Free Striking the Balance by Harry Turtledove

say yes at this time, but we do not say no. Let us move on to the next item of discussion.”
    “Very well,” Nieh Ho-T’ing said, and Liu Han’s heart sank. The little scaly devils were not in the habit of lying over such matters, and she knew it. Discussion on getting her daughter back would resume. But every day the little girl was away would make her stranger, harder to reclaim. She hadn’t seen a human being since she was three days old. What would she be like, even if Liu Han finally got her back?
     
    From the outside, the railroad car looked like one that hauled baggage. David Nussboym had seen that, before the bored-looking NKVD men, submachine guns in hand but plainly sure they wouldn’t have to use them, herded him and his companions in misfortune into it. Inside, it was divided into nine compartments, like any passenger car.
    In an ordinary passenger car, though, four to a compartment was crowded. People looked resentfully at one another, as if it was the fault of the person on whom the irritated gaze fell that he took up so much space. In each of the five prisoner compartments on this car . . .  Nussboym shook his head. He was a scrupulous man, a meticulous man. He didn’t know how many people each of the other compartments held. He knew there were twenty-five men in his.
    He and three others had perches—not proper seats—upon the baggage racks by the ceiling. The strongest, toughest prisoners lay in relative comfort—and extremely relative it was, too—on the hard middle bunk. The rest sat jammed together on the lower bunk and on the floor, on top of their meager belongings.
    Nussboym’s rackmate was a lanky fellow named Ivan Fyodorov. He understood some of Nussboym’s Polish and a bit of Yiddish when the Polish failed. Nussboym, in turn, could follow Russian after a fashion, and Fyodorov threw in a word of German every now and again.
    He wasn’t a mental giant “Tell me again how you’re here, David Aronovich,” he said. “I’ve never heard a story like yours, not even once.”
    Nussboym sighed. He’d told the story three times already in the two days—he thought it was two days—he’d been perched on the rack. “It’s like this, Ivan Vasilievich,” he said. “I was in Lodz, in Poland, in the part of Poland the Lizards held. My crime was hating the Germans worse than the Lizards.”
    “Why did you do that?” Fyodorov asked. This was the fourth time he’d asked that question, too.
    Up till now, Nussboym had evaded it: your average Russian was no more apt to love Jews than was your average Pole. “Can’t you figure it out for yourself?” he asked now. But, when Fyodorov’s brow furrowed and did not clear, he snapped, “Damn it, don’t you see I’m Jewish?”
    “Oh, that. Yeah, sure, I knew that,” his fellow prisoner said, sunny still. “Ain’t no Russian with a nose that big, anyhow.” Nussboym brought a hand up to the offended member, but Ivan hadn’t seemed to mean anything by it past a simple statement of fact. He went on, “So you were in Lodz. How did you get
here?
That’s what I want to know.”
    “My chums wanted to get rid of me,” Nussboym said bitterly. “They wouldn’t give me to the Nazis—even they aren’t that vile. But they couldn’t leave me in Poland, either, they knew I wouldn’t let them get away with collaborating. So they knocked me unconscious, took me across Lizard-held country till they came to land you Russians still controlled—and they gave me to your border patrols.”
    Fyodorov might not have been a mental giant, but he was a Soviet citizen. He knew what had happened after that. Smiling, he said, “And the border patrol decided you had to be a criminal—and besides, you were a foreigner and a
zhid
to boot—and so they dropped you into the
gulag.
Now I get it.”
    “I’m so glad for you,” Nussboym said sourly.
    The window that looked out from the compartment to the hallway of the prison car had crosshatched bars over it.