Last Orders

CHAPTER 18

Somewhere up ahead, there were Germans. Somewhere up ahead, there always seemed to be more Germans. Ivan Kuchkov had started to think the Hitlerites stamped out soldiers in a factory somewhere near Berlin. He shared the conceit with the men in his section. He gave them orders; they were stuck listening to him unless they really wanted to get the shit piled on their backs.

“They turn the fuckers on a lathe,” he said, warming to his story, “and then they spray on the gray uniforms the way we paint trucks.”

“I almost believe it, you know?” Sasha Davidov said.

“What? They don’t make kikes the same way?” Ivan gibed.

The scout shook his head. “Afraid not, Comrade Sergeant. If they did, there’d be more of us. No, we fuck like everybody else.”

“Like hell you do,” Kuchkov said. “You’ve got those clipped cocks. Probably shortens the recoil when your gun goes off.”

As the Red Army men laughed, Davidov said, “I knew there had to be some kind of reason for it.” He didn’t sound pissed off or anything. That was good. Ivan had no use for him as a Jew, but he made a damn fine point man. And somebody who could see trouble before it saw him was a better life-insurance policy than even a full drum on your PPD.

“Where was I?” the sergeant went on. “Oh, yeah. They machine the fucking Fritzes. They paint the uniforms on the cunts. And then … You guys ever seen a bottle factory? One where the bottles trundle by on a fucking belt and this machine stamps the caps on ’em, bang, bang, bang? You know what I’m talking about, assholes?” He waited for them to nod, then finished, “Well, that’s how Hitler’s pricks get the helmets on their knobs.”

“It’s cheap work,” Sasha said. “A bullet goes right through one of those things.”

Kuchkov picked up his own helmet. While he wasn’t in action, he just wore a forage cap. He hefted the ironmongery. “Sure, bitch. And this’ll keep out everything up to a goddamn 105, right?”

Sasha Davidov didn’t answer. Everybody knew a German helmet was better than the Soviet model. Ivan had had that thought himself, too many times to count. Never mind the steel-even the leather and pads that made the thing tolerable to wear-were of higher quality than their Red Army equivalents. It was such a fucking shame that wearing one would make his own side put holes in it.

One of his men asked, “Comrade Sergeant, are you criticizing Soviet production?”

The guy was a new replacement. His name was Mikhail … Mikhail Something. Ivan couldn’t remember his surname or patronymic. But he knew danger when he heard it. “Not me,” he answered without missing a beat. “Nobody’s helmet keeps out bullets. Anything that could’d be so goddamn heavy, it’d make your stupid head fall off.”

He waited. Mikhail didn’t say anything else. The prick was on the lean side, and kind of pale. By the way he talked, he came from Moscow. Piece by piece, none of that meant anything. But when one of your boys shot a political officer … The NKVD could build a case any way they pleased.

Sasha Davidov sat there by the fire, not quite looking at Ivan. The skinny little Zhid’s cheeks hollowed more than usual when he sucked in smoke from a papiros. He needed a shave. The dark stubble on his cheeks and his big nose made him look like a blackass from the Caucasus.

Jews were different, though. Get in trouble with a blackass and he’d come after you and cut your liver out. Get in trouble with a Jew and two years later you’d be in a camp somewhere north of the Arctic Circle and never quite sure how you wound up there. Jews liked revenge cold, not hot.

But they and blackasses had one thing in common. They were mostly too goddamn smart for their own good. Sasha could see that this Mikhail was trouble, same as Kuchkov could. And the two of them had been together for a long time now. Sasha could probably see what Kuchkov had in mind to do about it, too.

Whatever the Jew saw, he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t even raise a dark, ironic eyebrow. He just sat there, leaning toward the flames and smoking the papiros till he’d burnt every milligram of tobacco in the paper cigarette holder.

