West and East

Chapter 5

Behind Sergei Yaroslavsky's SB-2, columns of black smoke rose above Wilno. Some of the columns had surely come from the bombs his plane had dropped. "Well," he said in some satisfaction, "we're finally starting to get somewhere."

"Oh, yes." Anastas Mouradian nodded. If he was anywhere near as pleased as Sergei, he hadn't bothered telling his face about it. "Somewhere. But where?"

"We've got the Poles on the run." Sergei almost shouted, to make himself heard over the drone of the SB-2's twin radial engines. "It took a while, but now we do. A week from now, we won't just be bombing Wilno. We'll be shelling it-see if we won't. The Poles are brave, but that only helps so much when you haven't got the horses-or when the horses are all you've got."

Mouradian nodded again. He'd heard the same stories Sergei had: about how Polish cavalrymen, square-topped csapkas on their heads and drawn sabers gleaming in the sun, had charged Red Army tanks. You did have to be brave to do something like that. Didn't you also have to be out of your mind? Not many of the Poles who'd galloped forward galloped back again.

"All right. Fine. We have the Poles on the run. Now what?" Mouradian said after what seemed a pause for consideration. His Russian was fluent, but carried a throaty Armenian accent. He sounded a little like Stalin on the radio. Sergei thought so, anyhow, but Mouradian got offended when the Russian told him so. If you listened to Stas, Armenian and Georgian were nothing like each other. But, if you listened to him explaining that, he still sounded like Stalin.

He also took a perverse-a Caucasian?-pride in being difficult. "What do you mean, 'Now what?'" Sergei said. "We take back the chunk of Poland Pilsudski stole from us while we were fighting our civil war, that's what."

"And what do the Poles do then?" Anastas inquired. "Better yet, what do the Germans do then?"

The Germans couldn't do what Sergei suggested. Human beings weren't made that way. Mouradian chuckled indulgently, as he might have at a six-year-old showing off. Sergei went on, "But who cares what they do? If the Poles make peace with us, the Nazis have to get out of Poland, right?"

"They're good at marching into places. They aren't so good at marching out again," Stas said, which was bound to be true. He added, "Besides, they're still at war with us any which way. They have been since Czechoslovakia."

"Well, so what?" Sergei didn't like to think about Czechoslovakia. He and Stas and Ivan Kuchkov had come out again, which a lot of other "volunteers" hadn't. He'd first made the acquaintance of the Bf-109 there. If he never saw another angular German fighter, he wouldn't be sorry.

"So Hitler will find some other way to keep the fight going," Mouradian predicted. "He hates the Soviet Union worse than he hates France and England."

That held a nasty ring of truth. Yaroslavsky was glad to have to pay attention to his flying for a little while as he descended toward this new airstrip on what had been Polish soil. "He may hate us, but is he crazy?" he asked, leveling off again. "Does he want a two-front war?"

"Germany almost won the last one," Anastas answered, which was true even if unpalatable. "And it doesn't look like America's going to get into this one."

Sergei's grunt could have been taken as one of effort, because he was cranking down the landing gear. A hydraulic or electrical system would have been easier on the pilot. It also would have been more expensive and harder to build. He-and every other SB-2 pilot-went on working the crank.

Without American soldiers and munitions, France and England likely would have lost the World War-the First World War, it was now. That didn't make Soviet citizens love the USA. American troops in the north and the Far East had done their best to strangle the Russian Revolution in its cradle. They'd gone home, grudgingly, only after their best turned out not to be good enough.

The bomber set down roughly and taxied to a stop. Groundcrew men trotted up as the crew scrambled out of the plane. "How did it go, Comrades?" the chief maintenance sergeant asked.

"We put the bombs on target in Wilno," Sergei said. "Not much antiaircraft fire. The Poles are wearing down."

"About time," the sergeant said. "I don't know why they got so excited over Wilno to begin with-or why we want it, come to that. Damn town is full of Litvaks and Jews." He spat in the dirt.

Before Sergei could answer that or even think about it much, Ivan Kuchkov stiffened like an animal taking a scent. He cocked his head to one side, listening intently. Then he said something worse than his usual mat-laced obscenities: "Messerschmitts! Heading this way!"

