The Believers by Zoë Heller

important to him. Since he was frequently away from home during the week, he had always been very particular about observing this Sunday ritual, and long after the children had all become teenagers, he continued to insist that they come down for Sunday breakfast, no matter how late they had been out the night before.
    On this Sunday, the subject of his lecture was the ethics of armed struggle. It was a topic with special significance for the household because Lenny's biological parents had both been founding members of an underground revolutionary outfit called the New York Cong. (Lenny's father had died when Lenny was still an infant, attempting to construct a bomb; his mother was serving a life sentence for killing a police officer during an abortive bank robbery.) Joel strode about the kitchen, messily breaking and beating eggs. He was wearing his standard breakfast attire: a pair of leather slippers, flattened down at the back by his giant gray heels, and a balding terrycloth bathrobe. From time to time, the two sides of the robe would flap open like theater curtains, revealing the proscenium arch of his groin and a terrifying glimpse of pubic froth.
    "In certain situations," Joel was saying, "some people feel that non-violence is no longer effective and that they must take the next step into violent action." He was dipping slices of white bread into the bowl of eggs and laying them in a hot frying pan. Lenny was paying only fitful attention, prowling around the table in a bored, feral way, occasionally pausing to stroke Rosa's hair.
    Rosa and Karla were rapt.
    "Killing people, you mean, Daddy?" Karla asked.
    "Sometimes, yes, even killing people..."
    Lenny began to make machine gun noises, pretending to mow down Joel. "Stop that," Joel said coldly. Lenny shot him a doleful glance from beneath his long, girlish lashes and desisted.
    "Now," Joel said, resuming his tone of jovial didacticism, "the idea of armed insurgency is a legitimate idea that has occurred to people many times throughout history and all over the world." He brought a plate of French toast to the table, and the children began to eat. "In fact, our own country, the United States, came into being through armed struggle. People got tired of living under the yoke of the English king--"
    "Yolk," Lenny said dreamily.
    Joel ignored him.
    "George III," Rosa said.
    "That's right, honey." Joel smiled. "George III. So they started shooting down British soldiers between Lexington and Concord--"
    Karla, who had been groping for something to contribute, blurted now, "No taxation without representation!"
    But Joel wasn't listening. He was looking at Lenny, who was pretending to be a wounded British soldier and sinking in theatrical agony to the floor. "For chrissakes!" Joel shouted. "Sit down, Lenny! Try not to act like a moron for ten minutes!"
    The room was silent. Sullenly, Lenny got up and took his place at the table.
    Joel stared at him furiously. "Why do you always have to play the fool?"
    Karla, who dreaded these confrontations between Joel and Lenny, tried to distract her father, by pretending to seek clarification. "So...so...it's okay sometimes to kill people, Daddy?"
    Joel winced. "No, it's never 'okay,' Karla. It's always a very terrible and serious thing to do. But in some circumstances, it may be justified. If you look at history, you see that people who fight for their rights are often called terrorists, guerrillas, or whatever. But if they succeed--if they win their fight against oppression--they become national heroes. They become the new government."
    "Like the Zionists who founded Israel," Rosa said.
    Joel nodded. "Exactly, sweetie. That's a very good example."
    Lenny slipped out of the room. He was going, as he often did on these Sunday mornings, in search of Audrey. Karla pictured him easing open the door to their parents' room, clambering onto the tall bed, and nestling in the warm hollow left by Joel's body. How she envied Lenny's indifference to