Joaquin didn't want to go over to the Republic. He hated Communists and anarchists and freethinkers, and he had a low opinion of Catalans, too. Even if he hadn't hated all those people when the war started, all the fighting he'd done would have turned his heart to stone against them. And deserting was too risky. A healthy man of military age, without papers to prove he really ought to be a civilian, wouldn't last long.

And so, resignedly, Delgadillo climbed aboard a beat-up train with the rest of the men in the battalion and clattered north from Gibraltar. Sergeant Carrasquel checked the soldiers off one by one as they got on in front of him. Trying to skedaddle with the sergeant's beady black eyes on you was worse than hopeless. If you started thinking about getting out of line, Carrasquel knew it before you did.

Hillsides were starting to turn green. Down in the south, spring came early. The calendar insisted it was still winter. Up on the far side of the Pyrenees-maybe even up in Madrid-it would be. But the warm breezes blowing up from Africa made the southern coast of Spain almost tropical.

"You wait," somebody said. "When we get over the mountains, it'll be raining." Sure as the devil, it was-and a cold, nasty rain at that. Yes, winter still ruled most of Europe.

The closer they got to Madrid, the more Sergeant Carrasquel fidgeted. "Damned Russian planes shot us up last time I was here," he said. "They shot us and bombed us, and not a fucking thing we could do about it but pray."

"Will they do it again?" Joaquin asked. Getting attacked from the air was even more terrifying than moving up under artillery fire. He thought so while no one was shelling him, anyhow.

Sergeant Carrasquel only shrugged and lit a Canaria. Like everything else, the local brand wasn't what it had been before the war. He blew out a stream of smoke before answering, "I'm sure God knows, amigo, but He hasn't told me yet. When He does, I promise I'll pass it along."

Ears burning, Joaquin shut up. The train rattled along. One good thing about the rain: those gray clouds scudding along overhead meant enemy aircraft couldn't get off the ground no matter how much their pilots might want to. They also meant Marshal Sanjurjo's planes couldn't fly, but that didn't worry Joaquin so much.

The train came in after dark, so it got closer to the city-closer to the Promised Land, so to speak-than he'd thought it could. Rain still pattered down, but it wasn't the only reason he couldn't see the great city he'd come to take. Both sides observed a stringent blackout. If anyone showed a light, someone else would fire at it.

Even in the absence of light, the Republicans' artillery lobbed a few shells at the train. Somebody asked Carrasquel how they could know where it was. He gave the poor naive fellow the horse laugh. "Did your mamacita tell you where babies come from?" he jeered. "They've got spies, same as we do. Sometimes I think every fourth guy in Spain is a spy for one side or the other-or maybe both."

He was kidding on the square. When the civil war broke out, how many Spaniards had ended up stuck behind the lines in a part of the country ruled by the faction they despised? Millions, surely. And lots of them would do what they could for their side when they found the chance. Early on, General Mola had bragged that he had four columns moving on Madrid and a fifth inside the city ready to help as soon as the Nationalist troops got closer. The same held true all over the country. When the Republicans advanced, as they sometimes did, they could find traitors to help them, too.

General Mola's four columns hadn't taken Madrid. The fifth column inside hadn't given enough help. And the Reds who held the city had massacred all the Nationalist sympathizers they could get their hands on-thousands of them, people said. It wasn't as if the Nationalist martyrs hadn't been avenged, either.

Marshal Sanjurjo's authorities here must have known reinforcements were coming up from the south. Odds were the reinforcements had come because authorities here asked for them. Joaquin was no marshal, but he could see that plain as day. He'd figured the authorities would have barracks ready for the newcomers, or at least tents pitched in a field.

The muddy field was here. So was the dripping night. Along with all his buddies, Joaquin got to wrap himself in a blanket and try to stay dry. "This is an embarrassment," Major Uribe said angrily. "On behalf of my superiors, men, I apologize to you."

He apologized because his superiors never would. Joaquin could see that, too. Sergeant Carrasquel said, "This is the kind of shit that makes people go over to the other side. They ought to whale the stuffing out of whoever couldn't be bothered to take care of us."

Joaquin whistled softly. Anybody who opened his mouth that wide was liable to fall right in. Carrasquel had to know as much, too. But he didn't keep quiet. You had to admire him for that.

Rain or no rain, mud or no mud, Joaquin fell asleep. When he woke up, the clouds had blown away and the sun was shining brightly. And he could see Madrid. He took a good look…and winced, and turned away. It was too much like looking at the half-rotted corpse of what had been a beautiful woman. Two and a half years of bombing and shelling left Madrid a skeletal wreck of its former self.

Guns boomed, there in the ruins. A salvo of shells screamed toward the Nationalists' miserable encampment. They burst well short, but even so…Madrid might not be alive any more, but, like some movie monster, it wasn't dead, either. Marshal Sanjurjo's men had to take it and drive a stake through its heart. If they could… SAMUEL GOLDMAN STARED MOROSELY AT the bandages across the palms of his hands. He was a wounded war veteran. He walked with a limp because he was a wounded war veteran. Except during the last war, he'd never done hard physical labor.

None of that mattered to the Nazis who ran Munster. Jews went into work gangs. That was what they were for. It was so mean, so unfair, it made Sarah Goldman want to grind her teeth and scream at the same time.

You couldn't scream very well while you were grinding your teeth, but that was beside the point. Instead of letting out a shriek that would have brought the neighbors and the police, she asked, "Do you want to put on more ointment, Papa?"

He shook his head. "No. I need to toughen up my hands. Pretty soon, they'll have calluses. Then everything will be all right."

"No, it won't!" Sarah exclaimed.

Her father's chuckle was also a wheeze. "Well, you're right, sweetheart. But it will as far as that goes, anyhow. I can't do anything about the rest."

"Somebody should be able to," she said.

"What do you want me to do?" Samuel Goldman asked. "Write a letter to the Fuhrer?"

"Why not? What have you got to lose? You were a front-line soldier, just like him. Maybe he'd listen to you. You've said it yourself: things aren't as bad for veterans as they are for other Jews."

"Mm…That's true." For a moment, Sarah thought her father would pull out a piece of paper and start writing. But he shook his head instead. He looked even older and more tired than he had when he first came home from the labor gang. "What have I got to lose? If I were just any Jewish veteran, I think I would send him a letter, because I wouldn't have anything. But with Saul…With Saul, I would do better not to remind the authorities about us. Or do you think I'm wrong?"

He meant the question seriously. Sarah respected him for that. If she could find a reason to make him change his mind, he would. She respected him for that, too. But she saw at once that she couldn't find a reason like that. "No. I just wish I did," she said sadly. "Everything's gone wrong, and we can't do anything about it."

"Not everything," her father said. "We're all still here, and three of us are together. And if Saul isn't, he isn't anywhere the Nazis are likely to look for him, either. I'll tell you something else, too."