"What did we ever do to them?" Sarah complained over a miserable supper that night. "What they've done to us… But what did we do to them?"
"Nothing," her mother said. "We don't do anything to anybody. All we try to do is stay alive. They don't even like that, and a choleriyeh on them."
"You haven't done anything to them," Father said. He was weary, but contrived to look amused even so. "I haven't done enough-nowhere near so much as I wish I had. But Einstein and Freud and Schoenberg… They've done plenty. They've tried to drag Germany kicking and screaming into the twentieth century. 'Jewish physics! Jewish psychology! Jewish music!'" He did his best to sound like a Nazi plug-ugly bellowing on the radio. His best was alarmingly good. He didn't have a red face and a roll of fat at the back of his neck, but you would never have guessed as much from his voice.
"But what if Einstein's right even though he's Jewish?" Sarah said. "Then Germany will miss out on… on whatever he was talking about." She knew more about the theory of relativity than she did about Zulu, but not much more.
"That's the chance they take," Samuel Goldman said, not without relish. "I don't pretend to understand Einstein, but I'd think twice before I bet against him."
Sarah always thought of her father as knowing everything. So hearing him admit ignorance always came as a surprise. Of course, Socrates hadn't just admitted ignorance-he'd professed it (being a scholar of ancient history's daughter, she knew such things herself). But that was different. Socrates had been-what did the card-players call it? He'd been sandbagging: that was the word. When Father said he didn't understand Einstein, Sarah thought he meant it.
"Jewish physics? What can Jewish physics do that German physics can't?" Sarah picked the wildest thing she could think of: "Blow up the world? That would serve the Nazis right, wouldn't it?"
"It would." Father sighed. "I don't think things are quite so simple, though. It would be nice if they were, but…" He spread his hands. His palms weren't blistered, the way they had been when he first joined the labor gang. Now ridges of hard yellow callus crossed them. He was in better physical shape than Sarah remembered his being-but he slept whenever he wasn't working or eating. How long before he started to break down? And what would happen then?
She didn't want to think about that. Father anchored the world. Without him, everything would be adrift, topsy-turvy. Which, she had to admit, didn't mean such a thing couldn't happen. In the Third Reich, anything could happen to Jews, anything at all. If you didn't understand that, you didn't understand anything.
One of the things that could happen to Jews could also happen to Aryans. A little past midnight, air-raid sirens began to wail. Berlin and other places in the east were safe from bombs during short summer nights: the bombers that had to deliver them would still be flying and vulnerable when light came back to the sky. Not Munster. It lay too close to the French border to enjoy such protection.
"Not fair!" Sarah groaned as she hurried downstairs to huddle under the heavy dining-room table. She wasn't thinking only of geography. Father would have to go out to the labor gang tomorrow morning even if he'd had his sleep shattered. Well, plenty of others would be in the same boat.
That a bomb might land on top of the house never crossed her mind. She'd been in plenty of raids before, and no bombs had hit here yet. That had to mean none could. The logic was perfect… at least till she met a counterexample.
Her parents joined her under there a moment later. Her mother was grumbling because she'd stubbed a toe on the stairs. "Miserable air pirates," Father said. He'd lifted the phrase straight from the Nazi papers. Sarah wondered if he realized what had just come out of his mouth.
Before she could ask him, bombs began whistling down. Even when you knew-or thought you knew-one wouldn't hit here, the sound was scary. Then the bombs started going off. The noise was horrendous. Feeling the ground shake under you was worse. Sarah had never been in an earthquake, but now she had a notion of what they were like.
Antiaircraft guns added their own crashes to the racket. Through it all, Father said, "I think those must be French planes. The engines sound different from the ones the RAF uses."
Sarah hadn't noticed. Even when it was pointed out to her, she couldn't hear any difference. She wouldn't have cared if she could. She just wanted this to be over.
Then several bombs burst much closer than any had before. She screamed. She couldn't help herself. The house shook like a rat in a terrier's jaws. For a second, she thought everything would come down on top of the table. Windows blew in with a tinkle of glass. All of a sudden, she could smell cool, moist outside air-and the smoke it carried.
The raid seemed to last forever. They often felt that way while they were going on. At last, the enemy planes flew off to England or France or wherever they'd come from. Not long afterwards, the all-clear sounded. Father said, "I'd better see if the neighbors are all right."
"Would they do the same for us?" Sarah asked sourly.
"Some of them would," he answered, and she supposed that was so. He went on, "Even my bathrobe has a yellow star, so I won't get into trouble on account of that."
"Oh, joy," Sarah and her mother said at the same time. They both started to laugh. Why not? What other choice did you have but pounding your head against a table leg?
Father's voice joined the shouting outside. Sarah didn't hear anyone screaming. That had to be good. The Nazi government was tormenting Jews. She should have hoped the RAF or the French would knock it flat. But bombs didn't fall on a government. Bombs fell on people. And, even though a lot of those people must have voted for the Nazis back before elections turned into farces, most of them were just… people. They weren't so bad.
After a while, Father came back in. His slippers scraped on broken glass. (What would they do about that? Worry about it after dawn, that was what.) "All right here," he reported. "Those big ones came down a couple of blocks away, thank God." Bells and sirens told of fire engines and ambulances rushing where they were needed most.
"You may as well go back to bed," Mother said. "Nothing else to do now."
After the first couple of air strikes against Munster, Sarah would have laughed at that. Now she nodded. As life since the Nazis took over showed, you could get used to anything. If you were still tired after the bombs stopped falling, you grabbed some more sleep. She heard Father yawn. He'd need every minute he could get. Come morning, he'd be even more overworked than usual.
He'd just trudged out the door when someone started pounding on it. Sarah and her mother exchanged looks of alarm. That sounded like the SS. What could the blackshirts want so early? All sorts of evil possibilities crossed her mind. Would they claim the Goldmans were showing lights to guide the enemy bombers? That was ridiculous-or would be if the SS weren't saying it.
Feet dragging, Sarah went to the door and reluctantly opened it. Her jaw dropped. "Isidor!" she blurted. "What are you doing here?"
"I rode over to make sure you folks were safe," Isidor Bruck answered. Sure enough, a beat-up bicycle stood behind the baker's son. He managed a shy smile. "I'm glad you are."
"Yes, we're fine," Sarah managed. She didn't know what else to say. Obviously, Isidor hadn't ridden across town to check on her mother and father. What were they to him but customers? She'd thought she was something more. Till this moment, she hadn't realized she might be a lot more. She took a deep breath and, without thinking about it, ran a hand through her hair. "Are your kin all right?"