that might have kept him from getting killed.
Halevy could interpret, of course-if he felt like admitting he understood French. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t. Sergeants often mistrusted officers’ schemes… and often had good reason.
But this fellow wouldn’t be put off so easily. “Wait,” he said in nasal German. “I was told you followed the Boche’s tongue.”
However much Jezek wanted to deny it, he didn’t see how he could, not without landing himself in more trouble. “Ja,” he said resignedly. “Was wollen Sie, mein Herr?”
“I will tell you what I want,” the Frenchman said. “We have found the spot from which the German colonel in charge of the regiment opposite us is in the habit of making reconnaissance. He is a capable officer. If you eliminate him, very likely his replacement will be less so.”
“Foie gras,” Halevy remarked. The French officer gave him a look that mingled annoyance and curiosity. The Jew did not explain.
In his boots, Vaclav wouldn’t have explained, either. “I must see the place, sir, and find a spot from which to shoot,” he told the officer. His own German was rusty, but it served.
“Aber naturlich,” the Frenchman said. “Come with me.” He started to straighten.
Vaclav grabbed him before he could. “Be careful, for God’s sake,” he said. “The Nazis have their own sniper over there.”
“Oh, really? Is that so?” Maybe the young officer was being ostentatiously brave. Then again, maybe he was being ostentatiously stupid. Vaclav took no needless chances. He wanted to live to get old and fat and lazy. If he settled down here and married a Frenchwoman, that wouldn’t be so bad, even if it meant he’d finally have to buckle down and learn the lousy language.
Antitank rifle clunking against his back at every step, he followed the officer down the trench. He made sure he didn’t show himself. If the German marksman was watching through field glasses or a telescope, he could recognize the rifle’s long, thick barrel. Better-much better-not to let him do anything about it.
“Here is our lookout position,” the officer said after most of a kilometer. Vaclav lowered the rifle and kept walking. The Frenchman spluttered. “You are insubordinate!” he declared, a word only an officer would bother learning auf Deutsch.
“No, sir,” Vaclav said stolidly as the Frenchman trailed after him. “Think the Fritzes don’t know where you look from? Maybe a sniper can’t put one through your loophole there, but I don’t want to find out the hard way.”
The officer grunted. Speaking German, Vaclav sounded as authoritative as he did. Speaking German, anybody could sound authoritative. That was one of the few things the language was good for. With any luck at all, the Nazi with the scope-sighted Mauser would figure he’d stopped at the observation post. Two or three hundred meters farther on, he raised his helmet above the level of the parapet. When no gunshot came his way, he slowly lowered the helmet, put it on again, and peered across toward the German position.
“Now,” he said, “tell me where the German colonel looks from. Don’t point or anything. Just tell me.”
“You know your business,” the officer said, coming up beside him to look east. He sounded surprised, and more respectful than he had before.
“I’m still breathing,” Vaclav answered, which covered everything that needed saying on that score.
“Do you see the burnt-out automobile, a little to the right of the broken brick fence?” the Frenchman asked. His right arm twitched, but he didn’t point. “That is where the cochon does his reconnaissance.”
Vaclav did see it. It was a long shot from here. He wasn’t sure of a kill, but he had a chance. “Sehr gut,” he said. “I will come back before sunup, so I can get ready without the Germans seeing me do it.”
“You will know what you require,” the French officer said stiffly. He gave Vaclav a jerky little nod, then hopped off the firing step and down into the trench again.
The Czech did know what he required. By the time the eastern sky started getting light, he’d placed his rifle and covered most of the barrel with branches he tore from bushes. His helmet was covered with leafy branches, too, held in place by a rubber strip he’d cut from an old inner tube. He’d seen Germans use that trick, and he liked it well enough to steal.
