Ken Follett - The Key to Rebecca

He leaned into the back of the car and,put a hand on Billy’s chest. “Alive,” he said. “Thank God.”

Billy’s eyes opened.

“It’s all over,” Vandam said.

Billy closed his eyes.

Vandam got into the front seat of the car. “Where’s the gear stick?” he said.

“It broke off. That’s what I hit him with.”

Vandam turned the key. The car jerked. “Good—it’s still in gear,” he said. He pressed the clutch and turned the key again. The engine fired. He eased out the clutch and the car moved forward. He switched off. “We’re mobile,” he said “What a piece of luck.”

“What will we do with Wolff?”

“Put him in the boot.”

Vandam took another look at Billy. He was conscious now, his eyes wide open. “How are you, son?” said Vandam.

“I’m sorry,” Billy said, “but I couldn’t help feeling sick.”

Vandam looked at Elene. “You’ll have to drive,” he said. There were tears in his eyes.

THERE WAS THE SUDDEN, TERRIFYING ROAR OF NEARBY AIRCRAFT. ROMMEL glanced up and saw the British bombers approaching low from behind the nearest line of hills: the troops called them “Party Rally” bombers because they flew in the perfect formation of display aircraft at the prewar Nuremberg parades. “Take cover!” Rommel yelled. He ran to a slit trench and dived in.

The noise was so loud it was like silence. Rommel lay with his eyes closed. He had a pain in his stomach. They had sent him a doctor from Germany, but Rommel knew that the only medicine he needed was victory. He had lost a lot of weight: his uniform hung loosely on him now, and his shirt collars seemed too large. His hair was receding rapidly and turning white in places.

Today was September 1, and everything had gone terribly wrong. What had seemed to be the weak point in the Allied defense line was looking more and more like an ambush. The minefields were heavy where they should have been light, the ground beneath had been quicksand where hard going was expected, and the Alam Halfa Ridge, which should have been taken easily, was being mightily defended. Rommel’s strategy was wrong; his intelligence had been wrong; his spy had been wrong.

The bombers passed overhead. Rommel got out of the trench. His aides and officers emerged from cover and gathered around him again. He raised his field glasses and looked out over the desert. Scores of vehicles stood still in the sand, many of them blazing furiously. If the enemy would only charge, Rommel thought, we could fight him. But the Allies sat tight, well dug in, picking off the panzer tanks like fish in a barrel.

It was no good. His forward units were fifteen miles from Alexandria, but they were stuck. Fifteen miles, he thought. Another fifteen miles, and Egypt would have been mine. He looked at the officers around him. As always, their expressions reflected his own: he saw in their faces what they saw in his.

It was defeat.

He knew it was a nightmare, but he could not wake up.

The cell was six feet long by four feet wide, and half of it was taken up by a bed. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. The walls were of smooth gray stone. A small lightbulb hung from the ceiling by a cord. In one end of the cell was a door. In the other end was a small square window, set just above eye level: through it he could see the bright blue sky.

In his dream he thought: I’ll wake up soon, then it will be all right. I’ll wake up, and there will be a beautiful woman lying beside me on a silk sheet, and I will touch her breasts—and as he thought this he was filled with strong lust—and she will wake up and kiss me, and we will drink champagne ... But he could not quite dream that, and the dream of the prison cell came back. Somewhere nearby a bass drum was beating steadily. Soldiers were marching to the rhythm outside. The beat was terrifying, terrifying, boom-boom, boom-boom, tramp-tramp, the drum and the soldiers and the close gray walls of the cell and that distant, tantalizing square of blue sky and he was so frightened, so horrified, that he forced his eyes open and he woke up.

He looked around him, not understanding. He was awake, wide awake, no question about it, the dream was over; yet he was still in a prison cell. It was six feet long by four feet wide, and half of it was taken up by a bed. He raised himself from the bed and looked underneath it. There was a chamber pot.

He stood upright. Then, quietly and calmly, he began to bang his head against the wall.

Jerusalem, 24 September 42

My dear Elene,

Today I went to the Western Wall, which is also called the Wailing Wall. I stood before it with many other Jews, and I prayed. I wrote a kvitlach and put it into a crack in the wall. May God grant my petition.

This is the most beautiful place in the world, Jerusalem. Of course I do not live well. I sleep on a mattress on the floor in a little room with five other men. Sometimes I get a little work, sweeping up in a workshop where one of my roommates, a young man, carries wood for the carpenters. I am very poor, like always, but now I am poor in Jerusalem, which is better than rich in Egypt.

I crossed the desert in a British Army truck. They asked me what I would have done if they had not picked me up, and when I said I would have walked, I believe they thought me mad. But this is the sanest thing I ever did.

I must tell you that I am dying. My illness is quite incurable, even if I could afford doctors, and I have only weeks left, perhaps a couple of months. Don’t be sad. I have never been happier in my life.

I should tell you what I wrote in my kvitlach. I asked God to grant happiness to my daughter Elene. I believe he will.

Farewell,

Your Father

The smoked ham was sliced as thin as paper and rolled into dainty cylinders. The bread rolls were home-baked, fresh that morning. There was a glass jar of potato salad made with real mayonnaise and crisp chopped onion. There were a bottle of wine, another bottle of soda and a bag of oranges. And a packet of cigarettes, his brand.

Elene began to pack the food into the picnic basket.

She had just closed the lid when she heard the knock at the door. She took off her apron before going to open it.

Vandam stepped inside, closed the door behind him and kissed her. He put his arms around her and held her painfully tightly. He always did this, and it always hurt, but she never complained, for they had almost lost each other, and now when they were together they were just so grateful.

They went into the kitchen. Vandam hefted the picnic basket and said: “Lord, what have you got in here, the Crown Jewels?”

“What’s the news?” Elene asked.

He knew she meant news of the war in the desert. He said: “Axis forces in full retreat, and I quote.” She thought how relaxed he was these days. He even talked differently. A little gray was appearing in his hair, and he laughed a lot.

“I think you’re one of those men who gets more good-looking as he gets older,” she said.

“Wait till my teeth drop out.”

They went out. The sky was curiously black, and Elene said “Oh!” in surprise as she stepped into the street.

“End of the world today,” Vandam said.

“I’ve never seen it like this before,” Elene said.

They got on the motorcycle and headed for Billy’s school. The sky became even darker. The first rain fell as they were passing Shep heard’s Hotel. Elene saw an Egyptian drape a handkerchief over his fez. The raindrops were enormous; each one soaked right through her dress to the skin. Vandam turned the bike around and parked in front of the hotel. As they dismounted the clouds burst.

, They stood under the hotel canopy and watched the storm. The sheer quantity of water was incredible. Within minutes the gutters overflowed and the pavements were awash. Opposite the hotel the shopkeepers waded through the flood to put up shutters. The cars simply had to stop where they were.