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“Some do,” his father said. “Maybe even most do. But some don’t take anything seriously-for a while, when you were a little younger, I was afraid you might be one of those, but I think every young man makes his father worry about that.” He let out a wry chuckle, then sighed. “And some-a few-go to this temple the Lizards put up and give reverence to the spirits of Emperors past.”
“Jane went,” Reuven said. “She had to, if she wanted to stay in the medical college. She always said it wasn’t anything bad-said the atmosphere put her in mind of a church, as a matter of fact.”
“I never said it was bad-for the Race,” Moishe Russie replied. “Or even for people, necessarily. But it’s not a place for Jews. A church isn’t bad. A mosque isn’t bad. But they’re not ours.” He paused. “You know the word apikoros?”
“I’ve heard it,” Reuven answered. “It’s as much Yiddish as Hebrew, isn’t it? Means somebody who doesn’t believe or doesn’t practice, doesn’t it?”
His father nodded. “Usually a particular kind of person who doesn’t believe or practice: the kind who thinks it’s unscientific to believe in God, if you know what I mean. Comes from the name of the Greek philosopher Epicurus. Now, I happen to think Epicurus was a good man, not a bad one, though I know plenty of rabbis who’d have a stroke if they heard me say that. But he wasn’t ours, either. Back in the days of the Maccabees, ideas like his led too many people away from being Jews. These shrines to the spirits of Emperors past are another verse of the same song.”
“I suppose so,” Reuven said after some thought. “A good education will make you an apikoros sometimes, too, won’t it?”
“It can,” Moishe Russie agreed. “It doesn’t have to. If it did, you’d be in… where in Canada did Jane end up?”
“Somewhere called Edmonton,” Reuven answered. She’d sent a couple of enthusiastic letters. He’d written back, but she’d been a while replying now. As she’d said she would, she was busy making a new life for herself in a land where the Lizards didn’t rule.
“Canada,” his father said in musing tones. “I wonder how she’ll like the winters there. They aren’t like the ones in Jerusalem, or like the ones in Australia, either, I don’t think. More like Warsaw, unless I miss my guess.” He shuddered. “The weather is one more thing I don’t miss about Poland.”
Almost all of Reuven’s childhood memories of the land where he’d been born were of hunger and fear and cold. He asked, “Is there anything you do miss about Poland?”
His father started to shake his head, but checked himself. Quietly, he answered, “All the people the Nazi mamzrim murdered.”
Reuven didn’t know what to say to that. In the end, he didn’t say anything directly, but asked, “Has Anielewicz had any luck finding his family?”
“Not the last I heard,” his father answered. “And that doesn’t look good, either. The fighting’s been over for a while. Of course”-he did his best to sound optimistic-“a country’s a big place, and I doubt even the verkakte Germans could keep proper records while the Lizards were pounding them to pieces.”
“Alevai you’re right, and alevai they’ll turn up.” Reuven walked around the last corner before their office. “And now we’ve turned up, too.”
After the grim talk, Moishe Russie put on a smile. “Bad pennies have a way of doing that. I wonder what we have waiting for us today.”
“Something interesting, maybe?” Reuven suggested, holding the door open for his father. “When I started practice, I didn’t think so much of it would be just… routine.”
“That’s not always bad,” his father said. “The interesting cases are usually the hard ones, too, the ones that don’t always turn out so well.”
“Did you become a doctor so you could sew up cut legs and give babies shots and tell people with strep throats to take penicillin?” Reuven asked. “Or did you want to see things you’d never seen before, maybe things nobody else had seen, either?”
“I became a doctor for two reasons: to make sick people better, and to make a living,” Moishe Russie answered. “If I see a patient who’s got something I’ve never seen before, I always worry, because that means I haven’t got any knowledge to fall back on. I have to start guessing, and it’s easier to guess wrong than it is to guess right.”
“You’d better be careful, Father,” Reuven said. “You sound like you’re in danger of turning into a conservative.”
