In the Presence of Mine Enemies by Harry Turtledove

reminded Lise that life wasn’t fair for Jews, never had been, and probably never would be. But we—somehow—go on anyway, Heinrich thought. His wife didn’t answer him. He did stop tickling her.
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    Esther Stutzman worked a couple of mornings a week as a receptionist at a pediatrician’s office. It wasn’t so much that the family needed the money; they didn’t. But she was a gregarious soul, and she’d wanted to see people after Gottlieb and Anna started going to school and didn’t need to be looked after all the time.
    The doctor was a short, plump man named Martin Dambach. He wasn’t a Jew. Several of his patients were, but he didn’t know that. “Good morning, Frau Stutzman,” he said when Esther came in.
    â€œGood morning, Doctor,” she answered. “How are you today?”
    â€œTired,” he said, and rubbed his eyes. “There was a traffic accident outside the house in the middle of the night—one of the drivers reeked like a brewery—and I gave what help I could. Then the police wanted to talk with me, which cost me another hour of sleep. Would you please get the coffeemaker going?”
    â€œHow awful! Of course I will,” Esther said. Dr. Dambach was a skilled and knowledgeable physician, but when he tangled with the percolator he turned out either hot water faintly tinged with brown or unpalatable mud. As she got the coffee started, she asked, “Was anyone badly hurt?”
    â€œNot the drunk,” he said sourly. “He was so limp and relaxed, you could have dropped him from the top of theGreat Hall and he wouldn’t have got hurt when he hit the ground. A woman in the other car broke her leg, and I’m afraid the man with her had internal injuries. They took him away in an ambulance.”
    â€œWhat will they do to the drunk?” Esther asked.
    Dr. Dambach looked less happy still. “That I cannot tell you. He kept blithering on about what an important fellow he was in the Party. If he was lying, he’ll be sorry. But if he was telling the truth…You know how these things go.”
    Being an Aryan, the pediatrician could afford to grumble about the way the world worked. Esther Stutzman nodded, but she never would have complained herself. Even nodding made her feel as if she was taking a chance.
    â€œWhat appointments do we have this morning?” Dambach asked.
    â€œLet me look.” She went to the register. “There are…three immunizations, and the Fischers will be bringing in their seven-year-old for you to check his scoliosis, and—” The telephone rang, interrupting her. She picked it up. “Dr. Dambach’s office. How may I help you?…Yes…Can you bring her in at ten-thirty?…All right. Thank you.” She turned back to the doctor. “And Lotte Friedl has a sore throat.”
    â€œProbably the first of several,” Dambach said, in which he was probably right. “Anything else?”
    â€œYes, Doctor. The Kleins are bringing in their little boy for another checkup,” Esther answered. She tried not to change her tone of voice. Richard and Maria Klein and their son, Paul, were Jews—though Paul, who was only eight months old, had no idea that he was.
    Dr. Dambach frowned. “Paul Klein, ja . That baby is not thriving as he should, and I do not know why.” He sounded personally affronted at not knowing, too. He was a good doctor; he had that relentless itch to find out.
    â€œMaybe you’ll see something this time that you didn’t notice before,” Esther said. She paused and sniffed. “And the coffee’s just about ready.”
    â€œGood,” Dambach said. “Pour me a big cup, please. I have to get my brains from somewhere today.”
    The outer door to the waiting room opened. In came thefirst patient and her mother. Esther started to say hello, then got interrupted when the telephone rang again. Sure