into the wind. The waves slapped against the hull. Paula helped him lower the mainsail and drop anchor.
They sat in the back of the boat around a table that was bolted to the deck, and Paula served sandwiches of brie and smoked ham. She and her father shared the rest of the merlot.
Lemmy sliced his son’s sandwich in half. “Did you tell Grandpa about the new technology lab at school?”
Klaus Junior shook his head while drinking orange juice.
“What new lab?” Armande cut a corner from his own sandwich and forked it.
“We got a whole room full of computers. We’re going to sand the Internet.”
“ Surf the Internet,” Paula corrected him.
Lemmy laughed. “You don’t want any sand in those computers.”
“Computers everywhere.” Armande sighed. “No escape. What about books, writing—”
“But Grandpa, you gave them to us!”
“Don’t talk, Junior,” Paula said. “Finish eating first.”
He chewed faster.
Armande stroked his grandson’s hair. “Patience. Patience.”
When he finally swallowed, Paula handed him a napkin. “Now you can talk.”
“My teacher said that the computers were a gift from you. He made everyone sing a song about generosity.”
“I arranged it with our Dutch suppliers,” Lemmy said. “A donation to the school. It cost us very little, especially with the tax credit the bank will take on it. I made it in your honor, Father. I hope you don’t mind.”
Seeing his grandson’s pride, Armande Hoffgeitz glowed. “Why should I mind? Our family has supported education for many generations. It’s our tradition!”
*
After a few hours of sleep, Gideon and Bathsheba left the Paris apartment and drove to the gas station near Ermenonville. He brought an audio edition of Ken Follett’s Eye of the Needle . They settled down to wait, the narrator’s voice filling the car.
Shortly after noon, while biting into a tuna sandwich, Bathsheba spotted a green Peugeot 605, identical to the one they had been looking for, the darkened windows rolled up. “Go!” She tossed the sandwich out the window and pulled a handgun from the glove compartment. “It’s them!”
“Put away the gun.” Gideon turned on the engine.
He stalked the Peugeot for ten miles in dense highway traffic until the driver rolled down his window. “Take a look,” Gideon said, accelerating. “ Only a look!”
Bathsheba tilted the visor so that the makeup mirror reflected the view from her window. As they passed by the Peugeot, she said, “Bummer.”
Glancing sideways, Gideon saw the occupants of the car—a couple in their eighties and a large schnauzer.
She dropped the handgun back in the glove compartment. “Cost me that lousy sandwich. I’m starving!”
He took the next exit and drove back to the gas station.
*
Elie Weiss walked to a nearby café and settled to read the Financial Times , sip coffee, and nibble at a croissant. On his way back to the apartment, he paused to watch people go around the barriers into the synagogue. It was Saturday morning, he realized, the time for Sabbath services. On a whim, he entered the synagogue.
The sanctuary was cavernous, with beautiful wooden seats, painted-glass windows, and stone arches carved with biblical scenes. A cantor stood at the podium in a bejeweled prayer shawl and top hat, his deep baritone reaching every corner as he sang Adon Olam , Master of the Universe. The congregants, in formal suits and skullcaps, repeated each line in a chorus of singing voices, the ancient Hebrew words pronounced with a French accent. The women behind the see-through lace partition sang as well.
This was very different from the little synagogue of his childhood in rural Germany, near the Russian border, where Rabbi Jacob Gerster, Abraham’s father, had led the service in a pleading voice, his head covered in a black-and-white prayer shawl. In the shtetl, the windows had been small and opaque, the benches roughly hewn, and the congregants bearded and hunched as
They sat in the back of the boat around a table that was bolted to the deck, and Paula served sandwiches of brie and smoked ham. She and her father shared the rest of the merlot.
Lemmy sliced his son’s sandwich in half. “Did you tell Grandpa about the new technology lab at school?”
Klaus Junior shook his head while drinking orange juice.
“What new lab?” Armande cut a corner from his own sandwich and forked it.
“We got a whole room full of computers. We’re going to sand the Internet.”
“ Surf the Internet,” Paula corrected him.
Lemmy laughed. “You don’t want any sand in those computers.”
“Computers everywhere.” Armande sighed. “No escape. What about books, writing—”
“But Grandpa, you gave them to us!”
“Don’t talk, Junior,” Paula said. “Finish eating first.”
He chewed faster.
Armande stroked his grandson’s hair. “Patience. Patience.”
When he finally swallowed, Paula handed him a napkin. “Now you can talk.”
“My teacher said that the computers were a gift from you. He made everyone sing a song about generosity.”
“I arranged it with our Dutch suppliers,” Lemmy said. “A donation to the school. It cost us very little, especially with the tax credit the bank will take on it. I made it in your honor, Father. I hope you don’t mind.”
Seeing his grandson’s pride, Armande Hoffgeitz glowed. “Why should I mind? Our family has supported education for many generations. It’s our tradition!”
*
After a few hours of sleep, Gideon and Bathsheba left the Paris apartment and drove to the gas station near Ermenonville. He brought an audio edition of Ken Follett’s Eye of the Needle . They settled down to wait, the narrator’s voice filling the car.
Shortly after noon, while biting into a tuna sandwich, Bathsheba spotted a green Peugeot 605, identical to the one they had been looking for, the darkened windows rolled up. “Go!” She tossed the sandwich out the window and pulled a handgun from the glove compartment. “It’s them!”
“Put away the gun.” Gideon turned on the engine.
He stalked the Peugeot for ten miles in dense highway traffic until the driver rolled down his window. “Take a look,” Gideon said, accelerating. “ Only a look!”
Bathsheba tilted the visor so that the makeup mirror reflected the view from her window. As they passed by the Peugeot, she said, “Bummer.”
Glancing sideways, Gideon saw the occupants of the car—a couple in their eighties and a large schnauzer.
She dropped the handgun back in the glove compartment. “Cost me that lousy sandwich. I’m starving!”
He took the next exit and drove back to the gas station.
*
Elie Weiss walked to a nearby café and settled to read the Financial Times , sip coffee, and nibble at a croissant. On his way back to the apartment, he paused to watch people go around the barriers into the synagogue. It was Saturday morning, he realized, the time for Sabbath services. On a whim, he entered the synagogue.
The sanctuary was cavernous, with beautiful wooden seats, painted-glass windows, and stone arches carved with biblical scenes. A cantor stood at the podium in a bejeweled prayer shawl and top hat, his deep baritone reaching every corner as he sang Adon Olam , Master of the Universe. The congregants, in formal suits and skullcaps, repeated each line in a chorus of singing voices, the ancient Hebrew words pronounced with a French accent. The women behind the see-through lace partition sang as well.
This was very different from the little synagogue of his childhood in rural Germany, near the Russian border, where Rabbi Jacob Gerster, Abraham’s father, had led the service in a pleading voice, his head covered in a black-and-white prayer shawl. In the shtetl, the windows had been small and opaque, the benches roughly hewn, and the congregants bearded and hunched as
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