He won’t rat on me, Ivan thought. In the USSR, that was the touchstone of trust. Zhid or not, Sasha passed. He and Ivan had saved each other’s nuts plenty of times. Mikhail, on the other hand …

Soviet officers used up men the way they used up machine pistols and tanks and planes. Ivan had joked about the Germans’ manufacturing soldiers. His own superiors behaved more as if they thought their side did. Doing this or that would cost so many men, so many machines. So when they did this or that, they didn’t care a bit if they lost that many tanks and that many soldiers. They even had a word for that; Ivan had heard them use it. The troops and the equipment were fungible, was what they were.

And if Soviet officers had an attitude like that, what kind of attitude was a hard-nosed Soviet sergeant likely to have?

Next morning, Ivan booted his men out of their bedrolls before any light showed in the eastern sky. “C’mon, you whores,” he growled. “We’re gonna shove ourselves up the Fritzes’ cunts before they’ve pissed away their morning hard-ons.” Somebody laughed. Ivan rounded on him. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing, Comrade Sergeant,” the soldier said quickly. “I serve the Soviet Union!” It was as soft an answer as he could give. If he’d tried to explain about mixed metaphors, Ivan would have knocked the crap out of him.

They ate black bread and sausage. Some of them gulped their hundred-gram vodka ration to keep from worrying about what might happen pretty soon. Kuchkov drank some of his, but not all. Sasha Davidov didn’t touch any. At the point, he needed to stay alert as a hunted rabbit.

Mikhail swallowed his vodka dose, every drop of it. The Red Army men moved out in a ragged skirmish line. More of them carried PPDs like Ivan’s than rifles. At close quarters, all you wanted to do was spray a lot of lead around. A machine pistol was terrific for that.

They moved cautiously, hunching low. The sun coming up behind them could silhouette them against the horizon and throw their moving shadows a long, long way.

Somewhere up ahead sat a farm village. The Germans didn’t seem to want to pull back from it. Maybe one of the cunts there was an extra good lay. Boot the Hitlerites out and the next village was six or eight kilometers farther west. It seemed worth doing.

Sasha hit the dirt a split second before the MG-42 in the village started spitting out death. Ivan didn’t know what kind of animal instinct the little Jew had, but Davidov had it, all right. And, because Ivan kept an eye on him, he also hit the ground before bullets snapped through where he’d been.

Some of the other Red Army men went down on their own as soon as the lead started flying. Others had 7.92mm help in falling. The Russians fired back, though they were still too far outside the village for submachine guns to do much good. Well, that was why you still needed to bring along some riflemen.

“Flank them out!” Kuchkov yelled. “You pussies-yeah, you over there! Go get ’em!”

They tried. They feared him more than they feared the Fritzes. But they started too soon. Hitler’s fearsome buzz saw swung around and knocked them back before they could knock it out. No, the Nazis really didn’t want to leave this place. And, as long as they fed belts into that MG-42, they could kill a regiment’s worth of Russians here.

Ivan knew a lost cause when he saw one. “Back!” he shouted. “We’ll have to shell them out or bomb them out or something, the fuckers.”

The Russian soldiers who could retreat did. Kuchkov wasn’t altogether astonished when he saw that Mikhail wasn’t one of them. The new guy had been part of the flanking party the German machine gun savaged. Wasn’t that a shame? Ivan rolled some coarse makhorka in a scrap of newsprint and lit the homemade cigarette. Fungible wasn’t mat, but it still turned out to be a handy word to know.

Brakes chuffing, the train pulled into Broad Street Station. Peggy Druce looked out the window at the familiar platform. Another political trip down-this one to Altoona. That was about as far west as she usually went. Somewhere around there, Philadelphia’s gravity or influence or whatever you wanted to call it began to fade and Pittsburgh’s to grow.

Even Pennsylvania’s roads reflected the split between the state’s two biggest cities. In the southeast, they looked like a segment of a spider web with Philly sitting where the spider would. Pittsburgh occupied a similar position in the southwest. Geography had something to do with that. Some of it, though, was attitude and who your friends were.

