discussing Zionism. She shot a nervous glance at Father. He too had heard, and was looking bad-tempered. Before he could say anything, Margaret said: “We’re going to fly through a storm. It could get bumpy.”
“How do you know?” Percy said. There was a jealous note in his voice: he was the expert on flight details, not Margaret.
“Harry told me.”
“And how would he know?”
“He dined with the engineer and the navigator.”
“I’m not scared,” Percy said, in a tone which suggested that he was.
It had not occurred to Margaret to worry about the storm. It might be uncomfortable, but surely there was no real danger?
Father drained his glass and asked the steward irritably for more wine. Was he frightened of the storm? He was drinking even more than usual, she had observed. His face was flushed and his pale eyes seemed to stare. Was he nervous? Perhaps he was still upset over Elizabeth.
Mother said: “Margaret, you should talk more to that quiet Mr. Membury.”
Margaret was surprised. “Why? He seems to want to be left alone.”
“I expect he’s just shy.”
It was not like Mother to take pity on shy people, especially if they were, like Mr. Membury, unmistakably middle class. “Out with it, Mother,” said Margaret. “What do you mean?”
“I just don’t want you to spend the entire flight talking to Mr. Vandenpost.”
That was exactly what Margaret was going to do. “Why on earth shouldn’t I?” she said.
“Well, he’s your age, you know, and you don’t want to give him ideas.”
“I might rather like to give him ideas. He’s frightfully good-looking.”
“No, dear,” she said firmly. “There’s something about him that isn’t quite
So she had not been completely taken in by Harry’s impersonation of a wealthy young American. Her social antennae were infallible. “But you said you knew the Philadelphia Vandenposts,” Margaret said.
“I do, but now that I think about it I’m sure he’s not from that family.”
“I may cultivate him just to punish you for being such a snob, Mother.”
“It’s not snobbery, dear. It’s breeding. Snobbery is vulgar.”
Margaret gave up. The armor of Mother’s superiority was impenetrable. It was useless to reason with her. But Margaret had no intention of obeying her. Harry was far too interesting.
Percy said: “I wonder what Mr. Membury is? I like his red waistcoat. He doesn’t look like a regular transatlantic traveler.”
Mother said: “I expect he’s some kind of functionary.”
That’s just what he looks like, Margaret thought. Mother had the sharpest eye for that sort of thing.
Father said: “He probably works for the airline.” “More like a civil servant, I should say,” Mother said.
The stewards brought the main course. Mother refused the filet mignon. “I never eat cooked food,” she said to Nicky. “Just bring me some celery and caviar.”
From the next table Margaret heard Baron Gabon say: “We must have a land of our own—there’s no other solution!”
Carl Hartmann replied: “But you’ve admitted that it will have to be a militarized state—”
“For defense against hostile neighbors!”
“And you concede that it will have to discriminate against Arabs in favor of Jews—but militarism and racism combined make Fascism, which is what you’re supposed to be fighting against!”
“Hush, not so loud,” Gabon said, and they lowered their voices.
In normal circumstances Margaret would have been interested in the argument: she had discussed it with Ian. Socialists were divided about Palestine. Some said it was an opportunity to create an ideal state; others that it belonged to the people who lived there and could not be “given” to the Jews any more than Ireland, or Hong Kong, or Texas. The fact that so many socialists were Jewish only complicated the issue.
However, now she just wished Gabon and Hartmann would calm down so that Father would not hear.
Unfortunately, it was not to be. They were arguing about something close to their hearts. Hartmann raised his voice again and said: “I don’t want to live in a racist state!”
Father said loudly: “I didn’t know we were traveling with a pack of Jews.”
“Oy vey,” said Percy.
Margaret looked at her father in dismay. There had been a time when his political philosophy had made a kind of sense. When millions of able-bodied men were unemployed and starving, it had seemed courageous to say that both capitalism and socialism had failed and that democracy did the ordinary man no good. There had been something appealing about the idea of an all-powerful State directing industry under the leadership of a benevolent dictator. But those high ideals and bold policies had now degenerated into this mindless bigotry. She had thought of Father when she found a copy of
She did not think the two men had heard Father’s crass remark, for he had his back to them, and they were absorbed in the debate. To get Father off the subject, she said brightly: “What time should we all go to bed?”
Percy said: “I’d like to go early.” That was unusual, but of course he was looking forward to the novelty of sleeping on a plane.
Mother said: “We’ll go at the usual time.”
“But in what time zone?” Percy said. “Shall I go at ten thirty British Summer Time, or ten thirty Newfoundland Daylight Saving Time?”
“America is racist!” Baron Gabon exclaimed. “So is France—England—the Soviet Union—all racist states!”
Father said: “For God’s sake!”
Margaret said: “Half past nine would suit me fine.”
Percy noticed the rhyme. “I’ll be more dead than alive by ten oh five,” he countered.
It was a game they had played as children. Mother joined in. “You won’t see me again after quarter to ten.”
“Show me your tattoo at a quarter to.”
“I’ll be the last at twenty past.”
“Your turn, Father,” said Percy.
There was a moment of silence. Father had played the game with them, in the old days, before he became bitter and disappointed. For an instant his face softened, and Margaret thought he would join in.
Then Carl Hartmann said: “So why set up yet another racist state?”
That did it. Father turned around, red-faced and spluttering. Before anybody could do anything to stop him he burst out: “You Jewboys had better keep your voices down.”
Hartmann and Gabon stared at him in astonishment.
Margaret felt her face flush bright red. Father had spoken loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the room had gone completely quiet. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She was mortified that people should look at her and know she was the daughter of the coarse, drunken fool sitting opposite her. She caught Nicky’s eye, and saw by his face that he felt sorry for her, and that made her feel worse.
Baron Gabon turned pale. For a moment it seemed that he would say something in return, but then he changed his mind and looked away. Hartmann gave a twisted grin, and the thought flashed through Margaret’s mind that to him, coming from Nazi Germany, this sort of thing probably seemed mild.
Father had not finished. “This is a first-class compartment,” he added.
Margaret was watching Baron Gabon. In an attempt to ignore Father, he picked up his spoon, but his hand was shaking and he spilled soup on his dove gray waistcoat. He gave up and put down the spoon.
This visible sign of his distress touched Margaret’s heart. She felt fiercely angry with her father. She turned to him and for once she had the courage to tell him what she thought. She said furiously: “You have just grossly insulted two of the most distinguished men in Europe!”
He said: “Two of the most distinguished
