World War II Thriller Collection (30 page)

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 onto two plates. She put bread on the table. Her father washed his hands, then blessed the bread. “Blessed art thou O 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 religion for what it had driven her to. She had tried to cultivate an attitude of indifference, perhaps mild contempt; but she had not quite succeeded. Now, watching him pray, she thought: And what do I do, when this man whom I hate 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 he 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?

They 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 get there? The trains are full, there's a quota for Jews—”

“I am going to walk.”

She stared at him, not believing he could be serious, not believing he would joke about such a thing. “Walk?”

He smiled. “It's been done before.”

She saw that he meant it, and she was angry with him. “As I recall, Moses never made it.”

“Perhaps I will be able to hitch a ride.”

“It's crazy!”

“Haven't I always been a little crazy?”

“Yes!” she shouted. Suddenly her anger collapsed. “Yes, you've always been a little crazy, and I should know better than to try to change your mind.”

“I will pray to God to preserve you. You will have a chance here—you're young and beautiful, and maybe they won't know you're Jewish. But me, a useless old man muttering Hebrew prayers . . . me they would send to a camp where I would surely die. It is always better to live. You said that.”

She tried to persuade him to stay with her, for one night at least, but he would not. She gave him a sweater, and a scarf, and all the cash she had in the house, and told him that if he waited a day she could get more money from the bank, and buy him a good coat; but he was in a hurry. She cried, and dried her eyes, and cried again. When he left she looked out of her window and saw him walking along the street, an old man going up out of Egypt and into the wilderness, following in the footsteps of the Children of Israel. There
was
something of the old man left: his orthodoxy had mellowed, but he still had a will of iron. He disappeared into the crowd, and she left the window. When she thought of his courage, she knew she could not run out on Vandam.

 

“She's an intriguing girl,” Wolff said. “I can't quite figure her out.” He was sitting on the bed, watching Sonja get dressed. “She's a little jumpy. When I told her we were going on a picnic she acted quite scared, said she hardly knew me, as if she needed a chaperone.”

“With you, she did,” Sonja said.

“And yet she can be very earthy and direct.”

“Just bring her home to me. I'll figure her out.”

“It bothers me.” Wolff frowned. He was thinking aloud. “Somebody tried to jump into the taxi with us.”

“A beggar.”

“No, he was a European.”

“A European beggar.” Sonja stopped brushing her hair to look at Wolff in the mirror. “This town is full of crazy people, you know that. Listen, if you have second thoughts, just picture her writhing on that bed with you and me on either side of her.”

Wolff grinned. It was an appealing picture, but not an irresistible one: it was Sonja's fantasy, not his. His instinct told him to lay low now, and not to make dates with anyone. But Sonja was going to insist—and he still needed her.

Sonja said: “And when am I going to contact Kemel? He must know by now that you're living here.”

Wolff sighed. Another date; another claim on him; another danger; also, another person whose protection he needed. “Call him tonight from the club. I'm not in a rush for this meeting, but we've got to keep him sweet.”

“Okay.” She was ready, and her taxi was waiting. “Make a date with Elene.” She went out.

She was not in his power the way she had once been, Wolff realized. The walls you build to protect you also close you in. Could he afford to defy her? If there had been a clear and immediate danger, yes. But all he had was a vague nervousness, an intuitive inclination to keep his head down. And Sonja might be crazy enough to betray him if she really got angry. He was obliged to choose the lesser danger.

He got up from the bed, found a paper and a pen and sat down to write a note to Elene.

THE MESSAGE CAME THE DAY AFTER ELENE'S FATHER LEFT FOR JERUSALEM. A small boy came to the door with an envelope. Elene tipped him and read the letter. It was short. “My dear Elene, let us meet at the Oasis Restaurant at eight o'clock next Thursday. I eagerly look forward to it. Fondly, Alex Wolff.” Unlike his speech, his writing had a stiffness which seemed German—but perhaps it was her imagination. Thursday—that was the day after tomorrow. She did not know whether to be elated or scared. Her first thought was to telephone Vandam; then she hesitated.

She had become intensely curious about Vandam. She knew so little about him. What did he do when he was not catching spies? Did he listen to music, collect stamps, shoot duck? Was he interested in poetry or architecture or antique rugs? What was his home like? With whom did he live? What color were his pajamas?

She wanted to patch up their quarrel, and she wanted to see where he lived. She had an excuse to contact him now, but instead of telephoning she would go to his home.

She decided to change her dress, then she decided to take a bath first, then she decided to wash her hair as well. Sitting in the bath she thought about which dress to wear. She recalled the occasions she had seen Vandam, and tried to remember which clothes she had worn. He had never seen the pale pink one with puffed shoulders and buttons all down the front: that was very pretty.

She put on a little perfume, then the silk underwear Johnnie had given her, which always made her feel so feminine. Her short hair was dry already, and she sat in front of the mirror to comb it. The dark, fine locks gleamed after washing. I look ravishing, she thought, and she smiled at herself seductively.

