuchkov said.

"And the Poles'," Sergei added.

"Fuck the Poles. Fuck their mothers, fuck their daughters, fuck their sisters, and fuck their ugly old aunties, too," Ivan declared. He was, as Sergei had seen before, a man of limited vocabulary and strong opinions. "The Poles aren't worth shit. The fucking Germans, they're the ones we need to worry about."

He wasn't wrong. Sergei had seen enough of the Germans to alarm him, too. "They won't stop us," the pilot declared. Neither Kuchkov nor Mouradian tried to tell him any different.

Both big radial engines on the SB-2 thundered to life. Sergei ran through the checklist. Everything came up green. Other bombers were jouncing down the runway and flying west. When his turn came, Sergei joined them. Getting up in the air again felt good. Till the shooting started, he could remember what a joy flying was supposed to be.

But the shooting started all too soon. During the winter, Soviet troops had bitten off a disappointingly small chunk of northeastern Poland. A few of them fired at the westbound SB-2s, on the theory that anything in the air was bound to be dangerous. The Chimp's profanity echoed brassily through the speaking tube that connected the bomb bay and the cockpit.

And the Poles banged away at the bombers for all they were worth. Black puffs of smoke burst among the SB-2s. The antiaircraft fire was so quick and accurate, Sergei wondered if Germans were manning the guns down on the ground. One of the SB-2s had to turn back with smoke and flame coming from the starboard engine. Yaroslavsky hoped the crew got down safely.

That clang was a chunk of shrapnel biting into the fuselage. Sergei eyed the gauges. He tested all the controls. "Khorosho?" Mouradian asked.

"Da, khorosho," Sergei answered, and everything did seem fine. Part of him that only came out in times of stress wanted to thank God. The New Soviet Man who ruled his mind more often than not told that other part to shut up and go away.

There was the railroad line, stretching off toward Wilno. "Borisov didn't tell us where he wanted us to hit it, did he?" Mouradian said.

Sergei thought back. "No, I don't believe he did." That probably meant some Red Air Force higher-up hadn't told Borisov. Maybe none of the higher-ups had even stopped to worry about it. Since they figured one length of track was as good as another… "I'm going to start the bombing run."

He flew straight and level, changing course only as Mouradian aligned them more closely on the railway line. "Now, Ivan!" Mouradian bawled through the speaking tube, and the stick of bombs fell free.

As soon as they did, Yaroslavsky swung the bomber into a hard turn and mashed down the throttle. Even Polish fighters could outrun the SB-2, and if Messerschmitts were in the neighborhood…

Messerschmitts were in the neighborhood. The slab-sided fighters tore into the SB-2s that had pressed deeper into Poland. A blast from the dorsal machine-gun turret said one of them was thinking about coming after Sergei's plane. "Gutless whore!" Ivan yelled. "He's running like a prick with the clap!"

"Too bad!" Sergei said. He exchanged a look with Mouradian. They wore identical shaky grins. No matter how the Chimp felt, neither was sorry that German hadn't kept chasing them. No, not a bit, Sergei thought, and came down on the throttle even harder. A GROUNDCREW MAN WALKED UP to Hans-Ulrich Rudel at what had been a French airstrip till the Wehrmacht overran it. These days, Stukas flew out of it to pummel the former owners and their English allies. "Excuse me, Lieutenant…" the enlisted man said, and stood there waiting.

"What's up, Franz?" Rudel asked. The mechanic had served in the trenches in the last war. He still recalled the strict and formal discipline of the Kaiser's army, which made him seem out of place in Germany's new, more easygoing military.

"Colonel Steinbrenner wants to see you right away, sir," Franz said.

"What kind of trouble am I in?" Hans-Ulrich assumed he was in one kind or another. He was a white crow in the squadron: a teetotaling minister's son didn't mix well with most of the hard-drinking, hard-wenching pilots. They teased him, and he shot back. There hadn't been any brawls yet, but it was bound to be only a matter of time. Even his rear gunner thought him a queer duck.

But Franz only shrugged. "Sir, you think a colonel tells me anything like that?"

Hans-Ulrich didn't. He walked over to the colonel's tent. Everything all around was green. The air was soft and sweet and mild with spring… if you didn't notice the faint death-reek that lay under the sweetness. Rudel's nose was used to it, so most of the time he didn't. This morning, for some reason, he did.