“Broad Street Station! Philadelphia!” the conductor shouted, in case you were too dumb to know where you were.

Peggy was already on her way to the door. She’d scoot back to the baggage car to snag her suitcase. Then she’d splurge and take a cab back to her house.

Only she didn’t. There on the platform waiting for her stood Dave Hartman. The master machinist sent her a crooked grin. “Hey, good-lookin’,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” Peggy asked, more surprised than pleased. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“They’re doing a changeover-gotta retool a little on account of we’ll be making a new model,” Dave answered. “So I had me the afternoon off, and I figured I’d pick you up.”

“That was sweet,” Peggy said as she went back to the baggage car. Dave walked beside her. She gave the colored redcap her claim check, and handed him fifteen cents when he set her suitcase at her feet.

Dave grabbed the suitcase. “Your back!” Peggy squawked.

“Hush your face, doll,” he said. So she did.

When they got to his old Ford, she said, “Honest, Dave, you didn’t need to bother. I know what the gas ration is these days.”

“Hush your face,” he repeated as he threw the suitcase in the trunk. Only after he’d held the door open for her did he go on, “Don’t hardly drive it any which way. Gotta give it a go every once in a while or the tires’ll flatten out and the battery’ll die on me.”

Peggy knew that protesting too much was a losing cause. All she said was, “Well, thank you very much. I was going to grab a taxi.”

“Waste of money when you’ve got your own private chauffeur.” Dave started the car. You could hardly hear the engine, no matter how old it was. Yes, he took care of it better than any garage was likely to. He put it in gear. “I do hope the tires hold out. You really gotta have connections to get your hands on new ones, way things are these days.”

“I may be able to take care of that if you need them,” Peggy said.

“Through the guy who was dumb enough to dump you?” Dave shook his head. “No offense, but I don’t want anything to do with him.”

Herb probably could get new tires when he needed them. No denying he was a well-connected man. But Peggy answered, “I wasn’t thinking about him. Remember, I just came back from a political trip-and I’ve made a lot of them. Plenty of Democratic big shots who owe me a favor or two. I could promote some Firestones or Goodyears, I expect.”

He laughed. “Never thought I’d get to know a fixer, not in a month of Sundays I didn’t. See what happens when you go to a ballgame?”

“All kinds of crazy things,” Peggy agreed with a fond smile. She had no idea whether this was love or just a rebound. People who’d been through divorces said you were commonly crazy the first couple of years after your knot got untied. If it ended up not working, she’d chalk it up to experience and try to go on from there. In the meantime, she’d enjoy it for as long as it stayed enjoyable. It had so far.

Not many cars were on the streets. Compared to Philadelphia before the war, they seemed deserted. Compared to Hitler’s Germany … The only civilian vehicles that still operated in the Third Reich were fire engines, ambulances, and doctors’ cars. Yes, whether this glass was half empty or half full depended on how you looked at things.

Shops here still had clothes and beer and radio sets and toys and noodles in them. The variety wasn’t as big as it had been before Uncle Sam started fighting the Japs, but you could mostly get what you needed, even if not just what you wanted. Somebody from Berlin plopped down in the middle of Philadelphia would die of shock, or possibly of greed.

Because traffic was so light, they got up to Peggy’s house in nothing flat. “Want to come in for a drink?” she asked.

“Twist my arm.” He held it out. It was firmer and harder than Herb’s; he kept himself in fine shape. Peggy gave a token twist. Dave yowled like a cat with its tail under a rocking chair. “Mercy! Mercy and bourbon.”

“Bourbon is a mercy,” Peggy said. She was going to carry her bag into the house, but Dave didn’t give her the chance. Men could be most annoying when they acted most chivalrous.

Ice cubes clinked in highball glasses as she built the drinks. Dave raised his in salute. “Mud in your eye.”

