"Not fair!" Sarah groaned as she hurried downstairs to huddle under the heavy dining-room table. She wasn't thinking only of geography. Father would have to go out to the labor gang tomorrow morning even if he'd had his sleep shattered. Well, plenty of others would be in the same boat.
That a bomb might land on top of the house never crossed her mind. She'd been in plenty of raids before, and no bombs had hit here yet. That had to mean none could. The logic was perfect… at least till she met a counterexample.
Her parents joined her under there a moment later. Her mother was grumbling because she'd stubbed a toe on the stairs. "Miserable air pirates," Father said. He'd lifted the phrase straight from the Nazi papers. Sarah wondered if he realized what had just come out of his mouth.
Before she could ask him, bombs began whistling down. Even when you knew-or thought you knew-one wouldn't hit here, the sound was scary. Then the bombs started going off. The noise was horrendous. Feeling the ground shake under you was worse. Sarah had never been in an earthquake, but now she had a notion of what they were like.
Antiaircraft guns added their own crashes to the racket. Through it all, Father said, "I think those must be French planes. The engines sound different from the ones the RAF uses."
Sarah hadn't noticed. Even when it was pointed out to her, she couldn't hear any difference. She wouldn't have cared if she could. She just wanted this to be over.
Then several bombs burst much closer than any had before. She screamed. She couldn't help herself. The house shook like a rat in a terrier's jaws. For a second, she thought everything would come down on top of the table. Windows blew in with a tinkle of glass. All of a sudden, she could smell cool, moist outside air-and the smoke it carried.
The raid seemed to last forever. They often felt that way while they were going on. At last, the enemy planes flew off to England or France or wherever they'd come from. Not long afterwards, the all-clear sounded. Father said, "I'd better see if the neighbors are all right."
"Would they do the same for us?" Sarah asked sourly.
"Some of them would," he answered, and she supposed that was so. He went on, "Even my bathrobe has a yellow star, so I won't get into trouble on account of that."
"Oh, joy," Sarah and her mother said at the same time. They both started to laugh. Why not? What other choice did you have but pounding your head against a table leg?
Father's voice joined the shouting outside. Sarah didn't hear anyone screaming. That had to be good. The Nazi government was tormenting Jews. She should have hoped the RAF or the French would knock it flat. But bombs didn't fall on a government. Bombs fell on people. And, even though a lot of those people must have voted for the Nazis back before elections turned into farces, most of them were just… people. They weren't so bad.
After a while, Father came back in. His slippers scraped on broken glass. (What would they do about that? Worry about it after dawn, that was what.) "All right here," he reported. "Those big ones came down a couple of blocks away, thank God." Bells and sirens told of fire engines and ambulances rushing where they were needed most.
"You may as well go back to bed," Mother said. "Nothing else to do now."
After the first couple of air strikes against Munster, Sarah would have laughed at that. Now she nodded. As life since the Nazis took over showed, you could get used to anything. If you were still tired after the bombs stopped falling, you grabbed some more sleep. She heard Father yawn. He'd need every minute he could get. Come morning, he'd be even more overworked than usual.
He'd just trudged out the door when someone started pounding on it. Sarah and her mother exchanged looks of alarm. That sounded like the SS. What could the blackshirts want so early? All sorts of evil possibilities crossed her mind. Would they claim the Goldmans were showing lights to guide the enemy bombers? That was ridiculous-or would be if the SS weren't saying it.
Feet dragging, Sarah went to the door and reluctantly opened it. Her jaw dropped. "Isidor!" she blurted. "What are you doing here?"
"I rode over to make sure you folks were safe," Isidor Bruck answered. Sure enough, a beat-up bicycle stood behind the baker's son. He managed a shy smile. "I'm glad you are."
"Yes, we're fine," Sarah managed. She didn't know what else to say. Obviously, Isidor hadn't ridden across town to check on her mother and father. What were they to him but customers? She'd thought she was something more. Till this moment, she hadn't realized she might be a lot more. She took a deep breath and, without thinking about it, ran a hand through her hair. "Are your kin all right?"
He nodded. "Nothing came down real close to us. But I heard this part of town got hit hard, so I thought I'd better check."
"Thanks… Thanks very much. That was sweet of you," Sarah said, which made Isidor turn red. She added, "It's nice to know somebody-anybody-cares."
Isidor nodded again. "I know what you mean," he said. "We have to take care of ourselves these days. Nobody else will do it for us-that's for sure. To us, maybe, but not for us." As his mouth tightened, he suddenly looked fifteen years older. He touched the brim of his cloth cap. "Well, I'd better get back. The work doesn't go away."
"I'm sure," Sarah said. "Come again, though." He bobbed his head and rode away. Surely it was only her imagination that the bicycle tires floated several centimeters above the sidewalk. CHAIM WEINBERG LOOKED AROUND the battered streets of Madrid. "You know what's missing here?" he asked.
Mike Carroll also considered the vista. "Damn near everything," he answered after due contemplation. "What have you got in mind?"
They were both speaking English. Madrilenos walking by grinned at them. Even more than their ragged uniforms, the foreign language showed they were Internationals. Internationals were still heroes in Madrid-at least to the majority that didn't secretly favor the Fascists. And most of the locals didn't speak English, which gave at least the hope of privacy.
"I'll tell you what's missing here," Chaim said. "A shul's missing, that's what."
"In case you didn't notice, it's a Catholic country," Mike said, as if to an idiot child. "And, in case you hadn't noticed, the Republic isn't proreligion. It's not supposed to be, either."
By that, he meant The Republic does things the same way as the Soviet Union. And so it did. Both had broken the priesthood's long-entrenched power in their respective countries. Even so, Chaim said, "There's a difference between Spain and Russia."
"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Carroll didn't quite say Tell me another one, but he might as well have.
Even so, Chaim had an answer for him. Two answers, in fact: "For one thing, the opposition in Russian's been broken. You can't very well say that here." His wave swept over the ruins, all created by the ever-so-Catholic Nationalists. "And for another, Spain discriminates against Jews. You can't say the Soviet Union does, not when so many of the Old Bolsheviks are Yehudim."
"Yeah, well…" This time, Mike paused in faint embarrassment. And, after a couple of seconds, Chaim understood why. A whole great swarm of the Old Bolsheviks convicted in Moscow's show trials were Jews, too.
"It's still discrimination. Discrimination's still wrong," Chaim said stubbornly. "Before the Republic, it was fucking illegal to be a Jew in Spain. It still is, in Nationalist country. If that's not why we're fighting, what are we doing here?"
"Stopping Hitler and Mussolini and Sanjurjo?" Mike suggested.
"Stopping them from doing what? Screwing over people they don't happen to like, that's what!" Weinberg answered his own question.
Mike Carroll looked at him. "When was the last time you were in a-what did you call it?-a shul?"
"It's been a while," Chaim admitted. His folks had made him get barmitzvahed. He'd quit going right after that. As far as he was concerned, action counted for more than prayer. But the right to prayer was a different story. He stuck out his chin as far as it would go (which wasn't as far as he would have wished). "All the more reason to have one now."