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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

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The Robertses had not uttered a word for twenty minutes. When they saw the cash change hands it crossed Margaret's mind that it was more money than the two of them earned in a year.
“Time to get back to the yacht,” said Kendall-Hume. “Do join us for lunch if you choose a carpet in time.”
“Thank you,” said the Robertses in unison. They waited
until the Kendall-Humes were out of sight, two assistants bearing the orange-and-yellow carpet in their wake, before they thanked the dealer for the coffee and in turn began to make their move towards the door.
“What sort of carpet were you looking for?” asked the dealer.
“I fear your prices are way beyond us,” said Christopher politely. “But thank you.”
“Well, let me at least find out. Have you or your wife seen a carpet you liked?”
“Yes,” replied Margaret, “the small carpet, but …”
“Ah, yes,” said the dealer. “I remember madam's eyes when she saw the Hereke.”
He left them, to return a few moments later with the little soft-toned, green-based carpet with the tiny red squares that the Kendall-Humes had so firmly rejected. Not waiting for assistance he rolled it out himself for the Robertses to inspect more carefully.
Margaret thought it looked even more magnificent the second time, and feared that she could never hope to find its equal in the few hours left to them.
“Perfect,” she admitted, quite unashamedly.
“Then we have only the price to discuss,” said the dealer kindly. “How much were you wanting to spend, madam?”
“We had planned to spend three hundred pounds,” said Christopher, jumping in. Margaret was unable to hide her surprise.
“But we agreed—” she began.
“Thank you, my dear, I think I should deal with this matter.”
The dealer smiled and returned to the bargaining.
“I would have to charge you six hundred pounds,” he said. “Anything less would be robbery.”
“Four hundred pounds is my final offer,” said Christopher, trying to sound in control.
“Five hundred pounds would have to be my bottom price,” said the dealer.
“I'll take it!” cried Christopher.
An assistant began waving his arms and talking to the dealer noisily in his native tongue. The owner raised a hand to dismiss the young man's protests, while the Robertses looked on anxiously.
“My son,” explained the dealer, “is not happy with the arrangement, but I am delighted that the little carpet will reside in the home of a couple who will so obviously appreciate its true worth.”
“Thank you,” said Christopher quietly.
“Will you also require a bill of a different price?”
“No, thank you,” said Christopher, handing over ten fifty-pound notes and then waiting until the carpet was wrapped and he was presented with the correct receipt.
As he watched the Robertses leave his shop clinging on to their purchase, the dealer smiled to himself.
When they arrived at the quayside, the Kendall-Humes' boat was already halfway across the bay heading toward the quiet beach. The Robertses sighed their combined relief and returned to the bazaar for lunch.
It was while they were waiting for their baggage to appear on the carousel at Heathrow that Christopher felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round to face a beaming Ray Kendall-Hume.
“I wonder if you could do me a favor, old boy?”
“I will if I can,” said Christopher, who still had not fully recovered from their last encounter.
“It's simple enough,” said Kendall-Hume. “The old girl and I have brought back far too many presents, and I wondered if you could take one of them through customs. Otherwise we're likely to be held up all night.”
Melody, standing behind an already loaded luggage cart, smiled at the two men benignly.
“You would still have to pay any duty that was due on it,” said Christopher firmly.
“I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise,” said Kendall-Hume, struggling with a massive package before pushing it on the Robertses' trolley. Christopher wanted to protest as
Kendall-Hume peeled off two thousand pounds and handed the money and the receipt ever to the schoolteacher.
“What do we do if they claim your carpet is worth a lot more than ten thousand pounds?” asked Margaret anxiously, coming to stand by her husband's side.
“Pay the difference and I'll refund you immediately. But I assure you it's most unlikely to arise.”
“I hope you're right.”
“Of course I'm right,” said Kendall-Hume. “Don't worry, I've done this sort of thing before. And I won't forget your help when it comes to the next school appeal,” he added, leaving them with the huge parcel.
Once Christopher and Margaret had located their own bags, they collected the second cart and took their place in the red “Something to Declare” line.
“Are you in possession of any items over five hundred pounds in value?” asked the young customs official politely.
“Yes,” said Christopher. “We purchased two carpets when we were on vacation in Turkey.” He handed over the two bills.
The customs official studied the receipts carefully, then asked if he might be allowed to see the carpets for himself:
“Certainly,” said Christopher, and began the task of undoing the larger package while Margaret worked on the smaller one.
