skipped, she realized school must have closed early.
She arrived home at ten o’clock and turned on the radio just in time to hear Hitler address a special session of the Reichstag. She sank into a chair to listen, imagining Arvid gathered with his coworkers around a radio at the Economics Ministry, carefully concealing his emotions or feigning those expected of a loyal Nazi.
Hitler sounded more tired than usual, hoarse, even hesitant, but as he spoke, his voice gradually took on its usual vigor as he blamed Poland for starting the conflict with terrorist provocations and refusing to negotiate a peaceful settlement. The struggle would demand sacrifice of the German people, Hitler declared, the same sacrifice he had been willing to make as a soldier in the Great War, the same he was willing to make for the Fatherland now. His words met with thunderous cheers and an earsplitting chorus of “Sieg Heil,” which continued unabated until the announcer broke in to say that Hitler had left the chamber.
Sick to her stomach, Mildred was tempted to turn off the radio, but she paused with her hand on the dial as the announcer read off specific sacrifices the government now required of the German people. Ration cards would be distributed that day. Hoarding was forbidden and would be severely punished. In Berlin, residents must stack sandbags around cellar and ground-floor windows for protection from potential bomb blasts. Beginning that evening, blackout regulations would be strictly enforced: Every source of light in the city must be extinguished, filtered, or shaded during hours of darkness. All windows and doors must be shuttered or curtained, skylights and basement vents sealed with waxed paper. If lights in railway stations, buses, and trams could not be switched off entirely, they were to be shielded with blue filters.
Mildred could hardly believe her ears when the announcer noted that while these regulations would be strictly enforced, they would prove unnecessary. German military defenses would never allow a Polish, French, or British bomber to get anywhere near Berlin.
Berlin could be bombed, Mildred thought, staring at the radio, pressing a hand to her mouth. Their own apartment block could be struck. That was what happened in a war. That was what was happening to the people of Poland at that very moment, although she could not hear the roar of aircraft or feel the shudder of impact or smell the acrid smoke. It all seemed very far away and not quite real.
Eventually she turned off the radio.
She felt tremulous and fragile as she gathered her purse and sweater and set out to collect their ration cards. The queue at the office was predictably long, the people waiting subdued and silent. Eventually Mildred reached the front and was given seven color-coded ration cards—blue for meat, orange for bread, green for eggs, pink for flour, rice, and oatmeal, and so on—printed on heavy paper, perforated so that coupons could be torn off with each purchase. The Marken would be valid for four weeks, after which new cards would be issued.
As Mildred stepped aside to tuck the ration cards into her purse, the next person in line, a younger woman holding the hand of a little boy about four years old, stepped up to the counter. The clerk, who had been perfectly courteous and efficient moments before, spoke to the woman so harshly that Mildred instinctively glanced up to see what was the matter. The woman kept her voice low and demure, and as the clerk continued to query her about her paperwork, she pulled the little boy closer, inch by inch, until he clung to her leg. Eventually the clerk heaved a sigh and shoved the woman’s Marken across the counter. The woman released her son’s hand long enough to gather up the cards, but before she could put them away, Mildred saw that they were overprinted with red Js. The woman quickly took the boy’s hand again and led him away from the queue. For a moment her gaze locked on Mildred’s—tense, haunted—but then she pressed her lips together, tore her gaze away, and gently tugged on her son’s hand to urge him to hurry. Then they were gone.
Mildred walked home, struck by the somber resignation on the faces of the people she passed. The shops were busy, crowded with tense customers making use of their new ration cards, puzzling out the restrictions, confounded by the point system established for the purchase of clothing. She overheard some grumbling, but more surprising was