The days went by with agonizing slowness-and at the same time with dizzying speed. No, it's not a contradiction. What I mean is that before the time went by, it seemed to me that "a month from now"-the estimated date of Anat's parents' departure for America-was such a long time, but when those days were behind me, I was truly startled. "What, already? How quickly it passed!"

Our mechanechet announced that the class would celebrate Rosh Chodesh Shevat with a party, and asked the girls of the class to prepare a program. Anat suggested to me a musical performance, singing with mandolin accompaniment.

"Wonderful!" I enthused, but her words sounded strange to me. "You're going to play?" I was sure that was what she meant, and I was surprised. It wasn't like Anat to show off her talents.

"Not I, of course," Anat corrected me. "I meant that you should play and also accompany yourself. Why not? You have a very nice voice, and in the past three weeks you've made excellent progress in your music lessons. Of course, you still have much to learn, but without doubt you can make a very successful performance."

It was true that I already knew how to play no small number of songs, and could without much difficulty find the right chords for almost any new song I wanted to play. Anat was very impressed with my ear for music. I could play by ear much better than from written notes. All the same. No, I couldn't do it! I refused Anat's suggestion.

"I'm very sorry that I won't be able to demonstrate to everyone your tremendous talent as a music teacher," I told her. "But why don't you take your own suggestion? You don't need to be shy."

"As a matter of fact, I'm not shy. But I'm afraid I'll get too excited. Don't forget, my parents are going to America in another week and a half."

I had almost forgotten. But Anat hadn't. She was counting the days. On one hand she was sorry about the prolonged separation from her parents, but on the other hand she was happy that they would be returning with Maggie, her sister, who would live with them in their home. She was picturing to herself the expected meeting with Maggie, and making plans how to persuade her to begin observing the mitzvot of the Torah.

Anat was the last to arrive at the party for Rosh Chodesh Shevat, which was held on Saturday night, motzaei shabbat. At first I was a little worried about her, but our mutual friends from the dorm reassured me that there was no reason to worry. She had received an urgent phone call just when all the girls were leaving for the party, and that was why she was late.

When she arrived I saw right away that her expression was clouded. At the first opportunity I asked what had happened.

"Mother called. My parents are postponing their trip."

I saw that she was very upset, and tried to calm her down. "What's so terrible about that? When were they supposed to be going?"

"This Monday. Mother claims that unexpected problems came up with my father's work, so they have to put off the trip for two weeks."

"That's all? Just two weeks?" I breathed with relief. "You had me so scared!"

"You don't understand!" Anat countered. "I was waiting so much for that day to arrive! And now that it has arrived-it's been pushed away from me again. I can't wait anymore to see Maggie!" Her voice expressed tremendous yearning, and only at that moment did I realize how little I had shared in her feelings during the past three weeks, even though I had thought that I was closer to her now than ever before. I had not managed to perceive the great longing with which she had been looking forward to meeting her sister.

After a period of silence she said: "There's something else I'm worried about. I'm afraid that this first postponement may become the precedent for more postponements. I'm afraid their promise was only made to calm me down and get my mind off the subject, they might go on putting off their trip again and again, hoping that in the end I'll give up, and then they can announce that they've canceled their plans."

I understood Anat's fear, but in her present situation I considered it better not to build it up. I tried to convince her that she was mistaken. "Wait another two weeks," I suggested. "It's not so terrible. You'll see, those two weeks will also go by quickly. After that, if your parents still make excuses, you can begin to worry."

Sensing that she did not accept my suggestion, I added: "If you see that your parents don't intend to keep their promise, what's to stop you from running away again? You know you'll always be welcome at my house!" I was aware that my words might be interpreted as, G-d forbid, encouraging Anat to run away, but at that moment I didn't see any other way to calm her fears. "When your parents see that you're firm in your decision, they won't have any other possibility except to keep their promise."

She smiled sadly, and just then the lights went out. Two of the girls had prepared a slide show. From outside, the glow of the streetlights penetrated dimly into the room. Despite the closed shutters, the wind could be heard howling through the branches. Rain began to fall. A slight shudder went through my body. What was Anat doing now? Was she crying? I wanted to show her somehow that I sympathized with her feelings-but didn't know how to let her know.

There was no second postponement. At the end of the two weeks-during which Anat was somewhat on edge-she went with her parents to see them off at the airport. When she returned, she was much more relaxed. It seemed that once they had gone she could breath with relief.

"Thank G-d!" she told me, "I was worrried for nothing. It wasn't just an excuse, as I had feared at first. There really was a problem, and my father's documents weren't ready on time. I told you that his office was taking advantage of his trip to give him a couple of assignments in America. That way he can receive salary for the month he's spending there. As if he needed it..."

I said to her: "Now, after everything has worked out fine, don't you think it was a mistake to load yourself with useless worry? You should have relaxed and waited calmly to see how things would develop."

"That's easy enough to say," she sighed, and then after a moment's silence: "-and much harder to do. Altogether, recently I've been so tense. I've never been so nervous as during these last two months. I know it doesn't seem sensible, but I can't be any different. It's not up to me. There's a turmoil inside me that doesn't give me any peace, and I don't know why. If it's possible to say that a person's heart feels what's going to happen to him, then my heart is foretelling something..."

"Nonsense," I brushed away her foreboding, though it had been expressed in such a tone that my own fears were aroused. Of course they weren't to be taken seriously-and yet...

"You've had too much excitement lately. You've had to deal with things which are very important to you, and which have not gone the way you wanted. And you still don't know what will be in the future. Is your sister Maggie going to agree to come to Israel? And if she does, is she going to accept your guidance and agree to live her life in accordance with the Torah? After all, she's already too grown-up. At her age it will be hard, without a strong reason, to give up the way of life she's grown accustomed to, and which has been good for her. All this leaves you in doubt. And doubt and uncertainty are the foremost enemies of serenity. It's not for nothing that they say, 'There's no joy like the resolution of doubt.' What you have to do is convince yourself that it will all turn out fine-yet at the same time prepare yourself psychologically for the possibility that everything might not go precisely according to your wishes."

She nodded her head in agreement. I was happy that she didn't reject what I had said.

The same day that she came back from taking her parents to the airport, I received her gift-a wonderful mandolin, just like hers.

"My father bought it, at my request," she told me. Pure happiness shone from her blue eyes as she handed me the present. It had been a long time since I had seen her eyes so blue. I felt that I had to accept the gift, if only to give her pleasure and enjoyment -feelings she didn't have a surplus of, during this period when she was so tense and nervous. "It's the best mandolin there is!" she added. "It's exactly like mine."

