Zofia Szczupak's nostrils were flared and her voice shook with outrage. She was practically screaming, and it was because her mother had touched on the one thing that absolutely terrified the young woman. Why had Maxwell Collins asked her to marry him? Was it on impulse? Would he soon regret it? These questions had kept her awake for long hours every night since his proposal three weeks before.

Zofia was twenty-seven, which was hardly dried up, but she was definitely older than most single women she knew. When Max had noticed her and asked her to dance that first night in the London nightclub, she realized he was the most exciting man she had ever seen in her entire life. His presence was absolutely overwhelming to both men and women. She had made him understand that she did not speak English. He had nodded, then through her friend Kirsten who was fluent in both languages, he had told her that in one week he would be able to speak Polish. And he had! From the moment he had said 'Is this good enough, or should I go back to the book before I ask you out again?' in her native tongue, she had been smitten.

And she knew, though she tried not to think about it, that she was not the first woman who had ever been smitten by this man, and would not be the last. She was, however, the one he had asked to marry him. She was not going to turn that chance down. She took a deep breath before she spoke again. When she did, her tone was soft and understanding.

"I know you are worried, Mother. I understand that. I am sorry that you fear what may happen to us. But I think you know that my mind is made up. Will you not give both of us your love and blessing, and wish us well?"

The older woman's eyes filled with tears. "Of course I will, Kochanie. How could I do anything else?" She embraced her daughter and pulled the girl's face close to her own. "Go with God."

Magda Szczupak had been sitting quietly in the corner of the room as her older sister and her mother talked of the pending marriage. At seventeen, Magda was the baby of the family, and she was absolutely thrilled at her mother's final acceptance of her older sister's romance with the American.

The teenager's excitement was not because of a special bond she shared with her older sibling, for the tenyear age difference had prevented them from being together to any great extent as Magda had grown up. Her excitement was also not because of any romantic ideas she might have conjured up about a man she had never met. Magda Szczupak had something much larger at stake here, and of considerably more personal interest. Magda Szczupak had a boyfriend, and she had not yet told her mother about him. He was not Polish, he was German, and she had met him two months before in Danzig.

Irwin Mann, at nineteen, was the handsomest, kindest, most thrilling young man that Magda had ever met, and she was sure that she would marry him. Magda jumped up and ran over to kiss her sister. Zofia thought it was in congratulation of her coming wedding. In reality, it was the little sister thanking Zofia for breaking the ground for her own startling news than would arrive in due time.

In several weeks, Zofia Szczupak would sail for New York, and would soon be living in a small apartment with her new husband. She would spend the rest of her long life in the United States. Her own fears, and those of her mother, would prove to be well-founded. Max Collins was a decent man, and the fact that his wife was Polish and would never speak English terribly well would not be the cause of Zofia's heartache. The problem, as Zofia had feared, was that people were drawn to Max Collins, and when those people happened to be women, he responded to them, and his getting married did not change that fact.

Magda Szczupak would marry Irwin Mann the following year, and help him operate a small grocery store in Danzig. Irwin would remain utterly devoted to his wife, and she to him. Throughout her life, Zofia Szczupak would always wish that her own marriage could have been more like she envisioned her little sister's. Yet in later years, Zofia Szczupak would also never forget that Maxwell Collins gave her something that ultimately was worth more than everything else that the rest of her family possessed: Max had brought her to America.

Zofia Szczupak would be living in comfort in the United States, well-nourished and with a sharp mind, when every one of her blood relatives had been dead for over fifty years. For the boy that her sister Magda had met and would marry that fall was not only a German.

Irwin Mann was also a Jew.

June 22, 1938 The Treasury agent did not like being in the woods. Anderson always thought of an Indian moving silently among the twigs, leaves, and other natural detritus, and his own clumsy efforts at stealth came up woefully short of this imagined standard. The agent much preferred to enforce the law back in Little Rock, where there were paved streets to drive on with real maps and road signs to tell you where you were, warehouses with real addresses when you had to bust in somewhere, and snitches to let you know what to expect when you got to where the bad guys were. That had been the environment in which he had operated for nine years, and it had suited him well. He had racked up an extensive arrest record, and he had been quite proud of it.

