“That’s what the papers and newsreels say. But this German didn’t look that evil to me. More like a paper shuffler, a cop like me.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. You’re wrong, Sam. I don’t care what he looks like. The whole bunch of them—Nazis, Gestapo, SS—they’re pure evil. Mrs. Brownstein at the school, some of the stories she’s told us about what they did to her relatives over in Holland…”
Sam had raised his eyebrows, glancing at Toby taking in every word, and Sarah had changed the subject. Then they had left, with their tenant Walter in charge as a babysitter. Toby had that devil look in his eyes. Sam hoped Walter was in a mood to be tested by an eight-year-old.
Now they were sitting in the darkened theater, most of the men nearby smoking, a paper bag of greasy popcorn between them, Sarah cuddled against his shoulder. Tonight was a Judy Garland musical, and though Sam enjoyed being out, he had to work to pay attention. The FBI—and the Gestapo!—were looking at his personnel files. For what? Not much was in there, nothing that the FBI probably already didn’t know, but maybe the Kraut wanted to learn more about Sam and—
He was suddenly poked in his ribs. “What?” he whispered to Sarah. “What’s wrong?”
“I said something, and you’re not listening to me,” she whispered back.
“Oh, sorry. Mind drifted. What did you say?”
“I said I hope Walter does a better job babysitting. Last time he fell asleep on the couch and Toby tied his shoelaces together.”
Sam said, “At least he’s free. You remember what happened with that bobby-soxer Claire. She charged us two dollars, brought her boyfriend over, and Toby got a quick lesson in make-out sessions about five years ahead of schedule.”
“Shhh,” someone in the audience scolded, and then the films began.
There were a couple of previews of coming attractions, and then a Bugs Bunny short, and Sam felt himself unwind as he joined Sarah and the others in laughing at the antics of that wascally wabbit. Then came the familiar trumpet tunes of Movietone, showing the bloody world in its black-and-white glory.
Up on the screen, thick smoke was rising up over a village, and a line of panzer tanks was crossing a field. The narrator said, “As spring continues and summer beckons in the fields of Russia, fresh fighting continues while German and Russian tank divisions grapple once again for supremacy. The third year of fighting in Eastern Europe continues afresh, with most observers predicting another fierce struggle for each side to gain the upper hand. Unless there is a dramatic change in the fortunes for Nazi Germany or Red Russia, experts say to expect another year of bloodshed before the snows come.”
As the narration continued, the familiar newsreel shots of tanks on the move, Stuka aircraft dive-bombing, and German soldiers on the march were repeated, but Sam noticed that now, as opposed to during their blitzkrieg victories in ’40 and ’41, the Krauts looked exhausted, faces dirty and grim.
Trumpet tone, change of view, showing more troops, this time Japanese, swarming across rice paddies. “The Empire of the Rising Sun,” the narrator went on, “continues its expansion west as it fights to secure some sort of stability in Manchuria and China. Forces loyal to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and Communist leader Mao Tse-tung continue their guerrilla warfare, making sure the soldiers of the Japanese emperor battle for every inch of ground lost in China.”
Sarah whispered, “I’m so sick of this foreign news. Let’s see the movie already.” He squeezed her leg as a familiar cherubic face popped up on the screen, to the assortment of scattered boos and a few cheers. A rotund man who was smoking a cigar walked through a hotel lobby through a barrage of camera flashes and questions from a mob of reporters. The man held up two fingers in the shape of a V.
“Former British prime minister Winston Churchill, in New York City this week, continues to meet with supporters of the so-called British government in exile.”
Churchill stopped before a set of radio microphones and said in a tired, lisping tone, “We are fighting to save the whole world from the pestilence of Nazi tyranny and in defense of all that is most sacred to man. This is no war of domination or imperial aggrandizement or material gain; no war to shut any country out of its sunlight and means of progress. It is a war, viewed in its inherent quality to establish, on impregnable rocks, the rights of the individual, and it is a war to establish and revive the stature of man.”
Another trumpet tone, another switch, and even more cheers and a few boos as the President appeared on the screen, shaking hands with a dour-faced man wearing formal clothes.
“In our nation’s capitol, President Huey Long completed discussions this week with the German ambassador over future relations between the American republic and the Third Reich. Neither man had anything to say for reporters, but word around the capitol is that a new era of peace and understanding lays ahead for American democracy and the Third Reich.”
There was a quick jump in the newsreel to a bald man in a suit, hurrying past photographers in a polished corridor. “Also in Washington, Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau was again unsuccessful in his attempts to expand the number of Jewish refugees allowed into this country by Congress.”
A shout from a male in the audience: “Leave the kikes where they belong!” and a couple of others laughed; Sam sat still, embarrassed at the outburst.
Another jump to a number of gray-suited men with matching gray faces, standing in front of some government office.
“From our friends in the north, an unexpected trade delegation from the embattled Soviet Union has paid a surprise visit to Montreal, refusing to even go to that nation’s capital of Ottawa. What areas of discussion were made with the Canadian government remain a secret, but some observers believe the Reds are looking for assistance from their neighbors across the North Pole.”
One more trumpet tone and a few more cheers and whistles as the the Hollywood sign came up on the screen, and then a swimming pool, and some sort of talent contest involving young lovelies in bathing suits standing under palm trees. It was hard to hear what the narrator was saying over the wolf whistles. Sarah nibbled his ear. “Like what you see, sport?”
“Like who I’m with,” he said. “How’s that?”
She whispered, “Glad to hear it. Here’s a taste of what’s yours.”
He looked down, felt a warm tingle expand from the base of his neck. Sarah had daringly pulled her skirt up past her thighs, showing the top of her stockings. She gave a soft laugh and pushed the skirt back. Sam whispered, “Never get tired of tasting that, sweetheart.”
That earned him another kiss. He bit her ear and she sighed. He whispered, “Remember the times back up in the balcony when we were dating, learning to French?”
One more kiss and she warned, laughing. “You keep it up and I’ll drag you back up there, Inspector.”
He squeezed her leg. “No room. I already checked. We’ll have to save it for later.”
“Deal,” she whispered back, fingers flickering over the front of his trousers. “Now be a good boy and watch the movie.”
He sat back in his seat, feeling warm and almost happy, despite all that had gone on this day. The feature film started, a cowboy musical called Girl Crazy, with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney. The thought nagged at him as the credits unrolled up on the screen that it seemed unseemly, with the world at war and in chaos, with empires bloodletting for survival, that what got everybody’s interest here in the States were Hollywood starlets.
It was, he thought, like living in an apartment building. When the screaming from the neighbors started, when the bottles were being tossed and the punches thrown, you just turned up the radio and pretended everything would be all right.