An unfamiliar Kubelwagen was parked next to the tent. The little utility vehicle was built on a Volkswagen chassis. Production of passenger cars, naturally, was on hold for the duration. A Kubelwagen could take four people almost anywhere, and carry a machine gun, too. If you didn't need armor plate or a cannon, what more could you want?

He ducked into the tent. "Rudel, sir, reporting as ordered."

"Yes, yes." Colonel Steinbrenner nodded to the two men standing next to the folding table that served as his desk. "These gentlemen have some questions they want to ask you."

The gentlemen in question didn't wear Luftwaffe blue-gray. Instead, their uniforms were somber black, with SS runs on one collar tab. The older SS man said, "So you're Rudel, are you?"

"That's right," Hans-Ulrich answered automatically.

"Good. Come with us," the blackshirt said.

"What's going on?" That was also an automatic yelp.

"Just come. We'll talk about it later," the SS man answered.

Numbly, Rudel went. Was this what Russian officers felt when somebody from the NKVD came for them? He didn't know; he'd never been a Russian. He did know people at the airstrip stared as he climbed into the Kubelwagen with Himmler's hounds. The younger one started up the machine. As it rolled away, Hans-Ulrich wondered if he'd ever come back.

After a little more than a kilometer, the driver pulled off the narrow, winding road and stopped. Everything was very quiet. A couple of black cows grazed in an emerald meadow. Off in the distance, a French farmer guided a horse-drawn plow. He probably would have used a tractor before the war, but where would he get gas for it now? The plow might have been sitting in the barn since his father put it there. But you did what you could with what you had.

What were the SS men going to do with him? The older one lit an Overstolz from a pack he took out of his breast pocket. When he held out the pack, Hans-Ulrich shook his head. "That's right," the blackshirt said, as if reminding himself. "You don't drink, either, do you?"

"What if I don't?" Rudel said. "Were you going to give me a cigarette before you put one between my eyes?"

The two big men in black looked at each other. Then, as if on cue, they threw back their heads and laughed like loons. A jackdaw flew out of a nearby tree, chattering in annoyance. "That's not what we brought you out here for," the younger one said. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He dabbed at them with his sleeve before dissolving in giggles again. "Oh, dear!" He couldn't stop laughing-he was helpless as a baby.

And his partner wasn't in much better shape. Had Rudel needed to, he thought he could have disarmed them both without breaking a sweat. Evidently, though, he didn't need to. What he didn't understand was why he didn't need to. "Well, what did you bring me out here for?" he asked irritably.

"Nice to know our reputation goes ahead of us," the older one said. Did he mean it? Hans-Ulrich, already at sea, had trouble telling. The SS man gathered himself. He finally went on, "As a matter of fact, Rudel, we wanted to talk to you because you're known to be loyal."

"Huh?" Hans-Ulrich knew the uncouth noise made him sound like a moron, but it was what came out of his mouth.

"Because you're known to be loyal," the SS man repeated patiently. Maybe he had a small child at home, and didn't mind saying the same thing over and over again. Or maybe-since he didn't wear a wedding ring-he'd just done a devil of a lot of interrogations. "We want to root out disloyalty wherever we find it. People whose loyalty we trust can help us do that. This colonel in charge of your squadron, for instance… Has he ever done anything or said anything to make you think he's not doing all he can for the Reich and the Fuhrer?"

"Colonel Steinbrenner? Never," Rudel said at once. Telling the truth was easy, and came as a relief.

"He's replacing somebody who wasn't reliable," the younger SS man said, tactfully reminding his superior of something he might have forgotten.

"Ja, ja," the other blackshirt said, not so patiently this time. If he had forgotten, he wasn't about to admit it. "But so what? That doesn't mean he walks on water himself, not by a long shot."

"As far as I know, he's a good National Socialist," Hans-Ulrich said.

"Wunderbar. Maybe he does walk on water, then. What about the other people in your squadron?" the older man persisted. "Anybody saying rude things about the Fuhrer because the offensive's slowed down a little bit?"

The offensive in France hadn't slowed down. It had stopped. No matter how German radio tried to disguise that, it was obvious to anyone who spent time at, or over, the front. The Wehrmacht hadn't taken Paris. It hadn't wheeled around behind the city from the north: the goal in 1914 and now again a generation later. It was scrambling to try to cover its long, weak southern flank against French counterattacks. It wasn't trench warfare of the sort that had murdered so many of the Kaiser's soldiers, but German troops weren't storming forward to glory right this minute, either.