Anat's parents said that they planned to return after Purim. That meant they would be away for more than a month. Of course, I invited Anat to be a permanent guest at our house. At first Anat and I had thought that she would just come to us every Shabbat. But my mother has penetrating eyes and a sensitive, understanding heart. She sensed with her special intuition that Anat needed a warm home, especially during these weeks. She spoke with the dorm mother, who granted permission for Anat to move into our house for the coming month. My joy knew no limits. At last I had a sister!

At first Anat felt a little uncomfortable, but she overcame that without much trouble. She had already been like one of the family, so it wasn't a big step for her to become a permanent resident. Of course I moved her into my room. I gladly gave up the privacy my room had afforded me, in order to share it with Anat. I'll never forget that marvellous stretch of time. We were exactly like two sisters. No, I take it back. We were like two good friends. Sisters sometimes get angry at each other and fight. With us such a thing did not exist. We got along fine with each other, each knowing how to adapt to the other's weaknesses. We became friends with all our heart and soul.

In the evenings we would sit in my little room, strumming our mandolins and singing. Our voices blended splendidly, and it gave us a wonderful feeling. Even my mother would often come to our room, sit off to one side, and listen without disturbing us, gazing at us with obvious pleasure while she did her sewing. Her eyes held an expression of boundless love, which extended to both of us. I don't think my mother felt any differently towards Anat than she did towards me, her only daughter. I don't think she loved her any less than she loved me. She felt and acted towards her like a daughter, her own flesh and blood.

In our class, the studies went forward with no special incidents. Chedvah had become much quieter-and also much more full of real happiness-since her father's miraculous recovery. The sharp change that took place in her was truly amazing.

Chagit, too, stopped producing "brainstorms" for disrupting our learning. She still continued drawing during the lessons -so that her "hand wouldn't get rusty," as she explained to me-but while she drew she would listen to what was being said in class, and would even take part. In the afternoon she worked in my parents' store, and they valued her very highly. Within two weeks my mother told me that she didn't understand how she used to get along without Chagit's helping hand. As my mother put it, "She's hard-working, quick, understanding, and alert. And we can depend on her with confidence." Working in the afternoon didn't detract from Chagit's studies. On the contrary, just when she started working in our store she began to be more careful about doing her homework, and for tests she usually studied with me and Anat.

I imagine that a good portion of the improvement can be credited to my mother. She's an expert at persuasive conversations which begin as if by the way, with no special purpose, yet manage to reveal what's bothering the other person and to work on the troublesome point. I wouldn't be surprised if Chagit even confessed to my mother what had forced her to leave her previous job.

No doubt Anat's beneficial influence also brought about a change in Chagit. Anat, who so much regretted that she had overlooked Chagit's isolation, now worked to make up for her mistake. She made friends with her and treated her with great consideration. I was no longer jealous, I knew what motivated Anat to act this way, and was happy to have the chance to help her in her efforts-my main assistance being to keep out of the way.

In general, our class changed for the better. The girls matured, and this showed in their behavior, which was more thoughtful and balanced. I don't think any of us would have paid attention if someone had suddenly stood up one clear day -or rainy day, for that matter-and suggested an afternoon romp to the beach. And that's not because it's not usual to go to the beach in the winter, but because we had gained in moderation and good judgment, and were much more grown-up than we had been at the beginning of the year.

Every week Anat received a letter from her parents. Usually it was written by her mother, in English. To Anat's disappointment, her mother didn't tell much in detail. She wrote only that "matters are a bit difficult, and are progressing slowly." These words threw Anat into somewhat of a depression. But afterwards she wrote that "noticeable progress" had occurred, she had spoken with Maggie and suggested that she come to live in Israel, and Maggie had not expressed any objection to the idea. When she read this, Anat almost shook the walls of my room with her tremendous joy.

These letters were very brief, and nearly always included one or two sentences at the end in the handwriting of Anat's father, who usually signed off with something like: "Miss you. Cold here in America. Send us a little Israeli sunshine. Very busy, can't write more. Lot's of love-Eli."

The last letter Anat received while living at our house arrived when I wasn't home. My mother had sent me out on some errand. As she read it through for the second time, Anat wrote down a translation into Hebrew for me. To this very day I've kept that sheet of paper, filled with Anat's lovely, neat handwriting -even though years have passed since then.

My dear Annie,

(Anat's English name, which her mother frequently used, was Anna.)

I miss you very much, my girl. I hoped that our forced separation wouldn't last too long, and we would soon be together again, but I was mistaken. Unexpected difficulties are piling up in front of us. Matters are not progressing as we had hoped and expected. It is hard to persuade Maggie to leave her fine house and her new mother and father who love her very much, to come to a foreign country where she would have to begin everything all over again. Remember that she doesn't even know Hebrew. She wants to hug her little sister, but for that purpose she is not willing to sacrifice her home, her country, her friends, and her future. That's what she insists again and again.

Your father will return home as planned. He has completed his assignments here very successfully and cannot extend his leave of absence. Yesterday he received a telegram from his office, in which they say they need him to return as soon as possible. He'll arrive in Israel next Tuesday.

It seems that I shall stay here in America for some time longer. I don't yet know how long. I'll try to persuade Maggie to come, despite the difficulty involved. If I don't succeed, how would you feel about coming here yourself, to try to speak with your sister? But we'll talk about that when I get back.

In connection with your father, I must prepare you for the fact that he has undergone a tremendous change of late. I don't want to explain in detail, you'll see and understand for yourself when he comes home. These past few days I've hardly seen him. He gets up in the morning, dresses, and leaves. I don't even know exactly where he goes. When he returns, late at night, he claims that he has gone "to be alone with himself," because he is presently going through a process of soul-searching. I don't understand what has happened to him. No doubt he will tell you everything when he returns. You, Anatty, will surely be happy with the way your father is changing.

I'll send you more exact information about my plans as soon as I myself know what I intend to do. In the meantime-"I'll be seeing you."

Take good care of Father!

Your mother, who loves you very much,
Jenny

P.S. Please convey my feelings of gratitude to the family in whose home you are staying, and also my greetings, especially to Tammi!

When I returned, Anat asked me to read the translation of the letter. I read it through quickly, and was left in uncomprehending wonder. We both tried to analyze the contents.

