Peggy looked around. Nobody she could see looked excited about teaching the Russians a lesson. One of the soldiers, a major old enough to have fought in the last war, knocked back half a tumbler's worth of something, put his head on his folded arms, and fell asleep at his table. The good-time girl who'd been with him stalked away in disgust.
Another soldier stood up and raised a glass on high. "Here's to the two-front war!" he yelled.
His buddies dragged him down. They spoke in low, urgent voices. He didn't want to listen. When they couldn't make him shut up, they hauled him out into the cold, pitch-black blackout night. Peggy wondered if it was already too late for him. Was somebody in there taking notes? She wouldn't have been surprised. People said there was at least one informer in every crowd. Peggy didn't always believe what people said, but it seemed likely here.
Music started coming out of the radio. Saccharine-sweet, it was as annoying as the newscaster. Jazz was one more thing the Nazis wouldn't put up with. Degenerate Negro music, they called it. No matter what they called it, what they made themselves was sappy and boring.
A naval officer came up to the table where Peggy was drinking by herself. "May I join you?" he asked.
"Sure." Peggy held up her left hand so the diamonds in her wedding ring sparkled. "Don't expect too much, that's all."
He smiled. His long, weathered face didn't seem to have room for amusement, but it turned out to. "Thank you for the warning. I may need it less than you think, though." He set down his drink and showed off the thin gold band on the fourth finger of his own left hand. "If I ask your name, will you think I am trying to seduce you?"
"Probably," Peggy answered, which startled a laugh out of him. She gave him her name even so, and asked his.
"I am Friedrich Reinberger-a Korvettenkapitan, as you see." He brushed the three gold stripes on one cuff with the other hand. Then he switched languages: "Lieutenant commander, you would say in English."
"Okay." Peggy was feeling ornery, so she asked, "Where's your wife, Lieutenant Commander?"
"In Dachau, not far from Munich, with the Kinder," Reinberger nodded. Peggy nodded-he sounded like a Bavarian. "I was called here to report on…certain things when my destroyer came into port. Maria, I think, believes yet I am at sea."
He finished his drink and waved for another one. The blond girl who came over to get his glass wore a black gown cut down to there in front and even lower in back, and slit up to there down below. Reinberger followed her with his eyes as she sashayed back to the bar. He didn't slobber or anything, but he did watch. Peggy couldn't very well blame him; it was a hell of a dress. If she were ten years younger-hell, five years younger-she would have wanted it herself.
The girl brought back a new drink. By then Peggy was ready for a refill, too. That gave the German naval officer another chance to eye the girl's strut. He made the most of it. When Peggy got the fresh drink, Reinberger raised his glass. "To 1939," he said.
"To 1939," Peggy echoed, and drank with him. If he'd said something like to our victory in 1939, she wouldn't have. She was damned if she wanted to see the Nazis win. But toasting the year was harmless enough.
"What is an American doing in Germany in the middle of a war?" Reinberger asked.
Peggy looked him in the eye. She was tempted to spit in his eye, but he didn't seem like a bad guy. Still, she didn't sugarcoat the truth: "I was in Czechoslovakia when you people invaded it."
"Oh." He shrugged. "If the Czechs were more, ah, reasonable, it might not have come to that. But they thought England and France would save them, and so…" Another shrug.
"Dachau." Peggy wasn't drunk, but she felt a buzz. Her wits worked slower than she wished they did. It wasn't a big city or anything, but she'd heard of it before. How come? After a moment, she remembered. "Dachau! Isn't that where they-?" She didn't know how to go on.
"Yes, that is where they-" Korvettenkapitan Reinberger didn't finish it, either. He did say, "Every nation has in it people who are not trusted by the government. We keep them there."
From some of the whispers Peggy had heard, the SS did more to people in Dachau than just keep them there. But she couldn't prove that. Probably the only way to prove it was to end up on the inside. She had a magpie curiosity, but she didn't want to know that badly.
"Where in the United States do you live?" Reinberger asked. It wasn't the smoothest change of subject Peggy had ever seen, but it also could have been worse.
"Philadelphia," she answered. Homesickness rose up inside her like a great choking cloud. She had to look down at the tabletop and blink several times while tears stung her eyes.
"I know something of the port-I visited before the last war, and again three, no, four years ago now. But all I know of the city is that it is large."
"Third biggest in the country," Peggy agreed, not without pride. And we don't lock people up there even if they aren't trusted by the government. And we never would, not unless they were niggers or Japs or something.
The music on the radio got a little less syrupy than it had been. "Do you care to dance?" Reinberger asked.
She gave him a crooked grin. "Sure you wouldn't rather ask the bar-girl? You've got a better chance with her."
"I be not"-he shook his head-"I am not looking for that, not now. How do I expect Maria to stay for me if I do not stay for her?"
A lot of Germans had trouble with Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Meeting one who didn't made up Peggy's mind for her. "Okay," she said.
He danced well enough. He stayed with the beat, and he led firmly. If he lacked the inspiration, the sense of fun, that separated really good dancers from people who were just all right-then he did, that was all. He held Peggy tight without trying to mash himself against her or grope her. He was…correct, a diplomat would have called it.
"Thank you," she said when the music stopped. "That was nice."
"Ja." He nodded. "And thank you also." As they went back to the table, he added, "Much better than shooting up Russian ships in the Baltic."
"Well, gee! There's a compliment!" Peggy exclaimed. Lieutenant Commander Reinberger laughed. He waved for another drink. Peggy nodded to show she wanted one, too. The barmaid in the startling outfit fluttered her fingers to show she saw. Peggy asked, "That's what you were doing before you got leave? Shooting up Russian ships?"
"Ja," Reinberger said. "The Baltic in winter is perfectly filthy, too. Storms, fog, waves, ice…and always maybe a U-boat waits to give you a present. Anyone who enjoys combat a Dummkopf is."
"Hitler did," Peggy said incautiously. She wondered if she would find out more about what went on in Dachau than she ever wanted to know. Your big mouth, she told herself, not for the first time.
The barmaid came back with the fresh drinks then. She almost fell out of that dress as she bent over to give Reinberger his. He noticed. She wanted him to notice. But he didn't do anything or say anything about it. She looked annoyed as she walked away.
"From everything I know, the Fuhrer is braver than most men," Reinberger said. That was the straight Nazi line. From everything Peggy'd heard, it also happened to be true, which was discouraging.
"Did the Russians shoot back?" she asked.
"They tried. Wallowing freighters with popguns have not much chance against warships," Reinberger answered. "They are brave enough themselves, no matter what the radio says." So he didn't think much of Dr. Goebbels' endless propaganda barrage. That was interesting. "No matter how brave you are, though, you must have the tools to do the job."