He stood in front of her, as if afraid to touch her, just looking. He said: “So beautiful still, and not poor . . .” Impulsively, she stepped forward, kissed his cheek, then stepped back again. She did not know what to say. He said: “Your grandfather, my father, has died.” She took his arm and led him up the stairs. It was all unreal, irrational, like a dream. Inside the apartment she said: “You should eat,” and took him into the kitchen. She put a pan on to heat and began to beat the eggs. With her back to her father she said: “How did you find me?” “I’ve always known where you were,” he said. “Your friend Esme writes to her father, who sometimes I see.” Esme was an acquaintance, rather than a friend, but Elene ran into her every two or three months. She had never let on that she was writing home. Elene said: “I didn’t want you to ask me to come back.” “And what would I have said to you? ‘Come home, it is your duty to starve with your family.’ No. But I knew where you were.” She sliced tomatoes into the omelet. “You would have said it was better to starve than to live immorally.” “Yes, I would have said that. And would I have been Wrongr, She turned to took at him. The glaucoma which had taken the sight of his left eye years ago was now spreading to the right. He was fifty-five, she calculated: he looked seventy. “Yes, you would have been wrong,” she said. “It is always better to live.” “Perhaps it is.” Her surprise must have shown on her face, for he explained: “I’m not as certain of these things as I used to be. I’m getting old.” Elene halved the omelet and slid it on to two plates. She put bread on the table. Her father washed his hands, then blessed the bread. “Blessed art thou 0 Lord our God, King of the Universe . . .” Elene was surprised that the prayer did not drive her into a fury. In the blackest moments of her lonely life she had cursed and raged at her father and his re- ligion for what it had driven her to. She had tried to cultivate an attitude of indifference, perhaps mild contempt; but she THE KEY TO REBECCA 203
had not quite succeeded. Now, watching him pray, she thought: And what do I do, when this man whom I bate turns up on the doorstep? I kiss his cheek, and I bring him inside, and I give him supper. They began to eat. Her father had been very hungry, and wolfed his food. Elene wondered why be had come. Was it just to tell her of the death of her grandfather? No. That was part of it, perhaps. but there would be more. She asked about her sisters. After the death of their mother all four of them, in their different ways, had broken with their father. Two had gone to America, one had married the son of her father’s greatest enemy, and the youngest, Naomi, had chosen the surest escape, and died. It dawned on Elene that her father was destroyed. He asked her what she was doing. She decided to tell him the truth. ‘The British are trying to catch a man, a German, they think is a spy. It’s my job to befriend him … I’m the bait in a snare. But . . . I think I may not help them anymore.” He had stopped eating. “Are you afraid?” She nodded. “He’s very dangerous. He killed a soldier with a knife. Last night … I was to meet him in a restaurant and the British were to arrest him there, but something went wrong and I spent the whole evening with him, I was so frightened, and when it was over, the Englishman . . .” She stopped, and took a deep breath. “Anyway, I may not help them anymore.” Her father went on eating. “Do you love this Englishman?” “He isn’t Jewish,” she said defiantly. “I’ve given up judging everyone,” he said. Elene could not take it all in. Was there nothing of the old man left? ‘Mey finished their meal, and Elene got up to make him a glass of tea. He said: “The Germans are coming. It will be very bad for Jews. I’m getting out.” She frowned. “Where will you go?” “Jerusalem.” “How will you gf* there? The trains are full, there’s a quota for Jews-” “I am going to walk.” 204 Ken Follett