"I'm interested to know what could have happened to my father!" Anat wondered with emotion. "He never used to want to be alone with himself. Soul-searching? Since when does he indulge in soul-searching?"

"I think I understand!" I said excitedly. "Probably... apparently your father, for some reason, arrived at a situation in which he decided to do some soul-searching, and, from what your mother writes, he has also changed in accordance with the conclusions he reached. What do you think? Has he decided to change his way of life?" I was excited by the very thought that Anat's father might have decided to return to the way in which he had been brought up as a boy.

"I'm not so sure that's what she meant," Anat hesitated, "although that was the first thought that occurred to me. I can't picture my father's changing his opinions, his behavior, the way of life he's held to with such great zealousness. I can't imagine anything that could have happened to make him do teshuvah. No! It can't be," she decided.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," I suggested, "especially since we know that anything we say now is only a guess. Let's wait and see. You don't have much time to wait."

On the day her father returned to Israel, Anat got permission to miss school. The mechanechet allowed her to go to the airport to welcome her father. Without Anat, I felt a little alone that day -and the next day too, for Anat extended her own leave of absence and did not return until early Wednesday evening. The first place she went was my house, even before she took her things to her dorm room. She practically fell all over me, her face totally radiant with joy.

"You won't believe it, Tammi!" she cried excitedly. "You guessed right! It's still hard for me to believe that it's all true... that all this has really happened!"

I brought her a chair and asked her to take off her coat. In her great excitement Anat had forgotten these minor details.

"You were right, Tammi," she repeated. By this time she was sitting comfortably in the chair I had brought her. I sat opposite her and she told me the story: "I stood by the door where the passengers were supposed to come out. I waited impatiently to see my father. The plane had already landed fifteen minutes ago, and my father had not yet appeared. I started worrying. Maybe I had got mixed up about the flight number? Or maybe something had gone wrong at the last minute and my father had not got on the plane? Dozens of men, women and children went by in front of me. Most of them were pushing carts containing suitcases and packages. I didn't search for my father among them. I knew that he would arrive with his attache case and one other small bag. With my eyes I searched through all the faces that were going past me, focussing on the heads. I was looking for a man with a light brown wave in his hair, and a business suit. There were a few like that, but none of them was my father. I almost decided to worry, thinking: What'll I do if the last passenger comes out, and my father's not there? I was just making plans to go and ask if he was on the passenger list, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I turned around quickly and saw facing me-my father's smile! Yes, only the smile. None of the rest belonged to Father, but the smile was unmistakably his. My mouth fell open in amazement, and before I could say a word he asked me: 'Nu, what's this-you didn't recognize me?"

"I hadn't recognized him when he had come out among the other passengers. I had been looking for a man with a light brown wave in his hair, and that wave didn't exist. It had disappeared. On his head, which I had always seen bare, was a black hat... and he had a little fledgling beard, just a few weeks old... how could I have recognized my father with a beard? In my whole life I'd never seen him that way! The suit and tie remained, but from under the suit, tzitzit were peeking out—can you picture to yourself how ecstatic I was?" Anat jumped up from her chair and danced around the room. I smiled in understanding. All the same, certain questions remained unanswered.

"How did all this happen?" I wanted to know. "In such a short time he changed so much?"

"The story is even more amazing. Really astounding!" Anat came over and stood facing me. "To me, the way he was persuaded to do teshuvah is much more amazing than the fact that he did it. The hand of Providence is so clear! It's really an open miracle... just for that reason, he had to go to America."

And she went on to tell me the story.

"As part of the assignment he had been given by his office, my father had to meet with a number of people who work in his field. One day, about a week after he arrived in America, he was supposed to have lunch with a certain person in a luxury restaurant in Manhatten. It was what the Americans call a 'business lunch.' During the meal they discussed their work and clarified everything they had to clarify. By the time they finished lunch, their business was taken care of. They wrote up an agreement, signed it, shook hands, and ordered a bottle of wine in honor of the occassion. Suddenly my father's colleague asked him: Tell me, is it true you're Jewish?'

" 'Yes,' my father answered. He felt a little ill at ease. Why was the man suddenly interested in his Jewishness? Was that going to make him cancel this important agreement?

"His fear proved groundless. The colleague asked: 'So why don't you act like a Jew?'

"My father told me later that this question was like a heavy blow to him. To hear a question like that from a gentile! For a minute he didn't know what to answer.

" 'What... what do you mean? What are you referring to?'

" 'Look,' the other man explained, 'You're a Jew and I'm a gentile. But all the same we're no different from each other. You look like me, dress like me, act exactly as I do, and even eat together with me at the same table, the same foods I eat. If so, what is it that expresses your Jewishness?'

" 'I... I'm a Jew!' My father didn't know how to explain the matter successfully. 'There don't have to be special differences... it's enough that I live in Israel, which is a Jewish country... that I live among my people, the Jewish people.' He himself felt that his explanation was very shaky.

" 'It doesn't make sense,' the gentile said decisively. 'So if you come to live here in America, you'll no longer be a Jew? No! And if I go to live in Israel, will that turn me into a Jew? Also not. So obviously it's not where you live that makes you Jewish. My questions is, in what way are you, as a Jew, different from me, a gentile?'

"My father didn't answer, and his friend went on setting forth his puzzlement. 'Anyway, on what basis do you, or your fellow-Jews in Israel, claim that country belongs to the Jewish people?'

" 'Our ancestors were there first!' my father hurried to defend his rights of ownership to Eretz Israel.

" 'No,' his friend corrected him. 'Before your ancestors, Eretz Israel was inhabited by seven nations. Canaanite nations. Yes, I know. I became interested in the subject and read up on it. And before those seven nations, other peoples lived there, before the Jews even existed. Who gave you, the Jewish people, the right to steal the land of peoples who existed many years before you?'

"At this point, my father's boyhood studies came to his aid. 'G-d gave us that land,' he claimed. 'That's written explicitly in our Torah.'

"Apparently the gentile had been waiting for that answer, and now he jumped all over my father. 'Written in your Torah! Written in the Torah?' he repeated. 'Is that all that's written in the Torah-that the land of Israel belongs to the Jews-or are other things also written there? And those other things-do you fulfill them with the same fervor with which you fight for your right to live in the land of Israel? No! You choose the things that are convenient for you, and that's what you adhere to! The rest you toss over your shoulder...'

"My father gave him a surprised look. 'Maybe by chance you yourself are a Jew disguised as a gentile?' he tried guessing.

