She wondered how the Poles felt about being "rescued" by Germany. Better than they would have if the Russians had overrun them, she supposed. Otherwise, Marshal Smigly-Ridz never would have asked the Fuhrer to pull his chestnuts out of the fire for him.
And just because troops marched in as rescuers, that didn't necessarily mean they'd march out again so readily. Poland was almost as offensive to the German sense of how the map of Europe ought to look as Czechoslovakia was: or rather, had been. Hitler was doing everything he could to get the map to look the way he wanted it to.
Her mouth twisted. Hitler was doing everything he could to get everything to look the way he wanted it to. Why else would she be wearing the star that said JEW in big, Hebraic-looking letters? Because she wanted to? Not likely! No more than she wanted to go out shopping just before the stores closed, when most of them were sold out-if they'd had anything to begin with.
But the Nazis did as they pleased with and to Germany's Jews. Plenty of Germans were decent, even kind-as individuals. Did they protest the government's laws and policies? Sarah's mouth twisted again. Anyone rash enough to try found out for himself what Dachau was like.
A tram rattled past. Not so long ago, she'd ridden it when she needed to get around Munster. No more. It was verboten for Jews. If you had to walk home with a heavy sack weighing you down, that was your hard luck for picking the wrong grandparents. Sarah snorted softly. Even converts, people as Christian as their Aryan neighbors, got it in the neck. As far as the Nazis were concerned, people like that remained Jews even if they went to church. A lot of them had converted to escape such harassment. Well, much good that did them.
She walked on. A car went by. The man driving it wore a black suit and a homburg, so he was probably a doctor. Doctors were about the only civilians who could still get gasoline. The authorities had harvested the tires and batteries from most cars. She didn't know where those batteries and that rubber had gone, but straight into the military was a pretty good guess.
A crew of men in the uniforms of the Organization Todt were going through the ruins of a building mashed by a British bomb. One of them pulled out a copper pot and a length of lead pipe. His comrades pounded his back as if he'd just taken a pillbox on the Western front. Scrap metal was precious these days.
How are we supposed to fight a war if we have to scrounge like this? Sarah wondered. Then she wondered why she still thought of Germany and Germans as we. They didn't think of her like that. If they had, she would have been worrying about her father at the front along with her brother.
Well, Samuel Goldman had been a genuine German patriot. He'd proved as much with his blood during the last war. And that helped him now… maybe a little more than converting to Catholicism had helped the Christians of Jewish ancestry. The discrimination laws didn't come down quite so hard on the families of wounded and decorated veterans as they did on the rest of Jewry. That, Sarah had heard, was one of Hindenburg's last protests after Hitler became Chancellor.
Here was the grocery. She checked her handbag to make sure she had the ration coupons. They'd tightened up on everything since the two-front war got serious. Even potatoes and turnips were on the list these days. When Germany ran short of potatoes… she was fighting a two-front war. The stories older people told about what things were like at home from 1914 to 1918 made her glad she hadn't lived through those times herself.
The grocery store had garbage. It didn't have much garbage, either; Aryan shoppers had already picked over whatever was there earlier. Sarah only sighed. It wasn't as if she'd expected anything different. This was what life for Jews was like in the Third Reich. She filled her stringbag with what she could, then waited for the grocer to finish with a couple of customers who didn't wear the yellow star. Another German woman came in while she was shopping. This one saw her star and pushed ahead, as the law said Aryans were entitled to do. Sarah said nothing. If she fumed, she tried not to let it show. Some Germans could be personally kind to Jews. Not all, though. There wouldn't have been laws like these if all Germans felt kindly toward Jews.
She parted with Reichsmarks and ration coupons, then went across the street to the baker's. Isidor Bruck stood behind the counter. The bakery, being a Jewish-owned enterprise, had even less than the grocer's shop. But Isidor's smile lit up the bare little room. "Sarah!" he said. "How are you?"
"Still here," she answered. She wanted to tell him that all the Nazis and at least half the German people could go straight to the devil. She wanted to, but she didn't. Even though they'd gone walking together, he might sell her down the river to the Gestapo if she left herself open like that.
She didn't care for thinking such thoughts about someone who, she was sure, liked her. Care for it or not, think them she did. That was one of the Reich's worst evils, as far as she was concerned. It made you suspect everyone, because that was the only chance you had to keep yourself safe.
Which only made her feel the more ashamed when he reached under the counter and took out a fine loaf of war bread. It was still black, but it was nice and plump. "I saved this for you," he said. "I was hoping you'd come in today."
"You shouldn't have, Isidor!" she exclaimed, meaning not a word of it.
"I only wish I didn't have to take coupons for it. But-" He spread his hands, as if to say What can you do? "You know how things are. They watch us double close because we're Jews. If the flour we use doesn't match up with the ration coupons we take in, well…" He spread his hands again, wider this time. "It wouldn't be so good, that's all."
"I bet it wouldn't," Sarah said. "But couldn't you tell them you burned some loaves and couldn't sell them?"
"They'd say we had to unload them anyhow," Isidor answered. "After all, we just sell to Jews. Why should Jews care if their bread tastes like charcoal? They should thank God they have any bread at all."
He trusted her enough to speak his mind. Of course, someone trying to lure her into an indiscretion might do the same thing. If he was the Gestapo's creature, he'd have a long leash. He might be hoping she'd say something about Saul and sink her whole family.
Or he might be a baker's son who was sweet on her and trusted her further than she trusted him. If he was, that only made her more ashamed of her caution than she would have been otherwise.
She paid for the fine, fat loaf. She handed over the necessary coupons. Isidor solemnly wrote her a receipt. Then he asked, "Shall we go walking at the zoo again one day before too long?"
"Sure," Sarah answered. How could she say no when he'd set aside the bread like that? But she would have said yes even without such considerations. He might be a baker's son, but he was nice enough, or more than nice enough. She would have turned up her nose at him in easier times because of what his father did. Well, times weren't easy, and so she was getting to know him after all.
Now… If he could be trusted… If anyone she hadn't known her whole life could be trusted…
She snatched up the bread and fled the bakery. Isidor probably wondered if she was losing her mind. Or maybe he understood all too well. And wouldn't that be the worst thing of all? "HARCOURT!" That malignant rasp could come from only one smoke-cured throat.
"Yes, Sergeant?" Luc might be a corporal, but in front of Sergeant Demange he suddenly felt like a recruit fresh out of training again-and a recruit who feared he'd face a court-martial in the next few minutes.
Demange paused to stamp out a small butt and light a fresh Gitane, which took the place of the one he'd just extinguished. "How'd you like to do something different?"