“Not if it’s true,” Reuven said. Both his sisters sniffed indignantly at the possibility that he could doubt them. Having failed to doubt them a few times when he should have been wary, he bore up under their disapproval.
Supper was a couple of roasted chickens, with chickpeas and carrots and a white wine that made Goldfarb nod in what seemed surprised approval. “I don’t usually drink wine, except during Pesach,” he said. “This is good.”
“It’s not bad, anyhow,” Moishe Russie said. “When I drink anything these days, it’s mostly wine. I haven’t got the head for whiskey or vodka any more, and the beer you can get here is a lot nastier than what they made in Poland-in England, too, for that matter.”
“If you get used to drinking wine, you won’t want to drink beer, anyhow,” Reuven said. “Beer’s thin, sour stuff by comparison.”
“That only goes to show you’ve been drinking bad beer,” David Goldfarb answered. “From what your father said, I don’t suppose it’s any wonder.”
Rivka Russie brought matters back to the more immediate by softly saying, “It’s good to see you here and safe, David.”
“Omayn,” Moishe Russie added.
Their cousin-Reuven’s cousin once further removed-emptied his wineglass with a convulsive gulp less closely related to how much he enjoyed the vintage than to its anesthetic properties. “It’s bloody good to be here, believe me,” he said, and inclined his head to Reuven’s father. “Thanks again for pulling the wires to help get me out. You did more than the British consul in Marseille. You couldn’t very well have done less, let me tell you, because he didn’t do anything.”
“It was my pleasure, you believe me,” Moishe Russie said, waving away the thanks. Reuven had seen many times that his father had a hard time accepting praise.
“What was it like, there in the Nazis’ prison?” one of the twins asked.
“It was the worst place in the world,” David Goldfarb said. Esther and Judith both gasped. Goldfarb looked at his glass, as if regretting it was empty. Moishe Russie saw that glance and proceeded to remedy the situation. After drinking, Goldfarb went on, “The cell was only a cell, with a cot and a bucket. Not much different to a British cell, I shouldn’t wonder. They fed me-I got a little hungry, but not very. They asked me questions. They didn’t knock my teeth out or hit me very often or very hard. It was still the worst place in the world.”
“Why?” Esther asked, while Judith said, “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Goldfarb said. “Because even though they didn’t do any of those things, they could have. I knew it, and they knew it, and they knew I knew it. Knowing it did almost as good a job of breaking me as real torture would have done.”
He’d spoken English; word by word, the twins couldn’t have had any trouble following what he said. But they didn’t understand it. Reuven could see as much. He did, or thought he did, though he was just as well pleased not to have had the experience that would have made understanding certain.
His mother asked, “What were you doing there in the first place?”
“Trying to help some of my British… friends,” Goldfarb said. “They did some of their dealings through a Frenchman who had been operating on his own, but they started losing money-or not making so much money, I’m not sure which-when the Germans got their hooks into him. So they sent me down to the south of France to see if I couldn’t persuade him to go back to being an independent operator. Why not?” His mouth twisted; he emptied the wineglass again. “I was just an expendable Jew.”
“Ginger is as bad for the Lizards as cocaine or heroin is for us,” Reuven’s father observed, “maybe worse. I wish you’d never got caught up in that.”
“So do I,” Goldfarb said. “Vey iz mir, so do I. But having dreadful things happen to my family would have been even worse, and so off I went.”
Moishe Russie reached for more wine himself when he heard that, something he rarely did. Nodding heavily, he said, “When I was having trouble with the Lizards in Warsaw, I had help getting Rivka and Reuven to a place where the Race couldn’t get their hands on them, so I understand how you feel.”
“We were in a cellar!” Reuven exclaimed, astonished at how the memory came back. “It was dark all the time, because we didn’t have many lamps or candles.”
“That’s right,” his father said. Reuven shook his head in astonishment; he hadn’t so much as thought of that hideaway for many years. His father looked across the table at Goldfarb. “And the Lizards were trying to put Dutourd out of business while you were trying to set him up again-and the Nazis caught their people, too.”
“If you stick your head in the lion’s mouth, you know there’s a chance he’ll bite down,” Goldfarb said with a shrug. “I gather you got the Americans out of their cells, too?”
“Yes, I managed that,” Moishe Russie said. “Getting them was easier than getting you, in fact. The Germans worry more about offending the Race than they do about offending England.”
“I can understand that, worse luck for me,” David Goldfarb said. “The only one who got left behind was Dutourd. He would have dealt with me, I think. I hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble for that.” He paused. “The Lizards started asking me questions the minute I got on their plane in Marseille. And do you know what? I answered every one of them. If my ‘friends’ back home don’t like it, too bloody bad.”
“Good for you,” Reuven said.
His father nodded and remarked, “My guess is that the Frenchman won’t. He’s useful to the Nazis-he’s not just another damned Jew.”
Goldfarb inclined his head. “As one damned Jew to another-to a whole family full of others-I thank you.” He poured more wine into his glass, then raised it high. “L’chaim!” he said loudly.
“To life!” Reuven echoed, and was proud to have answered a beat ahead of his father and mother and sister. He drank his wine; it went down sweet and smooth as honey.
Felless felt like a hypocrite as she accompanied Ambassador Veffani into the Reichs Ministry of Justice in Nuremberg. She also felt even smaller than she usually did while entering a building the Big Uglies had built to suit themselves. The Ministry of Justice, like a lot of public buildings of the Reich, was deliberately designed to minimize the importance of the individual, whether that individual was a Tosevite or belonged to the Race.
“They know not the Emperor, so they have to build like this,” Veffani said when Felless remarked on the style. “They hope false splendor will make their not-emperor and his minions seem as impressive to their subjects as generations of tradition have made the Emperor seem to us.”
“That is… a very perceptive remark, superior sir,” Felless said. “I have seen similar speculations, but seldom so pithily expressed.” For a moment, interest made her forget her craving for ginger-but only for a moment. The craving never left for long-and now she and Veffani were visiting the Deutsch minister of justice to plead for harsher treatment of a captured ginger smuggler. If that was not irony, the stuff had never hatched from its shell.
Deutsch soldiers in steel helmets stiffened as Veffani and Felless reached the top of the broad stone stairway leading to the entrance. They clicked their booted heels together, a courtesy rather like assuming the posture of respect. One of them proved to speak the language of the Race: “I greet you, Ambassador, and your colleague. How may I serve you?”
“We have an appointment with Justice Minister Dietrich,” Veffani answered, observing protocol. “Please escort us to him.”
“It shall be done.” The Deutsch guard’s about-turn had none of the smooth elegance a member of the Race would have given it, but possessed a stiff impressiveness of its own. Over his shoulder, the Big Ugly added, “Follow me.”