The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [106]
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