Striking the Balance by Harry Turtledove Page A

Naomi.” She wore her dark hair pulled back from her face. It made her look thoughtful. She had delicate features: skin pale without being pink, narrow chin, wide cheekbones, large gray eyes, elegantly arched nose.
    Goldfarb paid for the bitter, all the while studying her. At last, he risked a word not in English:
“Yehudeh?”
    Those eyes fixed on him, sharply. He knew she was searching his features—and knew what she’d find. His brown, curly hair and formidable nose had not sprung from native English stock. After a moment, she relaxed and said, “Yes, I’m Jewish—and you, unless I’m wrong.” Now that he heard more than a sentence from her, he caught her accent—like the one his parents had, though not nearly so strong.
    He nodded. “Guilty as charged,” he said, which won a cautious smile from her. He left her a tip as large as the one Basil Roundbush had given Sylvia, though he could afford it less well. He raised his mug to her before he drank, then asked, “What are you doing here?”
    “In England, do you mean?” she asked, wiping the bar with a bit of rag. “My parents were lucky enough, smart enough—whatever you like—to get out of Germany in 1937.I came with them; I was fourteen then.”
    That made her twenty or twenty-one now:
a fine age,
Goldfarb thought reverently. He said, “My parents came from Poland before the First World War, so I was born here.” He wondered if he should have told her that; German Jews sometimes looked down their noses at their Polish cousins.
    But she said, “You were very lucky, then. What we went through . . .  and we were gone before the worst. And in Poland, they say, it was even worse.”
    “Everything they say is true, too,” David answered. “Have you ever heard Moishe Russie broadcast? We’re cousins; I’ve talked with him after he escaped from Poland. If it hadn’t been for the Lizards, there wouldn’t be any Jews left there by now. I hate being grateful to them, but there you are.”
    “Yes, I have heard him,” Naomi said. “Terrible things there—but there, at least, they’re over. In Germany, they go on.”
    “I know,” Goldfarb said, and took along pull at his bitter. “And the Nazis have hit the Lizards as many licks as anyone else, maybe more. The world’s gone crazy, it bloody well has.”
    Basil Roundbush had been talking with a sandy-haired Royal Navy commander. Now he turned-back to find a fresh pint at his elbow—and Naomi behind the bar. He pulled himself straight; he could turn on two hundred watts of charm the way most men flicked on a light switch. “Well, well,” he said with a toothy smile. “Our publican’s taste has gone up, it has indeed. Where did he find you?”
    Not sporting,
Goldfarb thought. He waited for Naomi to sigh or giggle or do whatever she did to show she was smitten. He hadn’t seen Roundbush fail yet. But the barmaid just answered, coolly enough, “I was looking for work, and he was kind enough to think I might do. Now if you will excuse me—” She hurried off to minister to other thirst-stricken patrons.
    Roundbush dug an elbow into Goldfarb’s ribs. “Not sporting, old man. You have an unfair advantage there, unless I’m much mistaken.”
    Damn it, he
was
sharp, to have identflied the accent or placed her looks so quickly. “Me?” Goldfarb said. “You’re a fine one to talk of advantages, when you’ve got everything in a skirt from here halfway to the Isle of Wight going all soppy over you.”
    “Whatever could you be talking about, my dear fellow?” Roundbush said, and stuck his tongue in his cheek to show he was not to be taken seriously. He gulped down his pint, then waved the pot at Sylvia, who had at last come back. “Another round of these for David and me. If you please, darling.”
    “Coming up,” she said.
    Roundbush turned back to the Royal Navy man. Goldfarb asked Sylvia, “When did she start here?” His eyes slid toward Naomi.
    “A few days ago,” Sylvia answered.