" 'No!' came the answer. 'I'm not a Jew. I was born a gentile and I'll stay one. That's how G-d created me, and apparently that's what I'm supposed to be. That's my function in the world, and I'm here to fulfill it. But you were created a Jew, and you should act accordingly. You should live like a Jew, as G-d wanted you to. What do you think, that G-d does things for nothing? He's smarter than all of us, and He knows what He's doing. He wants you to be a Jew, and He gave you a Torah, in which it's written how Jews are supposed to live...'

Here the the man lowered his voice and said to my father in a quiet, apologetic tone: 'Don't think that I'm speaking out of ignorance. I've taken an interest in the Jewish Torah and researched it, and I must tell you-there's not such a marvellous work in the entire world! Listen,' he appealed to my father, 'You're a nice man, and I don't want to hurt our friendship. Please don't be angry with me for what I've said. I want us to go on being friends. I don't want to tell you how to live your life, and yet-I don't understand! How can a person consciously and deliberately throw away such a precious treasure?'

"To hear a gentile talking about the Torah as a 'precious treasure'-that was beyond my father's comprehension. The matter gave him no rest. A gentile felt that way while he, a Jew, turned his back on his people's Torah!

"They remained friends in spite of the 'tongue-lashing' the man had given my father. Happy with the success of his business deal, my father left the restaurant, got into his car, and drove to a small street in Manhatten. My mother had requested that he stop at a certain electrical supply store to buy something. He got out of the car, locked the door, took a few steps-and suddenly was struck by a second heavy blow. Opposite him stood two young men. Perhaps my father had thought that one could see such types only in Eretz Israel. He certainly hadn't expected to see them in the heart of Manhatten. They wore suits and hats, and everything about them declared that they were yeshivah students.

" 'Pardon us,' they said in English. 'Are you Jewish?'

" 'Yes, I'm Jewish,' he stammered, not yet understanding what they wanted of him. Perhaps a contribution for their yeshivah?

" 'In that case, come and put on tefillinV

"They weren't asking if he wanted to, and they weren't requesting him to. They were telling him gently that he was about to put on tefillin'. My father didn't have the nerve, nor the desire, to refuse. It had been years since he had last put on tefillin-more than twenty years!-but he hadn't forgotten how to do it. The young men watched with satisfaction as he wound the tefillin-strap around his left arm, and they answered, 'Amen' when, unaided, he recited the appropriate blessing.

" 'You're no beginner at putting on tefillin,'' one of them commented with pleasure.

" 'Am I a Jew, or not?' my father smiled-and suddenly he was filled with a strange emotion. 'I'm a Jew!' he said, and connected it with the fact, 'I'm putting on tefillin! Wasn't this the answer to his gentile friend's question? The man had been right: My father was a Jew, and he should act like one! With emotion he thanked the two yeshivah students, and left.

"That was the beginning of the period of 'soul-searching,' as my mother called it in her letter. During the next two weeks, my father reviewed his entire life, especially the years since he had turned eighteen, when he had left his parent's home in order to forge his own path in life. And now he had arrived where he had arrived. The roar and bustle of the city disturbed his ruminations, so he would go into the countryside. He would park his car by the side of the road and walk alone among hills and mountains, beside streams and ponds, in green fields and leafy forests. There he did his soul-searching.

"It was hard for him to decide that he would suddenly leave his accustomed ways and begin to live a life of Torah and mitzvot. For two weeks he struggled with the issue, until finally he decided that at least he had to try. He went back to the place in Manhattan where he had met the two yeshivah students. That was on a Friday. This time it was he who went up to them and asked to put on tefillin. The two young men welcomed him joyfully, like an old acquaintance. My father went with them to their yeshivah, and from there he phoned my mother and told her that he wouldn't be home until the next evening. He spent that Shabbat at the yeshivah, and apparently was very strongly influenced by it. The results show it. At present, my father is trying to remember everything that a Torah-observant Jew is supposed to do. He's making a very serious effort. And can you guess where we were this morning?" She didn't let me guess, but answered immediately: "This morning I went with Father to visit his parents, my grandfather and grandmother!"

"They made up with each other?" I cried out enthusiastically.

"Made up?" she laughed. "They didn't have time for that... my father simply knocked on the door, opened it-and went in -sorry, I'm getting ahead of my story. Before that, I had phoned to tell them that I was coming for a visit. Since I often drop in on them, my expected visit was nothing unusual. Of course, I didn't tell them about the important guest I was bringing with me. When my father walked in, my grandmother simply stared at him in astonishment. Suddenly, with the beard and hat he looked so much like my uncle, my father's brother Shaul... the next moment she was already falling all over him, laughing and crying at the same time, and murmuring over and over again: 'Eli... Elitzur...' Grandfather came in to see what all the commotion was about-and immediately joined the celebration. They left me on the sidelines, no one was interested in me," Anat said in mock indignation. She was very happy! Her tremendous joy about her father's teshuvah somewhat covered her disappointment at having to acknowledge a reality which until now she had tried to ignore. Maggie would not be arriving in Israel all that quickly...

"At first I had planned to be a guest at your house during Pesach," she revealed, "except for the Seder-night. I hadn't decided whether to spend it at your house or at Aunt Hadassah's, where the whole family would be gathered. In the light of these recent events, it seems that my plans have changed. Grandfather and grandmother insist that we come to them," she said with a radiant smile. "After so many years, they wouldn't hear of anything else. During the week of Pesach, we'll sleep at home, and also eat breakfast and dinner there. For lunchtimes, we're all booked up. The uncles are actually fighting over us!"

I shared her joy whole-heartedly, despite the fact that the happy development had cost me the pleasure of Anat's company during Pesach. I wasn't so egotistic that her joy would make me sorry.

"One problem is still facing me," Anat said. "I have only three more weeks to clean the house for Pesach."

I thought of her enormous house, and was glad it wasn't mine. I didn't envy what lay ahead of her. But her next words reassured me. "I don't intend to clean the whole house. We'll close up a number of rooms. All the same, there's a lot of work to do, my parent's room, my room, the kitchen and livingroom -that by itself won't be easy, especially since I have to finish everything in the space of two weeks. Pesach vacation doesn't begin until the first of Nissan. My father promised that he'd hire someone to help me with the cleaning, but now, with Pesach so close, no one is available. Besides, how can you rely on paid help for Pesach cleaning?"