Idly, she turned on the radio. Once it warmed up, music started coming out. But the record cut off abruptly-so abruptly that somebody at the studio scraped the needle across the grooves. “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news flash!” the announcer said in portentous tones.

“Uh-oh,” Dave said, halfway down his drink. “Wonder what went off the rails this time.” He might have meant that literally; along with factory explosions, railway disasters often caused we-interrupt-this-broadcast announcements.

Not this afternoon, though. “Adolf Hitler, the Nazi Führer, has announced that, from this time forward, the Greater German Reich considers itself to be at war with the United States of America. At the same time as his announcement, German U-boats attacked American merchant ships and naval vessels without warning. Some have been sunk, and American lives have been lost.”

“Holy Jesus!” Peggy said hoarsely. She finished her drink at a gulp. Then she poured more Jim Beam over the rocks. She needed a refill. Dave drained his glass and held it out for more, too.

“American diplomats in Berlin and their German counterparts in Washington will be exchanged through neutral nations,” the announcer went on. “In an early statement from the White House, President Roosevelt said that he did not want this fight and did not go looking for it. He also said, however, that, while the Nazis may have started the war, the United States will finish it.”

“Yeah!” Dave put down his drink so he could smack one fist into the palm of his other hand.

Peggy, who followed politics more closely than her new boyfriend did, knew FDR wasn’t putting all his cards on the table. The way America had armed and encouraged England and France meant she was already close to being at war with Hitler’s Germany. But why would Hitler want to make things official when FDR couldn’t because he didn’t have the political backing?

Hitler, of course, had problems of his own in Germany. No matter how hard Goebbels tried to keep things quiet, word of the unrest kept leaking out. Maybe the Führer had decided declaring war on America might unite the country behind him. If he did …

“He doesn’t know what he’s messing with,” Dave said. “Kaiser Bill didn’t, and Adolf doesn’t, either. But I bet we show him, same as we did the last time around.”

“I bet we do,” Peggy agreed. And that seemed to call for more drinks.

Posters sprouted in Münster like toadstools after a rain. Most of them, of course, came from the government. People who didn’t like what the Nazis were up to took their lives in their hands to print broadsheets with their message, and risked them again when they went out under cover of darkness with paste pots. They did it, though. The regime didn’t have things here all its own way on the propaganda front-not quite, anyhow.

But these latest posters came straight from Goebbels. Sarah Bruck winced when she saw them. One showed FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt sitting side by side in fancy dress-only the American President’s face was just a false front, behind which you saw a bearded Jew with a great hooked nose and flabby lips. Eleanor was saying, “Franklin! Your mask is slipping!”

The other showed a German eagle, complete with swastika, striking down the one that represented America. FORWARD THE REICH! that one shouted. FORWARD TO VICTORY!

Sarah didn’t want to be at war with the United States. Or maybe she did, if that would bring Hitler and the Nazis down faster. But if the USA and its allies knocked Münster flat and killed her … Well, in that case she’d have a thing or two to say to them in the afterlife. If there turned out to be an afterlife.

In spite of the war, in spite of the uprising, in spite of the jumpy German soldiers on the streets, Sarah smiled. Here she was, piling one if on top of another. Piling Pelion on Ossa, her father would say. Being the daughter of a professor of classics and ancient history, Sarah even knew what that meant. Those were the mountains the Titans of Greek myth had stacked when they tried to storm the gods on Mt. Olympus.

Some ways, she knew more about the ancient Greeks’ religion than she did about her own. She’d studied theirs more thoroughly. She’d just grown up with hers. She’d grown up with scraps and pieces of hers, anyhow. Till Hitler came to power, her family had been happily secular. Only after he showed how much he hated Judaism did her folks decide there had to be something to it after all.

“Hey, Jewigirl!” a soldier called. “Why don’t you come over here and-” He gave forth with a lewd suggestion.

Cheeks aflame, Sarah walked on as if she hadn’t heard him. The soldier and his buddies laughed, but they didn’t come after her. Ignoring soldiers had always worked up till now. When it stopped working, if it stopped working … She didn’t want to think about that, so she didn’t.

