“Yes, I know that,” Atvar said, and did his best not to let his disgust with the policy the Deutsche pursued show. “If you removed him from your not-empire by sending him here to me, you would be keeping your not-empire as free of Jews as if you killed him.”
“He could still cause trouble for the Reich if we let him live,” the Big Ugly replied. “And the British would care very little about what happened to him: they are slowly coming round to our way of thinking.” But he did not reject the fleetlord’s request out of hand, as he might have-as Tosevites often seemed to take a perverse pleasure in doing.
Noting that, Atvar said, “If you kill him, the Race will care, whether the British Big Uglies do or not. Do you understand me?”
The Deutsch Big Ugly used his short, blunt, forkless tongue to lick his lips. That was a sign of cautious consideration among the Big Uglies, or so researchers had assured Atvar. After a pause, the official said, “You are taking an improperly high-handed attitude, Exalted Fleetlord.” Atvar said nothing. The Big Ugly licked his lips again. He made a fist and slammed it down onto the top of the desk behind which he sat. In any species, that would have been a sign of anger. “Very well,” he snapped. “Since you love Jews so well, you may have this one, too.”
Time had proved it was useless to point out that the Race did not particularly love Jews, that their Tosevite neighbors treated them so badly as to make the Race seem a better alternative. Since the Deutsche seemed unable to figure that out for themselves, Atvar had no interest in enlightening them. The fleetlord contented himself with saying, “I thank you. My subordinates will arrange to retrieve this Tosevite.”
“If he should ever enter the Reich again, he will be sorry he was ever hatched,” the Deutsch male said, which had to translate a Tosevite idiom all too literally into the language of the Race. “Farewell.” The Big Ugly’s image disappeared.
No male or female of the Race would have been so rude to Atvar. Big Uglies, though, had already proved they could be far ruder than this. The fleetlord telephoned Moishe Russie. “It is accomplished,” he said when the connection was made. “Your relative will in due course be returned to you.”
“I thank you, Exalted Fleetlord.” Russie added an emphatic cough.
“You are welcome,” Atvar said. Maybe Russie did not know this Big Ugly named Goldfarb had been involved in the ginger-smuggling trade-or more likely, maybe he did not know Atvar would know. But know the fleetlord did. And he also knew he would do everything he could to learn as much about the trade as Goldfarb could or would tell him.
“He should be here any minute now,” Dr. Moishe Russie said, peering out through one of the narrow windows that gave a view of the street.
“Father, you’ve been saying that for the past hour,” Reuven Russie pointed out with such patience as he could muster.
“The Nazis are punctual,” his father said. “The Lizards are also punctual. So I ought to know when he will be here.”
“We know it, too,” Reuven said, even less patiently than before. “You don’t have to keep reminding us every five minutes.”
“No, eh?” Moishe Russie said. “And why not?” His eyes twinkled.
Reuven smiled, too, but it took effort. He knew his father was joking, but the jokes had turned into what Jane Archibald would have called kidding on the square. His father was too worried about his distant cousin to be anything but serious behind those twinkling eyes.
Silent as a thought, a hydrogen-powered motorcar glided to a stop in front of the house. A door opened. A man in utterly ordinary clothes got out and walked up the short path to the door. He knocked.
Moishe Russie let him in. “Welcome to Jerusalem, Cousin,” he said, folding David Goldfarb into an embrace. “It’s been too long.” He spoke Yiddish, not the Hebrew the Jews of Palestine used most of the time.
“Thanks, Moishe,” Goldfarb answered in the same language. “One thing I’ll tell you-it’s good to be here. It’s good to be anywhere but a Nazi gaol.” His Yiddish was fluent enough, but had an odd accent. After a moment, Reuven realized the flavoring came from the English that was his relative’s first language. David Goldfarb turned toward him and stuck out a hand. “Hello. You’re a man now. That hardly seems possible.”
“Time does go on.” Reuven spoke English, not Yiddish. It seemed every bit as natural to him, if not more so. He hadn’t used Yiddish much since coming to Palestine. While he had no trouble understanding it, forming anything but childish sentences didn’t come easy.
“Too bloody right it does,” Goldfarb said, also in English. He was a few years younger than Reuven’s father. Unlike Moishe Russie, he still kept most of his hair, but it had more gray in it than the senior Russie’s. He must have seen that for himself, for he went on, “And it’s a miracle I’m not white as snow on top after the past couple of weeks. Thank God you could help, Moishe.”
Reuven’s father shrugged. “I did not have to go into a gaol after you,” he said, sticking to Yiddish. “You did that for me. All I did was ask the Lizards to help get you out, and they did it.”
“They must think a lot of you,” Goldfarb answered; now he returned to his odd-sounding Yiddish. If Jane spoke Yiddish, she’d speak it like that, Reuven thought. His cousin added, “They’d better think a lot of you now, after everything they put you through back then.”
Moishe Russie shrugged again. “That was a long time ago.”
“Too right it was,” Goldfarb muttered in English; he didn’t seem to notice going back and forth between languages. Still in English, he continued, “We’d all be better off if the buggers had never come in the first place.”
“You might be,” Moishe Russie said. “England might be. But me? My family?” He shook his head. “No. If the Race had not come, we would all be dead. I am sure of it. You saw Lodz. You never saw Warsaw. And Warsaw would only have got worse as the war went on.”
“Warsaw was bad, very bad,” Reuven agreed; he had no happy recollections of the city in which he’d been born. “But what the Nazis did with their killing factories is worse. If they’d stayed in Poland, I think Father is right: we would all have gone through them. Next to Hitler, Haman was nothing much.”
Goldfarb frowned. Plainly, he wanted to argue. As plainly, he had trouble seeing how he could. Before he found anything to say, the twins came out of the kitchen. The scowl disappeared from his face. Grinning, he turned to Moishe. “All right, they’re as cute as their photos. I didn’t think they could be.”
Reuven suppressed the strong urge to retch. The twins stretched like cats, being charming on purpose. As with cats, it struck Reuven as an act. “They’re miserable nuisances a lot of the time,” he said-in Yiddish, of which Esther and Judith had only a smattering: his father and mother often spoke it when they didn’t want the twins to know what was going on.
“Well, I have children of my own, and every one of them thinks the others are nuisances,” Goldfarb said, also in Yiddish. He eyed Judith and Esther, then switched to slow, clear English: “Which one of you is which?”
“I’m Esther,” Judith said.
“I’m Judith,” Esther echoed.
Reuven coughed. So did his father. David Goldfarb raised an eyebrow. He’d had practice with children, all right; his expression was identical to the one Moishe Russie used when he caught Reuven or Judith or Esther stretching the truth.
“Oh, all right,” Esther said. “Maybe it is the other way around.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me,” Goldfarb said. “But your father and your brother have their suspicions.”
“We came out here to say that supper was ready,” Judith said. “Who says that doesn’t really matter, does it?”