Cautiously, Hans-Ulrich answered, "Nobody's very happy about it. I'm not very happy about it myself."

That last sentence made the older SS man close his mouth on a question. Rudel could guess what it was. He would have wanted to know exactly who was unhappy, and what the unhappy people had said. Easy to put a noose around someone's neck with testimony like that. But the blackshirt had to see Rudel wouldn't say anything worth hearing, not if he admitted he wished the war were going better.

"What about your crewmate, Sergeant What's-his-name… Dieselhorst?" the younger SS man said. "Some people have told us funny stuff about him."

"Then they're a pack of lying pigdogs," Hans-Ulrich answered hotly. "Nothing's wrong with Albert-not one single thing, you hear? If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have come back from a couple of missions. You want to listen to the Scheisse 'some people' come out with, you'd better haul me away, too."

He wondered if they would. Albert Dieselhorst loved Germany, but he didn't love the people who ran it these days. And he wasn't shy about saying so, which must have been why informers tipped these fellows off to him. If they had enough evidence, they'd know Rudel was protecting his sergeant. Then he and Dieselhorst would both catch it.

But the blackshirt said, "Take an even strain, buddy. We've got to check this stuff out, you know. It's our job. It's our duty." He nodded-he liked the sound of that better. It made him seem more like a soldier, less like the secret policeman he was.

"Take him back," the older SS man said. "He hasn't got anything good for us."

"Doesn't look that way," the fellow behind the wheel agreed. He started up the Kubelwagen, expertly turned around on the narrow road, and started east, toward the airstrip. Rudel couldn't let out the sigh of relief that wanted to explode from him. They might notice it and know it for what it was.

The older man did have the decency to say, "Good luck to you," when they dropped Hans-Ulrich off. The Kubelwagen chugged away. Groundcrew men and flyers stared at Rudel. If the SS arrested somebody right after this, he wouldn't be able to live it down. The gang would have to wait and see that everyone stayed safe before they trusted him again. Sooner or later, they would… he hoped. SARAH GOLDMAN WALKED through the streets of Munster toward the only bakery in town that still served Jews. It was late afternoon: the only time Jews were allowed to shop. They got whatever was left after all the Aryans bought what they needed. It wasn't fair, of course. Nothing had been fair since the Nazis took over, more than six years ago now.

She'd only been twelve then. She hadn't understood all the reasons why her parents and her older brother were so upset. Well, she did now. No one who lived in Germany, Jew or Aryan, could fail to understand these days.

British bombers-or maybe they were French-had come over a few nights before. Nothing fell very close to the Goldmans' house, for which Sarah thanked the God in Whom she was having more and more trouble believing.

A labor gang worked to fill in a crater one of the bombs had blown in the street. A gray-haired man with only one arm shouted at the men to work harder. He was probably a sergeant mutilated in the last war. Some of the men were petty criminals. Some were too old to worry about getting conscripted. None seemed inclined to work any harder than he had to.

"Put your backs into it, you lugs!" the gang boss growled. "If you don't, they'll put you to work in a camp."

That made his charges speed up, at least for a little while. It made Sarah shudder as she walked by. She didn't know what happened to people who went to places like Mauthausen and Dachau. All she knew was, it wasn't good. No-she also knew they didn't come out again. Her imagination took it from there: took it all kinds of unpleasant places. She shuddered again.

"Hey, sweetheart!" one of the guys in the gang called. He waved to her and rocked his hips forward and back. His buddies laughed.

Sarah's spine stiffened. She walked on with her nose in the air. That only made the laborers laugh harder. She ignored them as best she could. She hadn't wanted to look at them at all. She was afraid she'd see her father sweating through pick-and-shovel work. Samuel Goldman, wounded war veteran, holder of the Iron Cross Second Class, professor of classics and ancient history… street repairer. It was the only work the Nazis would let him have.

Her brother had worked in a labor gang for a while, too. Saul was a footballer of near-professional quality. He exulted in the physical, where his father grudgingly acknowledged it. And, when his gang boss rode him and hit him once too often for being a Jew, he'd smashed in the nasty little man's head with a shovel.

He'd got away afterwards, too. Sarah didn't know how, but he had. His athletic training must have let him outrun everyone who chased him. And the police and the SS were still looking for him. A slow smile spread across Sarah's face. He'd found a hiding place they'd never think of.

