cute . . .”
Reuven thought of the twins as unmitigated—well, occasionally mitigated—nuisances. “What about me?” he asked plaintively—she’d mentioned everyone else in the Russie household.
“Oh. You.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “I suppose I’ll come anyway.” She laughed at the look on his face, then went on, “If the riots start up again, I can always sleep on your sofa.”
“You could always sleep in my bed,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “You didn’t sleep in mine when you spent that night in the dormitory while the fighting in the city was so bad.” She wasn’t offended; she reached out and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m getting hungry standing here talking.”
Several students gave Reuven jealous looks as he and Jane left the campus hand in hand. They made him feel three meters tall. In fact, he was a thoroughly ordinary one meter seventy-three centimeters—in absent moments, he thought of it as five feet eight—so when he and Jane looked into each other’s eyes, they did so on a level. Three or four Arab men whooped when they saw Jane. They approved of big blondes. She took no notice of them, which worked better than telling them where to go and how to get there. That only encouraged them.
“I’ve brought Jane home for supper,” Reuven called in Yiddish as he came inside.
“That’s fine, his mother answered from the kitchen in the same language. “There will be plenty.” Rivka Russie, Reuven was convinced, could feed an invading army as long as it gave her fifteen minutes’ notice.
His sisters came out and greeted Jane in halting English and in the language of the Race, which they were studying at school. Judith and Esther had just entered their teens; next to Jane’s ripe curves, they definitely seemed works in progress. She answered them in the bits and pieces of Hebrew she’d picked up since coming to Jerusalem. Reuven smiled to himself. Like most native English speakers, she couldn’t come out with a proper guttural to save her life.
Judith—he was pretty sure it was Judith, though the twins were identical and wore their hair the same way, not least for the sake of the confusion it caused—turned to him and said, “Cousin David’s having more troubles. Father’s doing what he can to fix things, but . . .” She shrugged.
“What now?” Reuven asked. “It’s not the Nazis again, is it?”
“No, but the English don’t want to let him leave,” his sister answered, “and things are getting scary for Jews over there.”
“Gevalt,”
he said, and then translated for Jane.
She nodded understanding. “It’s like being a human in Australia. The Lizards wish none of us were left. After what they did to our cities, it’s a wonder any of us are.” For her, dealing with oppression from outside had begun when she was a little girl. For Reuven, it had begun two thousand years before he was born. He didn’t make the comparison, not out loud.
His father came home a few minutes later. Moishe Russie looked like an older version of Reuven: he’d gone bald on top, and the hair he had left was iron gray. Reuven asked, “What’s this I hear about Cousin David?”
Moishe grimaced. “That could be a problem. The fleetlord doesn’t seem very interested in helping him out. It’s not as if he’s in jail or about to be executed. He’s just having a hard time. Atvar thinks plenty of Tosevites are having worse times, so he won’t do anything about it.”
He and Reuven had both spoken Hebrew, which Jane could follow after a fashion. In English, she said, “That’s terrible! What will he do if he can’t get out of England?”
English was Moishe Russie’s fourth language, after Yiddish, Polish, and Hebrew. He stuck to the latter: “He’ll have to do the best he can. Right now, I don’t know how I can give him a hand.”
From the kitchen, Rivka Russie called, “Supper’s ready. Everyone come to the table.” Reuven headed for the
Reuven thought of the twins as unmitigated—well, occasionally mitigated—nuisances. “What about me?” he asked plaintively—she’d mentioned everyone else in the Russie household.
“Oh. You.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “I suppose I’ll come anyway.” She laughed at the look on his face, then went on, “If the riots start up again, I can always sleep on your sofa.”
“You could always sleep in my bed,” he suggested.
She shook her head. “You didn’t sleep in mine when you spent that night in the dormitory while the fighting in the city was so bad.” She wasn’t offended; she reached out and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m getting hungry standing here talking.”
Several students gave Reuven jealous looks as he and Jane left the campus hand in hand. They made him feel three meters tall. In fact, he was a thoroughly ordinary one meter seventy-three centimeters—in absent moments, he thought of it as five feet eight—so when he and Jane looked into each other’s eyes, they did so on a level. Three or four Arab men whooped when they saw Jane. They approved of big blondes. She took no notice of them, which worked better than telling them where to go and how to get there. That only encouraged them.
“I’ve brought Jane home for supper,” Reuven called in Yiddish as he came inside.
“That’s fine, his mother answered from the kitchen in the same language. “There will be plenty.” Rivka Russie, Reuven was convinced, could feed an invading army as long as it gave her fifteen minutes’ notice.
His sisters came out and greeted Jane in halting English and in the language of the Race, which they were studying at school. Judith and Esther had just entered their teens; next to Jane’s ripe curves, they definitely seemed works in progress. She answered them in the bits and pieces of Hebrew she’d picked up since coming to Jerusalem. Reuven smiled to himself. Like most native English speakers, she couldn’t come out with a proper guttural to save her life.
Judith—he was pretty sure it was Judith, though the twins were identical and wore their hair the same way, not least for the sake of the confusion it caused—turned to him and said, “Cousin David’s having more troubles. Father’s doing what he can to fix things, but . . .” She shrugged.
“What now?” Reuven asked. “It’s not the Nazis again, is it?”
“No, but the English don’t want to let him leave,” his sister answered, “and things are getting scary for Jews over there.”
“Gevalt,”
he said, and then translated for Jane.
She nodded understanding. “It’s like being a human in Australia. The Lizards wish none of us were left. After what they did to our cities, it’s a wonder any of us are.” For her, dealing with oppression from outside had begun when she was a little girl. For Reuven, it had begun two thousand years before he was born. He didn’t make the comparison, not out loud.
His father came home a few minutes later. Moishe Russie looked like an older version of Reuven: he’d gone bald on top, and the hair he had left was iron gray. Reuven asked, “What’s this I hear about Cousin David?”
Moishe grimaced. “That could be a problem. The fleetlord doesn’t seem very interested in helping him out. It’s not as if he’s in jail or about to be executed. He’s just having a hard time. Atvar thinks plenty of Tosevites are having worse times, so he won’t do anything about it.”
He and Reuven had both spoken Hebrew, which Jane could follow after a fashion. In English, she said, “That’s terrible! What will he do if he can’t get out of England?”
English was Moishe Russie’s fourth language, after Yiddish, Polish, and Hebrew. He stuck to the latter: “He’ll have to do the best he can. Right now, I don’t know how I can give him a hand.”
From the kitchen, Rivka Russie called, “Supper’s ready. Everyone come to the table.” Reuven headed for the
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