Sergei started running before he heard the planes himself. So did everybody else within earshot of the Chimp. Long before the pilot got to the trenches on one side of the runway, he did hear the hateful roar of the fighters' engines. That only made him run harder.

He didn't run hard enough to get to the trenches before the 109s' machine guns and cannon started stitching down the airstrip. Dust spurted up from the hits. Rounds slammed into the metal and doped fabric covering his SB-2. He didn't look back. He did a swan dive-if you could imagine a spastic swan-into the zigzagging trench.

That maintenance sergeant landed in the trench beside him. "Too goddamn close," Sergei said, panting. "I'm lucky I didn't break my ankle jumping down here."

The sergeant didn't answer. He wouldn't, either. A bullet-or, more likely, a 20mm round-had taken off the top of his head. Blood and brains soaked into the black dirt. One second, he'd been running for cover. The next? It was over. Lots of worse ways to go. Pilots found too many of them. If you got shot down, you were liable to have a lot of time to think before you finally smashed.

"Bozhemoi!" Anastas Mouradian said. "Poor bugger cashed in his chips all at once, didn't he?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Sergei answered as the Messerschmitts zoomed away at just above treetop height. Now he could smell the maintenance man's blood, and the nastier smells that said his bowels and bladder had let go when he stopped one.

"Za Stalina," Mouradian added somberly. About every third Red Army tank and Red Air Force bomber had For Stalin! painted on its side. You fought for Stalin. And you died for Stalin, too. He looked after the 109s. They were long gone now. "You see? The Nazis haven't dried up and blown away."

"Well… no." Sergei didn't like to admit that. Oh, he knew Poles could kill him, too. But the Germans, damn them, were much too good at such things. He wondered what they'd done to his plane. It wasn't burning, anyhow. A couple of bullets through the engines sure wouldn't do it any good, though. Two of the tires on the landing gear were flat. That would make getting it out of the way for repairs even more fun than it would have been otherwise.

They'd have to do it, fun or not. They couldn't just leave the SB-2 in the middle of the runway. Not only did it clog Soviet air operations here, it sent the Luftwaffe an engraved invitation to come back.

"Planes… We can fight back against planes," Stas said, and Sergei made himself nod. It was true-to a point. The Bf-109 outdid anything the Red Air Force flew. Both biplane and blunt-nosed monoplane Polikarpov fighters were last year's models-no, year before last's-next to it. New machines that could meet the fearsome Messerschmitts on even terms were supposed to be in the works. But the hot Soviet planes weren't here yet, and the Germans had theirs now. In a low voice, Mouradian went on, "What happens if the Nazis throw their panzers at us?"

Sergei took a deep breath, then immediately wished he hadn't. It wasn't just that he smelled the butcher-shop and outhouse reeks of the groundcrew man's sudden demise. But the damp-earth smell of the trench reminded him of a new-dug grave. He'd smelled that smell when they put his mother in the ground.

"Hitler wouldn't do that," he protested, remembering how stunned he'd been then. "He may be crazy, but he's not stupid. He'd really have a two-front war if he did."

"Well, maybe. I hope you're right," Mouradian said. "But so would we, and we didn't the last time around."

Only one thing was left for Sergei to do then: swear at the Japanese. He did it, with a flair and verve that made even the Chimp eye him in surprised admiration. With any luck at all, it would satisfy NKVD informers, too-assuming Ivan Kuchkov wasn't one. SARAH GOLDMAN STARED at the rectangle of yellow cloth her mother held. It had crudely printed, fist-sized Stars of David on it. Each six-pointed star bore four black, Hebraic-looking letters: Jude. The Jews of Munster, the Jews of Germany, were going to have to put the stars on their clothes and announce to their Aryan neighbors what they were.

But that wasn't the worst part. Oh, no. The worst was that the Goldmans, like every other Jewish family in Germany, had to give up clothing ration points to get the cloth with which to mark themselves. Whoever'd come up with that masterpiece of bureaucratic chutzpah must have won himself a commendation from Himmler, or even from Hitler himself.

