Free Jephte's Daughter by Naomi Ragen Page A

fascinated and appalled at the story. And for one of the few times in her life, speechless.
    He looked over at her and smiled. “So why, the young American college girl is asking herself, why does this old man tell me such terrible stories? What does this have to do with me? I will tell you. Batsheva thinks very highly of you. She is young and impressionable and you are, she thinks, a woman of the world, a mentor.”
    “I hope a good one.”
    “That is why you are here now, listening to the rantings of an old man. You must be a good one. Everything depends upon it. I am arranging a marriage for Batsheva in Jerusalem with the kind of person needed to carry on our family. I have just told her about it and she is a little shocked. She will no doubt tell you all about it and ask your advice.”
    “Now, wait a minute. I just teach the child stories…”
    “Let us not fool each other, my dear Miss Elizabeth. You have her trust, more than a parent. I am not asking you to understand and approve of how we live, just not to sabotage my efforts.”
    “It will be difficult for me not to express an opinion, and I cannot lie.” Ah, that felt wonderful.
    He nodded approvingly. “I am glad to hear that, because I need to believe that you are honest, trustworthy.” He sat down behind his desk and took out a checkbook. “My daughter tells me you are planning a trip to England to continue your studies at Cambridge?”
    “I am waiting to hear about a scholarship.” Her eyes followed his poised pen intently.
    “And when would you need to leave for this term of study?”
    “As soon as possible. As soon as I hear about my grant.”
    “Would ten thousand dollars be enough to tide you over? No, perhaps fifteen thousand with all the extra expenses. A graduation gift, let us call it.”
    He wrote rapidly, a small smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “I guess you will be able to leave soon. This week, no?”
    She stood up and held her open palms against her cheeks. They felt so hot, burning with anger and embarrassment.
    “You have a beautiful daughter, Mr Ha-Levi. I would not want to hurt you or her in any way.”
    “Of course not, my dear, of course not.”
    I ought to say: “Please do not cheapen this discussion by trying to bribe me.” That’s what they say in the movies, in books. But I may not get that scholarship. And Graham MacLeish, who had indeed shown up at Fat Henry’s with a bottle of champagne and a teenager he had introduced as his visiting daughter, had made his apologies and said that wasn’t it a wonderful coincidence that he would be guest lecturing at Cambridge next year, and wouldn’t it be wonderful if her scholarship came through.
    She cashed the check the next day and called Batsheva from the airport that same night. “If you need me, write. I’ll be there for you.” Liar and hypocrite.

Chapter four
     
    Israel’s major airport, Ben Gurion, is a tiny place by international standards, but one of unmatched variety. There you will find groups of Arabs with red or black kaffiyehs wrapped around their heads, sitting next to black Abyssinian priests and Hassidim in fur-trimmed hats and white stockings. There, too, are the Israelis returning from New York, Los Angeles, Rome, and Paris, outlandishly dressed and beaming from the heavy load of suitcases that bulge with mysterious and wonderful surprises, like the pockets of a small boy.
    And always, as in any international airport in the world, there is the endless stream of exotic, seductively dressed women, who bring the pungent swish of nylon stockings, the heady mixture of expensive and cheap perfume, the inviting click of high heels down a long corridor.
    Isaac Meyer Harshen—waiting to board the 7 P.M . TWA flight to New York and from there the connecting flight to Los Angeles—saw, heard, and smelled none of this. Nor was he conscious of the women who briefly turned their heads to smile at him, or simply to stare.
    It was his height that was the