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deeply respectful, he finally absolved himself of his public function. Tearsstreaking down his cheeks, he stalked toward the ruined building, the refuge of his wife and child. The right wall had toppled outward. On that side, the roof had collapsed, its angle bizarre.
    When the first grenade had exploded, he’d heard a woman shriek. Apprehensive, he peered through what had been the window but was now just a wide jagged hole. The curtains were blackened and tattered. To his left, he saw the remnants of a toy wooden truck he’d made for his son. Next to it lay shattered plates, fallen from a shelf that no longer existed. The ruins of a table almost covered them. He smelled burnt wood, scorched cloth, and melted plastic. The fallen roof obscured his view of the central part of the kitchen.
    He reached the door, which fell off its hinges as he touched it, and swallowing sickly, stepped inside. He moved slowly, suddenly fearful of what he might step on, afraid of desecrating twisted limbs and—he hated to think about it—dismembered portions of bodies. He shoved away a sheet of metal, lifted a wooden beam, stepped over what used to be a chair, but he saw no blood, and hope made his heart beat faster.
    He tugged at a section of roof, throwing it out the open doorway, stooping, hefting more rubble. Still he found no blood. He heaved against the section of roof that leaned down into the kitchen, budged it far enough to expose the only part of the room that he hadn’t been able to see, and squinted at shadows.
    He saw no bodies. The well-disguised trapdoor broke two of his fingernails as he clawed at it. Fingers bloody, hefting the trapdoor against a wall, he stared into the murky chamber below him.
    “Erika!”
    The pit absorbed his voice, giving off no echo.
    “Erika! It’s Saul!”
    Too impatient for an answer, he squirmed down, his shoes touching earth four feet below him. “It’s over.”
    He strained his eyes to penetrate the darkness. For a desperate instant, he suspected he was wrong, then suddenly realized he hadn’t given the all-clear signal. An enemy might try to mimichis voice. In this darkness, the trick might work. “Baby Ruth and roses.”
    “Lover, it’s about time you said that. You had me worried. I was trying to decide if I should shoot you.” Erika’s deep sensual voice came reassuringly from the rear of the chamber. “I hope you gave them hell.”
    He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Jews aren’t supposed to believe in hell.”
    “But under certain conditions, it’s a wonderful concept. For attacking this village,
our home
, I hope the bastards roast.”
    In the dark, his son asked, “Daddy?”
    “It’s me, son. You don’t need to worry. But, Erika, watch your language in front of the boy, huh?”
    “You’ll hear a lot worse if you don’t tell me what took you so long.”
    He tried to interpret her tone; his best guess was that she was joking.
    “The shooting stopped a while ago,” she said. “What did you do, stop off for a drink?”
    Because Erika knew that Eliot had conditioned him to abstain from alcohol, Saul was sure now that she was joking, and slumping with relief, not only because she and the boy were safe but because she wasn’t angry with him for being so inhumanly professional, he couldn’t subdue his tears.
    Shoes scraped against dirt. Bodies squirmed along the earthen tunnel.
    “Saul?” Erika’s voice was close and resonant, concerned, against his ear.
    “Daddy?”
    “Son, I’m fine. I just …” Sorrow cramped his throat, choking his voice.
    Erika’s strong arm hugged him. “What’s wrong, Saul?”
    “I …” Wiping his eyes, he struggled to explain. “We killed them all. But if …” He mustered his strength. “If I’d run here right away, if I’d looked out only for us, for you and Chris, then everything I tried to teach those kids in the village … everyprinciple about the group being more important that the individual … would have seemed a