“The fire engine will have to go tend to it,” David Nussboym said. “I volunteer to ride along.” That took courage; the Germans’ gas could kill you not only if you breathed it but if it got on your skin. Anielewicz would have preferred to think of anyone who collaborated with the Lizards as a spineless coward. Nussboym complicated his picture of the world.
He wanted to volunteer himself, to show Nussboym people who disagreed with him had spirit, too. But he made himself keep quiet. With the collaborator away from the offices, people who wanted to deal with the Lizards instead of sucking up to them could speak freely.
“Come on,” said Solomon Gruver, the big, burly man who led the fire brigade and drove the engine. His men and Nussboym ran for the stairs.
“I hope the people in the area are already hosing down the streets and the buildings,” Anielewicz said. “Between them and the engines, they should be able to flush most of the gas down the mains.” He laughed, a haunted, hollow sound inside his mask. “We’re so used to dealing with the unspeakable that we’ve got very good at developing procedures for it. Either that proves we’re clever and quick or that we’re utterly damned. Maybe both.”
The fire engine roared away, bell clanging. “Do you think we can take our masks off?” a woman named Bertha Fleishman asked. She was drab and mousy; no one, human or Lizard, took any special notice of her. That made her one of the most valuable spies the Jews in Lodz had: she could go anywhere, hear anything, and report back.
“Let’s find out.” Anielewicz pulled the mask off his head. He took a couple of deep breaths, then gasped and crumpled to the floor. Instead of crying out in alarm and dismay, people swore at him and looked around for things to throw. The first time he’d played that joke, they’d been properly horrified. Now they halfway looked for it, though he didn’t do it all the time.
The rest of the people in the sealed room took off their masks, too. “Whew!” someone said. “It’s just about as stuffy in here with them off as it is with them on.”
“What are we going to do?” Bertha Fleishman said. “If we get rid of the Lizards, we get the Germans back. For us in particular, that would be worse, even if having the Germans win and the Lizards lose would be better for people as a whole. After we’ve suffered so much, shouldn’t we be able to live a little?” She sounded wistful, plaintive.
“Why should this time be different from all other times?” Anielewicz said. The reply, so close to the first of the Four Questions from the Passover Seder but expecting a different response, brought a sigh from everyone in the room. He went on, “The real question should be, What do we do if the Lizards get sick of the Germans harassing them and decide to put everything they have into smashing the
“They tried that against the English,” a man said. “It didn’t work.”
“And thank God it didn’t,” Mordechai said, wondering if he’d sent Moishe Russie into worse danger than that from which he’d escaped. “But it’s not the same. The Lizards’ logistics in England were very bad. They had to fly all their soldiers and all their supplies up from southern France, so it was almost as if they were trying to invade by remote control. It wouldn’t be like that if they attacked the Nazis. They’re right next door to them, here and in France both.”
“Whatever they do, they probably won’t do it right away, not with snow on the ground,” Bertha Fleishman said. “They hate the cold. Come next spring, it may be something to worry about. Until then, I think they’ll hold back and try to ride out whatever the Nazis throw at them.”
Thinking about the way the Lizards did things, Anielewicz slowly nodded. “You may be right,” he said. “But that only gives us more time to answer the question. It doesn’t make it go away.”
Teerts did not like flying over Deutschland. He hadn’t liked flying over Britain, either, and for much that same reason: more and more Tosevite jets in the air, along with antiaircraft fire that seemed thick enough to let him get out of his killercraft and walk from one shell burst to the next.
His mouth dropped open in ironic laughter. Fire from the Big Uglies’ antiaircraft guns had done no more than put a couple of holes in the skin of his killercraft. As best he could figure, the one time he’d been shot down was when he’d had the colossal bad luck to suck infantrymales’ bullets into both engine turbines in the space of a couple of moments… and his luck had only got worse once he descended inside the Nipponese lines.
He never, ever wanted to be captured again. “I’d sooner die,” he said.
“Superior sir?” That was Sserep, one of his wingmales.
“Nothing,” Teerts said, embarrassed at letting his thoughts go out over an open microphone.