I thought for a minute. Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. "I'll come to help you!"

"You?" she asked incredulously. "You have more than enough to do in your own house. Your mother certainly will need your help!"

I debated briefly with myself. Of course, Anat was right. My parents were very busy in their store. Especially now, just before Pesach, there was a lot of work. The women and girls of Jerusalem were interested in new dresses in honor of the holiday. Besides, they wanted to refurbish their summer wardrobe now, because right after the holiday week the period of semi-mourning would start, due to the Omer-count, when it's customary not to begin wearing new clothes. If they could wear their summer dresses at least once during the week of Pesach, these clothes would already not be considered "new" during the Omer-count. My mother already had her hands full of work. She came home at night later than usual, sometimes even taking urgent sewing jobs home with her, to finish them at night. It was hard for her to keep the home running as usual, and on top of all that to do the Pesach cleaning by herself. Hence, whether I liked it or not, I had more duties at home than usual.

On the other hand, I so much wanted to go to Anat! It would be a great experience, working together. That was something else, something different, much more enjoyable than cleaning my own house.

"I'll ask my mother," I said in a low voice.

"You don't need to," Anat hurried to say. "It would be hard for her to give up your help. Even if she did, it would make me feel very uncomfortable."

"Still, I want to!" I refused to give up. "Maybe all the same she'll agree?" I expressed my hope, even though I knew the chances were small...

Mother listened to my request, fixed a penetrating glance on me and said: "I'm surprised at you, Tammi. To ask something like that-to be away from the house for several days, right before Pesach!"

"Only for two or three days. Mom!" I pleaded. "We can get a lot done, the two of us together. Anat doesn't have any little brothers to get in her way. I promise that when I come back I'll do all the work you would have given me during those days."

My mother was not convinced. "It's impossible, Tammi. I can't give up your help at a time like this."

"And who will help Anat?" I said stubbornly. "There's a big mitzvah involved here!"

"Anat will succeed in finding help, Tammi, I promise you." My mother wasn't softening. "And it's no small mitzvah-maybe even bigger-to help your mother. Just between us, I'm very doubtful whether it's the mitzvah that's motivating you to want so much to go to Anat's. It seems to me that it's more the charm of being able to spend time with her. Don't think, Tammi, that I don't understand your feelings. I know how hard it is for you to give up the idea. It's certainly much more enjoyable to visit a friend than to work at home, even though there would be plenty of work at your friend's house, too. I'm willing for you to visit Anat, but not during these last weeks before Pesach. During summer vacation perhaps I'll let you spend a few days at her house."

My mother's half-promise was intended to make it easier for me to accept her refusal. And even though it was hard for me, I gave in. I lowered my head, and tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't try to argue. I knew it wouldn't do any good. After all, my mother was right. I should never have asked in the first place-yet I had hoped that my mother would understand my feelings and, despite the difficulties, allow me to go to Anat. I turned and started for my room without another word. My mother saw my tears, but didn't react. She was already used to childish outbursts from her growing-up daughter. Such occurrences were becoming more rare, but still happened occassionally.

Anat wasn't surprised to hear that my mother had refused permission. She even seemed relieved.

"I never imagined your mother would agree," she said, "and I'm glad she didn't. If she had given permission, I wouldn't have been able to refuse you, knowing how much you wanted to come to me. Refusing would only have hurt your feelings. But at the same time it would have put me in a very uncomfortable position with regard to your mother. It would have seemed that I was 'stealing' you from her just when she most needed you..."

"And what will you do now?" I asked. "How will you manage by yourself?"

Anat thought a little. She fixed her gaze on me, hesitated for a long moment, and then said: "You'll be amazed to see how the Holy One, Blessed be He, takes care of each one of us. I've already found help!" I gave her a questioning glance, and she explained deliberately, weighing each word: "This morning, Peninah came over to me..."

"Peninah!"

"Yes, Peninah. Why not?-and asked me where we were going to stay, my father and I, during Pesach. Everyone knows that my mother hasn't yet returned from America, and that I don't have brothers and sisters. When I answered that it seemed we would be staying at our own house during Pesach, she went on to ask: 'And what about cleaning for Pesach?' I told her that it was a real problem, and I didn't yet know what I was going to do, but if worst came to worst I would hire a cleaning woman and work alongside her to make sure she cleaned well enough. And then Peninah offered that she herself would come to help me!"

"Doesn't she have work to do in her own house?" I tried not to make my dissatisfaction too obvious. It was hard for me to accept the thought that Peninah would be taking my place.

Anat ignored my annoyance. "They moved into their new apartment only a month and a half ago, and since it was so close to Pesach, they were careful not to take chametz into any room except the kitchen. So their apartment is clean for Pesach. They just have to clean the kitchen and, as you know, Peninah has four sisters who can help. And her mother, unlike yours, doesn't have a job."

"You accepted her offer, I gather," I said disappointedly. It wasn't Anat I was disappointed with, nor Peninah, nor my mother, and certainly not myself. I was disappointed with everyone-and with no one...

"Of course I accepted. Why not? I understand her very well. Peninah feels that she owes me a lot, and wants to do something for me in return. I know the feeling very well..." She smiled at me. I didn't smile back, though I knew what she meant. Anat added: "It was Peninah's mother who told her to make me the offer."

"O.K." I couldn't control a choking feeling in my throat. It was hard to hide the tears welling up in my eyes, so I tried to sound angry, as if I had simply lost my temper because of jealousy-though that wasn't really the emotion that filled me at that moment. "Have a good time with her, Anat. I'm glad you found someone to help you..." I tried to make my voice sound casual as I searched for my handkerchief, wiped my nose and blinked my eyes. Maybe Anat would think I just had a cold. Maybe she wouldn't see the tears of disappointment. "In any case," I went on, "I'm very relieved. There's no need to worry about you now, you'll manage very well." I turned to go to my seat. Anat followed after me.

"Tammi," she pleaded, "don't take it so seriously. Are you mad at Peninah?"

"No." My voice was choked. I didn't try anymore to hide my tears.

"At me?" she tried again.

This time I couldn't even answer. I just shook my head no.

"Think logically," she said, trying to ease my feelings.

"I'm thinking logically." My crying subsided a little. "I know that my mother is right, that you're right, that Peninah is right-that everyone is right, except me. The problem is that it's hard for me to accept what I know is logical."

"Right. Feeling and intellect are opposites," Anat said quietly. "Feelings are much stronger than intellect-and yet it's our intellect that has to control our feelings."

