Read Online The Key to Rebecca by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page A

used to this: most men got a little flustered when she smiled at them. He said: “Would you—I mean, do you mind if I ask you why you want to go to Palestine?”
    “I’m Jewish,” she said abruptly. She could not explain her life to this boy. “All my family are dead. I’m wasting my life.” The first part was not true, but the second part was.
    “What work would you do in Palestine?”
    She had not thought of that. “Anything.”
    “It’s mostly agricultural labor.”
    “That’s fine.”
    He smiled gently. He was recovering his composure. “I mean no offense, but you don’t look like a farmhand.”
    “If I didn’t want to change my life, I wouldn’t want to go to Palestine.”
    “Yes.” He fiddled with his pen. “What work do you do now?”
    “I sing, and when I can’t get singing I dance, and when I can’t get dancing I wait on tables.” It was more or less true. She had done all three at one time or another, although dancing was the only one she did successfully, and she was not brilliant at that. “I told you, I’m wasting my life. Why all the questions? Is Palestine accepting only college graduates now?”
    “Nothing like that,” he said. “But it’s very tough to get in. The British have imposed a quota, and all the places are taken by refugees from the Nazis.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” she said angrily.
    “Two reasons. One is that we can get people in illegally. The other ... the other takes a little longer to explain. Would you wait a minute? I must telephone someone.”
    She was still angry with him for questioning her before he told her there were no places. “I’m not sure there’s any point in my waiting.”
    “There is, I promise you. It’s quite important. Just a minute or two.”
    “Very well.”
    He went into a back room to phone. Elene waited impatiently. The day was warming up, and the room was poorly ventilated. She felt a little foolish. She had come here impulsively, without thinking through the idea of emigration. Too many of her decisions were made like that. She might have guessed they would ask her questions; she could have prepared her answers. She could have come dressed in something a little less glamorous.
    The young man came back. “It’s so warm,” he said. “Shall we go across the street for a cold drink?”
    So that was the game, she thought. She decided to put him down. She gave him an appraising look, then said: “No. You’re much too young for me.”
    He was terribly embarrassed. “Oh, please don’t misunderstand me. There’s someone I want you to meet, that’s all.”
    She wondered whether to believe him. She had nothing to lose, and she was thirsty. “All right.”
    He held the door for her. They crossed the street, dodging the rickety carts and broken-down taxis, feeling the sudden blazing heat of the sun. They ducked under a striped awning and stepped into the cool of a café. The young man ordered lemon juice; Elene had gin and tonic.
    She said: “You can get people in illegally.”
    “Sometimes.” He took half his drink in one gulp. “One reason we do it is if the person is being persecuted. That’s why I asked you some questions.”
    “I’m not being persecuted.”
    “The other reason is if people have done a lot for the cause, some way.”
    “You mean I have to earn the right to go to Palestine?”
    “Look, maybe one day all Jews will have the right to go there to live. But while there are quotas there have to be criteria.”
    She was tempted to ask: Who do I have to sleep with? But she had misjudged him that way once already. All the same, she thought he wanted to use her somehow. She said: “What do I have to do?”
    He shook his head. “I can’t make a bargain with you. Egyptian Jews can’t get into Palestine, except for special cases, and you’re not a special case. That’s all there is to it.”
    “What are you trying to tell me, then?”
    “You can’t go to Palestine, but you can still