Polite applause rose from the crowd as Halévy murmured in familiar, throaty Czech. Without the translation, Vaclav wouldn’t have been sure his Excellency wasn’t complaining about the paella he’d eaten the night before.
“And we have more than praise,” the President went on. “We promote the grand hero Vaclav Jezek”-he made a horrible mess of Vaclav’s name, as any Spaniard was bound to do-“to the rank of captain in the Army of the Republic. We pay him the reward promised for the death of the arch-criminal and traitor, the so-called Marshal Sanjurjo. And we grant him the citizenship of the Republic in addition to that which he enjoys in his own land. May Czechoslovakia soon be free again, as he has helped ensure the Republic’s freedom! ¡Viva Vaclav Jezek!”
“¡Viva!” the people shouted.
Then Azaña stepped away from the microphone. Benjamin Halévy gave Vaclav a little shove toward it. He would rather have been out in no-man’s-land facing a platoon of pissed-off Nationalists. All they would have done was kill him. Here, he was going to have to kill himself, and his death certificate would read Perished of embarrassment. He’d never talked in front of more than a classroom’s worth of people, and thousands had to be staring at him here in this enormous plaza.
“Muchas gracias, Señor Presidente de la República de España,” he said, in the process using up most of his Spanish. He went on in his own language: “Not many people have been fighting for freedom longer than us Czechs. But you have, here in the Republic. The President called me a hero. I’m only a soldier, doing my job. You folks, you’re the heroes.”
Halévy translated his words into Spanish. Then, showing himself a man of parts indeed, the Jew said them again, this time in Catalan. To Vaclav, it sounded like two parts Spanish and one part French. He could tell when Halévy switched languages, but still didn’t know for sure what he was saying.
“Gracias otra vez,” Vaclav added, and drew back. Yes, he would rather have stood next to a puff adder than a microphone.
“Good job,” Halévy whispered to him as more stuffed shirts from the Republic came up to pump his hand and press their smooth cheeks against his. The crowd cheered and cheered, partly because he was the hero who’d killed Marshal Sanjurjo and partly, no doubt, because he’d kept it short. There were advantages to not being fond of public speaking.
One of the Spaniards handed him a glass of red wine and said something incomprehensible. “No entiendo,” Vaclav said. I don’t understand was a handy phrase to learn in a language where you knew only a few handy phrases.
The Spaniard aimed his words at Halévy this time. The Jew obligingly translated: “He says the Nationalists are going after each other like half a dozen cats in a sack when you kick it.”
“Well, good!” Vaclav exclaimed in Czech. He could have said that in Spanish, but as long as Halévy was here to do the heavy lifting, he’d let him. That thought sparked another one. Still in Czech, he went on, “Hey, guess what! Since they went and promoted me, I outrank you. How about that?”
Halévy came to stiff attention. He clicked his heels with a thump that would have gladdened the heart of a Hungarian colonel in Emperor Franz Joseph’s extinct army. “Zu Befehl!” he exclaimed, as if he belonged to that army. Vaclav’s father had. Maybe Halévy’s father had, too, before he’d left Austria-Hungary for France. They’d used a smashed-down soldiers’ German to let officers talk with their polyglot troops. It had worked, too, after a fashion.
The Spanish dignitary watched the two of them with no idea of what was going on. Benjamin Halévy said something to him in Catalan. Then the fellow laughed. Since Halévy had used Catalan, he did, too. If Vaclav knew only a little Spanish, he had next to none of the related language.
“He says anyone can tell we’re old friends,” Halévy explained.
“Are we?” Jezek considered that. He drained the glass of wine. “Well, hell, I guess we are. And which one of us is that a judgment on?”
“On both of us, I’d say,” Halévy answered.
“I’d say you’re right,” Vaclav agreed.
They whisked him off to another banquet. Vaclav hadn’t eaten so much since he got conscripted. The feast was in the Spanish style, with little plates of peppery this and garlicky that and pickled the other thing. Vaclav missed sauerkraut and creamed potatoes and dill and big slabs of boiled beef and all the other good things he’d grown up with. But he had plenty, and it beat the hell out of the crumbly sausage that came up to the trenches all the time and was an even-money bet to give you the runs.
After he’d had some more wine, and some more wine, and some more wine after that, he plucked up enough courage to say to Halévy, “Ask them if they think the Nationalists really will come to pieces without their big boss.”
Halévy put the question into Spanish. He got back several impassioned responses-so impassioned, a couple of the men who made them almost came to blows. In due course, the French Jew reported, “They all hope so, but some think it’s more likely than others do.”
“Is that so? I never would’ve guessed.” Vaclav laughed. He’d had enough wine to think almost anything was funny.
In due course, the President of the Republic got to his feet and raised his goblet. “Confusion to all Fascists everywhere!” he said. Everyone drank.
Then he looked to Vaclav. The sniper got to his feet, too. It took some effort; yes, he was feeling the wine. “Freedom for Czechoslovakia!” he said, first in his own tongue, and then, after more effort, in Spanish as well. Again, everybody drank the toast. He knew he would have a head like a drop-forging plant tomorrow morning. Red wine would hurt you if you gave it the chance. But that would be tomorrow. Mañana. The next thing to never.
And in the meantime … He turned to Halévy. “They’ve given me this stack of pesetas and the medal and the promotion and this trip to Barcelona and everything. Now where do I go to get laid?”
“Ah! That’s an important question!” The Jew conferred with the dignitaries. Then he gave Vaclav the word: “Go back to your hotel room after we finish here and they’ll have someone for you. They’re gentlemen-they said they’d get me a girl, too. On the house, courtesy of the Republic.”
“They are gentlemen!” Vaclav said. Nice that Halévy would get some, too. Even nicer that he wouldn’t have to pay for it. I should kill Fascist marshals more often, he thought, and reached for the closest wine bottle.
No English or French bombers had dropped their loads on Münster for a while now. They’d hit other towns not far away. The Nazis made propaganda out of that. They said the enemy planes stayed away because the people in Münster were also enemies of the Reich.
For all Sarah Bruck knew, the hacks who wrote for the Party papers were right. “Aren’t they taking a chance, though?” she asked her father after a chilly night’s sad supper. “If people think rising up against Hitler will keep the bombers away, they’ll do it all over Germany.”
“It could be.” Samuel Goldman rolled one of his cigarettes built from scavenged butts. Maybe the latest propaganda piece was on the newsprint he used for cigarette paper. He lit the cigarette and blew out smoke. Then he went on, “But it may not work like that. Too many people remember all the noise about the stab in the back last time.”
“It wasn’t true,” Sarah said.
Father nodded. “No, it wasn’t. But what people think happened is just as much a part of history as what really did happen.”
“That’s too complicated for me,” Sarah said. Off in the distance, a rifle barked. Unrest still simmered here, no matter what the rest of Germany was doing. A machine pistol snarled back at the rifle.