“I shall need to have these looked at by an expert,” said the official once the parcels were unwrapped. “It shouldn't take more than a few minutes.” The carpets were soon taken away.
The “few minutes” turned out to be more than fifteen, and Christopher and Margaret were soon regretting their decision to assist the Kendall-Humes, whatever the needs of the school appeal. They began to indulge in irrelevant smalltalk that wouldn't have fooled the most amateur of sleuths.
At last the customs official returned.
“I wonder if you would be kind enough to have a word with my colleague in private?” he asked.
“Is that really necessary?” asked Christopher, reddening.
“I'm afraid so, sir.”
“We shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place,” whispered
Margaret. “We've never been in any trouble with the authorities before.”
“Don't fret, dear. It will be all over in a few minutes, you'll see,” said Christopher, not sure that he believed his own words. They followed the young man out through the back and into a small room.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said a white-haired man with several gold stripes around the cuff of his sleeve. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but we have had your carpets looked at by our expert and he feels sure a mistake must have been made.”
Christopher wanted to protest but he couldn't get a word out.
“A mistake?” managed Margaret.
“Yes, madam. The bills you presented don't make any sense to him.”
“Don't make any sense?”
“No, madam,” said the senior customs officer. “I repeat, we feel certain a mistake has been made.”
“What kind of mistake?” asked Christopher, at last finding his voice.
“Well, you have come forward and declared two carpets, one at a price of ten thousand pounds and one at a price of five hundred pounds, according to these receipts.”
“Yes?”
“Every year hundreds of people return to England with Turkish carpets, so we have some experience in these matters. Our adviser feels certain that the bills have been incorrectly made out.”
“I don't begin to understand …” said Christopher.
“Well,” explained the senior officer, “the large carpet, we are assured, has been spun with a crude distaff and has only two hundred
ghiordes,
or knots, per square inch. Despite its size we estimate it to be valued around five thousand pounds. The small carpet, on the other hand, we estimate to have nine hundred knots per square inch. It is a fine example of a silk handwoven traditional Hereke and undoubtedly would have been a bargain at five hundred pounds. As both carpets come from the same shop, we assume it must be a clerical error.”
The Robertses remained speechless.
“It doesn't make any difference to the duty you will have to pay, but we felt sure you would want to know, for insurance purposes.”
Still the Robertses said nothing.
“As you're allowed five hundred pounds before paying any duty, the excise will still be two thousand pounds.”
Christopher quickly handed over the Kendall-Humes' wad of notes. The senior officer counted them while his junior carefully rewrapped the two carpets.
“Thank you,” said Christopher, as they were handed back the packages and a receipt for two thousand pounds.
The Robertses quickly bundled the large package onto its luggage cart before wheeling it through the concourse and onto the pavement outside, where the Kendall-Humes impatiently awaited them.
“You were in there a long time,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “Any problems?”
“No, they were just assessing the value of the carpets.”
“Any extra charge?” Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively.
“No, your two thousand pounds covered everything,” said Christopher, handing over the receipt.
“Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to my collection.” Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the trunk of his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel. “Well done,” he repeated through the open window as the car drove off. “I won't forget the school appeal.”
The Robertses stood and watched as the silver-gray car joined a line of traffic leaving the airport.
“Why didn't you tell Mr. Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet?” asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus.
“I did give it some considerable thought, but I came to the conclusion that the
truth
was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told.”
“But don't you feel any guilt? After all, we've stolen—”
“Not at all, my dear. We haven't stolen anything. But we did get one hell of a ‘steal.'”
The rabbi knew he couldn't hope to begin on his sermon until he'd read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for more than an hour and still couldn't come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to read.
My dear Father,
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” were the first words I ever heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home stretch, hands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn't miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn't recognize her, but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.
After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was,
“
Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,” but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.
I tried to put them both out of my mind as I moved into the second lap. I had dreamed for years of winning the mile in the West Mount High School championships, and I was determined not to let them do anything to stop me.
As I came into the back stretch a second time, I took a more careful look at her. She was standing amid a cluster of friends who were wearing the scarves of Marianapolis Convent. She must have been about sixteen, and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you would have chastised me had I only shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no breasts,” in the hope it might at least provoke the boy standing next to her into a fight. Then I would have been able to tell you truthfully that he had thrown the first punch, but the moment you learned that it was Greg Reynolds, you would have realized how little provocation I needed.