Someone had painted a slogan on a wall: NAZIS ROT IN HELL! Nobody’d whitewashed over it yet. That was one of the things labor gangs did these days. Her father sometimes came home with his clothes dappled with whitewash.

Sarah read the slogan out of the corner of her eye. She knew better than to turn her head to look at it. Doing that got you in trouble, the same way screaming back at the dirty-minded soldiers would have. Somebody was always watching you. Whenever you went outdoors, you had to act as if somebody was, anyway.

She ducked into the grocer’s shop. It was late in the afternoon, of course. The grocery wouldn’t have had much when it opened hours ago. It had even less now. Before the war, sheep would have turned up their noses at the mangy turnips in the produce bin. Now Sarah was glad to see them. She could bring something home.

There was a difference between bad and worse. She picked some of the less diseased-looking turnips. In a bin farther back, she found rutabagas. Kale and spinach remained, too. And they had powdered mustard. She hadn’t seen any for a long time. Some of the powder would probably be yellow chalk, but what could you do? She got a couple of packets.

The grocer took her money and the required ration coupons. He still had a double chin. What kinds of things did he get that he didn’t sell? No, you wouldn’t expect people who dealt in food to go hungry. Her baker husband and in-laws hadn’t. She hadn’t, either, not while she was married to Isidor. These days, the worm gnawed her stomach again.

She chose a different way back to her house. She didn’t want to pass that bunch of soldiers again. They already had ideas. If they saw her one more time, they might decide to do something about them. The fewer chances you took, the better off you were.

A blackshirt at a checkpoint demanded her papers. She produced them. They were in order. “Well, go on, kike,” he growled: the small change of insult.

She hadn’t gone more than a few steps before gunfire rang out in the center of town. That dreadful ripping snarl could only come from an MG-42. German soldiers were hosing down a building from which rebels had fired-or maybe just a building from which they thought rebels had fired. If they shot a few people who had nothing to do with the uprising, they wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.

“You stinking Jews!” the SS man shouted after Sarah. “This trouble is all your fault!”

She wanted to argue with him. Himmler had got Münster up in arms against him by seizing the Catholic prelate, Cardinal von Galen. The cardinal hadn’t said a word about Jews; all the signs were that he couldn’t have cared less about what happened to them. He’d protested the “mercy killings” of mental defectives. Other people sick of the way the government was botching the war joined the anti-Nazi movement and swelled its ranks. Jews had nothing to do with any of that, either.

But talking back to an SS man was stupid for any German, and suicidally stupid for a Jew. As she had with the soldiers, Sarah kept walking. As long as the blackshirt stuck to talk, she wouldn’t worry. Talk was even cheaper and more worthless than kale, which was really saying something.

He sent a parting shot after her: “After we beat the Americans, we’ll give all the Hebes over there what-for, too!”

Again, Sarah kept her mouth shut. She had to bite down hard on the inside of her lower lip to manage it, but she did. The Reich hadn’t been able to beat England and France and torment their Jews, though horrible things were supposed to have happened to the ones they’d caught in Russia. The SS man must have pulled his vision of triumph over the United States out of an opium pipe. Or maybe you needed to smoke something stronger than opium to get that kind of hallucination.

She managed to escape. No one was shooting around here right this minute. But a rifle or machine-gun bullet could fly a couple of kilometers and kill somebody who chanced to be in the wrong place at the wrong instant. There hadn’t been any funerals like that on the block where her parents’ house stood, but the next block over had seen one, and a little girl in the hospital with a hole in her leg. Bad luck? God’s will? Sarah had no idea. She wasn’t even sure there was a difference.

A cigar butt lay on the sidewalk: three centimeters or so of stepped-on tobacco, soggy at one end. As casually as if she’d been doing it all her life, she bent and picked it up. She had no use for it herself-she’d never got the smoking habit. But her father would mix it in with his own scroungings. Jews got no tobacco rations. If Father was going to smoke, he had to make do with other people’s leavings.

