Front Lines (Front Lines #1)(56)

He laughs. “Nothing quite so conspiratorial. But I am a Zionist. In the end, we Jews must have a land of our own. You could come.” Then, with a meaningful look, as if this is yet another flirt, “We are very progressive on women’s rights.”

Rainy is tempted but, after a moment’s thought, shakes her head. “I can’t attend meetings.”

Halev waits, but she adds no explanation. He tilts his head to one side, looking at her now from an angle, as though this will reveal something new. “It is not that you don’t care—you do.”

“Of course.”

“And it is not that you don’t wish to know. No, I can see the curiosity in your eyes. It’s as hard to miss as a bonfire on a dark plain.”

“That was poetic.” She’s waiting now, watching him as intently as he is her. Just how smart is this young man?

Halev snaps his fingers. “You would have to report it.”

Very smart indeed.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Rainy says, and stands up.

She shakes his hand, but he does not release his grip. “You know the Garment District at all? Thirty-Seventh Street and Seventh Avenue. Zabno-America Button Company. I work for my uncle, in case you ever need someone to rescue. I’m sure I could arrange to get beaten up again.”

“Zabno. I’ll remember that,” she says.

Halev laughs and releases her hand and looks at her shrewdly. “Oh, I have no doubt you will. You’re a girl who remembers.” He taps the side of his head.

Rainy walks away, sure she’ll never see him again, and a little saddened by the realization. There is no time in her life for the male of the species, and definitely not for ardent young Zionists. No, the men in her life now will be wearing uniforms and carrying guns.





18

RIO RICHLIN—GEDWELL FALLS, CALIFORNIA, USA

Rio sits at her usual place at the table. Her father is at the head, her mother to his right. Rio is across from her mother and down one place, leaving an empty seat for Rachel at her father’s left hand.

She’s been met with hugs and tears. The questions have been consciously put off till dinner, which consists of a small green salad from her mother’s garden, milk from her mother’s cows, a fat hen her father traded for with a farmer who was behind on his feed bill, mashed potatoes, boiled carrots, and a small but luscious cheesecake that was also courtesy of the cows.

Rio and her mother drink milk; her father drinks beer.

This place feels strange now.

“No steak, I’m afraid,” her mother apologizes. “The only steak nowadays comes from Mr. Black.”

“Mr. Black?” Rio asks.

“You know,” her mother said with a knowing look that borders on being comic. “The black market. That’s where I go to get my stockings.”

“Chiselers and thieves,” her father says, politely wiping his mouth when a bit of lettuce escapes.

“Mother has fallen in with thieves?”

“Your mother has unexpected depths,” Tam Richlin says, and winks.

“Are they feeding you at all?” her mother asks. “You look thin.”

“Actually I’ve gained a few pounds.”

“All of it muscle,” her father observes disapprovingly. “You look . . .” He changes course upon receiving a warning eyebrow from his wife. “You look beautiful. Very healthy.”

“And stylish too,” Rio says dryly. She’s in uniform, still proud of its shiny new adornment: the metal Sharpshooter badge.

Rio is happy to be distracted from the subject of food—the truth is, they had steak once a week at camp, pork chops or fried chicken most of the time. None of it had been well prepared or flavorful, and much of it was frightening to look at, but they did not go hungry. Rationing has been harder on civilians than on the soldiers.

She’s tense, waiting for the inevitable question, and it isn’t long in coming.

“So, you’ve made it through basic training. Congratulations. Any word on what they’ll have you doing?” her father asks, digging into his potatoes.

“I’m classified 745,” Rio says, hoping that will end the discussion.

“Which is?”

She sets her drumstick down, mostly eaten. “Rifleman, Father.”

Her father stares. Her mother says, “But what does that mean exactly?”

“It means that I will be carrying a rifle. Or maybe a carbine, it’s lighter weight. But I’m a better shot with the rifle.” She says that last part as if it’s a throwaway line, like it doesn’t matter, like her Sharpshooter badge is meaningless.

“But surely you won’t be . . .”

“They’re actually sending women into combat?” her father demands angrily. “Teenage girls? On the front lines?”

“Yes, Father.”

A long silence follows her announcement. She can see that her father is suppressing a rising tide of anger that now is beginning to frighten her mother.

Suddenly her father slaps the table with the palm of his hand. Dishes jump and rattle. “It’s a damned dirty rotten trick!”

“Dad, the war could be over before—”

“Don’t feed me that line,” he snarls. “It’s too much like what your sister told me. ‘It’ll all be over soon,’ she said. ‘The Jap navy can’t touch us,’ she said. ‘Stop worrying.’ And now . . .” He looks at the empty place.