"Ja, ja," the officer said impatiently. "You were in France. I fought in the East, against the Russians."
"Ach so," Samuel Goldman said. "Well, that was no fun, either. I had two friends who went to the Eastern Front and didn't come back."
"Kaupisch and Briesen," the Gestapo man said. It wasn't a question-he knew. Sarah asked her mother with her eyes how the officer knew something like that. Hanna Goldman shrugged helplessly.
"That's right," Sarah's father said, his voice soft and sad.
"Both Aryans," the officer said. "Not good Aryans, or they wouldn't have made friends with a goddamn sheeny. Besides, I'm not here to talk about them. I'm here to talk about your stinking, murdering turd of a son."
If he'd said anything like that to Sarah, she thought she would have tried to brain him with an ashtray. Her father only sighed and said, "I don't know any more than you do. I probably know less than you do, because you've been chasing him ever since the tragedy took place."
"Why shouldn't we just kill you or take you off to a camp because of what that little cocksucker did?" the Gestapo man snarled.
Had he seen Saul? Sarah had her doubts. He wouldn't have called him little if he had. Saul was one meter eighty-eight centimeters tall; he weighed ninety kilos. You could say a lot of things about him, but not little, not if you wanted to stay within shouting distance of the truth.
As if the Gestapo cared! Or had to care.
Samuel Goldman sighed. "Because we had nothing to do with anything Saul may have done?" he suggested. Saul had done it, all right. Sarah would never forget the sound that shovel blade made smashing into the side of the work-gang boss' head. Saul had had plenty of provocation, but he'd done it.
The Gestapo man snorted. "You aren't even citizens of the Reich, only residents. I can do whatever I want with you. To you."
"Yes, sir. I know you can," Father said mournfully. "You asked why you shouldn't. I gave you the best answer I could."
"Are you playing games with me, Jewboy?" demanded the officer in the black uniform with the shiny metal buttons.
Sarah would have killed him for that, too, if she could. Her father didn't even flinch. "Games? No, sir," he replied. "All I'm doing is the best I can for my family and me. Wouldn't you do the same in my place?"
"Like you'd catch me in a kike's place! Fat chance!" the Gestapo man said. Sarah might have guessed he'd have no fellow-feeling. If you did, how could you do a job like his? Then he added, "If you see him, if you hear anything from him, you are to report it to us immediately. If you don't, you'll pay for it. Understand me?"
"Yes, sir," Samuel Goldman said. "I understand."
The Gestapo man stormed into the kitchen. "You're in there listening!" he yelled. "Think I don't know? You understand me, too?" He glared at them till they both nodded, too. Then he stomped out of the house. He might have suddenly remembered he had other Jews in Munster to terrorize. Chances were he did.
"As if we'd really tell on Saul!" Sarah exclaimed as soon as he slammed the door. "I don't think so!"
"But we will," her father said. She stared at him, wondering if her ears were working right. He nodded. "Ja. We will."
"But-why? How?" That wasn't Sarah. It was her mother, who sounded as bewildered as she felt.
"I'll tell you why." And Samuel Goldman did: "They're liable to cook something up and send it to us, that's why. Then, if we don't report it, they can arrest us for protecting a fugitive. So chances are we have to play the game by their rules-and we have to hope Saul has the good sense to know we might be under this kind of pressure."
Sarah was sure Saul would. Her father sounded anything but. She knew why, too. Devoted to the life of the mind, Samuel Goldman had never known what to make of his big, muscular son. Saul hadn't done badly in school, but it wasn't what he cared about. Father had to wonder whether somebody like that had any brains at all.
"Saul will do fine." Mother had confidence in him, too, which made Sarah feel better. Hanna Goldman went on, "And if they didn't catch him right away, they'll have a harder time of it now. Harder and harder the longer he stays free."
"I hope so," Father said, but, again, he sounded far from certain.
This time, Sarah was inclined to agree with him, however little she wanted to. Germany was a land that ran on forms and papers. Food was rationed. So was clothing. Everyone had an identity card and had to show it a dozen times a day. How could a Jew on the run not get caught in the spiderweb of officialdom and bureaucracy? Sarah couldn't imagine.
But so far Saul hadn't. And if he hadn't so far, maybe he could keep on doing whatever he was doing and stay free. Maybe. Sarah could hope so, anyhow. She could even pray, and she did, though she didn't think she was very good at it. Maybe God valued sincerity over style. She could hope that was true, too-and she did. A FEW KILOMETERS UP AHEAD lay a railway-junction town called Hirson. Willi Dernen did his best not to care. Northeastern France had winters almost as beastly as the ones he'd grown up with in eastern Germany. Willi was holed up in a village called Watigny, east of the place that mattered to the fellows with the fancy shoulder straps.
One of these days, they'd order him to go forward. And he would. He wasn't thrilled about it, but he would. What they'd do to him if he didn't was certain, and dreadful. What the Frenchmen would do to him after he did might not be so bad. If he was lucky.
For the moment, even the generals could see that advancing through waist-deep snowdrifts was asking to get your dick shot off. German guns pounded Hirson. The French replied, but not many shells came down on Watigny. There were German batteries north and south of the village, but none close by.
About half the people who'd lived here fled before the Wehrmacht arrived. Not all those houses were vacant. French refugees from farther north and east-to say nothing of Belgians and even Dutchmen-squatted in some of them. The Germans took the rest. Before long, they'd probably throw out the squatters, too. For the time being, the officers in charge of security were still sorting out who was who.
People from the older generation remembered the last time soldiers in Feldgrau came through these parts. Some of them were among the folks who'd run away. Others seemed gruffly tolerant of the occupiers. Their attitude said this was nothing new to them. They'd done it once, and they could do it again.
By order of the divisional commander, the local tavern stayed open. The exchange rate was pegged at ten francs to the mark. That made even privates like Willi rich men-or as rich as they could be in a place like Watigny, where getting by was as much as anyone could hope for.
The tavern still had beer and wine, as well as brandy that came in china crocks and was probably homemade. It got you crocked, all right. Willi had found that out by experience. It also left you with a mother of a hangover. Strong French coffee and strong German aspirins blunted a Katzenjammer, though.
Willi and Wolfgang Storch slogged through the snow toward the oasis. Orders were that no German soldier could go in alone. Nobody'd got knocked over the head here. Maybe it had happened somewhere else. Or maybe the High Command was scared of its own shadow. That was how it looked to Willi.
He opened the door. Both he and Wolfgang hurried inside. Then he closed the door again to block the cold wind whining through the streets.
It was gloomy inside, but the fire gave some warmth. Frenchmen sat at a couple of tables, drinking, smoking, murmuring in the language Willi didn't speak. Corporal Baatz and a couple of other noncoms occupied another. They didn't try to keep their voices down-they were the winners, after all.