Or, sometimes, he managed to steal unsmoked cigarettes he found in bombed-out houses-another kind of scrounging. He’d even got American cigarettes that way, from the home of a Party Bonz whose connections let him latch on to things ordinary people couldn’t even dream of. Those connections, though, hadn’t kept his fancy place from getting blown to smithereens … or a Jew from enjoying things for which he had no further use.

When Sarah came home at last, her mother asked, “How did it go?”

“Could have been worse.” Sarah displayed the produce in her stringbag. “And I found part of a cigar for Father.”

“That’s good. He’ll be happy,” Hanna Goldman said. “What have you got there? Mustard? When was the last time they had any?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while. If only we had some meat to put it on,” Sarah said.

“Well, it won’t go bad,” her mother said-they didn’t. All you could do was try to get by and hope the war ended before you did. Did America’s entry into the European fight make that more likely or less? Sarah didn’t know. Like everyone else, she could only wait and find out.

Arno Baatz puffed out his chest. The Unteroffizier knew something most people didn’t. He’d heard it from a Gestapo officer. The secret policeman hadn’t been talking to him, and might not have talked at all had he known Arno was eavesdropping. But that had nothing to do with anything. Arno had heard. He knew. He felt proud. He felt important. He liked feeling important.

Part of the fun of knowing something other people didn’t was getting the chance to tell them. Then they knew, too, of course, but they also knew you’d known before they did. That was how you scored points with your fellow men.

And so Baatz gathered his squad together and said, “Listen, you clowns, you’d better behave yourselves and keep all your gear better than new for the next few days, or else you’ll catch hell.”

“Since when did they appoint you God?” Adam Pfaff inquired.

“Might’ve known you’d be the one to piss and moan. But it won’t have anything to do with me. You’ll catch hell from everybody,” Arno said loftily.

“Oh, yeah? How come?” the Obergefreiter asked.

“How come? I’ll tell you how come. Because the Führer’s coming to Münster to make a big speech, that’s how come.” There. It was out. What Arno knew, he’d spread. Whether it was something he was supposed to spread, he simply didn’t worry about. He could no more keep it quiet than he could do without eating or drinking or breathing.

Some of the soldiers gaped at him. He hadn’t convinced all of them, though. Speaking for the unconvinced, Pfaff said, “Sure he is. And when he decided he would, the very first person he phoned up to tell him was Unteroffizier Arno Baatz. In your dreams!”

“No, of course the Führer didn’t phone me,” Baatz snapped. “Don’t be a bigger Dummkopf than you can help.”

“So how do you know, then?” Pfaff said. “Or are you just talking to hear yourself talk-again?”

“Doubt all you want. You’ll find out,” Baatz answered. “And when you get your ass in a sling, don’t come crying to me and say I didn’t warn you. Us and the SS guys, we’ve got to make sure the Führer stays safe while he’s in town and the rebels don’t kick up any fuss.” By the way he said it, the forces protecting Adolf Hitler would include Himmler’s police and prison guards and praetorians … and this one squad of Landsers.

“You really believe this shit, don’t you?” Pfaff sounded less skeptical himself now.

“I believe it because it’s true,” Arno said. “And I want to see you clean yourself up-all of you, in fact! You look like pig sties in marching boots. Oh, and Pfaff, when we line up for the Führer’s inspection, you’d damn well better be toting a rifle with a varnished stock, you hear me?”

The Obergefreiter unslung his gray-painted Mauser. Arno Baatz had hated that nonregulation piece since the second he set eyes on it. Pfaff started to say something, then had second thoughts. At last, he answered, “If the Führer inspects us, I’ll do it. But he was a Frontschwein himself. I bet he’d understand.”

“He’d understand what a square peg you are, that’s what he’d understand,” Baatz retorted. Adam Pfaff clung to a wounded, dignified silence.

