Night Over Water - Ken Follett [8]
For a long time she did not think of it as love. But one day he confessed, awkwardly and with great embarrassment, uncharacteristically struggling to find the right words, finally saying: “I think I must have fallen in love with you—will it spoil everything?” And then she realized joyfully that she too was in love.
He changed her life. It was as if she had moved to another country, where everything was different: the landscape, the weather, the people, the food. She enjoyed everything. The constraints and irritations of living with her parents came to seem minor.
Even after he joined the International Brigade and went to Spain to fight for the elected socialist government against the Fascist rebels, he continued to light up her life. She was proud of him because he had the courage of his convictions, and was ready to risk death for the cause he believed in. Sometimes she would get a letter from him. Once he sent a poem. Then came the note that said he was dead, blown to bits by a direct hit from a shell; and Margaret felt that her life had come to an end.
“A bad influence,” she echoed bitterly. “Yes. He taught me to question dogma, to disbelieve lies, to hate ignorance and to despise hypocrisy. As a result, I’m hardly fit for civilized society.”
Father, Mother and Elizabeth all started talking at once, then stopped because none of them could be heard; and Percy spoke into the sudden silence. “Talking of Jews,” he said, “I came across a curious picture in the cellar, in one of those old suitcases from Stamford.” Stamford, Connecticut, was where Mother’s family lived. Percy took from his shirt pocket a creased and faded sepia photograph. “I did have a great-grandmother called Ruth Glencarry, didn’t I?”
Mother said: “Yes—she was my mother’s mother. Why, dear, what have you found?”
Percy gave the photograph to Father and the others crowded around to look at it. It showed a street scene in an American city, probably New York, about seventy years ago. In the foreground was a Jewish man of about thirty with a black beard, dressed in rough workingman’s clothes and a hat. He stood by a handcart bearing a grinding wheel. The cart was clearly lettered with the words REUBEN FISHBEIN—GRINDER. Beside the man stood a girl, about ten years old, in a shabby cotton dress and heavy boots.
Father said: “What is this, Percy? Who are these wretched people?”
“Turn it over,” said Percy.
Father turned the picture over. On the back was written: RUTHIE GLENCARRY, NÉE FISHBEIN, AGED 10.
Margaret looked at Father. He was utterly horrified.
Percy said: “Interesting that Mother’s grandfather should marry the daughter of an itinerant Jewish knife grinder, but they say America’s like that.”
“This is impossible!” Father said, but his voice was shaky, and Margaret guessed that he thought it was all too possible.
Percy went on blithely: “Anyway, Jewishness descends through the female, so as my mother’s grandmother was Jewish, that makes me a Jew.”
Father had gone quite pale. Mother looked mystified, a slight frown creasing her brow.
Percy said: “I do hope the Germans don’t win this war. I shan’t be allowed to go to the cinema and Mother will have to sew yellow stars on all her ballgowns.”
This was sounding too good to be true. Margaret peered intently at the words written on the back of the picture, and the truth dawned. “Percy!” she said delightedly. “That’s your handwriting!”
“No, it’s not!” said Percy.
But everyone could see that it was. Margaret laughed gleefully. Percy had found this old picture of a little Jewish