As I reached the back stretch I once again prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at track meetings had become fashionable in the late 1950s, when
“
Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek” had been roared in adulation across running stadiums around the world for the great Czech champion. Not for me was there to be the shout of
“
Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal” as I came into earshot.
“
Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said, sounding like a a stuck record. Her friend Greg, who would nowadays be described as a preppie, began laughing. I knew he had put her up to it, and how I would like to have removed that smug grin from his face. I reached the half-mile mark in two minutes seventeen seconds, comfortably inside the pace necessary to break the school record, and I felt that was the best way to put the taunting girl and that fascist Reynolds in their place. I couldn't help thinking at the time how unfair it all was. I was a real Canadian, born and bred in this country, while she was just an immigrant. After all, you, Father, had escaped from Hamburg in 1937 and started with
nothing. Her parents did not
land on these shores until 1949, by which time you were a
respected figure in the community.
I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate. Zatopek had written in his autobiography that no runner can afford to lose his concentration during a race. When I reached the bend the inevitable chanting began again, but this time it only made me speed up and even more determined to break that record. Once I was back in the safety of the home straight I could hear some of my friends roaring, “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it,” and the timekeeper called out, “Three twenty-three, three twenty-four, three twenty-five” as I passed the bell to begin the last lap.
I knew that the record—four thirty-two—was now well within my grasp and all those dark nights of winter training suddenly seemed worthwhile. As I reached the back stretch I took the lead, and even felt that I could face the girl again. I summoned up my strength for one last effort. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed I was already yards in front of any of my rivals, so it was only me against the clock. Then I heard the chanting, but this time it was even louder than before, “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” It was louder because the two of them were now working in unison, and just as I came round the bend Reynolds raised his arm in a flagrant Nazi salute.
If I had only carried on I would have reached the finishing
tape and the cheers of my friends, the cup,
and the record. But they had made me so angry that I could no longer control myself.
I shot off the track and ran across the grass over the long-jump pit and straight toward them. At least my crazy decision stopped their chanting, because Reynolds lowered his arm and just stood there staring pathetically at me from behind the small railing that surrounded the outer perimeter of the track I leaped right over it and landed in front of my adversary. With all the energy I
had saved for the final stretch I took an almighty swing at him. My fist landed an inch below his left eye, and he buckled and fell to the ground by her side. Quickly she knelt down and, staring up, gave me a look of such hatred that no words could have matched it. Once I was sure Greg wasn't going to get up, I walked slowly back on to the track as the last of the runners were coming round the final bend.
“Last again, Jew boy,” I heard her shout as I jogged down the home straight, so far behind the others that they didn't even bother to record my time.
How often since have you quoted me those words: “Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.” Of course you were right, but I was only seventeen then, and even after I had learned the truth about Christina's father I still couldn't understand how anyone who had come from a defeated Germany, a Germany condemned by the rest of the world for its treatment of the Jews, could still behave in such a manner. And in those days I really believed her family were Nazis, but I remember you patiently explaining to me that her father had been an admiral in the German navy, and had won an Iron Cross for sinking Allied ships. Do you remember me asking how you could tolerate such a man, let alone allow him to settle in our country?
You went on to assure me that Admiral von Braumer, who came from an old Roman Catholic family and probably despised the Nazis as much as we did, had acquitted himself honorably as an officer and a gentleman throughout his life as a German sailor. But I still couldn't accept your attitude, or didn't want to.
It didn't help, Father, that you always saw the other man's point of view, and even though Mother had died prematurely because of those bastards, you could still find it in you to forgive.
If you had been born a Christian, you would have been a saint.
The rabbi put the letter down and rubbed his tired eyes before he turned over another page written in that fine script he had taught his only son so many years before. Benjamin had always learned quickly, everything from the Hebrew scriptures to complicated algebraic equations. The old man had even begun to hope the boy might become a rabbi.
Do you remember my asking you that evening why people couldn't understand that the world had changed? Didn't the girl realize that she was no better than we were? I shall never forget your reply. She is, you said, far better than us, if the only way you can prove your superiority is to punch her friend in the face.
I returned to my room angered by your weakness. It was to be many years before I understood your strength.
When I wasn't pounding round that track I rarely had time for anything other than working for a scholarship to McGill, so it came as a surprise that her path crossed mine again so soon.