For the next couple of days, nothing out of the ordinary happened. The soldiers began to give Arno funny looks when they didn’t think he could catch them doing it. But he had what might as well have been a radio antenna to pick up such things. He noticed, all right.

He noticed, and he worried. What if he’d heard wrong? What if the Gestapo officer had been talking through his high-crowned cap? Arno knew he would never live it down if he’d made a mistake. The men didn’t respect him enough as it was (they would have had to treat him like a field marshal to give him the respect he felt he deserved). They wouldn’t respect him at all if the Führer didn’t show.

But then things started tightening up. Parties of soldiers and labor gangs full of convicts and Jews went to work cleaning up Münster. The city hadn’t taken as much of a beating as some Russian town that went back and forth between the Wehrmacht and the Red Army three or four times, but it wasn’t in what anybody would call great shape.

Grudgingly, Adam Pfaff said, “Well, maybe you were right, Corporal. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be putting mascara and rouge on this corpse.”

“Bet your ass we wouldn’t,” Baatz agreed, also grudgingly. Neither Pfaff’s rank nor his own, which shielded them from most fatigue duties, kept them from shoveling and hauling as if they were kikes or jailbirds. His hands were getting blisters in places where they didn’t already have calluses.

Even more galling was the ironic glint that sparked in the dark eyes of the big-nosed bastards with the yellow stars on their clothes. See? they might have been saying. You like Hitler, and what has it got you? You’re doing the same kind of shit we are.

If one of them had said anything like that to Arno, he would have knocked the pigdog’s teeth down his throat with an entrenching tool. The Jews knew better than to open their big yaps. Whether or not they said anything, though, their eyes spoke for them.

The SS began moving in in droves: Gestapo men, SD men, hard-faced troopers from the Waffen-SS. The looks they gave ordinary German soldiers were even more scornful than the ones the Landsers got from Jews. To the SS functionaries, soldiers were only cowflops under their boots. Medieval barons must have looked at peasants the same way.

Every so often, the peasants had risen up against their noble overlords. They’d killed all the barons and counts and princes they could catch. Arno had never sympathized with the peasants till now. He finally understood.

He still got angry when he saw Jews eyeing him in their sneaky, snotty way. His understanding wasn’t all that flexible. It stretched only so far.

SD men-faggots if he’d ever seen any-started hanging red-white-and-black bunting and swastika banners all over town. They wanted to give the impression that Münster loved the National Socialist German Workers’ Party and the Führer. Even Arno knew better than that. Why were soldiers and panzers holding the place down under martial law if everybody in it was such a contented citizen of the Grossdeutsches Reich?

Well, everybody in it except the Jews. They weren’t citizens of the Reich. They were only residents. Most Germans-most good, moral, upright Germans-wished they weren’t even that.

A few RAF bombers came over by night. In the confusion of the air raid, someone with matches and a can of kerosene torched a lot of banners and bunting. The soldiers had more important things to worry about. For Arno and his men, staying alive stood pretty high on the list.

By contrast, the blackshirted fairies pitched conniption fits when the sun came up and they discovered how their artistic handiwork had been vandalized. They started screaming and wailing and demanding house-to-house searches to smoke out the culprit. Some of the things they wanted to do to him once they caught him made Arno’s blood run cold. For somebody who’d spent so long on the Eastern Front, that was saying something.

“Boy, they’re sweethearts, aren’t they?” Adam Pfaff said.

“At least,” Arno answered. He wasn’t used to agreeing with the miserable Obergefreiter, but they saw eye-to-eye on this one.

The artistic SS men raised such a hue and cry that it finally took a Wehrmacht colonel general to tell them to shut up and to make it stick. Along with Himmler’s elite, high-ranking Army, Navy, and Luftwaffe officers were coming into Münster to hear what their chief of state had to say. Some of them eyed the SS paladins the way the blackshirts looked at Landsers. An interesting time was had by all.