How many of the people on the street at this time of day were Jews intent on getting whatever the hateful authorities would let them have? You couldn't tell by looking, not most of the time. Worried expressions and threadbare clothes meant nothing. During wartime, plenty of impeccably Aryan Germans were worried and shabby, too. And Sarah couldn't recognize Jews from the synagogue, either. Her family was secular, with mostly gentile friends; she couldn't remember the last time she'd gone to shul.

Her father had told her he felt more Jewish now, with the Nazis persecuting him, than he ever had before. If that wasn't irony, what was?

A young man in a Wehrmacht uniform, his left arm in a sling, smiled at her as she walked past. She didn't smile back. She thought she might have if she were an Aryan; he was nice-looking. Up till Hitler took over, she'd always thought of herself as more German than Jewish. Even with everything that was going on, her father and brother had tried to join up when the war started. They still wanted to be Germans. The recruiters wouldn't let them. It was all so monstrously unfair.

The Jewish grocer's shop and bakery sat across the street from each other. Before the war started, brownshirts had amused themselves by swearing at Jewish women who went in and out. They'd chucked a rock through the grocer's window, too. Naturally, the police only yawned. Now most of the brownshirts were carrying rifles. Sarah hoped the French and the English-yes, and the Russians, too-would shoot them.

She got some sad potatoes and turnips, some wilting greens, and a couple of wizened apples at the grocer's. It all cost too much and too many ration points. When she grumbled, Josef Stein only shrugged. "It's not like I can do anything about it," the proprietor said.

"I know." Sarah sighed. "But it's not easy for my family, either."

"You want easy, what are you doing here?" Stein said.

She walked across the street to the bakery. The bread was what the ration book called war bread. It was baked from rye and barley and potato flour. It was black and chewy. The alarming thing was that people who remembered the last war said it was better than what they ate then. That bread had been eked out with ground corn and lupine seeds-and, some people insisted, with sawdust, too.

The baker's son stood behind the counter. Isidor Bruck was only a couple of years older than Sarah. He'd played football with her brother, though he wasn't in Saul's class (but then, who was?). No doubt his parents had named him Isidor to keep from calling him Isaak. That kind of thing amused Sarah's father, who'd told her Isidor meant gift of Isis-not the sort of name a Jew ought to wear. She didn't think the Brucks had given it to him because of what it meant, but even so…

"This is a pretty good batch," he said as he put the loaf in her cloth sack.

"You always say that," Sarah answered. "Or your father does, if he's back there instead."

"We always mean it, too. We do the best we can with what they let us have," Isidor said. "If they gave us more, we'd do better. You know what we were like before… before everything happened. We were the best bakery in town. Jews? Goyim? We were better than everybody."

"Sure, Isidor," Sarah said. As far as she could remember, he was right. Whenever the Goldmans wanted something special, they'd come to the Brucks' bakery. She remembered things as ordinary as white bread with a fond longing she wouldn't have imagined possible only a couple of years before.

She gave him money and more ration coupons. Just handling the coupons, printed with the Nazis' eagle holding a swastika in its claws, made her want to wash her hands. But she had to use them-she or her mother. If they didn't, the family wouldn't eat. It wouldn't eat well any which way. Aryans couldn't eat well under rationing, though they could keep body and soul together. Jews had trouble doing even that.

He handed her her change. Some of the bronze and aluminum coins also bore the eagle and swastika. She liked the older ones, from the Weimar Republic, better. They didn't make her wish she could be a traitor against the government, or at least that the country-her country, in spite of everything-had gone in a different direction.

"Take care," Isidor said as she turned to go. "Hope I see you again before too long."

"Sure," Sarah said, and then wondered if she should have. She could see his reflection in the front window as she walked to the door-neither brownshirts nor British bombs had broken this one. Yes, he was watching her. She had to ask herself how she felt about being watched. What would she do if he asked her to go walking in the botanical gardens, or through the park just south of them that held the zoo? (Those were the most exciting dates Jews could have these days. Even movie theaters were off-limits. Sarah didn't look especially Jewish, but Isidor did. The ticket seller would surely ask for his ID, and trouble would follow right away.)

A baker's son? In ordinary times, she would have laughed at the idea. These days, weren't all Jews equal in misery? And-a coldly pragmatic part of her mind whispered-if anybody kept food on the table, wouldn't a baker? The things you had to think about! She was glad when the door swung shut behind her.