It must have been about a week later that I saw her at the local swimming pool. She was standing at the deep end, just under the diving board, when I came in. Her long fair hair was dancing on her shoulders, her bright eyes eagerly taking in everything going on around her. Greg was by her side. I was pleased to notice a deep purple patch remained under his left eye for all to see. I also remember chuckling to myself because she really did have the flattest chest I had ever seen on a sixteen-year-old girl, though I have to confess she had fantastic legs. Perhaps she's a freak, I thought. I turned to go into the dressing room—a split second before I hit the water. When I came up for breath there was no sign of who had pushed me in, just a group of grinning but innocent faces. I didn't need a law degree to work out who it must have been, but as you constantly reminded me, Father, without evidence there is no proof … . I wouldn't have minded that much about being pushed into the pool if I hadn't been wearing my best suit—in truth, my only suit
with long trousers, the one I wore on days I was going to the synagogue.
I climbed out of the water but didn't waste any time looking round for him. I knew Greg would be a long way off by then. I walked home through the back streets, avoiding taking the bus in case someone saw me and told you what a state I was in. As soon as I got home I crept past your study and on upstairs to my room, changing before you had the chance to discover what had taken place.
Old Isaac Cohen gave me a disapproving look when I turned up at the synagogue an hour later wearing a blazer and jeans.
I took the suit to the cleaners the next morning. It cost me three weeks' pocket money to be sure that you were never aware of what had happened at the swimming pool that day.
The rabbi picked up the picture of his seventeen-year-old son in that synagogue suit. He well remembered Benjamin turning up at his service in a blazer and jeans and Isaac Cohen's outspoken reprimand. The rabbi was thankful that Mr. Atkins, the swimming instructor, had phoned to warn him of what had taken place that afternoon so at least he didn't add to Mr. Cohen's harsh words. He continued gazing at the photograph for a long time before he returned to the letter.
The next occasion I saw Christina—by now I had found out her name—was at the end-of-term dance held in the school gymnasium. I thought I looked pretty cool in my neatly pressed suit until I saw Greg standing by her side in a smart new dinner jacket. I remember wondering at the time if I would ever be able to afford a dinner jacket. Greg had been offered a place at McGill and was announcing the fact to everyone who cared to listen, which made me all the more determined to win a scholarship there the following year.
I stared at Christina. She was wearing a long red dress that completely covered those beautiful legs. A thin gold belt emphasized her tiny waist and the only jewelry she wore was a simple gold necklace. I knew if I waited a moment longer I wouldn't have the courage to go through with it. I clenched my fists, walked over to where they were sitting, and as you had always taught me, Father, bowed slightly before I asked, “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”
She stared into my eyes. I swear if she had told me to go out and kill a thousand men before I dared ask her again I would have done it.
She didn't even speak, but Greg leaned over her shoulder and said, “Why don't you go and find yourself a nice Jewish girl?” I thought I saw her scowl at his remark, but I only blushed like someone who's been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. I didn't dance with anyone that night. I walked straight out of the gymnasium and ran home.
I was convinced then that I hated her.
That last week of term I broke the school record for the mile. You were there to watch me but, thank heavens, she wasn't. That was the time we drove over to Ottawa to spend our summer vacation with Aunt Rebecca. I was told by a school friend that Christina had spent hers in Vancouver with a German family. At least Greg had not gone with her, the friend assured me.
You went on reminding me of the importance of a good education, but you didn't need to, because every time I saw Greg it made me more determined to win that scholarship.
I worked even harder in the summer of '65 when you explained that, for a Canadian, a place at McGill was like going to Harvard or Oxford and would clear a path for the rest of my days.
For the first time in my life running took second place.
Although I didn't see much of Christina that term,
she was often in my mind. A classmate told me that she and Greg were no longer seeing each other, but could give me no reason for this sudden change of heart. At the time I had a so-called girlfriend who always sat on the other side of the synagogue—Naomi Goldblatz, you remember her—but it was she who dated me.
As my exams drew nearer, I was grateful that you always found time to go over my essays and tests after I had finished them. What you couldn't know was that I inevitably returned to my own room to do them a third time. Often I would fall asleep at my desk. When I woke I would turn over the page and read on.
Even you, Father, who have not an ounce of vanity in you, found it hard to disguise from your congregation the pride you took in my eight straight A's and the award of a top scholarship to McGill. I wondered if Christina was aware of it. She must have been. My name was painted up on the Honors Board in fresh gold leaf the following week, so someone would have told her.
