He was kidding on the square. When the civil war broke out, how many Spaniards had ended up stuck behind the lines in a part of the country ruled by the faction they despised? Millions, surely. And lots of them would do what they could for their side when they found the chance. Early on, General Mola had bragged that he had four columns moving on Madrid and a fifth inside the city ready to help as soon as the Nationalist troops got closer. The same held true all over the country. When the Republicans advanced, as they sometimes did, they could find traitors to help them, too.
General Mola's four columns hadn't taken Madrid. The fifth column inside hadn't given enough help. And the Reds who held the city had massacred all the Nationalist sympathizers they could get their hands on-thousands of them, people said. It wasn't as if the Nationalist martyrs hadn't been avenged, either.
Marshal Sanjurjo's authorities here must have known reinforcements were coming up from the south. Odds were the reinforcements had come because authorities here asked for them. Joaquin was no marshal, but he could see that plain as day. He'd figured the authorities would have barracks ready for the newcomers, or at least tents pitched in a field.
The muddy field was here. So was the dripping night. Along with all his buddies, Joaquin got to wrap himself in a blanket and try to stay dry. "This is an embarrassment," Major Uribe said angrily. "On behalf of my superiors, men, I apologize to you."
He apologized because his superiors never would. Joaquin could see that, too. Sergeant Carrasquel said, "This is the kind of shit that makes people go over to the other side. They ought to whale the stuffing out of whoever couldn't be bothered to take care of us."
Joaquin whistled softly. Anybody who opened his mouth that wide was liable to fall right in. Carrasquel had to know as much, too. But he didn't keep quiet. You had to admire him for that.
Rain or no rain, mud or no mud, Joaquin fell asleep. When he woke up, the clouds had blown away and the sun was shining brightly. And he could see Madrid. He took a good look…and winced, and turned away. It was too much like looking at the half-rotted corpse of what had been a beautiful woman. Two and a half years of bombing and shelling left Madrid a skeletal wreck of its former self.
Guns boomed, there in the ruins. A salvo of shells screamed toward the Nationalists' miserable encampment. They burst well short, but even so…Madrid might not be alive any more, but, like some movie monster, it wasn't dead, either. Marshal Sanjurjo's men had to take it and drive a stake through its heart. If they could… SAMUEL GOLDMAN STARED MOROSELY AT the bandages across the palms of his hands. He was a wounded war veteran. He walked with a limp because he was a wounded war veteran. Except during the last war, he'd never done hard physical labor.
None of that mattered to the Nazis who ran Munster. Jews went into work gangs. That was what they were for. It was so mean, so unfair, it made Sarah Goldman want to grind her teeth and scream at the same time.
You couldn't scream very well while you were grinding your teeth, but that was beside the point. Instead of letting out a shriek that would have brought the neighbors and the police, she asked, "Do you want to put on more ointment, Papa?"
He shook his head. "No. I need to toughen up my hands. Pretty soon, they'll have calluses. Then everything will be all right."
"No, it won't!" Sarah exclaimed.
Her father's chuckle was also a wheeze. "Well, you're right, sweetheart. But it will as far as that goes, anyhow. I can't do anything about the rest."
"Somebody should be able to," she said.
"What do you want me to do?" Samuel Goldman asked. "Write a letter to the Fuhrer?"
"Why not? What have you got to lose? You were a front-line soldier, just like him. Maybe he'd listen to you. You've said it yourself: things aren't as bad for veterans as they are for other Jews."
"Mm…That's true." For a moment, Sarah thought her father would pull out a piece of paper and start writing. But he shook his head instead. He looked even older and more tired than he had when he first came home from the labor gang. "What have I got to lose? If I were just any Jewish veteran, I think I would send him a letter, because I wouldn't have anything. But with Saul…With Saul, I would do better not to remind the authorities about us. Or do you think I'm wrong?"
He meant the question seriously. Sarah respected him for that. If she could find a reason to make him change his mind, he would. She respected him for that, too. But she saw at once that she couldn't find a reason like that. "No. I just wish I did," she said sadly. "Everything's gone wrong, and we can't do anything about it."
"Not everything," her father said. "We're all still here, and three of us are together. And if Saul isn't, he isn't anywhere the Nazis are likely to look for him, either. I'll tell you something else, too."
"What?"
"The Fuhrer isn't the first ruler who hardened his heart against the Jews. Pharaoh did the same thing in Egypt more than three thousand years ago, and look what it got him. Pesach isn't far away, you know."
Sarah eyed him in something not far from astonishment. She didn't think she'd ever heard him call the holiday Pesach before; when he said anything, he said Passover. And it wasn't as if they were a religious or an observant family. They ate pork. They'd never bothered with matzoh during Passover. They didn't go to the synagogue even on the High Holy Days.
Her surprise must have shown. Samuel Goldman laughed softly. "You're right," he said. "I never cared much about being a Jew before. So I was Jewish and Friedrich Lauterbach was Lutheran. So what? We were both Germans, weren't we?"
"As a matter of fact, no," Sarah said.
"As a matter of fact, yes. As a matter of policy, no." Even now, Father was relentlessly precise. "But if, as a matter of policy, the Nazis won't let me be a German, what else can I be? Only a Jew. And do you know what else?"
"What?" Sarah whispered again, fascinated and intrigued.
Her father smiled a sad, crooked smile. "I find I rather like it, that's what. I wish I'd been more of a Jew when I had more of a choice. I wish we'd raised you and Saul more in the faith. Hitler made me less assimilated than I thought I was, and part of me wants to thank him for it. Isn't that funny?"
Sarah bent down and kissed him on the cheek. He needed a shave; his beard was rough under her lips. "Oh, good!" she exclaimed.
"Good?" He looked at her over the tops of his spectacles. "Why?"
"Because that means I'm not the only one who feels the same way," she said.
"Very often, you don't understand what something is worth till you run into someone who tries to tell you it isn't worth anything," Samuel Goldman said. "And, very often, that turns out to be too late. I can only hope it won't here. If I thought it would do any good, I would pray, but"-he spread his hands in apology to her, or perhaps to God-"I still can't make myself imagine it helps."
"Make yourself believe it helps," Sarah corrected.
He smiled again, more broadly this time. "Make myself believe it helps," he agreed. "That's what I meant to say. I believe I am a Jew, all right. Whether I can believe I am a believing Jew…I am the kind of Jew who enjoys making paradoxes like that, which is probably not the kind of Jew God had in mind when He made us."
"Well, why did He make us the way we are, then? Why did He make so many of us like that?"
"Stubborn and cross-grained, you mean?" Now Father was grinning from ear to ear, something he hardly ever did. "He made us in His own image, didn't He? No wonder we're this way."
"You're having more fun playing with this than you ever did with the Greeks and Romans." Sarah made it half an accusation.