She left the apartment, taking Wolff's note with her. Vandam would be interested to see his handwriting. He was interested in every little detail where Wolff was concerned, perhaps because they had never met face to face, except in the dark or at a distance. The handwriting was very neat, easily legible, almost like an artist's lettering: Vandam would draw some conclusion from that.

She headed for Garden City. It was seven o'clock, and Vandam worked until late, so she had time to spare. The sun was still strong, and she enjoyed the heat on her arms and legs as she walked. A bunch of soldiers whistled at her, and in her sunny mood she smiled at them, so they followed her for a few blocks before they got diverted into a bar.

She felt gay and reckless. What a good idea it was to go to his house—so much better than sitting alone at home. She had been alone too much. For her men, she had existed only when they had time to visit her; and she had made their attitudes her own, so that when they were not there she felt she had nothing to do, no role to play, no one to be. Now she had broken with all that. By doing this, by going to see him uninvited, she felt she was being herself instead of a person in someone else's dream. It made her almost giddy.

She found the house easily. It was a small French-colonial villa, all pillars and high windows, its white stone reflecting the evening sun with painful brilliance. She walked up the short drive, rang the bell and waited in the shadow of the portico.

An elderly, bald Egyptian came to the door. “Good evening, Madam,” he said, speaking like an English butler.

Elene said: “I'd like to see Major Vandam. My name is Elene Fontana.”

“The major has not yet returned home, Madam.” The servant hesitated.

“Perhaps I could wait,” Elene said.

“Of course, Madam.” He stepped aside to admit her.

She crossed the threshold. She looked around with nervous eagerness. She was in a cool tiled hall with a high ceiling. Before she could take it all in the servant said: “This way, Madam.” He led her into a drawing room. “My name is Gaafar. Please call me if there is anything you require.”

“Thank you, Gaafar.”

The servant went out. Elene was thrilled to be in Vandam's house and left alone to look around. The drawing room had a large marble fireplace and a lot of very English furniture: somehow she thought he had not furnished it himself. Everything was clean and tidy and not very lived-in. What did this say about his character? Perhaps nothing.

The door opened and a young boy walked in. He was very good-looking, with curly brown hair and smooth, preadolescent skin. He seemed about ten years old. He looked vaguely familiar.

He said: “Hello, I'm Billy Vandam.”

Elene stared at him in horror. A son—Vandam had a son! She knew now why he seemed familiar: he resembled his father. Why had it never occurred to her that Vandam might be married? A man like that—charming, kind, handsome, clever—was unlikely to have reached his late thirties without getting hooked. What a fool she had been to think that she might have been the first to desire him! She felt so stupid that she blushed.

She shook Billy's hand. “How do you do,” she said. “I'm Elene Fontana.”

“We never know what time Dad's coming home,” Billy said. “I hope you won't have to wait too long.”

She had not yet recovered her composure. “Don't worry. I don't mind—it doesn't matter a bit . . .”

“Would you like a drink, or anything?”

He was very polite, like his father, with a formality that was somehow disarming. Elene said: “No, thank you.”

“Well, I've got to have my supper. Sorry to leave you alone.”

“No, no . . .”

“If you need anything, just call Gaafar.”

“Thank you.”

The boy went out, and Elene sat down heavily. She was disoriented, as if in her own home she had found a door to a room she had not known was there. She noticed a photograph on the marble mantelpiece, and got up to look at it. It was a picture of a beautiful woman in her early twenties, a cool, aristocratic-looking woman with a faintly supercilious smile. Elene admired the dress she was wearing, something silky and flowing, hanging in elegant folds from her slender figure. The woman's hair and makeup were perfect. The eyes were startlingly familiar, clear and perceptive and light in color: Elene realized that Billy had eyes like that. This, then, was Billy's mother—Vandam's wife. She was, of course, exactly the kind of woman who would be his wife, a classic English beauty with a superior air.

Elene felt she had been a fool. Women like that were queuing up to marry men like Vandam. As if he would have bypassed all of them only to fall for an Egyptian courtesan! She rehearsed the things that divided her from him: he was respectable and she was disreputable; he was British and she was Egyptian; he was Christian—presumably—and she was Jewish; he was well bred and she came out of the slums of Alexandria; he was almost forty and she was twenty-three . . . The list was long.

Tucked into the back of the photograph frame was a page torn from a magazine. The paper was old and yellowing. The page bore the same photograph. Elene saw that it had come from a magazine called
The Tatler.
She had heard of it: it was much read by the wives of colonels in Cairo, for it reported all the trivial events of London society—parties, balls, charity lunches, gallery openings and the activities of English royalty. The picture of Mrs. Vandam took up most of this page, and a paragraph of type beneath the picture reported that Angela, daughter of Sir Peter and Lady Beresford, was engaged to be married to Lieutenant William Vandam, son of Mr. and Mrs. John Vandam of Gately, Dorset. Elene refolded the cutting and put it back.

The family picture was complete: Attractive British officer, cool, self-assured English wife, intelligent charming son, beautiful home, money, class and happiness. Everything else was a dream.