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The older doctor, the one Rebecca had first thought to be a Moor, cleared his throat. 'You understand, Dr. Balthazar, that while you will be entitled to your full share of the proceeds-one third of what the doctors take in, after the salaries of the nurses and other employees are paid-that you will still, in practice, be-uh-' Nichols hesitated. He was obviously trying to be diplomatic. 'For a time, that is, not forever-uh-'

Balthazar held up his hand. 'Please, Dr. Nichols!' Rebecca's father leaned over and picked up a book lying on the table beside the couch. 'Dr. Adams was so good as to lend this to me yesterday. One of his many volumes on medicine-a textbook, he tells me, from his days as a student.'

Balthazar cradled the heavy tome on his lap, almost caressing it with his fingers. 'I have not been able to read much of it yet, I'm afraid. There are so many new words-not to mention new concepts-that each page must be studied carefully.'

Rebecca stared at the cover of the book. The title was not what drew her attention, however. Something to do with introductory principles of medicine. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the names of the authors.

George White, M.D. Harold O'Brien, M.D. Abraham Cohen, M.D.

Cohen? Her eyes went to Morris Roth. The American Jew seemed to understand the question in her stare. So, at least, she interpreted his little smile and the nod which went with it. Yes.

Her father was still speaking. '-so I understand fully that I will have to learn everything anew.'

Dr. Adams shook his head. 'That's not true, Balthazar. Not even with regard to theory. Your notions about miasmas being the cause of disease are not that far removed from the truth. And your practical knowledge, in many ways, exceeds our own.' He shrugged. 'The truth is, I think you'll have much to teach us about the medications available in this time and place.'

Nichols chuckled. 'I certainly hope so! Just to give one example, our supply of antibiotics will be gone soon, and we can hardly call up the pharmaceutical companies for more.' He made a sour face. 'Then what? Eye of newt? Bat's wings ground up with coriander?'

Balthazar laughed. 'Please! I have always found that Avicenna's great Canon of Medicine has remedies for almost every malady. Many of them even seem to work.'

Nichols and Adams were peering at him skeptically. Dr. Abrabanel spread his hands. 'Of course, you should examine the text yourself, before we prescribe anything.' Hesitantly: 'You do read Arabic?' Seeing the expressions on the faces of the two American doctors, Balthazar shrugged. 'Well, no matter. I believe I have most of the Canon available in a Greek translation.'

Nichols and Adams looked at each other. Adams coughed. Nichols looked like he was choking.

'Dr. Abrabanel,' asked Adams, 'just exactly how many languages can you read?'

'Fluently?' Rebecca's father wiggled his fingers. 'Not more than eight, I'm afraid. Nine, possibly, depending on how you reckon 'fluency.' Hebrew, Arabic and Greek, of course, those being the principal languages of medicine. Spanish and Portuguese are native to my family. And English now, naturally. I spent most of my life on the island. German, French.' Again, he wiggled his fingers. 'My Dutch is becoming quite good, I think. But it would be boasting to say it was fluent as yet.'

He paused, thinking, running fingers through his well-groomed gray beard. 'Beyond that? I can manage Russian and Polish, with nontechnical matters. Italian and Latin, the same. I was concentrating on the Latin, actually, but I was forced to interrupt my studies due to the political state of affairs so that I could learn Swedish.' He frowned. 'It's a charming language, in its own way, but I almost hate to spend the time on it. There is nothing written in Swedish which is not already available in other tongues. Still-' He sighed. 'I felt it would be wise, given the role I was asked to play-'

He cut off abruptly and leaned forward, his face filled with concern. 'Dr. Nichols? Are you ill?'

'No, no,' gasped Nichols, waving his hand weakly. 'I am just-' Cough, cough.

'Jesus Christ,' whispered Adams. 'Almighty.'

Rebecca leaned back in the couch. She managed-successfully, she thought-to keep the pride and satisfaction from showing on her face. Much as she had come to like and admire these Americans, she could not deny the pleasure it gave her to see them-for once!-absent their usual smug complacence.

Perhaps she was not as successful as she thought. Melissa Mailey marched in at that point, took one look at her, and demanded: 'What are you looking so pleased about?'

Rebecca smiled. Demurely, she thought. Intended, at least. 'Oh, it just seems that my father is a more accomplished linguist than these other doctors. Whatever else he may lack.'

'Well, of course!' Melissa snorted. 'Americans are ignorant louts when it comes to language.' The schoolteacher planted her arms akimbo and gave Nichols and Adams the same glare which had cowed thousands of students over the years. 'What?' she demanded. 'Did you think you were actually smarter than these people?'

Then, spotting Judith scurrying from the kitchen with a plate of food in her hands, Melissa transferred the glare. 'And what's this? Two hundred years of progress gone down the drain?'

The glare settled on Rebecca. 'You and I are going to have a talk, young lady. Soon.'

The response was inevitable, inescapable. 'Yes, ma'am.'

