Free In the Presence of Mine Enemies by Harry Turtledove Page A

than he was supposed to. He carried them in his memory; he wasn’t mad enough to write any of them down. He wasn’t mad enough to use any of them, either, except in direst emergency. The one he entered he’d acquired legitimately, in the course of his job. “I want to find out what’s going on with the United States.”
    â€œYes, that will be interesting,” Willi Dorsch agreed. “If they’re going to fall short of their assessment, that will put our budget in the red.”
    â€œFurther in the red,” Heinrich said.
    Willi nodded. “Further in the red, true. The powers that be won’t like it.”
    â€œThe Americans will scream that we’re trying to get blood from a turnip,” Heinrich predicted.
    â€œThey’ve been screaming that ever since we beat them,” Willi said. “So far, blood’s come out every time we’ve squeezed.”
    â€œTrue, but I don’t suppose it can go on forever,” Heinrich said. “Look at France. Look at Denmark. They don’t pay their way any more—we spend more both places than we take out. We would in Britain and Norway, too, if they hadn’t struck oil in the North Sea.” He waited to see if Willi would argue with him. He could call up the budget numbers with a couple of keystrokes and use them as a club to beat his friend over the head.
    But Willi didn’t argue. He knew Heinrich always had facts and figures at his fingertips. Instead, Willi poked through a different part of the Wehrmacht network. He cherished oddities the way Heinrich cherished precision. He got more attention—and certainly more laughs—with them than Heinrich did with tribute assessments, too. That was fine with Heinrich, who didn’t want attention anyhow.
    Willi scrolled down, scrolled down, then all at once stopped short. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, and let out a low whistle of astonishment.
    â€œWas ist los?” Heinrich asked, as he was surely supposed to.
    â€œThey just found three families of Jews in some backwoods village in the Serbian mountains,” Willi answered. “Probably hadn’t seen German soldiers more than three or four times since the war ended. Can you believe it? Real live Jews, in this day and age? Men had their cocks clipped and everything. The damned Serb headman says he didn’t know he was doing anything wrong harboring them. Likely story, eh? You can’t trust Serbs, either—look at those bandits in the news today—and that’s the God’s truth.”
    His rant let Heinrich pull his face straight. “What happened to them?” he asked, his voice steady, mildly curious,as if it had nothing to do with him. Willi drew a thumb across his throat. Heinrich nodded. “Just what they deserved,” he said. Yisgadal v’yiskadash sh’may rabo: the opening words of the Mourner’s Kaddish, lovingly taught him by his father, echoed in his mind. So did another thought. If I show my grief, I am dead. My family is dead. My friends are dead . He showed not a thing.
    Â 
    Herr Kessler leaned forward. To Alicia, as to every other student in the class, he seemed to be leaning straight toward her. He took a deep breath. His usually sallow cheeks turned red. He let out the breath in a great shout: “Jews!”
    Everybody jumped. Half a dozen girls squealed. Alicia’s own start, her own squeal—nearly a shriek—hadn’t betrayed her after all. In fact, no one paid any attention to her. All eyes were riveted on the teacher.
    And Herr Kessler was wrapped up in his own performance. “Jews!” he roared again, even louder than the first time. “Our brave Wehrmacht soldiers caught up with more than a dozen filthy, stinking Jews in the mountains of Serbia. Otto Schachtman!” His forefinger stabbed out at a boy.
    Otto sprang to his feet. “ Jawohl, Herr Kessler!”
    â€œShow me immediately