Harry Turtledove - Striking the Balance

“Almost makes you wish they won the war, don’t it?” Muldoon said.

“Yeah,” Mutt said. “Almost.”

Whatever Mordechai Anielewicz was lying on, it wasn’t a feather bed. He pulled himself to his feet. Something wet was running down his cheek. When he put his hand against it, the palm came away red.

Bertha Fleishman sprawled in the street, in amongst the tumbled bricks from which he had just arisen. She had a cut on her leg and another one, a nasty one, on the side of her head that left her scalp matted with blood. She moaned: not words, just sound. Her eyes didn’t quite track.

Fear running through him, Mordechai stooped and hauled her upright. His head was filled with a hissing roar, as if a giant high-pressure air hose had sprung a leak right between his ears. Through that roar, he heard not only Bertha’s moan but the screams and cries and groans of dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of injured people.

If he’d walked another fifty meters closer to the fire station, he wouldn’t have been injured. He would have been dead. The realization oozed slowly through his stunned brain. “If I hadn’t stopped to chat with you-” he told Bertha.

She nodded, though her expression was still faraway. “What happened?” Her lips shaped the words, but they had no breath behind them-or maybe Anielewicz was even deafer than he thought.

“Some kind of explosion,” he said. Then, later than he should have, he figured out what kind of explosion: “A bomb.” Again, he seemed to be thinking with mud rather than brains, because he needed several more seconds before he burst out, “Skorzeny!”

The name reached Bertha Fleishman, where nothing had before it “Gottenyu!” she said, loud enough for Anielewicz to hear and understand. “We have to stop him!”

That was true. They had to stop him-if they could. The Lizards had never managed it. Anielewicz wondered if anyone could. One way or the other, he was going to find out.

He looked around. There in the chaos, using a bandage from the aid kit he wore on his belt, squatted Heinrich Jager. The old Jew who held out a mangled hand to him didn’t know he’d been a Wehrmacht panzer colonel, or care. And Jager, by the practiced, careful way he worked, didn’t worry about the religion of the man he was helping. Beside him, his Russian girlfriend-another story about which Anielewicz knew less than he would have liked-was tying what looked like an old wool sock around a little boy’s bloody knee.

Anielewicz tapped Jager on the shoulder. The German whirled around, snatching for the submachine gun he’d set down on the pavement so he could help the old man. “You’re alive,” he said, relaxing a little when he realized who Mordechai was.

“I think so, anyhow.” Anielewicz waved at the hurly-burly all around. “Your friend plays rough.”

“This is what I told you,” the German answered. He looked around, too, but only for a moment. “This is probably a diversion-probably not the only one, either. Wherever the bomb is, you’d better believe Skorzeny’s somewhere close by.”

As if on cue, another explosion rocked Lodz. This one came from the east; gauging the sound, Anielewicz thought it had gone off not far from the ruined factory sheltering the stolen weapon. He hadn’t told Jager where that factory was, not quite trusting him. Now he had no more choice. If Skorzeny was around there, he’d need all the help he could get.

“Let’s go,” he said. Jager nodded, quickly finished the bandaging job, and grabbed the Schmeisser. The Russian girl-the Russian pilot-Ludmila-drew her pistol. Anielewicz nodded. They started off. Mordechai looked back toward Bertha, but she’d slumped down onto the pavement again. He wished he had her along, too, but she didn’t look able to keep up, and he didn’t dare wait. The next blast wouldn’t be a fire station. It wouldn’t be whatever building had gone up in the latest explosion. It would be Lodz.

Nothing was left of the fire station. Petrol flames leaped high through the wreckage-the fire engine was burning. Mordechai kicked a quarter of a brick as hard as he could, sending it spinning away. Solomon Gruver had been in there. Later on-if he lived-he’d grieve.

The Mauser thumped against his shoulder as he trotted along. It didn’t bother him; he noticed it only at odd moments. What did bother him was how little ammunition jingled in his pockets. The rifle bore a full five-round clip, but he didn’t have enough cartridges to refill that clip more than once or twice. He hadn’t expected to fight today.

“How are you fixed for ammunition?” he asked Jager.

“Full magazine in the weapon, one more full one here.” The German pointed to his belt. “Sixty rounds altogether.”

That was better, but it wasn’t as good as Mordechai had hoped.

You could go through the magazine of a submachine gun in a matter of seconds. He reminded himself Jager was a panzer colonel. If a German soldier-a German officer, no less-didn’t maintain fire discipline, who would?

Maybe nobody. When bullets started cracking past your head, maintaining discipline of any sort came hard.

“And I, I have only the rounds in my pistol,” Ludmila said. Anielewicz nodded. She was coming along. Jager seemed to think she had every right to come along, but Jager was sleeping with her, too, so how much was his opinion worth? Enough that Anielewicz didn’t feel like bucking it, not when anybody who wouldn’t run away at the sound of a gunshot was an asset. She’d been in the Red Air Force and she’d been a partisan here in Poland, so maybe she’d be useful after all. His own fighters had shown him some women could do the job-and some men couldn’t.

He passed a good many of his own fighters as he hurried with Jager and Ludmila toward the ruined factory. Several shouted questions at him. He gave only vague answers, and did not ask any of the men or women to join. None of them was privy to the secret of the explosive-metal bomb, and he wanted to keep the circle of those who were as small as possible. If he stopped Skorzeny, he didn’t want to have to risk playing a game of Samson in the temple with the Lizards afterwards. Besides, troops who didn’t know what they were getting into were liable to cause more problems than they solved.

A couple of Order Service policemen also recognized him and asked him where he was going. Them he ignored. He was used to ignoring the Order Service. They were used to being ignored, too. Men who carried truncheons were polite to men with rifles and submachine guns: either they were polite, or their loved ones (assuming Order Service police had any loved ones, a dubious proposition) said Kaddish over new graves in the cemetery.

Jager was starting to pant “How far is it?” he asked on the exhale. Sweat streamed down his face and darkened his shirt at the back and under the arms.

Anielewicz was shvitzing, too. The day was hot and bright and clear, pleasant if you were just lounging around but not for running through the streets of Lodz. This couldn’t have happened, say, in fall? he thought. Aloud, though, he answered, “Not much farther. Nothing in the ghetto is very far from anything else. You Nazis didn’t leave us much room here, you know.”

Jager’s mouth tightened. “Can’t you leave that alone when you talk to me? If I hadn’t got through to you, you’d have been dead twice by now.”

“That’s true,” Mordechai admitted. “But it only goes so far. How many thousands of Jews died here before anyone said anything?” He gave Jager credit. The German visibly chewed on that for a few strides before nodding.

A cloud of smoke was rising. As Mordechai had thought from the sound, it was close to the place where the bomb lay concealed. Somebody shouted to him, “Where’s the fire engine?”