Chapter 14

Much later that night, the Roth household was quiet and peaceful. Everyone had gone, except Balthazar, Melissa, and the Roths themselves. Even Rebecca was absent. Michael had insisted that she join the campaign planning effort, which had grown so large that it was being transferred to the high school.

Her father, in the event, was glad of her absence. It allowed him to raise a delicate subject freely, in the company of other Jews. And Melissa, of course. But Balthazar had already made his assessment of her.

'My daughter seems much taken by this Michael Stearns,' he said. His tone was friendly and mild; the words themselves, an open invitation.

Morris and Judith glanced at each other. 'He's a fine young man,' said Judith hesitantly.

'Bullshit,' snapped her husband. He gave the Sephardic doctor a look which combined apology with belligerence. 'Pardon my language, Dr. Abrananel. But I'm not going to dance around about this. Mike Stearns is the closest thing you'll ever find in this world to a genuine goddam prince, and that's all there is to it. Gentile or not.'

Morris leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. 'You read the book I gave you? The one on the Holocaust?'

Balthazar winced, and spread his hand as if to ward off demons. 'As much of it as I could bear. Which was not much.'

Morris took a deep breath. 'The world we came from was no paradise, Dr. Abrananel. Not for Jews, not for anyone. But if there were devils aplenty, there were also those who dealt with them.'

He rose and stalked over to the mantelpiece. Perched next to the menorah was a small photograph, black-and-white, set in a simple frame. Morris took down the photograph and brought it over to Rebecca's father.

He pointed to one of the men in the picture. He was a small man, emaciated to the point of skeletonism, wearing a striped uniform.

'That's my father. The place where the photo was taken is called Buchenwald. It's not far from here, as it happens.' He pointed to another man in the photograph. Taller, healthy looking despite the obvious weariness and grime-and wearing a uniform.

'That's Tom Stearns. Michael's grandfather. He was a sergeant in the American unit that liberated Buchenwald from the Nazis.'

He put the photograph back on the mantelpiece. 'Most people don't know it, but West Virginians-in terms of percentage, of course, not absolute numbers-have provided more soldiers for America's combat units than any other state in the nation, in every major war we fought in the twentieth century.' He turned back to face Abrabanel. 'That's why my father moved here, when he emigrated to the United States after the war. Even though he was the only Jew in Grantville when he first arrived. Tom Stearns had invited him to come, you see. Many others went to Israel, but my father wanted to live near the man who took him out of Buchenwald. It was the safest place he could imagine.'

Morris stared down at Rebecca's father. 'Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Balthazar Abrabanel?'

'Oh, yes,' whispered the doctor. 'We had that dream, once, in Sepharad.' He closed his eyes, reciting from memory:

'Friend, lead me through the vineyards, give me wine

And to the very brim shall joy be mine…

And should I pre-decease you, friend, select

Some spot where vineyards twist, my grave to sink.'

Morris nodded. The nod turned sideways, pointing. 'My father is buried in the town's cemetery. Not far from Tom Stearns, and not far from Michael's father, Jack.' His eyes came back. 'And that's all I've got to say, Dr. Abrabanel.'

Balthazar's shrewd eyes turned to Melissa. 'And you?'

Melissa chuckled. 'I'd hardly call Michael Stearns a 'prince'!' Then, cocking her head sideways, she pursed her lips. 'Well… maybe. As long as we're talking about Prince Hal, the rapscallion.'

Balthazar was startled. 'The prince from Henry IV?' he asked. 'You're familiar with the play?'

It was Melissa's turn to be startled. 'Of course! But how did you-' Her jaw dropped.

'I saw it, how else?' replied Balthazar. 'At the Globe theater in London. I never missed any of the man's plays. Always attended the first performance.'

He rose and began pacing about slowly. 'I was just thinking of it, in fact. Not Henry IV, but The Merchant of Venice.'

He stopped, smiling down at his audience. The expression on the faces of Morris and Judith Roth now mirrored Melissa's. Mouths agape, eyes bulging.

'The most wonderful playwright in the world, in my opinion.' He shook his head. 'I'm afraid you all seem to be misconstruing my question about Michael. I was not concerned over the matter of his faith.'

Balthazar snorted, with half-amused exasperation. 'Bah! I'm a philosopher and a physician, not a moneylender. What did you think? Did you really expect me to start wringing my hands over the prospect that my daughter might be smitten by a gentile?'

Suddenly, he clasped his hands and began wringing them, in histrionic despair. With the same theatrical flair, he twisted his head back and forth. 'O my daughter! O my ducats!'

Melissa burst into laughter. Balthazar grinned at her. Morris and Judith just stared.

Balthazar dropped his hands and resumed his seat. 'No, no, my friends. I assure you that my concern was quite mundane.' For a moment, his kindly face grew stern, almost bitter. 'I have no love for orthodox Jewry, nor they for me. I was cast out because I argued there was as much to be learned from Averroes the Moslem as from