"They aren't just nasty," Sarah said. "They're ugly." She tried to imagine wearing a yellow star on the breast of a jacket or blouse. She'd been shabby before-Jews got far fewer clothing points than Aryans. But her mother was good at mending and making do. Come to that, she wasn't bad herself. How were you supposed to make do with a star that shrieked JEW! at the world?

"I might have known it would happen. I should have known," her father said when he came back from his work on the labor gang that night. He was thinner than Sarah ever remembered seeing him; he did more than the food he got could support. Most nights, he fell asleep like a dead man right after supper. But he somehow seemed to limp less than usual, and his eyes were clear and bright.

"What do you mean, you should have known?" Hanna Goldman demanded. "Who do you think you are, Heydrich or somebody?"

"God forbid," Sarah's father answered. Sarah nodded and shivered at the same time. Heydrich might have been the scariest Nazi in business, not least because he looked like such a perfect Aryan. Samuel Goldman went on, "But when the Wehrmacht didn't roll into Paris, Hitler and Goebbels needed something to take people's minds off the war. Jews are perfect for that: the Nazis can jump all over us, and how are we going to hit back?"

No one said anything for some little while. The words held painfully obvious truth. Jews had always been scapegoats in Germany, the same way they had in Russia. When things went wrong somewhere else, you could set people banging on the kikes. Then you'd feel better, and the people would feel better, and if the Jews didn't feel better, well, who cared about them? Banging on Jews was the national equivalent of kicking your cat after a cop gave you a ticket.

While Sarah got the dishes as clean as she could with cold water, her mother cut out the yellow stars and started sewing them onto clothes. After Sarah got done washing and drying, she sat down to help. The radio blared out insipid music, and then stories about how German bombers were pulverizing Paris and the Luftwaffe was singlehandedly driving the Communist hordes out of Poland.

Pausing for a moment, Sarah's mother said, "If things were going as well as the newsmen say, we wouldn't be sitting here doing this."

"You think Father's right, then?" Sarah asked.

"Your father is right most of the time," Hanna Goldman answered. "The trouble is, he thinks that ought to do him some good."

Samuel Goldman had already headed for bed. Sarah shut up and went back to sewing. Her mother didn't usually sound so cynical; that was more her father's style. But people who'd been married a long time did have a way of growing together. And if sewing yellow Jewish stars onto clothes wasn't enough to turn a saint cynical, what would be? How could you sink lower than this?

Sarah found out how the next afternoon, when she went out shopping. It was a mild, even a balmy, spring day. She wore a white linen blouse, probably the best one she owned. Or it had been the best one, anyhow, till the yellow star with the big black letters went onto her left breast.

People stared at her as she walked by. Of course they did. She would have stared herself if someone else had put on anything that ugly. It wasn't my idea! she wanted to shout. You're the ones who voted for the Nazis. You did this. Not me! But that wouldn't have done her any good. Chances were it would have got her locked up. At least she had the sense to realize as much.

She saw a few other Jews out and about. They had to be, to get what they could in the scant time German regulations grudged them. Most looked as embarrassed as she felt. A few wore the star with dignity. And one or two might not have had it on, not by the way they acted. Sarah envied them their coolness, knowing she couldn't come within kilometers of matching it.

Nobody pointed at her and jeered. She didn't see Germans pointing and jeering at other Jews, either. She didn't hear anybody yelling Lousy kike! or something filthier yet. Had even the Aryans had all the anti-Semitic propaganda they could stomach? She wouldn't have imagined such a thing possible.

She wouldn't have imagined it, but maybe it was. A fiftyish man with a double chin-he looked like a mason, or perhaps a plumber-walked down the street toward her. As they passed, he gravely tipped his hat and went on.

She almost tripped over her own feet in astonishment. Had someone from the SS seen him do that, he might have wound up in a concentration camp. At the least, he would have got a stern talking-to. It hadn't stopped him. What was the world coming to? Sarah walked a little straighter after that.

Another man-this one an obvious veteran of the last war-tipped his hat to her before she got to the grocer's. She bought what vegetables she could and waited for the clerk to serve her. As long as any Aryans were in the shop, he was supposed to take care of them, even if they'd come in after she did.

But one of the women who had come in after her waved her forward, saying, "Go on, dear. You were next."

