Fake name as well?
Where to next?
He looked to the clock on the near wall.
Time to go home, that’s what.
Toby was a handful at dinner, wanting to bring an Action comic book to the table and trying to sneak it in during a dessert of lime Jell-O. Distracted, Sam spoke sharply to him, sending him to his room in tears. Toby stormed out, yelling, “You never let me have any fun!” It took everything for Sam not to go after him and swat his butt. Sarah had asked him questions about his workday all during dinner, and he found himself giving her one-word answers.
Finally, when Toby had gone to bed and they were in their own bedroom, he stood by the door and remembered again what had happened just over twenty-four hours ago. “That was a real close run last night.”
“I know, I know,” she said. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair. The radio was on. It seemed like Sarah had found a new dance station, though it was peppered with bursts of static. Then the dance music stopped and was replaced by Bing Crosby singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”
“Do you?”
She turned, put the hairbrush down, her eyes teary. “Yes, I do. I truly do. I know I went too far with the last one, and it won’t happen again. I… Hearing those Legionnaires at the door really scared me. It really did.”
“All right, then, it’s done. If we’re lucky, they just came by scare us.”
She picked up the hairbrush, lowered it again. “If so, they did a good job, didn’t they? You know…”
“Go on.”
“There was a time when getting involved in politics… it was fun. Innocent. Like back when Dad first ran for city councilor, right after Mom died. He needed to get out of the house, stay busy, and I was so proud of him. Not even a teenager, and I was passing out leaflets and sliding brochures under doors. We’d stay up late at night at City Hall, watching the ballots get counted. That’s when I got the first taste of it, you know. By working on Dad’s campaigns, I knew one person could make a difference.”
“Still can,” he said, thinking that she was echoing what Walter Tucker had said.
She shook her head. “Not like before—not after Long got elected. Now you can still make a difference, but you can end up in jail. Or worse. And clothing donations—after the Underground Railroad, that’s all I have the taste for.”
“That sounds good. Look, what’s going on with Toby? Why is he acting up?”
“I wish I knew. Sometimes”—she looked at him, smiling—“I think the little guy takes after his uncle. A real hell-raiser.”
“Lucky us,” he grumbled. “It’s going to be a long ten years before he’s old enough to be on his own.”
She didn’t say anything, and then he turned away, and she looked surprised. “Sam, where are you going?”
“Just going to make sure the doors are locked,” he answered. He went through the house, taking his time, checking everything, making sure every window and door was locked, but he knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing was safe anymore, not your life, not your job, not when Legionnaires could show up on your doorstep on a whim.
When he got back to the bedroom, the light was off, the radio was off, and in the darkness he stripped and pulled on his pajamas. It took him a long time to fall asleep. Slipping away, he heard Sarah whisper, “I do love you so, Sam.” He reached up to her hand, gave it a loving squeeze, and then fell asleep.
INTERLUDE IV
As Curt promised, a side door in the small industrial building was left unlocked, and the all-clear sign was there, said sign being a burnt-out lightbulb over the door. The doorknob spun easily in his hand and he walked in, hearing the hum and feeling the vibration of the printing presses overhead. About him, stacked in huge piles up to the ceiling, were massive rolls of newsprint, with a tiny path between the rolls. He went in.
Two men stood there, not looking particularly happy; he didn’t particularly care. He recognized both but knew only the shorter one. The bulkier one he knew from a blurry photo passed to him weeks ago in New York, at the camp. But he was glad they were known to him and trusted.
“You’re late,” the man on the right said. He had on soiled khakis and a black turtleneck sweater, and at his side was a small table cluttered with cameras and other photo gear. He was the staff photographer for the Portsmouth Herald.
“Sorry, Ralph,” he said. “Decided getting here without getting arrested was more important than keeping a schedule. I don’t have to tell you what’s crawling around out there.”
Ralph said, “No, that’s not news to me, and it’s not news to our friend.”
He looked at the other man. He was stocky, with a bull neck and a nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice. His clothes hung oddly. He was sure it was because this guy was used to wearing a uniform, not a uniform of the American or German armed forces or police.
Ralph added, “You or me get picked up, it’s a labor camp. For… Ike here, it’s a quick military trial and then a firing squad.”
“Yeah, well, we all got problems,” he said. “Can we get on with this?”
“Sure,” Ralph said, going to his photo gear, but then Ike spoke up, speaking English with only a hint of a Slavic accent. “Yes, we all have problems, and I’m here to make sure you will do what it takes to solve at least one of them.”
He stared at Ike. “I don’t need to be reminded, pal.”
Ike stared right back, and he imagined the guy wished he were back at Moscow’s Lubyanka prison, where he and his kind ruled the roost. Ike said, “Then I’ll remind you of this: We have gone to great trouble to assist this… effort. And we want to ensure what we’ve done will not go to waste.”
“It won’t,” he said.
“How can you guarantee it?”
“Pal, I can’t guarantee we all won’t be shot tomorrow, but I can guarantee we’re going to do what it takes to get the job done. Either me or somebody else. The job will get done.”
Ike looked to Ralph, who was busy with his photo gear. Ike said, “I’ve come here just to see what is what, and to tell you that there will be an announcement shortly from your capitol that will severely restrict the movements of people here. Our intelligence services have confirmed this information.”
“We’ve been anticipating that, too,” he said. “We’ve got our own people telling us stuff, even from D.C. So what else is new? That’s why I’m here.”
Ike said, “We need to know that you’ve made arrangements to have you and whatever else you need to be in place—or to otherwise be able to have freedom of movement, to get the job done.”
“Like I said, that’s why I’m here, guy, to get that taken care of. Anything else?”
Ike cocked his head as though hearing a whisper, far off. “This job… it should have been handled professionally, but we are forced to deal with you… amateurs. And we need to know that when the time comes, you will follow orders. You will do what it takes, no matter what.”
He gave the man a good hard stare. “I sure will. But know this. About the only thing we admire about you is that you’re fighting fascists over there, and you’re helping us fight fascists over here. For that you have our thanks. But we’re going into this with open eyes.”
The Slavic man demanded, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean this—we’re no starry-eyed lovers of you or your system. Maybe, a while ago. Some years ago I even filed an application with your Amtorg Trading Corporation down in New York City. I was tired of the crap around here, thought I’d have a better life shipping out overseas. But two things changed my mind. The first was that I decided I wasn’t going to cut and run. I was going to take part in the struggle here.”