Once he was set, he had nothing to do but wait. Wait he did, and wait, and wait some more. He wanted a cigarette, but he didn’t smoke. He didn’t know if the enemy was watching this spot, and he didn’t want to do anything to draw his notice. A couple of poilus near the lookout post shot at the German line. They drew answering rifle and machine-gun fire. Vaclav smiled. If the Germans got all hot and bothered by those fellows over there, they weren’t worrying about him.
Halfway through the morning, he was bored. He needed to take a leak. He really wanted a cigarette. He waited. That was half the battle, or more than half, for snipers.
And he got his reward. Here came a fellow in a Feldgrau greatcoat, with an officer’s peaked cap on his head. He stationed himself near that dead motorcar and began a leisurely examination of the Allied position.
It seemed to Vaclav that the German was looking straight at him when he pulled the trigger. Did the fellow see the muzzle flash? Did he just have time to realize what it was before the bullet hit him? Because it did hit him- he went down like a marionette when the puppeteer drops the strings.
As soon as Vaclav saw that, he ducked and scurried away. The German sniper on the other side of the line would know he’d scored again. The bastard would want to meet him… in a manner of speaking. So many other things could kill or maim him, too. But he was still alive. He might stay that way a while longer.
Another miserable supper. Sarah Goldman’s mother was a good cook. When you had so little to work with, though, what could you do? Pharaoh had ordered the Children of Israel to make bricks without straw. Hanna Goldman faced the same problem, thanks to the orders of Germany’s latter-day Pharaoh. When root vegetables and turnip greens were all you could make, when salt was your only flavoring, you were licked.
After supper, Father turned on the radio. He didn’t usually bother any more. “What’s up?” Sarah asked.
“I want to hear the news,” he answered.
“Good God-why?” Sarah exclaimed. “Same old rubbish.”
“Probably.” Samuel Goldman rolled a cigarette from newspaper and tobacco scrounged from dog ends. It wasn’t a professorial skill, but he had it. Maybe he’d picked it up in the trenches in the last war. More likely, he’d acquired it since exchanging his university post for one in a labor gang. Jews got no tobacco ration of their own any more. After he lit the nasty cigarette, he went on, “I heard something interesting from somebody who said he heard it from someone you can trust. I want to see if the regular broadcast covers it.”
Sarah had no trouble translating her father’s opaque phrases. He’d been talking with someone who listened to the BBC, or possibly to Radio Paris. That was, of course, against the law, and the Germans jammed enemy stations as hard as they could. People tuned in to them anyhow. The Goldmans would have, even if it was doubly risky for Jews. But, with Saul still on the run from what the Nazis called justice, it was ten times doubly risky for them. If they got caught, they’d go straight to a concentration camp, and so they abstained.
Treacly music came out of the radio set once it warmed up. It was still ten minutes in front of the hour. Father shrugged and made a wry face. “I wish it were a classical program,” he said. “Bach, Beethoven…”
“Wagner?” Sarah suggested.
His mouth twisted even tighter. “Well, maybe not.”
Mother came out of the kitchen to listen, too. They endured the music, and the advertisements for things they weren’t allowed to buy (most of which Aryan Germans couldn’t really get their hands on these days, either), and the exhortations to turn in scrap metal and purchase war bonds.
At last, the announcer said, “And now, the news.” He paused importantly, as if certain everyone was hanging on the sound of his voice. He might not have been so far wrong, either. “In the east, the Wehrmacht and the Reich ’s Polish allies continue to punish the Jew-Bolshevik Red Army. The Asiatic hordes who follow the Soviet red star cannot hope to stand against our brave, well-disciplined troops.”
“He’ll have us in Moscow in a couple of weeks,” Father said dryly.
Nothing much was happening in the west. In what was happening there, the front line was moving toward the German border, not away from it. Unless you listened with an atlas in hand, you’d never know it from what the newsreader said. By the way he made things sound, panzers would roll through Paris any minute now-maybe even ahead of the ones rolling through Moscow.
He claimed enormous numbers of English and French terror bombers-they were always terror bombers-shot