"Are you sure?" Sarah feared a trap. When ordinary politeness could scare you… you were a Jew in the Third Reich. But the Hausfrau took two steps back and waved her to the counter. The clerk took her money and her ration coupons. She got out of the grocery as fast as she could.

On the way home, a middle-aged man-another obvious veteran, with a bad limp and a scarred face-nodded to her and said, "Congratulations on your medal, sweetheart."

"Medal?" Sarah wished she hadn't echoed it. That only gave him the chance to let fly with whatever nastiness bubbled inside of him.

He pointed to the yellow star. "Your Pour le semite there." He too tipped his hat, then stumped down the sidewalk.

Sarah needed a few seconds to get it. When she did, her jaw dropped. The highest German decoration in the last war-the equivalent of the modern Knight's Cross with oak leaves, swords, and diamonds-had the simple French name of Pour le merite. For merit, it meant. And this stranger had punned off it, inventing a medal called For the Semite. That took brains. It also took nerve. Suppose someone other than a Jew had heard. What would have happened to him then? Nothing good.

To her amazement, at supper her father reported the same joke from his labor gang. "It must be all over town, then!" she exclaimed.

"All over the country, I'd guess," Father said. "Things like that, they spread faster than the grippe."

"Why bother with the stupid stars, then, if they only make people laugh at them and treat us better instead of worse?" Sarah said.

"You're asking the wrong person. You need to talk to the Fuhrer, not me," Samuel Goldman said. "But one thing did occur to me."

"What's that?" Sarah wondered if she really wanted to know.

"If the Party ever decides it wants to round up as many Jews as it can, we're a lot easier to spot wearing our yellow stars."

"Oh." In a way, that made sense. In another… "Why would they want to do such a meshuggineh thing?" Sarah asked.

"Because they're Germans, and they're convinced we're not," her father said sadly. "If there's more bad news from the front, who knows what they'll do?"

No one knew. Even the Nazis didn't, not yet. That was the scariest part about it. PETE McGILL WAS IN LOVE. This was his first time-the crushes he'd had on girls before he dropped out of high school to join the Corps didn't count. So what if she was a White Russian taxi dancer who'd turned tricks on the side before Pete got to know her? If anything, that only made him burn harder.

His Marine buddies in Shanghai thought he'd gone round the bend. "Hey, man, don't you think she still sleeps around for cash while you ain't looking?" Herman Szulc asked in what were no doubt intended for reasonable tones.

Whatever they were intended for, they didn't fly with Pete. "Watch your mouth, Shultzie, or I'll rearrange your face for you," he growled.

"You and who else?" Szulc didn't back down from anybody. He was a leatherneck, too.

More Marines had to grab them and hold them back, or they would have gone for each other. "This sucks," Pooch Puccinelli said. "I like drinking with both of you assholes, but now we can't go out together. Soon as we all try it, you'll have a couple and do your best to knock each other's brains out."

"He ain't got no brains," Szulc said.

"Fuck you, you dumb Polack," Pete said. "Fuck your-" Somebody clapped a hand over his mouth before he could come out with anything irrevocable.

He went to see Vera whenever he got off duty. When he couldn't see her, he thought about her. The touch of her, the scent of her, the taste of her… He had it bad, so bad he had no idea how bad it was. None so blind as he who will not see.

Vera, on the other hand, could see very clearly. She could see she had a meal ticket here. If things went the way she wanted them to, she wouldn't have to sell her time and her body any more. She didn't do it because she enjoyed it; she did it for the same reason a man built chairs: to make a living. She'd always hoped someone would fall for her so she wouldn't have to any more. She hadn't really expected it-it seemed like something out of a soppy movie. But she had hoped.

And now it had happened! A rich American, no less! (To Vera, all Americans were rich, even a Marine Corps corporal.) The rest of the girls at the Golden Lotus were madly jealous of her. In a different way, so was Sam Grynszpan, the Jew who owned the place. Like her, though for different reasons, he was what was bloodlessly called a stateless person. No rich American was likely to fall in love with him: he was short and squat and had a wide mouth and bulging eyes that made him look like a toad with five o'clock shadow.

Jealous or not, he gave good advice: "Don't let this one get away." His office was tiny and cramped and stank of stale cigar butts.