All that had changed five years ago. No more following midnight deliveries made by drab vehicles with bogus furniture company lettering on the sides. Now the drivers for Anheuser-Busch drove big red trucks with the company logo on them, and they smiled at him when they pulled in town to make their delivery runs from St. Louis.

He didn't disagree with the reasons for repeal. Anderson had seen from his very first day on the job that as long as there were people who wanted to drink liquor, there would always be other people to see to it that they could buy whatever booze they wanted. If buying liquor was illegal, that meant that the people providing it would not be mere businessmen, but businessmen that were willing to break the law as a basic, necessary matter of business policy. And sometimes, that meant killing people. Since repeal five years before, he had yet to hear of a licensed beer or liquor distributor getting into a gun battle with a competitor.

Andersen's displeasure with the repeal of Prohibition was purely selfish in nature, and he did not try to tell himself otherwise. / had it good for nine years. I could blend in when I went out on a case, I knew what was waiting for me when I went through a door, I knew who would pay off and who had to go down, and t he guys we were after were making so much dough that they knew it was a minor setback and that their lawyers would get them sprung. Just part of the cost of doing business.

The man squinted and looked over to where his partner was standing behind a tree, studying a topographical map. Now I'm stuck here, God knows where, chasing after illiterate hillbillies so dirt-poor that the only way they can get by is to cook up this stuff and sell it to people who can't afford the real thing because the government puts a big tax on it. And when one of them goes down, it may mean that his family is going to starve to death, so he might as well back-shoot me from behind a tree before I can make the collar.

The Treasury agent took a few deep breaths. He did not like this at all. I'm banking only a third of what I was five years ago, with ten times the risk of ending up in an unmarked grave out here in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I can get transferred to counterfeiting detail he thought for perhaps the hundredth time. He uttered an oath under his breath.

"Have you figured out where we are?" the man asked his partner. Agent Turner glanced up from the map. He was new to the Department and some fifteen years younger than his companion. Since he had arrived at Treasury well after the repeal of Prohibition, Agent Turner did not have the basis for comparison that his partner did, and so did not view this job with the same loathing. Agent Turner had also not yet felt the lure of bribes, payoffs, and untraceable money that are always present wherever lucrative criminal enterprises exist. Agent Turner, at that moment, was concentrating on the job at hand.

"We need to go up that valley about four hundred yards," Turner said quietly, nodding his head to indicate the direction, "and climb the hill on the right. It's flat on top, and there's supposed to be a small clearing where he's got his still." Anderson grunted in acknowledgment. He had heard the briefing about how the equipment was hidden on top of the hill. The Department had leaned on some other wretched hillbilly, and he had ratted out his friend in the hopes of getting a reduced sentence. "The road he uses comes up from the other side," Turner continued, "and we should be out of sight until we're almost on top of him. If he's there," Turner added as an afterthought.

"If he's not there, then we'll damn well wait for the sorry bastard," Agent Anderson asserted. "I'm not going to come out here and play Daniel Boone 'less we go back with a collar."

"I'll lead," Turner offered as he started to walk methodically towards the valley. Kid knows I hate going first in the woods Anderson thought with mild irritation.

Agent Anderson said nothing as he fell in behind the younger man. He found his partner's upbeat attitude vaguely irritating, but he was happy to let Turner lead the way. Let the kid get his ass shot at first, Anderson thought sourly. That'll give me a chance to hear where this hillbilly is hiding in this fucking jungle. He instinctively ran his hand over the butt of his service revolver, a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Military & Police model with six inch barrel, that he carried under his coat. The older man looked bleakly at his partner's back. Agent Turner seemed to be covering ground without making much noise at all.

