The Big Switch twtce-3

by Harry Turtledove

  As an infantryman, he obviously would have been first-rate. As a flyer… Sergei wasn’t so sure. Anastas Mouradian talked too damn much. Stas thought too damn much. By all appearances, that wouldn’t be Federov’s problem. But Mouradian was outstanding in the cockpit. Sergei feared that wouldn’t be Federov’s problem, either.

  A safe question first: “What’s your father’s name, Comrade Lieutenant?”

  “Mikhail, Comrade Pilot.” By his accent, Federov came from somewhere near Moscow. Not from in the city, or Sergei didn’t think so, but also not from somewhere in the backwoods.

  “All right, Vladimir Mikhailovich. I’m Sergei Valentinovich.” Maybe Vladimir would turn to Volodya, as Anastas had become Stas. Or maybe not. Yaroslavsky shrugged to himself. Time would tell.

  “And our bomb-dropper is…?” Federov asked.

  “Ivan Kuchkov. He’s a sergeant, a very strong man, and nothing scares him,” Sergei answered. “Of course, he has his quirks, but who doesn’t?”

  “Nobody, I’m sure,” Federov agreed politely. “What are some of his?”

  “Why don’t you see for yourself? You’ll meet him soon.” Sergei didn’t want to say that the bomb-aimer made the burly Federov svelte by comparison. He also didn’t want to say Sergeant Kuchkov was one of the hairiest men he’d ever seen, not just on his head but all over his body. People called Kuchkov the Chimp, but not where he could hear them do it: he had a habit of throwing men who used the nickname through windows, doors, walls…

  And Sergei didn’t want to say that Ivan conversed almost entirely in mat, the Russian sublanguage of ingenious obscenity. Sergei didn’t even think the bomb-dropper had been a zek before the draft got him. If ever a man was made for mat, Ivan Kuchkov was that man.

  Since he didn’t want to say any of those things, he asked, “How did you become a flyer?”

  “Oh, the usual way,” Federov replied. “I was in Osoaviakhim when I was a kid, and I did well enough that they kept me at it after I got called up.”

  Yaroslavsky nodded. His own story wasn’t much different. Nominally, Osoaviakhim was the national organization that trained civilian pilots. The skills a civilian pilot needed, of course, were the same as the ones flying a fighter or bomber required. No one ever said that out loud, which made it no less true. The Germans had used the same dodge to slide around the Treaty of Versailles’ ban on military aviation.

  As Sergei had unpleasant reason to know, Luftwaffe pilots and bombardiers were mostly excellent. As he also had unpleasant reason to know, his own country’s standards were rather lower.

  “How’s the plane?” Vladimir Federov asked. “This’ll be the first time I’ve been in an SB-2.”

  That news disappointed Sergei without surprising him. Experienced copilots like Mouradian were getting planes of their own. Inexperienced men were getting experience instead. And what do I get? Yaroslavsky wondered. He silently answered his own question: I get to be a nursemaid, that’s what.

  Aloud, he said, “When we supported the Spanish Republic, people called the SB-2 the fighting bomber-it was faster in the air than any of the fighters the Fascists were using.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” Federov answered.

  “Well, forget it,” Sergei said bluntly. “It was true when we were going up against biplanes. It sure as hell isn’t true any more. German Messerschmitts are like sharks against mackerel. Even the Polish PZLs will out-fly us and outshoot us. What we do when fighters are around is, we run. Otherwise, it’s dos vidanya, Rodina. ”

  “ ‘So long, Motherland,’ ” Federov echoed. “So when do we get bombers that can hold their own against enemy fighters?”

  “Probably never,” Sergei replied, which made his new copilot give him a long, slow blink. He explained: “Bombers bomb. Fighters shoot bombers down. Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? But it’s not just obvious. It’s true. Bombers carry more weight, they’re less maneuverable, and they have fewer guns pointing forward. We do our best to hold off fighters, but we can’t play their game. We play our own game instead.”

  Lieutenant Federov blinked again, the same way. It was an odd, stagy expression. Sergei wondered what lay behind it. Was Federov an NKVD man building a case against him because he had the gall to point out a plain truth? Too late to worry about it now.