"Don't worry-I won't," Vera answered. She spoke Russian to him. He used a mix of Russian and Polish with her, flavored with Yiddish and French. They could both get along in six or eight different languages. Going around with Pete was doing wonders for her English.

She could have been polishing her Japanese just as easily. Tall, busty blond women fascinated Asians, as she had reason to know. To her, these days, men were men, regardless of where they came from. Well, almost. She'd never met even a Japanese major as open-handed as Pete McGill.

"You may really get to like him-who the hell knows?" Grynszpan said.

"Maybe." Vera left it right there. She knew Pete was nuts about her. She also knew exactly why: the sweaty athletics they performed together in her little upstairs room. He was a puppy. He didn't want anything fancy. He hardly knew there was anything fancy to want. For Vera, that made life easy. Well, easier.

She was made up and perfumed and wearing a blue silk dress-easy and cheap to do in Shanghai-when he came to the club to get her two days later. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw her. That was exactly what she'd had in mind. "Wow, babe! You look great!" he said, and kissed her on the cheek.

Most of the men she'd been with would have groped her, just to show everyone around that they could. She wondered if anybody'd kissed her on the cheek since she was ten years old. Offhand, she didn't think so. "What do we do? Where do we go?" she asked in English. That was the only language Pete knew, except for tiny bits of foul Chinese.

"We'll go to the Vienna Ballroom, and we won't dance," Pete declared.

That was one of the half-dozen fanciest cabarets in Shanghai. It put the Golden Lotus to shame. (So did plenty of clubs a lot less fancy than the one Pete named.) "What you do? Win lottery?" Vera asked. She meant it. She played the lottery herself. Ten dollars Mex could win half a million. Odds were long, but the lottery was legit. People did win, and did get paid when they won.

"I'm not that rich, but I didn't do bad. Had me four jacks when this other guy was mighty proud of his full house," Pete answered. He started to reach for his wallet, as if to show off how fat it was, but then stopped. You could land in all kinds of trouble if you flashed a roll in Shanghai-or in Dubuque, come to that.

The Vienna Ballroom sat at the corner of Majestic Road and Bubbling Well Road. The yellow brick building would have looked more at home in Vienna than it did in the Orient, but that was true of most of the International Settlement and the French Concession. Hard-faced guards with Lee-Enfield rifles stood outside the place. They were probably soldiers from one army or another who hadn't felt like leaving China when their tours were up. They only nodded to Pete and his lady. They were there to keep out the strife between Chinese and Japanese.

Inside, Celis' All-Star Orchestra blared away: second-rate jazz, with most of the tuxedoed musicians Chinese and the rest from all over the world. Pete wouldn't have been surprised if some of the white players were ex-soldiers, too. China got under some guys' skins the way Vera had got under his.

The maitre d' sized him up. A U.S. Marine in dress blues… two chevrons… not the best table. Expecting that, Pete slipped the guy a little something. Things improved: less than he would have liked, but enough to keep him from grousing out loud.

"Champagne, sir?" the fellow asked.

"You bet," Pete answered. He winked at Vera. "You get to drink the real stuff tonight, babe." She summoned up a blush.

He ordered steaks big enough to have come off the side of an elephant and rare enough to have still been mooing a couple of minutes earlier. Vera stared at hers in amazement but made it disappear as fast as Pete's. Waste not, want not had been drilled into her since she was a baby, when her mother and father made it to Manchuria one short jump ahead of the Reds. When the Japanese took Harbin, she'd made it to Shanghai the same way. If she jumped the right way now…

Some of the men out on the dance floor were European and American businessmen hanging on in Shanghai in spite of the widening war between China and Japan. Some were Japanese businessmen and officers. And some were sleek, plump Chinese collaborators in expensive suits, whirling their partners around as if Satchmo himself fronted the All-Star Orchestra.

Every single Oriental man danced with a white woman: almost all of them with a blonde or a redhead. Pete tried to guess which girls were hostesses here, which mistresses. Some danced better than others, but that was his only clue. The Japs and Chinamen all looked uncommonly smug. See? We've got the West by the short hairs, they might have been saying.

A Chinese man with gray at the temples came up to Vera and said, "Willst du tanzen?"