Agent Anderson grimaced as his next step caused a twig to snap with an audible crack. He wished there were more than just the two of them. He wished he were sitting in the car they had left two miles away, smoking a cigarette. Most of all, Agent Anderson wished he were back in his office in Little Rock, pouring himself a stiff jolt of Irish whiskey so he could forget about ever looking for ignorant, inbred, white-trash moonshiners.

It took the two Treasury Agents the better part of an hour to traverse the valley and climb the hill. They stopped regularly to get their bearings and try to spot any signs of human life, but there were none. The only other creatures around them were the mosquitoes that they slapped away, and the unidentified insects that did not bother them but provided a constant backdrop of buzzing and chirping noises which helped a little to muffle the sounds of their progress.

At Agent Turner's insistence, they crawled the last hundred yards to the top of the hill. Squirming on his belly though dead leaves did nothing to improve Agent Anderson's outlook on the assignment.

As they finally reached the last few yards before the summit, the two Treasury agents slowed their progress to where they were only moving an inch or two at a time. Suddenly Turner shoved his hand back towards his partner, silently commanding him to stop moving and be still. He turned his head around slowly and whispered.

"I can see the top of it. It's about thirty yards away. It's hidden in some trees, but I can see the cooling coils. Wait here." Turner crawled a few feet farther, to a spot where he could peer over a fallen log at the top of the hill. He turned to Anderson. "I don't see any sign of anybody," he whispered softly. "Come on up."

Agent Anderson grunted and heaved himself to his feet. His partner tried to silently protest, but Anderson ignored him and walked up to where Agent Turner lay behind the log. He squatted next to the younger man and nodded. "Well, Daniel Boone, looks like you got us to the right place." Agent Turner smiled at the rare compliment.

"What do we do now? Go look over the setup?"

The older man shook his head. "I don't want to leave any tracks that could scare our boy off when he comes here. For all I know, every son-of-a-bitch that lives in these hills can tell at a glance if a mouse has walked by. Also, he may have a booby trap set."

Turner nodded his agreement. The risk of being killed in the line of duty was universally accepted, but it was every agent's nightmare to be blinded or crippled by a criminal's efforts to protect his property. It didn't happen often, but it did happen, and both men knew it.

"Let's find us a good spot to watch from, and sit our asses down for a while. I'm sick of crawling around like a damned lizard." Agent Anderson brushed the dirt from his pants and looked around for a suitable spot to begin their vigil.

"Over there," Turner said, looking at a large oak tree with a dead tree lying at the base of its trunk. "We can sit behind that log and still see where he'll have to drive up." Anderson considered the suggestion and nodded. The two men walked over behind the oak tree and the log and sat down. Without discussion, they faced slightly away from each other to afford themselves the ability to survey a wider area. Silently they settled down to wait.

Anderson was in a foul mood from the many mosquito bites he had suffered, and the fact that after two hours his bowels had demanded relief. There had been no alternative but to walk down the hill, find a log, and use leaves in place of the toilet paper he had neglected to bring. He had caught Turner grinning when he returned, and that hadn't helped his attitude at all. He was about to say something when the younger man held up his hand.

"Listen."

The two men heard the unmistakable sound of a vehicle laboring in low gear, slowly making its way up the opposite side of the hill. Both agents were fully alert now, staying completely still and waiting for their quarry to come into sight.

The old truck suddenly came into view about seventy yards away. Anderson and Turner followed its progress as it vanished and reappeared several times from their field of vision through the patchy foliage. There were two occupants. The truck stopped next to the group of trees that concealed the illegal still, twenty yards in front of the two agents. The driver backed the vehicle around until it was facing away from them and they could see the bed of the truck. It was empty.

The door opened and a tired-looking man got out of the cab. He looked around absentmindedly and trudged towards the clump of trees. He wore torn, faded overalls and had several day's growth of beard on his lined face. He was joined by the second man, who was a bit younger. Anderson and Turner heard rustling noises, then grunts of effort. In a few moments the men emerged from behind the trees. They each carried a heavy sack, and each man's body was bent under the burden. The first man was carefully stepping over a fallen log on his way to the truck when Anderson stood up. His back was to his partner, and he did not see the worried look on the younger man's face. Agent Turner had just realized that something was wrong with what he was seeing. Turner reached up to stop his partner, but it was too late. Agent Anderson was already running after the men with his gun drawn.

