"Maybe your guy just made a mistake," she said after a few seconds of thought. "Have you ever crossed the Atlantic in January? I have, and it's rough seas and nasty weather all the way."
"Our submarine captains do not make such errors," the Foreign Ministry official said stiffly. "It is impossible. And if you find the Atlantic in January so unappetizing, why did you book passage on the Athenia?"
To get the hell out of your stinking country. But if Peggy said something like that, some guys who wore different uniforms-those of the SS, say-were liable to have some sharp questions for her. Or pointed ones. Or hot ones. "To get away from the war," she did say, a couple of heartbeats slower than she might have.
"I am afraid this is not possible for you at the moment," Hoppe said.
"Can't I go to Denmark anyway?" Peggy yelped. The lights were on in neutral Denmark. Denmark had never heard of rationing, except as something other people suffered. Much more to the point, Denmark was a civilized country. Once upon a time, Peggy would have said the same thing about Germany. No more. No more.
"I am very sorry." Konrad Hoppe didn't sound sorry. If anything, he sounded coldly amused. He got to tell foreigners no, and the Foreign Ministry paid him to do it. If that wasn't heaven for the nasty little man, Peggy would have been amazed. A small, chilly smile on his lips, Hoppe went on, "That also for you is not possible."
"How come?" She wouldn't give up without a fight. "I've got the train ticket. I've got the Danish visa. Why can't I use 'em?"
"It is not the policy of the Reich to permit departures unless the return journey to the foreigner's home may be completed without delay," Hoppe droned.
"Why the-dickens not?" She wanted to say something hotter than that, but feared it would do her more harm than good.
"I am not obligated to discuss the Reich's policies with those affected by them. I am obliged only to communicate them to you," Hoppe said primly.
Fuck you, Charlie. Peggy didn't say that, either. A few years earlier, she would have. Maybe she was finally growing up. She rolled her eyes. She didn't think Herb would believe it. That made her roll them again. God only knew when-or if-she'd see her husband again.
She tried a different tack: "Okay, you're not obligated. Could you do it because you want to, or because it'd be a civilized kind of thing to do?"
Yes, she'd throw that in Hoppe's face. And his sallow cheeks did turn red. Russians got ticked off if you called them uncultured. Germans were almost as bad. A lot of them had an inferiority complex about France and England. And, oddly, that had got worse since Hitler took over. It was as if the Nazis were uneasily aware of what a bunch of bastards they were, and embarrassed when somebody called them on it.
"I believe…" Hoppe's voice trailed away. A little muscle under one eye twitched, the only visible sign of what had to be a struggle inside him. Human being against Nazi functionary? Peggy knew which way she would have bet. But she would have lost, because the Foreign Ministry official went on, "I believe it is to keep people from blaming the Reich for disrupted schedules when those are not of our making."
Who sank the Athenia? Peggy wondered again. But Hoppe would only deny it one more time if she threw it in his face. If Goebbels was saying the British had done it, that was Holy Writ inside the Third Reich. Hoppe probably believed it himself, even if it seemed like obvious horse manure to Peggy.
"Well, suppose I sign a pledge that says I won't be offended?" Peggy proposed. "If I badmouth you in the papers or anything, you can haul it out and tell people what a liar I am."
He shook his head. "No. That is not good. You would claim you signed the document under duress. We have experience with others who prove ungrateful after going beyond our borders."
And why do you suppose that is? Peggy knew goddamn well why it was. Konrad Hoppe seemed not to have the faintest idea. That he didn't-that so many like him didn't-was one measure of modern-day Germany's damnation.
"I really wouldn't," Peggy said. Honest! Cross my heart and hope to die! She would have promised anything and done damn near anything to escape the Reich. If he'd propositioned her, she wouldn't have loosened his teeth for him. She wouldn't have come across, but still…
"I am sorry. I have not the discretion to permit this." Now Hoppe did sound as if he might mean it, anyhow.
"Who does?" Peggy asked. "Ribbentrop?"
"Herr von Ribbentrop may have the authority." Konrad Hoppe stressed the aristocratic von, which the Nazi Foreign Minister, as Peggy understood it, had bought. "He may, I say."
"He's the head of the Foreign Ministry, right?" Peggy said. "If he doesn't, who does, for crying out loud?"
"Above the Foreign Minister-above everyone-is always the Fuhrer." Hoppe pointed out the obvious.
"Oh, my aching back!" Peggy burst out. "How am I supposed to get Hitler to pay attention to my case? There's a war on."
"I am afraid I can offer on that score no suggestions," the Nazi bureaucrat answered. "If you will excuse me…" He bowed once more and walked out without waiting to see whether Peggy would excuse him or not.
She thought about getting on the train for Denmark even if the Foreign Ministry said she couldn't. She not only thought about it, she headed for the station.
She presented her ticket. Then she had to present her passport. The conductor-he wasn't quite a conductor, but a more prominent kind of official, with a uniform a U.S. major general would have envied-checked her name against a list. As soon as he did that, she knew her goose was cooked. Damn Teutonic thoroughness anyway!
His Toploftiness looked up from the sheet of paper. "I am sorry, but for you travel is verboten," he said.
"It's not fair! It's not right!" she squawked.
The railroad official shrugged. "I am sorry. I can about that nothing do. I do not the orders give. I only carry them out."
"Right," Peggy said tightly. "What am I supposed to do now?"
"Go back to your hotel," the man replied. "Wait for German victory. It will soon come. Then, I have no doubt, you will be able where you please to travel. Although, since you are here in the Reich at this world-historical time, why would you anywhere else care to go?"
Peggy could have told him. She came that close-that close-to doing it. In the end, she held her tongue. Yeah, maybe she really and truly was growing up. Or maybe-and more likely-the Gestapo could scare the bejesus out of an immature person, too. VACLAV JEZEK LOVED HIS NEW antitank rifle. The damn thing was long and heavy. It kicked like a mule. The round it fired was as big as his thumb. Despite that, it wouldn't penetrate all the armor on a first-rate German panzer. But against side or rear panels, it had a good chance of punching through. Then it would do something nasty to the men inside the metal monster, or maybe to the engine.
He didn't like the way he'd got his hands on the antitank rifle. The Frenchman who had lugged it around lost the top of his head to a bullet or shell fragment. He wasn't pretty when Vaclav found him. He'd bled all over the weapon, too. Now, though, you could hardly see the stains.
Somebody moved in the bushes a few hundred meters ahead. Jezek swung the rifle in that direction. It shot nice and flat out to a kilometer and more. What you could see, you could hit, and what you could hit…Using the antitank rifle against a mere soldier was like killing a flea by dropping a house on it. Vaclav didn't care. He wanted Germans dead, and he wasn't fussy about how they got that way.