"It's so difficult..."

"Difficult-but not impossible. It takes work, but the results are well worth the effort. By the way, Chedvah is also coming to me, along with Peninah. She offered, with her mother's permission, and I couldn't refuse."

My eyebrows went up in surprise-and also somewhat in relief. For some reason, this last piece of information calmed me. Then suddenly I remembered: "My mother said she would allow me to visit you for a few days during summer vacation." I wanted to change the subject. Maybe getting my mind off it would help dry my tears.

"Wonderful!" Anat said enthusiastically. "You have a wonderful mother! So understanding..."

I was swept along with her enthusiasm. My "problem" began to look smaller, in the presence of a friend who was a spiritual giant like Anat. We began making plans where to go and what to do in the summer. It seemed to us as if vacation was almost here-though in fact there were still more than three months of school ahead of us.

We didn't know, the two of us, that our beautiful plans would never become reality.

Finally, after prolonged struggles, the sun gained the upper hand over the winter clouds and shone forth triumphantly in a brilliant light blue sky. Spring celebrated in the streets of Jerusalem, and I along with it. A spring day like that brings joy to my heart, on this kind of day I feel lighter, want to flutter like a bird, run like a little girl, jump and cavort without caring what anyone thinks about me. And that's how I felt today. I wasn't walking, wasn't stepping on the sidewalk, but fluttering. Anat, striding along thoughtfully beside me, was still enveloped in the drowsiness of winter. Five minutes ago she had knocked on my door, and since I was just then going out on an errand for Mother, Anat joined me. On lovely spring days like this, I enjoyed going on errands, to the grocery store, the vegetable stand-I didn't even mind taking Natti for an outing.

"Smile, Anat!" I said merrily. "It's a wonderful day! Look at the sky-what a marvellous blue!" I raised my eyes heavenwards and tried to hug the stratosphere with my arms.

Anat produced a forced smile. "You're right," she said, "it's really a wonderful day..."

"So why are you so sad?"

"I'm not sad," she answered. Exchanges like this weren't uncommon between us. We were very open with each other. "But something's bothering me."

Today we had returned to school after the long Pesach vacation. I immediately noticed a change in Peninah and Chedvah. They felt much closer to Anat than they had previously. That was obvious from the way they acted. The few days they had spent with her at her house, working together, had made them better friends with her. Anat, too, had gone through a similar change, and for a minute I was afraid... but Anat didn't let me down. As she had promised me a number of times, I remained her best friend. I had already noticed in the morning that something was bothering her, and had intended, after finishing my errand, to visit her at her dorm room and find out what the problem was. But she came to me before I had a chance to go to her.

" 'When a person has worry in his heart, he should speak it out,' " I quoted ceremoniously, trying to cheer her up. "Tell me what the problem is. Maybe together we'll find the solution."

"It's not a specific problem," Anat sighed. "I can't tell you: 'such and such has happened,' because nothing has happened. It's a strange feeling..."

"Still that feeling of tension and restlessness?" I asked gently. "Like you told me about the day you went with your parents to the airport?"

"It's something besides that."

That was all Anat needed-"Something besides!" What had happened to her? Why had she become so moody? I tried groping in the dark. "How was the 5erfer-night?"

"Wonderful!" She became enthusiastic for a moment, but her enthusiasm immediately died down. "It was very nice. The problem is not connected with that. You couldn't recognize my father. He's become a different person! And Grandfather and Grandmother were overwhelmed with joy that their Elitzur had come back home. All my uncles and cousins came to celebrate the Seder-night at Grandfather and Grandmother's house-specially in honor of my father! And Father was so moved..." She sighed again.

"In that case, what's the problem?" I asked. "It seems that you ought to be very happy!"

"True, but... how can I explain it to you? My father makes me wonder... something has happened to my father!"

"Of course something has happened! He's revolutionized his life, changed from one extreme to the other. Does that seem to you like a small thing? Did you expect that a sweeping change like that would happen without leaving any marks?"

"Besides that whole subject, lately he's become serious, thoughtful... you might even say sad and a little brooding. Yes, I know what you're going to say," she forestalled me. "I also thought at first that he was feeling regret about his past, that his heart was broken with sorrow for the things he had done. But I've noticed that his mood darkens mainly when he's around me. When I'm in the same room with him, even if he's busy with something else like reading a book, studying Torah, or eating, every so often he glances up at me with a look that gives me chills... yes, I'm not exaggerating. I have the feeling that he's about to burst into tears. I sense a tremendous sorrow that's breaking his heart. When he talks with me, even about little things, he's very nervous and upset. Sometimes when he walks past me he stops suddenly, gives me a long look-and his eyes are so sad! Sometimes he murmurs my name-'my Anat!' he whispers, putting a hand on my shoulder or stroking my hair as if I were a baby. I ask him, 'What's the matter. Father?' and for a moment it seems as if he wants to tell me something. But immediately he changes his mind and stops himself. 'It's nothing, Anati,' he says hurriedly, but his eyes express the opposite. In his eyes I see that he has very much to say to me."

"Very strange," I mused. "If I didn't know you, I'd say you were imagining all this."

Anat smiled sadly. "I don't know if you remember," she said, "that evening at your house, when I told you the story of my life, how I met my cousin Batyah and through her influence did teshuvah. Remember I told you I had the feeling that my parents were hiding something from me?

I searched my memory a bit. "Yes," I said finally. "I remember something like that." Her disturbed mood was beginning to infect me.

"I'm always going around with the feeling that there's a secret in our house, that my parents are guarding something in their hearts that they aren't willing to tell me. I've never asked, never probed, never tried to find out what it is. My parents have the right to keep things from me that I shouldn't know about. But lately the feeling is growing stronger in my heart that the secret is connected with me. My father's strange looks are better evidence for me than a thousand witnesses."

I didn't know what to say to her. "Try asking your father," I suggested.

"I think that's what I'm going to do," she said. "I'll ask my father to speak openly. I can't bear the tension. My nerves are getting so weak!"

To tell the truth, Anat's behavior during the past few months had begun to worry me. But I'm not a psychologist, and have no special qualifications for dealing with the human soul, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do in a situation like this. I decided to agree with her.

"I think that's really the best thing. Try to ask your father to have a frank talk with you-and it would be a good idea to do so as soon as possible."