"Freeze! Federal Agents! You're under arrest!" Anderson bellowed as he broke into the clearing.

The men with the sacks on their shoulders stopped dead and waited. Anderson stopped fifteen feet from them with his gun held out in front of him in his right hand. "Turn around slowly. Don't move your hands or I'll put a big hole right in the middle of each of you." The men turned slowly to face their captors.

"Are you Jack Miller?" Agent Anderson demanded of the man who had been driving the truck. The man nodded silently. "Put that sack down slowly and keep your hands where I can see them." Miller did as he was told. "Now you," he said to the second man, who also complied. "What's your name?"

"Frank Layton," he said sullenly.

Agent Turner was moving away from his partner, over to where the still was hidden behind the clump of trees. He dreaded what he thought he would find there.

"What's in the sack?" Agent Anderson demanded. Turner closed his eyes with dismay. He knew what Miller's answer would be.

"Sugar," Miller said simply, as the younger Treasury agent had known he would.

The young Treasury agent stood staring at what had once been an operating still. The copper condensing coil was still intact, but the boiler had been destroyed years ago, as was evidenced by the collection of rust on the big gashes that made it inoperable. Next to the ruined relic were some heavy tarpaulins. One of them was folded back to reveal several neatly stacked hundred-pound bags of sugar.

"There's no still here."

"What?" Anderson yelled, forgetting his training and turning his head to look at where Turner was standing.

Agent Turner walked over to his partner. "The still that's there hasn't been in operation for years. All they've got is some sugar stored under a tarp. Looks like our boy didn't give us the location of Miller's real still after all." Turner walked slowly over to Miller's battered truck while keeping a careful eye on its owner.

Jack Miller's eyes narrowed and Anderson saw a tight, humorless smile cross his face for a brief moment. Miller stayed where he was and said nothing to the city men in suits. Agent Anderson walked over to the ruined still. His face showed undisguised disgust and hatred. He shook his head in disbelief as he pulled back the tarp in the vain hope that there might be something illegal under it. More sacks of sugar. That's all.

"Fuck." Anderson spat out the word. "It's no crime to have a shitload of sugar, even if all four of us know exactly what you two're going to do with it. Get your miserable asses out of here." Jack Miller and his companion turned towards the truck, but Agent Turner blocked their way. Turner was holding the shotgun that had been on the truck's passenger seat. "Where did you fellows come from?" the agent asked.

Miller and Frank Layton stared at each other. Finally Miller said, "Oklahoma."

The agent held up the double-barreled shotgun.

Miller licked his lips as realization set in. The man was going to kill them with Miller's own gun and leave them here, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it. Then the agent smiled, opened the action to remove the two shells, and looked at Anderson.

"Partner, we've got our collar. We're not going home empty-handed after all."

Anderson shook his head. "It's no crime to have a shotgun in your truck, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lie and say these stupid hillbillies threatened me with it. I don't have the stomach for that kind of thing." "No, you're missing it. National Firearms Act. Federal violation. Passed in '34. Illegal possession and interstate transport of an unregistered shotgun with a barrel less than eighteen inches long."

Jack Miller, who normally knew enough not to speak to law enforcement agents, could not contain himself. "Illegal possession, Hell! That's my gun! Can't nobody say different! I've never stolen a thing in my life!" This last was not entirely accurate, but it was true that Mr. Miller had indeed acquired the gun legally.

Agent Anderson was looking even more bewildered than Jack Miller, though less outraged. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The National Firearms Act of 1934. Passed in June of that year." He was grinning broadly now, playing to his audience.

