Ordinary Heroes by Scott Turow Page A

boy knows that." He closed the snaps on the leather camera case. "Food smells just fine, though," he said and headed inside.

    Chapter 6.
    PRINCIPLES
    Supper at the Comtesse de Lemolland's was an idyll. In an alcove beside the kitchen, we ate at a long table of heavily varnished wood, enjoying a savory stew. It might have been veal, although there was not much meat among the root vegetables that were the main ingredients. Nevertheless, the usual French hand with food prevailed and the victuals were far tastier, if less plentiful, than even the very good rations we had at HQ. Some of my appreciation for the meal might have been due to the Comtesse's wine, newly pressed, which was poured freely. But in time I realized that the principal charm was that at the Comtesse de Lemolland's I had left the military. A civil--and civilian--atmosphere prevailed. I sat next to the old woman while she share d r eflections in English on the history of the region. When we started, Biddy lingered, uncertain if he was invading the officers' mess, but Martin waved him to a chair. Sophie, who had cooked, joined us, too. The Gypsy I had seen, called Antonio, was at the far end of the table speaking in French with Peter Bettjer, a ruddy blond Belgian, who was the Operational Group's communications expert.
    Last to sit was Mademoiselle Lodz, who took the empty chair on my right. Midway through the meal, I felt the weight of her gaze. She was studying me unapologetically.
    "I am reflecting about you, Doo-bean," she told me in French. It was clear already that she was never going to pronounce my name any other way.
    "I am delighted to know I concern you at all. What exactly is it you are thinking, Mademoiselle?"
    "If you are indeed Dubinsky from Pinsk"--she puckered her lips, then stared straight at me--"vous etes juif."
    So that was it. In the little fantasia of the Comtesse's home, I felt especially scalded, which my face apparently betrayed.
    "This is nothing to be ashamed of," she said in French. "In my town there were many Jews. I knew them well."
    "I am hardly ashamed," I said quickly.
    "There are many Jewish soldiers in the American Army?"
    "Some.) , "And they stay among the other troops?"
    "Of course. We are one nation."
    "But the dark ones I see--they drive and move the equipment. The Jews do not have separate battalions like the Negroes?"
    "No. It is entirely different. The blacks were slaves to some of the Americans' grandfathers, who, regrettably, have not allowed the past to die."
    "And these Jew soldiers. They look like you? You have no sidelocks. Are there tsitsis beneath your garments?"
    "I am not a Jew in that way."
    "In my town they had only one way, Dubin. Red Yiddish?" she asked. That made the third language in which she had addressed me, and her smile revealed a dark space between her front teeth.
    "Ayn bisel. Yich red besser am franzosich." My grandparents who had followed my father to the United States spoke Yiddish, but my mother and father used only English in the presence of their children, unwilling to risk hindering our development as Americans. My Yiddish was not even close to my French, as I had just told her.
    "Ach mir," she answered, "ayn bisel." With me, too, a little bit.
    Martin, across the table, asked her in French, "What language is that?"
    "We are speaking Jewish, Robert."
    "Jewish? I thought you disliked the Jews., , She looked at him sharply. "Wrong. Stupidly wrong. This is because you will never listen to anything I say about my home. My only friends as a child were Jewish. They alone would allow me in their houses. Why would I dislike them?"
    "But they spurned you."
    "For a bride, Robert. It is their way."
    He turned away to ask Sophie for the bread, while Mademoiselle Lodz was left to explain.
    "C'est une histoire compliquee," she told me. It's a long story. "My mother, Dubin, wanted me to find a Jew to be my husband. She said, 'They are seldom drunks and rarely beat their wives.' '' Mademoiselle Lodz's mother