"No," she replied, "I'll wait until my mother comes back. I want to speak with both of them! And maybe... maybe it's possible that my father's tension is caused by the delicate situation that has come about between him and my mother..." She reddened a little. "My father, after all, has done teshuvah, but what about Mother? It doesn't seem to me that she's planning to follow in his footsteps. In any case, from her letters it seems that she's making fun of this turning point in his life, just as the two of them used to make fun of me at the beginning... could it be because of the probable confrontation with my mother that my father has become so tense and nervous?"

"That's also a likely possibility." I was glad to have something to pin the problem on, since I was totally confused by the tangle of changes and feelings into which Anat had thrown me. "When is your mother supposed to come back?"

"Yesterday she phoned and said she'd be coming back this Monday." She was silent for a moment, then added softly:

"Without Maggie."

I already knew that her mother's trip to America had not born fruit. Wanting to blur the disappointment a little, I counted on my fingers: "Today is Wednesday... so there's less than a week until her return. Five days, to be more exact. Maybe even less. Is your mother arriving in the morning?" She nodded. "Are you excited, Anat?"

"Very!" she smiled, but her smile froze immediately. "I would be more excited if she were returning with my sister."

For some reason I allowed myself to ignore this much- discussed sister of Anat. Perhaps it was because in my heart I believed she was the cause of all these troubles. Anat continued:

"It seems that during the summer vacation I'll be going to America myself to speak with Maggie and try to persuade her to come to Eretz Israel. Or at least to change her way of life there... that's what my father promised me."

"And what about our beautiful plans for the summer vacation?" I was a little afraid. A whole vacation, two full months, without Anat! How could I bear it?

"Don't worry," she reassured me. "We'll come back quickly, and then you'll come to me, and the three of us will carry out all the plans we've made. Maggie will join us! Or maybe the four of us-we can invite Batyah, who is Maggie's age!" Anat sailed off on the waves of imagination. I didn't try to stop her. That was better for her than sinking into the depths of depression.

She suddenly changed the subject. "Do you know what I have an urge to do right now? If you're willing, I'll come to your house and we'll play our mandolins together. I feel that music would improve my mood."

I gladly agreed. When I finished my errand we went back to my house. On the way, Anat went into her room at the dorm for a minute to get her mandolin. We sat on the little sofa in my room and played our instruments. We had no sense of time passing. I was already quite expert at playing, and quite a few times I received compliments from Anat-which made me very happy. Making music with Anat-that's an experience I'll never forget. It was as if the two of us soared into another, exalted, world where worries did not exist. A world of pure calm and serenity. Anat cast away all her problems and threw her whole self into the music with almost desperate devotion. For her sake, I was glad that there was something in the world that could make her forget her pain and worry.

Sometimes it seems that when a certain thing is not going right for a person, everything else is pulled along with it and also gets out of kilter. That is what happened with Anat. As if she didn't have enough to deal with in her downcast mood, her fears in connection with her father, her sister, her mother, and herself, on top of it all the history teacher adamantly refused to release her from the test on the history of modern Israel which had been scheduled-as if on purpose to annoy!-for the Monday when Anat's mother was to return.

Anat tried to explain to her, and so did I-but nothing helped. The teacher held firm to her position that every single girl had to take the history test, and anyone who missed it, no matter what the reason, even if she were sick with a high fever, would be considered to have failed the test.

"But her mother is returning from the United States after two months that she hasn't seen her!" I objected heatedly, trying to soften the teacher's stony heart.

"Two months is not so terrible," was her verdict. "If you told me she'd been gone a year, I'd understand," she went on, infuriating me with her unique logic. "Will it be so terrible if you meet your mother two hours later, when she gets to your house?"

"My mother will be more pleased if I come to meet her at the airport," Anat explained, trying to remain calm. No one except me knew how hard this was for her.

"I think your mother's knowing that you missed the history test would not give her happiness, but the opposite. It would spoil her happiness, even if you were to meet her at the airport."

Anat knew how much importance her parents attached to her success in school, and realized that to some extent the teacher was right. She answered: "My mother wouldn't be bothered by it if she knew I would be given an opportunity to make up the test."

It did no good. The teacher had closed her ears and her heart, she wanted neither to listen nor to understand. "You can miss the test," she said indifferently, "and fail it. Just so you know that this test will determine fifty percent of the semester grade on the report card. I don't want anyone claiming that I didn't warn her. Now you may do whatever you like."

Anat had no choice but to stay for the test, which took place, as expected-during the last hour of the schoolday!

"Will you be able to write the answers?" I asked her at the break. The whole class looked as if-exactly as if they were about to have a test! The girls stood in anxious, excited groups, going over historical events and names, drilling each other on important dates, suggesting possible test questions-based on previous years exams-and giving answers to the hypothetical questions.

Anat didn't even try to open her history notebook. "I studied enough yesterday," she had told me. "Any more studying now will only confuse me." To my question whether she would be able to write at all, she smiled weakly and replied: "I hope so. I'm not all that excited about my mother's arrival-unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" For a moment I didn't understand, but immediately I caught the signficance of her words. It still bothered her that her sister Maggie would not arrive in Israel with her mother.

"It's not nice of the history teacher!" I still hadn't gotten over my anger. "She has a heart of stone! How could it be that she didn't understand your feelings?"

"This is an important test," Anat justified her, in keeping with her habit of always giving people the benefit of the doubt. "It covers a large amount of material. She couldn't permit me to miss a test like this."

"But she could have let you make it up later!" I argued.

"True, but then she would also have had to give a make-up test to Yael, whose mother, as you know, just had a boy, and today is the brit milah. They rescheduled it for late in the afternoon, almost entirely because of Yael's test. And there's also Tirtzah, whose big sister is having an engagement party this evening. I'm sure there are other girls who asked to miss the test, each one for a good reason. In the end the teacher would have had to give make-up tests to half the class! And if she had listened to us and put off the test altogether till a later date, no doubt the other half of the class would have claimed that they had to be absent that day. So she did the smartest thing by announcing that no excuses would be accepted!"

"But she should at least have understood you, if no one else!" I insisted.

"More than Yael?" Anat smiled. "Look, Tammi. I certainly would have preferred to be excused from the test today. But I also understand the teacher's reasons for refusing." "You're too understanding of others-at your own expense!" I burst out. "When are you going to understand, Anat, that if you act like that you won't get far in life?"

"And who says I want to 'get far' in life?"