"What we have here is the illegal possession and interstate transportation of an unregistered shotgun with a barrel less than eighteen inches in length or an overall length of less than twenty-six inches." He held up the shotgun. The barrel was about sixteen inches long, maybe a bit more. "Registration of said weapon must be made with the U.S. Treasury and a two hundred dollar tax paid to the Treasury. After registration, subsequent sale of said weapon must be first approved by the Department of the Treasury and will be subject to a two hundred dollar tax payable to the Treasury by the seller each time the weapon changes hands." Agent Turner was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So unless either Mr. Miller or Mr. Layton here can produce registration papers for this weapon, I'd say we've got ourselves a couple of federal criminals."

Miller, a poor man with little formal education, had jerked as if jolted with electricity at the mention of the dollar figure. "You mean I got to pay two hundred dollars to you federal men if'n I decide to sell that fivedollar shotgun to my friend here?" The concept was beyond his comprehension.

Agent Turner smiled patiently. "That would be true, Mr. Miller, if you or your friend had already paid two hundred dollars to the Treasury in 1934 when the law was passed, and registered this gun with us at that time. Since you did not, you and Mr. Layton are guilty of illegal possession and interstate transport of an unregistered weapon controlled by the National Firearms Act of 1934, and you are each therefore subject to a fine of five thousand dollars and a prison sentence of five years. Now turn around and cross your wrists behind your back."

Miller's jaw dropped in disbelief, but he did as he was told. Agent Turner took the chromed steel handcuffs from the case on his belt and locked them around Jack Miller's wrists. "Go get in the front of the truck," he commanded. Miller obeyed. "You going to cuff the other one?" he asked his partner.

Agent Anderson cuffed Layton and pushed him towards the truck. Then he stared at his young partner and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"What the fuck kind of crazy, made up, horseshit story did you just tell those peckerheads? You expect them to believe that they're going to prison for five years because the barrel on a shotgun is an inch-and-ahalf shorter'n you say it should be?" Anderson spoke in a coarse whisper, his mouth only inches from his partner's ear. "The chief will have our balls for making a false arrest!"

Special Agent Turner continued to smile as he shook his head patiently. "Not what I say it should be. What the Federal Government says it should be. No horseshit at all. It's Federal law. And now we've got our collar. Come on," he said soothingly. "Let's see if this old rattletrap can make it back to our car." He started walking towards the vehicle. The older agent followed him slowly, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust.

Prohibition had been crazy enough, but this? Five years in prison because a piece of steel was two inches too short? He hated this job now more than ever.

Anderson's final words were lost as Turner ground the starter and the tired engine coughed to life. "I'd've sooner gut-shot the fuckers and left 'em for the buzzards."

September 8, 1938 "Bud! Bud, come here! Come in right now! I don't believe this! You've got to see it!" The woman's face was a mixture of amazement and delight. Her husband, a lean, strong man of thirty-two, heard the urgency in her voice immediately and came trotting over from the barn, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He started to speak, but as he reached the doorway, he saw what had so astonished his wife.

He was walking! Only eight months old and Raymond was walking!

Bud put his arm around his wife's waist and hugged her to him. His smile was as broad as it had been when he had seen his son for the first time twenty-eight weeks before.

"I don't believe it," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. Raymond was taking small, careful steps. His arms were held out for balance and he was looking towards the floor. He was oblivious to the presence of his parents. All of a sudden, he lost his balance and his knees buckled. The baby sat down abruptly on the thin carpet. His mother gasped and started towards him, but her husband held her back. "Wait. Let's see what he does."

The child inhaled, and for a moment his parents thought he was going to cry. But Raymond's eyes were alert, and he looked at his immediate surroundings. He focused on the overstuffed armchair two feet from him, and crawled to it. With awkward but purposeful movements, the little boy clutched the fabric of the chair in his fingers and used it to steady himself as he pushed himself to a standing position again. Slowly, one hand at a time, he let go of the chair and took two wobbling steps. He stopped, holding his arms out like a tightrope walker, and stayed on his feet. He turned his head and saw his father, and an enormous grin filled his face. He made a loud, happy noise, and started to lose his balance again.