Even Pete could figure out that much German. "She's my friend," he said. "She doesn't work here."

He wasn't surprised when the Chinese fellow understood English; he'd assumed the man would. The Chinese eyed him, maybe wondering whether to make something out of it. Since Pete was half his age and twice his size, he decided not to: one of his smartest business decisions ever. He walked off, muttering what probably weren't compliments in Chinese.

A few minutes later, something big blew up a few blocks away. The lights flickered and went out for a couple of seconds. Celis' All-Star Orchestra discorded down into silence. A woman squealed. A man yelled, "Merde!" Then the power came on again. The master of ceremonies, a grin pasted onto his Eurasian face, called, "All part of life in Shanghai, folks! Next round on the house!"

That made people forget their jitters in a hurry. Pete grinned at Vera. "You know what, babe?"

"No. What?" she asked, as she knew she should.

"I've never had so much fun not dancing."

"Never?" she said innocently.

"Well, never with my clothes on, anyway," he answered, looking her up and down. She managed another blush. Pete waved for more bubbly. WHEN THREE NAKED GERMANS JUMPED into their stream in northern France, turtles dove off rocks and frogs sprang away into the grass with horrified "Freep!"s. Theo Hossbach didn't give a damn. He had some violet-scented soap he'd liberated from an abandoned French farmhouse, and he wanted to get clean. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper bath. The water was cold, but not too cold. You got used to it fast.

Adalbert Stoss and Heinz Naumann were scrubbing themselves, too. The panzer commander splashed Stoss and pointed toward their black coveralls, which all lay together on the bank. "You know, you're out of uniform, Adi," Naumann said.

Stoss splashed back. "What d'you mean? We're all out of uniform." He had soap bubbles in his hair.

"Not like that," Naumann said. "You ought to sew a yellow star on the front of your outfit." He laughed raucously.

"Oh, fuck off," Stoss said without much rancor. "So I had the operation when I was a kid. So what? Goddamn sheenies aren't the only ones who do, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." Naumann didn't push it any more. Sergeant or not, he might have had a fight on his hands if he had. Teasing somebody about looking like a Jew was one thing. Acting as if you really thought he was one was something else again-something that went way over the line.

Theo had known Adi was circumcised, too. You couldn't very well not know something like that, not when the two of you were part of the same panzer crew. He wasn't going to say anything about it, though. Sometimes-often-the best thing you could say was nothing. That was how it looked to him, anyhow. If Heinz thought otherwise… Well, Heinz was a sergeant. Sergeants got all kinds of funny ideas.

The other thing was, Theo wouldn't have wanted Adi Stoss pissed off at him. If Adi got mad, he was liable to go and rupture your spleen first, then feel bad about it afterwards. Theo wouldn't have wanted to take him on. Heinz Naumann thought he was a tough guy. He'd made that plain. If he thought he was tougher than his driver, he needed to think again.

They all started splashing one another and wrestling in the stream, skylarking like a bunch of schoolboys. Maybe by chance, maybe not, Adi held Naumann under water for a very long time. No, Theo wasn't surprised the sergeant couldn't break Stoss' hold. His struggles were beginning to weaken when Adi finally let him go.

"Jesus!" Naumann said, gulping in air till he went from a dusky red-purple back to pink. "You trying to drown me, asshole?"

"Sorry, Sergeant." Stoss sounded so sincere, he might have meant it. "I didn't know you'd turned quite that color."

"I thought I'd have to grow fins," Heinz said. "Save that shit for the Frenchies, huh?"

"You bet." Adi watched Naumann closely. Theo would have, too. If you beat somebody like that, he was liable to try to get his own back. But Heinz just walked out of the stream and started putting his uniform on again. Whatever he was going to do, he wouldn't do it right away.

With a shrug, Theo started for the bank, too. He didn't want his crewmates squabbling. Taking a panzer into battle was hard enough when everybody got along. Another man might have tried to get them to make up. Theo was too withdrawn for that. He hoped they would be sensible enough to see the need without him. Adi seemed to have his head on pretty tight. Theo wasn't so sure about Heinz. The sergeant didn't just have his rank to worry about. He also owned a touchy sense of pride, more like a Frenchman or an Italian than your everyday German.