It must have been three months later when I was in my first term at McGill that I saw her next. Do you remember taking me to Saint Joan at the Centaur Theatre? There she was, seated a few rows in front of us with her parents and a sophomore called Bob Richards. The admiral and his wife looked strait-laced and very stern but not unsympathetic. In the interval I watched her laughing and joking with them: She had obviously enjoyed herself. I hardly saw Saint Joan, and although I couldn't take my eyes off Christina she never once noticed me. I just wanted to be on the stage playing the Dauphin so she would have to look up at me.
When the curtain came down she and Bob Richards left her parents and headed for the exit. I followed the two of them out of the foyer and into the car park, and watched them get into a Thunderbird. A Thunderbird! I remember thinking I might one day be able to afford a dinner jacket, but never a Thunderbird.
From that moment she was in my thoughts whenever I trained, wherever I worked, and even when I slept. I found out everything I could about Bob Richards and discovered that he was liked by all who knew him.
For the first time in my life I hated being a Jew.
When I next saw Christina I dreaded what might happen. It was the start of the mile against the University of Vancouver, and as a freshman I had been lucky to be selected for McGill. When I came out on to the track to warm up I saw her sitting in the third row of the stand alongside Richards. They were holding hands.
I was last off when the starter's gun fired, but as we went into the back stretch I moved up into fifth position. It was the largest crowd I had ever run in front of, and when I reached the home straight I waited for the chant “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” but nothing happened. I wondered if she had failed to notice that I was in the race. But she had noticed because as I came round the bend I could hear her voice clearly. “Come on, Benjamin, you've got to win!” she shouted.
I wanted to look back to make sure it was Christina who had called those words; it would be another quarter of a mile before I would pass her again. By the time I did so I had moved up into third place, and I could hear her clearly: “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it!”
I immediately took the lead because all I wanted to do was get back to her. I charged on without thought of who was behind me, and by the time I passed her the third time I was several yards ahead of the field. “You're going to win!” she shouted as I ran on to reach the bell in three minutes eight seconds, eleven seconds faster than I had ever done before. I remember thinking that they ought to put something in those training manuals about love being worth two to three seconds a lap.
I watched her all the way down the back stretch, and when I came into the final bend for the last time the crowd rose to their feet. I turned to search for her. She was jumping up and down shouting, “Look out! Look
out!” which
I didn't
understand until
I
was overtaken
on
the inside by the Vancouver number one string, who the coach had warned me was renowned for his
strong finish.
I staggered over the
line a few
yards behind him in second place but went on running until I was safely inside the dressing room.
I sat alone
by my locker. Four minutes seventeen, someone told me: six
seconds faster
than
I
had ever run before. It
didn't
help. I stood in the shower for
a
long time, trying to
work
out what could possibly have changed her
attitude.
When I walked back onto the track only the ground staff were still around. I took one last look at the finish line before I strolled over to the Forsyth Library. I felt unable to face the usual team get-together, so I tried to settle down to write an essay on the property rights of married women.
The library was almost empty that Saturday evening, and I was well into my third page when I heard a voice say, “I hope I'm not interrupting you, but you didn't come to Joe's.” I looked up to see Christina standing on the other side of the table. Father, I didn't know what to say. I just stared up at the beautiful creature in her fashionable blue miniskirt and tight-fitting sweater that emphasized the most perfect breasts, and said nothing.
“I was the one who shouted ‘Jew boy' when you were still at high school. I've felt ashamed about it ever since. I wanted to apologize to you on the night of the prom but couldn't summon up the courage with Greg standing there.” I nodded my understanding—I couldn't think of any words that seemed appropriate. “I never spoke to him again,” she said. “But I don't suppose you even remember Greg.”
I just smiled. “Care for coffee?” I asked, trying to sound as if I wouldn't mind if she replied, “I'm sorry, I must get back to Bob.”
“I'd like that very much,” she said.
I took her to the library coffee shop, which was about all I could afford at the time. She never bothered to explain
what had happened to Bob Richards, and I never asked.
Christina seemed to know so much about me that I felt embarrassed. She asked me to forgive her for what she had shouted on the track that day two years before. She made no excuses, placed the blame on no one else, just asked to be forgiven.
Christina told me she was hoping to join me at McGill in September, to major in German. “Bit of nerve,” she admitted, “since it is my native tongue.”
We spent the rest of that summer in each other's company. We saw
Saint Joan
again, and even lined up for a film called
Doctor No
that was all the craze at the time.
We worked together, we ate together, we played together, but we slept alone.
I said little about Christina to you at the time, but I'd bet you knew already how much I loved her; I could never hide anything from you. And after all your teaching of forgiveness and understanding you could hardly disapprove.

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