Emmett (Bud) Johnson could not help himself. He grabbed his little boy under the arms as he started to fall, threw him up in the air, caught him, and hugged the small body to his chest. "Look who can walk! Look who got tired of crawling already! Is it time to get you a little pair of boots? Is it time to give you a little pitchfork so you can help with the horses? Are you going to help us out at rodeo time?" He tossed the little boy in the air again, and Raymond's smile got even bigger.

Louise always felt her heart in her chest when Bud did that, but she had long ago given up on trying to get her husband to stop throwing his son in the air. Raymond obviously loved it, and Bud had insisted with a straight face that it would help their child have better balance and prevent him from 'being afraid of things that he shouldn't be afraid of,' as her husband had explained it. Maybe he had been right. She was still marveling at the fact of her little boy taking his first steps.

Bud and Louise Johnson had been married for nine years, and they had been trying to have a child ever since their wedding night. Louise had suffered three miscarriages in that time, and her doctor had told her that her body was not built for having children. He told her that childbirth, if she were able to carry a pregnancy to term, might well kill her. She had been adamant, and had forbidden the doctor to tell her husband of his fears.

When Raymond was born, there had been severe complications, and the doctor had had to perform a cesarean section. Bud had been frightened out of his mind that his wife would die. Raymond had been healthy, if small, but Louise could not have any more children. That reality had ground on her for the last seven months. She had come from a large family and always expected to have one herself.

Bud put Raymond down next to the armchair where the little boy could hold onto it for balance. He turned to his wife and hugged her to him. "Honey, I know we wanted a girl, too, but I'm beginning to think that this little fellow might be about all that just the two of us can handle." Louise's eyes brimmed with tears. For seven months she had feared that Bud was unhappy with the prospect of always having only one child. "I have a feeling this one's going to amount to a lot more than just a cowpuncher."

Louise looked up at her husband in amazement. She had never heard him run himself down before. He saw her expression, and smiled before explaining.

"I don't mean anything bad. There isn't a place I'd rather live or a life I'd rather lead, and you know that. I'm just lucky our kind of life suits me as well as it does, because you and I both know it was a stretch for me to get through high school. This one here," he said, nodding at Raymond, "you can see it in his face. He's smart. He wants to do things. I could see that as soon as you got home from the hospital. And that's not just a proud daddy puffing up his chest. I've seen enough other babies. Raymond got a double helping of something pretty strong. He's going to have the chance to be things we've never even dreamed of." There was obvious pride in his voice.

Louise nodded. She had seen it, too, but she had assumed that every new mother felt that way about her firstborn. She glanced at her husband, who had a pensive look on his face.

"Better get used to the idea of not getting to see him grow up all the way."

"What?" She turned to face her husband, a horrified look on her face. He saw her alarm and quickly explained.

"I just mean that I think our Pitkin County schools are going to take him only so far. I think he's going to outgrow them, and if I'm right, we're going to make sure he goes someplace where the teachers are s marter than he is."

"But he's only eight months old!" Louise protested, laughing. Yet even as she said the words, Louise found herself inwardly agreeing with Bud's surprising declaration.

"He'll be fifteen before you know it. Hell, woman, it seems like yesterday I was trying to put my hand up your dress for the first time." Louise flushed scarlet.

"Emmett Johnson!" she squealed. She always used his given name whenever he said something shocking that nonetheless pleased her. His fingers went to the buttons of her blouse.

"Raymond's got himself occupied learning how to walk. Let's us go practice something on our own." "But, just this morning, we already..." Her voice trailed off at the touch of his fingertips.

"That's right, darling, and I want to make damn sure I don't forget how. Like I told you, I never was much for brains. It would be a real shame if I went a little too long and all the things that you like me to do just kind of slipped my mind. We'd best get some practice in so's your thick-headed husband doesn't disappoint you, some night when you're feeling frisky." He scooped her up easily and carried her over to the big couch.

"Mmmmmm...." she breathed. "You're right. We don't want that to happen." She glanced over at the little boy. Raymond was using the chair again so that he could stand up. Louise closed her eyes and moaned softly. Her husband Bud was accomplishing something entirely different.