"Anat, Anat," I sighed. "Always justifying everyone. The history teacher is just nursing a grudge against you because of that time-remember?-at the beginning of the year, when Chedvah passed you a note, and you tore it up instead of handing it over to her. That's why she decided to get even with you by refusing your request!"

"Tammi!" This time Anat was really angry with me. "What kind of expression is that-'to get even with you'? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? I'm sure she forgot about the incident a long time ago, just as I did!"

I was embarrassed. I hadn't had any intention of drawing a connection between the two events, the words had slipped out thoughtlessly in my anger.

"Besides," Anat went on, "I know that everything that happens is decided in heaven, with individual divine providence for every person and every created thing. It wasn't the teacher who refused me, but G-D. He put the words in her mouth. Whenever things don't turn out exactly according to my plans-even if it's a heavy disappointment -I try to accept everything in a good spirit, and tell myself: 'Whatever the Holy One, Blessed is He does, is all for the good!' And if we don't perceive what is good about a particular happening? So then we have to pray and ask for our eyes to be opened so that we can see the good in everything, even the things that seem bad to us."

She had silenced me. What could I say to those words of truth?

As soon as Anat finished the test-I had finished a few minutes before her and waited for her-she hurried to the dorm to get her things. I went with her. We clattered down the stairs and nearly ran to the gate, where I said good-bye to her.

"I'm in a hurry, Tammi. See you later!" she said hastily.

"See you later," I answered. And then a voice was heard, calling out from the entrance of the dorm building: "Anat, telephone! Anat Zahavi... where is Anat? Telephone for Anat..."

We quickly covered the few meters to the dorm. Who could be calling Anat just at this moment?

We got there just in time to hear Ronit say into the telephone, "She's not here. They told me they saw her leaving two minutes ago. Oh, wow! She just walked in. Anat, telephone for you." She handed her the phone.

"Shalom," Anat said. There was a second of silence, and then she said in English: "Mother! Where are you calling from?" I stood next to her and listened, straining every mental muscle. To my surprise, I managed to understand almost every word! That proves I had paid attention in the English class...

"What do you mean, you're calling from home and you want to know where Father is? He didn't come to the airport? That's impossible! You came home by taxi? Strange! I talked with Father last night, and he definitely told me he was going to the airport. I couldn't come because we had a history test and the teacher wouldn't excuse me from it. Exactly when you called I was on my way to the bus. No, it can't be!" Anat's voice sounded adamant. "I'm telling you. Mother! I spoke with him yesterday and he didn't mention anything of the kind! Father didn't sound at all angry or upset. As a matter of fact he sounded very happy that you were coming home. You know what? I'll call Grandfather and Grandmother to see if maybe they know something. I'll call you back. Talk to you soon, Mother."

She quickly hung up and began looking in her purse for telephone tokens. While she searched she told me: "Very strange! My father didn't go to the airport." Her eyes expressed deep worry. "I hope everything is alright..."

She looked around cautiously and then whispered to me quietly, taking care that her words could not be heard by the other girls, even though they were quite some distance from us. "Mother is afraid that Father deliberately didn't meet her, to show her that he's angry with her for not intending to join him in becoming observant..." Anat found three tokens and dropped all three into the slot of the public phone. She dialed the number and waited a short time, swaying back and forth with obvious nervousness. Then she burst out into the mouthpiece. The conversation was short: "Grandma? This is Anat. I wanted to find out, is Father with you? No, I don't have any special reason for asking. I thought he might have visited you. You haven't seen him for two days? Maybe they asked him to come into the office today? No? He said that explicitly? I understand... Thanks, Grandma. I'm in a hurry right now. I'll phone again later... Good-bye."

When she put the phone down, her face was very pale. Her lips were trembling, and she barely managed to tell me: "I hoped... maybe Grandfather and Grandmother knew something. I don't know what to think! They haven't seen my father for two days, but this morning at quarter to twelve he phoned and said he was on his way to the airport. Why didn't he get there?"

I felt sorry for Anat. She was so confused and afraid! "I'll call home," she thought out loud. "Maybe my father got home in the last few minutes?"

The telephone at Anat's house was busy. She dialed again and again, her impatience growing by the second. "What's the matter?" She wondered. "Who is my mother talking to for such a long time?"

"Maybe it's your father, and he's explaining why he didn't show up," I said hopefully while Anat dialed for the fourth time. This time her efforts met with success. Her mother had finished the conversation. But... what was wrong with Anat? She stood speechless, frighteningly pale, while her hand, which gripped the receiver tightly, trembled so much that I was afraid she would drop the phone. After a long silence, which seemed to me like an eternity, she managed to get a few words out of her mouth. Her voice sounded strange, not like Anat's. It was a voice on the edge of hysteria. "No, Mother. No, no, no, no!" She kept repeating the same word. Her outburst apparently calmed her a little, and when she continued she was still upset, but not hysterical. "I'm taking a taxi home!" That was the end of the conversation. Almost throwing the receiver onto the hook, she turned to face me, slumping against the wall. Her hands hung limply at her sides, and I was afraid she was going to faint. I recalled when she had looked the same way in my house not long ago, and it scared me. To my relief, this time Anat got control of herself, perhaps because she had given vent to her feelings.

"They phoned my mother from the hospital." Her voice was paler than her face. "That's why the phone was tied up for so long. On the way to the airport my father's car collided with a delivery truck. His car was crushed and my father... was... critically injured." With great difficulty she got out the last words-and then burst into tears.

I stood as if nailed to my place. I couldn't move, couldn't manage to utter a word. The first thought that came into my mind was that Anat's mother had not told her the whole truth. At that first moment I began to picture horrible visions and fantasies. I assumed the worst... but immediately I shook off those stupid thoughts.

"Could you call a taxi for me?" Anat asked. Her voice trembled with sobbing. "I can't... do it... myself." She turned and faced the corner between the telephone and the wall, trying not to attract the notice of the girls who walked past us, each occupied with her own business.

I did as she asked. On the other end of the line they told me that the cab would arrive in ten minutes. We went out to wait in the courtyard, and I asked Anat if she wanted me to go with her. She hesitated for a moment, but declined. "There's no need, I'll be O.K." she promised me. I didn't press her. I trusted that if she had felt it was necessary, she would have asked me to accompany her. I wished her a complete recovery for her father, and that we should hear good news-and just then the taxi arrived.

She drove off. I didn't know the reason for my feeling, but as I waved to her and she only nodded in return, her eyes still red and swollen, I felt a great foreboding that was working its way deep into my heart.