  “Come on,” Sergei said. “You want to see the plane? I’ll show you.”

  The SB-2 sat in a revetment. A white sheet hid it from prying eyes-and from Nazi reconnaissance aircraft. In the shadow cast by the sheet, a mechanic worked on the starboard engine. He sketched a salute for Sergei and gave Vladimir Federov a curious look: word that Mouradian had been transferred hadn’t got to everybody.

  Ivan Kuchkov was sitting in the pilot’s seat when Sergei led Federov into the cockpit. The two men who didn’t know each other stared. “Who are you?” Federov asked, at the same time as Kuchkov belligerently demanded, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “That should be ‘Who the fuck are you, sir?’ ” Sergei said, and made the introductions. The Chimp looked at Federov as if to say Red Air Force standards were lower than he’d thought. The new copilot looked at Kuchkov as if to say he hadn’t expected to see one like this outside of a zoo. As meetings went, it wasn’t a success. Sergei could see that right off the bat.

  Federov didn’t say anything much. Kuchkov muttered profanely under his breath, but not far enough under it. Sergei, and no doubt the new officer as well, learned that he thought Federov looked like a jerk and talked like a jerkoff. In point of fact, the Chimp expressed himself more frankly.

  He expressed himself so frankly that Sergei leaned close to him. “Come on, Ivan,” he said quietly. “You can’t talk about a new crewmate like that.”

  “Why the fuck not?” Ivan returned, still not bothering to hold his voice down. “We’re supposed to fly with that whistleass peckerhead? My dick we are! He’ll screw us over some kind of way-you wait and see.”

  “How can you tell?” Sergei asked, clinically curious.

  “ Bozhemoi! Just look at the motherfucker. Fuck me in the mouth if he’s not on the lam for something or other.”

  Sergei didn’t think Vladimir Federov looked like a robber one jump in front of the law. To him, the new crewman seemed more like a would-be tough guy than the genuine article. Trying to explain that to Ivan would be pointless. It would also be hopeless, because the Chimp was no more inclined to listen than a veritable anthropoid would have been.

  Disastrous introduction or not, they flew their first mission together three days later. They-and their squadron of SB-2s-bombed the train station in Bialystok to keep the Fascists from moving men and materiel through it. Federov seemed able to handle the instruments and calculations a bomb-aimer had to use. Sergei wasn’t sure the plane’s bombs hit the station, but they came as close as anyone else’s.

  After the SB-2 came back to the airstrip, though, Ivan Kuchkov said, “See? I told you he was a useless cocksucker.” Sergei sighed. Weren’t the Nazis enough trouble? Plainly, Ivan didn’t think so. arah Goldman and her mother and father stood in a long line outside the Munster Rathaus. Everybody in the line-graybeards, younger adults, children, babies-was Jewish. Everyone except the babies (exempt by the tender mercy of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party) wore on his or her clothes a prominently displayed six-pointed yellow star with Jude imprinted on it in big, black, Hebraic-style letters.

  The Nazis had figured out a brand-new way to make life miserable for Jewish residents in Germany. (Jews were no longer citizens of the Third Reich.) They all had to get new identity cards. And on each of those cards would be a new first name branding its possessor as a Jew-as if everything else the Reich had done were somehow inadequate.

  From now on, her father, Samuel Goldman, would legally become Moses Samuel Goldman. All Jewish men in Germany would have Moses grafted on in front of whatever their first name happened to be. All Jewish women would have a new first name affixed in front of their own, too. For them, it was… Sarah
.

  “No fair,” Sarah said as the queue slowly advanced. “They shouldn’t need to bother with me. My card’s already fine. I could have stayed home and twiddled my thumbs instead of coming with you and-”

  “Twiddling your thumbs here,” Father finished for her. “Even if you’ve already got the name the government aims to give you, it’s just as well you came along. The new card will probably be different from the old one some other way, too. The people who run things will be able to see who’s, God forbid, using an old ID card, and all the people who are will catch it.”

  He’d spent many years in the classroom and lecture hall, passing on his knowledge of ancient Greece and especially Rome. Like an actor, he could put anything he wanted into his voice. A stranger walking by would be sure he approved of all the moves the government made. So would an informer. Sarah knew better. So did her mother. Neither Sarah nor Hanna Goldman said anything, though. Why stir up more trouble? Didn’t Jews in Germany already have plenty?

