"In Poland, the forces of the workers and peasants, the glorious soldiers of the Red Army, continue to press forward against the Fascists and their sympathizers," the newsreader went on. "Many Germans and Poles willingly surrender to join the Socialist cause."
Nationalist radio continually reported German and Italian triumphs. Somebody had to be lying. Before Joaquin was captured, he would have been certain it was the Republicans. He wasn't so sure any more. These days, he wasn't sure of anything. Maybe both sides were lying as hard as they could. That wouldn't have surprised him-oh, no, not even a little bit.
"American President Roosevelt has proposed an end to the war on the basis of all sides' returning to their positions before the fighting began," the announcer said. "In rejecting this, Hitler likened it to unscrambling an egg. He said Czechoslovakia would never be independent again, and that Germany would fight on to ultimate victory." The man let out a dry chuckle. "How Germany can gain ultimate victory while retreating in both east and west, Hitler did not explain."
Joaquin didn't know what to make of that. Every time he saw the Germans in action here in Spain, they made things go forward. The Italians who came to help Marshal Sanjurjo didn't care about the fight one way or the other. But Germans… Germans made things happen.
He made the mistake of saying that to Chaim Weinberg. The Republic agitator from the United States turned the color of a sunset. "Fuck 'em all," he said. "Fuck their mothers, too, up the ass."
"You hate them so much because they're Fascists?" Delgadillo said.
"Because they're Fascists, si," Weinberg answered. "And because they hate Jews."
A light dawned. Weinberg was a Jew himself. He might have put that reason second, but he meant it first. "Spaniards hate Jews, too," Joaquin said. "Do you hate Spaniards? Why did you come here if you hate Spaniards?"
"It's different here," the American mumbled.
"Really? Different how?" Joaquin asked, honestly puzzled. "Hate is hate, isn't it?"
"With you Spaniards, hating Jews is only a-a tradition, like," Weinberg said. "You don't go out of your way to do it."
"How can we?" Joaquin laughed out loud. "You're the first Jew I ever saw in my life. We threw ours out hundreds of years ago."
"Maybe that's it," Weinberg said. "You people just know you used to hate Jews. There are still plenty in Germany, and the Nazis go to town on them."
That had to be an English idiom translated literally; Joaquin had heard Weinberg do such things before. The American made himself understood, but you never doubted you were listening to a foreigner. After working out what he had to mean, Delgadillo said, "What about the Estados Unidos? Is your country a Jews' paradise?"
Weinberg snorted. "Not hardly. But it could be worse. Some people there do hate Jews, yes. But more of them hate Negroes worse. They treat Negroes the way Europeans treat Jews."
"But you would sooner change how Spain does things than how your own country does them, eh?" Joaquin said shrewdly.
The American-the Jew-started to say something. Then he closed his mouth with a snap. When he opened it again, he let out a sheepish chuckle. "Well, you may be right," he said, which surprised Joaquin. He hadn't thought Weinberg would admit any such thing. Weinberg went on, "Other Americans are trying to make things better for Negroes. I thought fighting against the Nazis was more important."
"How many of the Americans working for your Negroes are Jews?" Delgadillo asked.
"Quite a few. Why?"
Now Joaquin found himself surprised again, in a different way. "I would have guessed your Jews would let your Negroes go hang. As long as other Americans have Negroes to hate, most of them leave Jews alone. Isn't that what you said?"
"Yes, I said that, but it doesn't mean what you said it means." On the far side, the free side, of the barbed wire, Weinberg paused to figure out whether that meant what he wanted it to mean. He must have decided it did, because he went on, "Injustice to anyone anywhere is injustice to everyone everywhere. You have to fight it wherever you find it."
"You must enjoy tilting at windmills." Joaquin had never read Don Quixote. He'd read very little. But Cervantes' phrases filled the mouths of Spaniards whether they could read or not.
"Fighting against Fascism isn't tilting at windmills," Weinberg said. "Fascism is the real enemy."
"On the other side of the line, they think the same thing about Communism," Joaquin said.
"On the other side of the line, they're wrong." Weinberg sounded as sure of himself as a priest quoting from the Bible. Delgadillo didn't think that would be a good thing to tell him. The Jew went on, "Communism wants to treat every man and every woman the same way."
"Badly-they would say over there." Joaquin still more than half believed it himself. He couldn't insist on it too strongly, though, not when he depended on good will from these people if he wanted to keep breathing.
"How well did they treat you over there?" the Jew asked. "You were a peasant, and then you were a private. Do you want your son to live the way you used to live?"
Through most of Spain's history, the only possible answer to that would have been Well, how else is he going to live? Things changed only slowly here, when they changed at all. But Joaquin had seen that there were other possibilities. He didn't like all of them-he liked few of them, in fact-but he knew they were there. Stalling for time, he said, "I have no son."
Weinberg snorted impatiently. "You know what I mean."
And Joaquin did. "Well, Senor, I mean no disrespect when I say this-please believe me, for it is true-but I am sure I do not want my son to grow up a Red."
"Why?" Weinberg challenged. "What's so bad about equality?"
"Making everyone equal by pushing the bottom up would not be so bad," Joaquin said slowly. "Making everyone equal by pulling the top down… That is not so good, or I don't think so. And it seems to me that is what the Republic aims to do."
He waited for the top to fall down on him. He'd probably said more than he should have. But the American had asked, dammit. On the other side of the wire, Weinberg paused thoughtfully. "You really are smarter than you look," he said at last. "The only thing I'll say to that is, sometimes you have to tear down before you can build up."
"Well, Senor, it could be," Delgadillo replied, by which he meant he didn't believe it for a minute.
Weinberg wagged a finger at him. "What are we going to do about you?"
"It is your choice. You caught me."
"Maybe I should have shot you when I did."
"Maybe you should have. I thought you would."
"Better to reeducate you," the Jew said. Joaquin wondered if he was right. PETE MCGILL ENJOYED TALKING with officers no better than any other Marine corporal in his right mind. Officers, to him, were at best necessary evils, at worst unnecessary ones. Sometimes, though, you had no choice. Like St. Peter, officers had the power to bind and to loose.
Captain Ralph Longstreet had never said he was related to the Confederate general of the same last name. Then again, he'd never said he wasn't. He did have a drawl thick enough to slice. A hell of a lot of Marines-and even more Marine officers, it seemed-were Southern men. Looking up from his paperwork, he said, "Well, McGill, what can I do for you today?"
"Sir, you may have heard I've, uh, got friendly with a lady here in Shanghai," McGill answered. His own New York accent was about as far from what Longstreet spoke as it could be while remaining American English.