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“I thought you would—”

“You thought? You didn’t think. Or at least you thought with the wrong part of your body!” The fact that Rainy’s tone is an almost perfect reflection of her mother’s voice is not lost on Rainy, but she pushes past that moment of realization.

Aryeh’s miserable but defiant as well. “I love her, Rainy. I mean, it’s the real thing, and she’s pregnant, and I’m going off to . . . to maybe. . . . And she’ll be all alone.” And then adds, “And broke.”

“Ah. Here it comes. The final shoe.”

“We’re getting married tomorrow. I can give her my allotment, but it won’t be enough, not in this city. She’ll need more.”

“You want me to help.”

“It’s a lot to ask.”

“It can’t be a lot because I don’t have a lot. A PFC stationed overseas earns $597.60 a year.”

“You’ll be a corporal in no time,” he says with a winning grin.

“Like hell,” Rainy snaps. “I’ll be a sergeant in no time.” She shakes her head in a show of disappointment, but of course she’s already decided to help, and her brother knows it.

“You’re the best, Sis. Just don’t tell . . . you know.”

“So you want money and discretion. Swell. Anything else?”

“You’ll help.”

“Of course I’ll help. You’re my brother. How can I not help?”

“Lots of sisters wouldn’t,” he says.

She goes on

shaking her head woefully, face grim, sending him the message that this is serious, sending him the message that he had better not screw up anymore. But he’s Aryeh, so most likely he will.

“If it’s a girl we’ll name it after you.”

“I’m going to slap you again.”

“I have it coming,” Aryeh says.

6

FRANGIE MARR—TULSA, OKLAHOMA, USA

“So, tell me: what is on your mind, Frangie girl?”

The question comes from Pastor John M’Dale, the spiritual leader of Frangie’s family. He’s a middle-aged man, a serious man, a thoughtful man, a scholar even, cursed (or blessed) with a round, cherubic face. His office is all dark wood, books, dust, a big globe on a three-legged stand, a small stuffed pheasant, and various symbols of his faith and position. The chair Frangie occupies is cracked leather and feels vast. She resists the urge to swivel it back and forth.

“I’m signing up, I guess,” Frangie says. “So I wanted to tell you I won’t be singing in the choir anymore for a while.”

M’Dale sits back and takes a long, deep breath, nodding and looking closely at Frangie. “Your daddy still out of work?”

“Don’t imagine he’ll be working ever again, Pastor M.”

He nods. It’s not the first time he’s heard a story like this. “You think you want to fight in this war of white men killing Japanese or else killing other white men?”

“I don’t aim to kill anyone. I aim to try out for medic.”

“Well, that is honorable work, Frangie. But even if all you’re doing is patching up hurt boys, you’d still be part of it all.”