  Although a bright sun shone down from a blue sky, it was still bitterly cold. Sarah couldn’t remember a winter that had dug its claws in deeper or clung to Germany, to all of Europe, harder. Neither could Father, who’d spent three winters in the trenches during the last war. That he was a wounded, decorated veteran made things a little easier for the Goldmans than they were for most German Jews. Not much, but a little. When you weren’t in such good shape, you took what you could get.

  Naturally, the Jews went into the city hall by a side entrance. If that line had snaked up the stairs to the main doorway, Jews might have-gasp!-inconvenienced Aryans. In the Third Reich, what could be worse? Nothing either Sarah or Nazi officials could think of.

  Portraits of Hitler, Goring, Goebbels, and other Nazi Bonzen hung on the walls of the hallway along which the Jews had to go. Maybe it was Sarah’s imagination, but the photographs seemed to be glowering at the Chosen People. Maybe it was her imagination, but she didn’t think so.

  When she whispered her thought to Father, he snorted softly and whispered back: “Chosen People, nothing. We’re the Singled-Out People, is what we are.”

  “Yes!” Sarah exclaimed. The phrase fit much too well. God had singled out the Jews all those years ago, and now the Nazis were doing it instead. Didn’t that mean the Nazis had assumed the mantle of divinity? If you asked them, they would tell you yes.

  Along with the National Socialists’ icons hung portraits of the local Party leaders, men nobody outside of Munster would recognize. They looked just as peevish as the Nazi big shots who ordered much of Europe around from Berlin. Maybe they were less ambitious, maybe only less lucky. Some of them seemed quite ready to start telling Czechs and Danes and Dutchmen what to do.

  Down the hallway swept a strange apparition: the Bishop of Munster, in full ecclesiastical regalia: a uniform far older and, to Sarah’s eyes, far more impressive than the quasi-military garb that so delighted the Nazis. He stopped and asked one of the Jews, “What are you poor, unhappy people doing here?”

  The man explained. Even speaking politely to a Jew could land someone in trouble. But Clemens August von Galen was already in trouble with the authorities for having the nerve to complain about the way they tried to rein in the Catholic Church in Germany. If they wanted to toss him into a concentration camp, they didn’t need to blame him for being friendly to Jews.

  He rolled his eyes now at the answer he got. “This is a disgrace,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. “They aren’t content with harassing you every other way they can think of? Now they have to rob you of your names, too?”

  No one was brave enough to reply to him after that. Nazi functionaries clumped up and down the corridor in their shiny jackboots. Anything a Jew said would be noted and held against him.

  “Disgraceful,” the Bishop of Munster said again. Robes swirling around him, he strode away. Sarah was far from the only Jew who stared admiringly after him. You couldn’t get in trouble for just looking. She didn’t think you could, anyhow.

  Her father leaned close and whispered in her ear: “If a few hundred important people had spoken up like that when things were starting out, none of this Schweinerei would have happened. None of it could have happened.”

  “But they didn’t,” Sarah answered.

  “I know,” said Samuel Goldman-former professor of ancient history and classics, now a road-gang laborer. No wonder he sounded bleak. Things were bleak for the Jews of Munster, as they were for Jews all over Germany.

  Typewriters clattered up ahead as clerks made out the new identity cards. In due course, the Goldmans reached the front of the line. They duly surrendered their old cards. The new blanks, Sarah saw, had JEW printed on them in much bigger letters than the old ones had used.

  “For all official purposes, you are now Moses Samuel Goldman,” their clerk said as he handed Father his new card.

  “I understand,” Father answered. That was safe enough. He didn’t have to tell the clerk whether he agreed or approved. But he couldn’t very well fail to understand.

  Mother got hers next. “For all official purposes, you are now Sarah Hanna Goldman,” the clerk droned.

  She also said, “I understand.”

  Then it was Sarah’s turn. The clerk started to type, but hesitated. He got up from behind the desk and went over to talk with an older man a couple of desks away. Sarah couldn’t hear what they said. Her clerk shrugged and came back. He typed again, this time with assurance: someone had told him what to do, and he was doing it.