“Some ways maybe,” Moishe Russie said. “That’s what general practice does-it makes you glad for routine. Consider yourself warned. If you wanted to stay radical your whole life long, you should have gone in for surgery. Surgeons always think they can do anything. That’s because they get to play God in the operating room, and they have trouble remembering the difference between the One Who made bodies and the ones who try to repair them.”
They went into the office. “Good morning, Dr. Russie,” Yetta the receptionist said, and then, “Good morning, Dr. Russie.” She smiled and laughed at her own wit. Reuven smiled, too, but it wasn’t easy. He’d heard the same joke every third morning since starting in practice with his father, and he was bloody sick of it.
His father managed a smile that looked something like sincere. “Good morning,” he said, a good deal more heartily than Reuven could have done. “What appointments have we got today?”
Yetta ran down the list: a woman with a skin fungus they’d been fighting for weeks, another woman bringing in her baby for a booster shot, a man with a cough, another man-a diabetic-with an abscess on his leg, a woman with belly pain, a man with belly pain… “Maybe we can do both of those at once,” Reuven suggested. “Two for the price of one.” His father snorted. Yetta looked disapproving. She liked her own jokes fine, no matter how often she repeated them. A doctor making jokes about medicine was almost as bad as a rabbi making jokes about religion.
“All right, we’ll have enough to do today, even without the people who just drop in,” his father said. “We’ll have some of those, too, I expect; we always do.” Some people, of course, got sick unexpectedly. Others didn’t believe in appointments, any more than Reuven believed in Muhammad as a prophet.
He got to see the woman with the stubborn skin fungus, a Mrs. Kratz. Yetta stayed in the room to make sure nothing improper occurred, as she did with all female patients. Custom aside, she could have stayed out. Reuven had no lecherous interest in Mrs. Kratz, and would have had none even without the fungus on her leg. She was plump and gray and older than his father.
“Here,” he said, and handed her a little plastic tube. “This is a new cream. It’s a sample, about four days’ worth. Use it twice a day, then call and let us know how it’s doing. If it helps, I’ll write you a prescription for more.”
“All right, Doctor.” She sighed. “I hope one of these creams works one of these days.”
“This one is supposed to be very strong,” Reuven said solemnly. The active ingredient, one new to human medicine, was closely related to the chemical the Lizards used to fight what they called the purple itch. He didn’t tell that to Mrs. Kratz. He judged her more likely to take offense than to be delighted.
After she left, the man with a cough came in. Reuven’s nose wrinkled. “How much do you smoke, Mr. Sadorowicz?” he asked; the aroma that clung to the fellow’s clothes gave him a head start on etiology here.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Sadorowicz answered, coughing. “Whenever I feel like it. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Reuven delivered his standard lecture on the evils of tobacco. Mr. Sadorowicz plainly didn’t believe a word of it. He didn’t want to get an X-ray when Reuven recommended one, either. He didn’t want to do anything Reuven suggested. Reuven wondered why the devil he’d bothered coming in. Mr. Sadorowicz departed, still coughing.
Yetta came in again. “Here’s Mrs. Radofsky and her daughter, Miriam. She’s here for Miriam’s tetanus booster.”
“All right,” Reuven answered. Then he brightened: Mrs. Radofsky was a nice
-looking brunette not far from his own age, while Miriam, who was about two, gave him a high-wattage little-girl smile. “Hello,” Reuven said to her mother. “I’m afraid I’m going to make her unhappy for a little while. Her arm may swell up and be tender for a couple of days, and she may run a bit of a fever. If it’s anything more than that, bring her back and we’ll see what we can do.” It wouldn’t be much, but he didn’t say that.
He rubbed Miriam’s arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab. She giggled at the sensation of cold, then shrieked when he injected her. He sighed. He’d known she would. He taped a square of gauze over the injection site.
Mrs. Radofsky cuddled and comforted her daughter till she forgot about the horrific indignity she’d just suffered. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said. “I appreciate that, even if Miriam doesn’t. I want to do everything I can to keep her well. She’s all I’ve got to remember her father by.”
“Oh?” Reuven said.
