"It can," Heinrich answered. "Because it can, it probably won't have to. The real questions are, how much of what they owe will the Americans pay, and how loud will the Reich have to yell before they do?" He nodded to himself. Those were the questions that counted, all right. Who persuaded-or browbeat-the Americans into coughing up how much could have a good deal to do with who followed Kurt Haldweim into the Fuhrer 's palace.
Another camera cut, this one to London. Like Paris, the town was more a monument to what had been than to what was nowadays. Parts of it remained in ruins more than sixty years after its fall to German panzers and dive-bombers. Horst Witzleben said, "The British Union of Fascists will be convening for their annual congress next week. Their full support for all Germanic programs is anticipated."
Heinrich and Lise both snorted at that. The British fascists had always followed Berlin's line. They'd always had to, or the Reich would clamp down on them even harder than usual. But no sooner had that thought crossed Heinrich's mind than a beefy, red-faced Englishman in BUF regalia appeared on the televisor screen. In Cockney-accented German, he said, "We're good fascists, too, we are. We think we've got a proper notion of what's right for Britain."
Dryly, Witzleben commented, "Whether the British Union of Fascists will endorse this position remains to be seen."
The next story was on the state visit of the Poglavnik of Croatia to the King of Bulgaria. Heinrich thought he knew what they would be talking about: hunting down the Serb terrorists who kept the Balkans bubbling. He was still amazed the Englishman had had the nerve to say what he'd said, and that the news had shown it. Someone in the Ministry of Propaganda had gone out on a limb there. And the Englishman had gone out on a bigger one. Were the Security Police looking for him even now?
Lise had a different thought: "Susanna will be in London for this,nicht wahr? "
"For it? No." Heinrich shook his head. "But yes, at the same time."
His wife sent him a severe look. "There are times, sweetheart, when you're too precise for your own good. You-"
He waved her to silence. There on the screen were the Poglavnik and the King, each in a different fancy uniform, shaking hands. And the correspondent from Sofia was saying, "-lating each other on the discovery and elimination of a nest of Jews deep in the Serbian mountains. Back to you, Horst."
"Danke,"Witzleben said as his image reappeared on the screen. He looked out at his vast audience. "The menace of world Jewry never goes away,meine Damen und Herren. It is as true now as it was when our Fuhrer served in Salonica during the Second World War."
Lise shivered. "They don't give up, do they?"
"Not likely." Heinrich made a fist and pounded it down on his knee. "No, not likely, dammit."
"We thought things would be easier when Himmler finally kicked the bucket," Lise said in a soft voice no one but Heinrich could possibly hear. "And then what did we get instead? Kurt Haldweim!" She didn't try to hide her bitterness.
Heinrich stroked her hair. "Maybe it will be better this time. The SS isn't so strong now-at least, I hope it isn't."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Lise said, and he had no answer for that.
The next story was about a riot at a football match in Milan, when the home team's goal against visiting Leipzig was disallowed on a questionable offside call. The crowd did more than question it. They bombarded the field with rocks and bottles, so that both teams and the officials had to flee for their lives. One German football player was slightly injured; one official-not the one who'd made the dubious call-ended up with a broken collarbone.
"Leaders of the German Federation of Sport have called upon their Italian counterparts for explanation and apology," Witzleben said in tones of stern disapproval. "Thus far, none has been forthcoming. These disgraceful scenes have grown all too common at matches on Italian pitches. The German Federation of Sport has declared it reserves the right to withdraw from further competition with teams from the Italian Empire unless and until the situation is corrected."
That would hurt the Italians a lot worse than it did their German foes. They depended on revenue from matches against visiting German powerhouses to keep themselves in the black. And if they couldn't tour in the Germanic Empire…Some of their teams would probably have to fold.
Heinrich tried to look at things philosophically: "What can you expect from Italians? They get too excited about what's only a game."
And then Lise brought him down to earth, saying, "And who was it who whooped like a wild Indian when we won the World Cup four years ago?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Heinrich said, whereupon Lise made a face at him. He poked her in the ribs and found a ticklish spot. She squeaked.
"What's that funny noise?" Francesca called from upstairs.
"That funny noise is your mother," Heinrich answered.
"Why are you a funny noise, Mommy?" their middle daughter asked.
"Because your father is tickling me, which he'snot supposed to do," Lise said. She tried to tickle him back, but he wasn't ticklish. "Unfair," she muttered. "Very unfair."
"And why is this night different from all other nights?" Heinrich murmured. The first of the Four Questions from the Passover service reminded Lise that life wasn't fair for Jews, never had been, and probably never would be.But we-somehow-go on anyway, Heinrich thought. His wife didn't answer him. He did stop tickling her.
Esther Stutzman worked a couple of mornings a week as a receptionist at a pediatrician's office. It wasn't so much that the family needed the money; they didn't. But she was a gregarious soul, and she'd wanted to see people after Gottlieb and Anna started going to school and didn't need to be looked after all the time.
The doctor was a short, plump man named Martin Dambach. He wasn't a Jew. Several of his patients were, but he didn't know that. "Good morning,Frau Stutzman," he said when Esther came in.
"Good morning, Doctor," she answered. "How are you today?"
"Tired," he said, and rubbed his eyes. "There was a traffic accident outside the house in the middle of the night-one of the drivers reeked like a brewery-and I gave what help I could. Then the police wanted to talk with me, which cost meanother hour of sleep. Would you please get the coffeemaker going?"
"How awful! Of course I will," Esther said. Dr. Dambach was a skilled and knowledgeable physician, but when he tangled with the percolator he turned out either hot water faintly tinged with brown or unpalatable mud. As she got the coffee started, she asked, "Was anyone badly hurt?"
"Not the drunk," he said sourly. "He was so limp and relaxed, you could have dropped him from the top of the Great Hall and he wouldn't have got hurt when he hit the ground. A woman in the other car broke her leg, and I'm afraid the man with her had internal injuries. They took him away in an ambulance."
"What will they do to the drunk?" Esther asked.
Dr. Dambach looked less happy still. "That I cannot tell you. He kept blithering on about what an important fellow he was in the Party. If he was lying, he'll be sorry. But if he was telling the truth…You know how these things go."
Being an Aryan, the pediatrician could afford to grumble about the way the world worked. Esther Stutzman nodded, but she never would have complained herself. Even nodding made her feel as if she was taking a chance.
"What appointments do we have this morning?" Dambach asked.
"Let me look." She went to the register. "There are…three immunizations, and the Fischers will be bringing in their seven-year-old for you to check his scoliosis, and-" The telephone rang, interrupting her. She picked it up. "Dr. Dambach's office. How may I help you?…Yes…Can you bring her in at ten-thirty?…All right. Thank you." She turned back to the doctor. "And Lotte Friedl has a sore throat."