  Handing Sarah her new card, he intoned, “For all official purposes, you are now Sarah Sarah Goldman.”

  “What? That’s silly!” she blurted.

  “That is what regulations require in your circumstances. I have verified it with Herr Memminger, my supervisor.” The clerk nodded toward the older man. He sounded as confident as a Catholic who’d just consulted with Bishop von Galen on a subtle theological point.

  “It’s still silly,” Sarah said.

  “If you feel strongly enough about the matter, you may make a formal complaint to the Office for Jewish Affairs in Berlin,” the clerk said with no irony Sarah could hear.

  She gulped. “Never mind,” she said quickly. The last thing-the very last thing-she wanted was to draw the notice of the Office for Jewish Affairs. No matter how bad things were, they could always get worse.

  “Very well,” the clerk said. “Goldmans, is everything on your cards now correct? At this time, there is no fee for adjusting them. If you find an error later and return to have it changed, the law requires a ten-Reichsmark charge.”

  Did the law require the same thing for Aryans? It might. Governments were greedy whenever they found the chance. Sarah checked the card. Except for being ridiculous, it was accurate. So were her parents’. They all got out of there as fast as they could. Sarah, Sarah… When they were smaller, her brother would have turned it into a mocking chant. Even the Office for Jewish Affairs didn’t know what had happened to Saul. Sarah did, but she would never, ever tell.

  Pete McGill was full of what a philosopher might have called existential despair. Pete was no philosopher. He was a hard-faced, raspy-voiced Marine corporal, one of the relatively small garrison charged with protecting the American consulate in Shanghai. Back in the days when the Marines, like similar forces from the European powers, protected their country’s interests against Chinese mobs, the arrangement had been reasonable enough. (The Chinese didn’t think so, but the next time any of the powers worried about what the Chinese thought would be the first.)

  Things were different now, though. Like Peking (where Pete had served before coming closer to the coast, to a city where evacuation by sea was possible), Shanghai lay under Japanese occupation. The Japs had divisions’ worth of infantry near the two big cities. The Western powers’ companies of troops stayed on only because Japan didn’t feel like cleaning them out. Existing on Japanese sufferance rubbed Pete-and the rest of the leathernecks-the wrong way.

  But
that was only an insult, an accident of geopolitics. It was plenty to piss Pete off. Existential despair, though? No way in hell. What drove him there was falling head over heels for a White Russian taxi dancer named Vera. She was a blonde. She was built. She was, in his admittedly biased opinion, drop-dead gorgeous. She screwed like there was no tomorrow. She was even smart. And, in spite of that last, she gave every appearance of having fallen head over heels for Pete.

  It was the kind of romance officers went out of their way to warn you against. Blah, blah, blah till they were as blue in the face as a USMC dress uniform. A lot of the time, of course, a guy fell for a girl simply because he was horny. Or a girl looked at a guy and saw a meal ticket, a sugar daddy, maybe even somebody who could get her to the States.

  Vera wasn’t like that-Pete was sure of it. Oh, he’d bought her presents. But so what? In China, even a Marine corporal’s miserable pay stretched as if rubberized. And he had looked into what it would take for her to go back to America with him. That was because he loved her and wanted to stay with her forever, though, not because she’d pushed him into it. He was as sure of that as he was of his own name.

  By what the Marine lieutenant with whom he’d spoken told him, he had two chances of getting Vera across the Pacific: slim and none. And that was what really left him floundering in the slough of despond.

  Being sloppy drunk sure didn’t help. He sat in a bar not far from the consulate, one of a long procession of whiskey-and-sodas in front of him. The dive was called the Globe and Anchor. As its name implied, it catered to Marines. On the barstool next to him sat another leatherneck, a bruiser named Herman Szulc. He was a Polack with a Slavic spelling for his German name, which was pronounced Schultz.

  Pete poured out his tale of woe. It wasn’t as if Szulc hadn’t heard it before. He had. But whiskey and loneliness made Pete talk-and talk and talk and talk. “I’ll never get her back to New York City,” he mourned, that being where he was born and raised and did such sketchy growing up as he’d done before the Corps got its hands on him. “Never!”