The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [110]
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.
The rabbi paused. His heart ached because he knew so much of what was still to come, although he could not have foretold what would happen in the end. He had never thought he would live to regret his Orthodox upbringing, but when Mrs. Goldblatz first told him about Christina he had been unable to mask his disapproval. It will pass, given time, he told her. So much for wisdom.
Whenever I went to Christina’s home I was always treated with courtesy, but her family were unable to hide their disapproval. They uttered words they didn’t believe in an attempt to show that they were not anti-Semitic, and whenever I brought up the subject with Christina she told me I was overreacting. We both knew I wasn’t. They quite simply thought I was unworthy of their daughter. They were right, but it had nothing to do with my being Jewish.
I shall never forget the first time we made love. It was the day that Christina learned she had won a place at McGill.
We had gone to my room at three o’clock to change for a game of tennis. I took her in my arms for what I thought would be a brief moment, and we didn’t part until the next morning. Nothing had been planned. But how could it have been, when it was the first time for both of us?
I told her I would marry her—don’t all men the first time?—only I meant it.
Then a few weeks later she missed her period. I begged her not to panic, and we both waited for another month because she was fearful of going to see any doctor in Montreal.
If I had told you everything then, Father, perhaps my life would have taken a different course. But I didn’t, and have only myself to blame.
I began to plan for a marriage that neither Christina’s family nor you could possibly have found acceptable, but we didn’t care. Love knows no parents, and certainly no religion. When she missed her second period I agreed Christina should tell her mother. I asked her if she would like me to be with her at the time, but she simply shook her head, and explained that she felt she had to face them on her own.
“I’ll wait here until you return,” I promised.
She smiled. “I’ll be back even before you’ve had the time to change your mind about marrying me.”
I sat in my room at McGill all that afternoon reading and pacing—mostly pacing—but she never came back, and I didn’t go in search of her until it was dark. I crept around to her home, all the while trying to convince myself there must be some simple explanation as to why she hadn’t returned.
When I reached her street I could see a light on in her bedroom but nowhere else in the house, so I thought she must be alone. I marched through the gate and up to the front porch, knocked on the door, and waited.
Her father answered the door.
“What do you want?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine for a moment.
“I love your daughter,” I told him, “and I want to marry her.”
“She will never marry a Jew,” he said simply and closed the door. I remember that he didn’t slam it; he just closed it, which made it somehow even worse.
I stood outside in the street staring up at her room for over an hour until the light went out. Then I walked home. There was a light drizzle that night, and few people were on the streets. I tried to work but what I should do next, although the situation seemed hopeless. I went to bed that night hoping for a miracle. I had forgotten that miracles are for Christians, not Jews.
By the next morning, I had worked out a plan. I phoned Christina’s home at eight and nearly put the phone down when I heard the voice at the other end.
“Mrs. von Braumer,” she said.
“Is Christina there?” I asked in a whisper.
“No, she’s not,” came back the controlled, impersonal reply.
“When are you expecting her back?” I asked.
“Not for some time,” she said, and then