But the quarrel evaporated as soon as they got back to the encampment. It reminded Theo of nothing so much as an ants' nest stirred with a stick. People ran every which way. Theo watched two panzer crewmen bounce off each other, as if they were in a Chaplin film. Something had happened in the hour or so they'd spent in the stream.

He didn't need long to find out what. The company-well, never mind the company: the whole damned panzer division-was getting pulled out of the line. Where it was going, nobody seemed to know. Somewhere.

"What the hell do they think they're doing?" Heinz Naumann threw his hands in the air. "Are they going to break through without panzers? Not fucking likely!"

"Hey, come on, Sergeant-it's the General Staff," Adi said. "Just like the last war. My father used to tell stories about how the guys in the fancy shoulder straps screwed up half of what the Landsers did. More than half."

"Yeah, my old man goes on the same way." As soon as Stoss agreed with him, Heinz stopped being angry. That was good, anyhow. "But the Fuhrer was supposed to clean up that kind of shit."

"What can you do?" Theo said. Both his crewmates looked at him in surprise. He didn't put his oar in the water very often.

What they could do was follow orders, and they did. Along with the rest of the company's machines, their Panzer II clanked back to Clermont, the nearest German-held railhead. Adalbert Stoss drove it up onto a flatcar. They chained the panzer into place, then boarded a jammed passenger car. Theo hated being surrounded by so many other people. He would rather have made the train trip inside the Panzer II. Expecting your superiors to care about what you would rather do, though, was like waiting for the Second Coming. It might happen, but not any time soon.

They rolled back through France, back through the Low Countries, and across Germany. Theo started to wonder if they would go all the way to Breslau.

They didn't. They went farther than that. The train stopped at the Polish border. Polish soldiers in uniforms of a dark, greenish khaki and domed helmets smoother in outline than the ones German foot soldiers wore waved to the men in the passenger cars. Some of the Germans waved back. Theo would have felt like an idiot, so he didn't.

After a delay of about an hour and a half, the train started moving again-into Poland. Adi whistled softly. "Well, now we know what's up," he said. "We're going to give the Russians a kick in the slats."

Nobody tried to tell him he was wrong. No wonder the Poles were waving and smiling! Here were Germans, coming to do their fighting for them! Theo wouldn't have wanted to be a Pole, forever stuck between bigger, meaner neighbors. Poland offered Germany a shield hundreds of kilometers wide against the Russians. If the Red Army started biting chunks out of that shield, didn't the Reich have to show Stalin that wasn't such a hot idea?

Evidently. And showing it with a panzer division-or more than one, for all Theo knew-would make sure the Reds remembered the lesson. Of course, that could also buy the Reich a much bigger war than it had now. Again, Theo wondered whether the Fuhrer and the General Staff knew what the hell they were up to. Whether they did or not, he couldn't do anything about it but try to stay alive.

Poland sure looked like perfect panzer country: low and flat and mostly open. Every so often, the train would roll through a village or town. Some of them were full of bearded Jews, many wearing side curls. Theo glanced over at Adi Stoss, who happened to be spreading sausage paste-pork sausage paste-from a tinfoil ration tube onto a chunk of black bread. Circumcised or not, he didn't look like a Jew, and he didn't eat like a Jew, either.

Northeast to Bialystok-another town packed with them. Southeast to Grodno. Northeast again, through Lebeda to Lida. They detrained there. The grayish sky and chilly breeze said they'd come a long, long way from France. The distant thump of artillery said they hadn't come very far at all.

German and Polish officers shouted and waved at the panzer troops as they got their machines down off the flatcars. The Poles spoke German, but not a kind that made sense to Heinz or Adi. Theo had no trouble with it. Living in Breslau, he'd grown up around Poles doing their best in his language. Where he had to, he translated for his crewmates.

They went into bivouac outside of Lida. Polish infantrymen stared at the panzers with fearful respect. "They're glad we're going up against the Russians and not them," Adi remarked.

Theo hadn't thought of that, but it made sense as soon as he heard it. Sure as hell, the Poles were meat in a sandwich. Their best hope-their only hope-was that the slices of bread hated each other worse.