skillet over to the table.
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“Even if Gaines and his people have already gone over it, I want to make a careful search of Lieutenant Dunbar’s apartment,” said Taggart. “He doesn’t impress me as particularly thorough.”
After carefully ladling a large portion of the Stroganoff onto her plate, he watched Liza intently as she took her first spoonful.
“How is it?” asked Taggart, as if the fate of the war hung on her answer.
She smiled and said, “It’s the best meal I’ve had since arriving in London.”
“Where have you been eating?” he asked, and she laughed.
They both made short work of the simple supper. As Liza dipped the last of her bread into the gravy, Sam said, “So your father is a holy man.”
“A holy man?”
“A rabbi.”
She chuckled.
“Not really. Not a holy man in the sense of a Catholic priest. A rabbi has no special privileges, no rank or holiness. When it comes to God, he is simply a scholar in the law … the Jewish law.”
“Well, I’ve seen plenty of rabbis marching in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade,” said Taggart.
“Yes. Well, there are community obligations for any religious leaders,” said Liza.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the image of her father in his study at home, poring over his well-thumbed copy of Caro’s Shulchan Arukh. He was so very different from other rabbis she had met growing up, men with egos worthy of Moses who were convinced that they stood at the right hand of God. Her father was just the opposite—thin, rumpled, and bookish. With his metal-rimmed spectacles and tangled gray hair, he looked exactly like the scholar he was.
“My father is more of a teacher … an interpreter of the most complex questions and traditions of Jewish law.”
“Traditions of faith?”
“No,” she said. “Not of faith in the sense of Christianity. Jews don’t believe that this life leads anywhere. Essentially, they believe that virtue is its own reward.”
“What about heaven?” he asked.
“There is no heaven or hell. Every Jew is made to feel responsible for his own actions and life decisions. He has only one chance to make a difference, and that is here on earth in his or her own lifetime,” she said.
“So what happens when you die? Nothing?”
“If you’re a believer, then your spirit lives on through your children, or in the legacy of what you have accomplished, or in the fact that people remember you and what kind of person you were.”
“I prefer eternal paradise,” said Taggart.
She smiled and said, “Well, I hope you get there, Major.”
“Sam,” he said.
“Sam,” she repeated, sipping another cup of tea.
“I gather you separate yourself from your father’s religion,” he said.
“Well, let’s just say I don’t practice it,” she said.
“Why not?” asked Taggart, lighting another cigarette.
“I guess I question things too much. Mostly, I question the existence of an all-seeing, benevolent God. How could a just God stand by while someone like Hitler unleashes the greatest suffering in the history of the world?” she asked.
“Yeah … and, according to the Jewish religion, Hitler faces no penalty beyond the grave, right?” asked Taggart.
“Aside from the belief that evil diminishes the evildoer, no,” she said softly.
“So what do you think?” asked Taggart.
“I hope he burns in hell,” said Liza.
CHAPTER 9
T he rain had finally stopped shortly before dawn. Standing in the darkness, Taggart pulled the scrap of notepaper out of his trench-coat pocket and rechecked the address. It matched the elegant brick apartment house across the street, in the center of Belgravia’s Hamilton Row. An apartment in the building was far beyond the means of a Wren lieutenant, but well within the family expectations of Lady Jocelyn Dunbar.
Liza had learned from a co-worker that Joss lived on the top floor. Taggart glanced up at the apartment. The windows were dark and the
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“Even if Gaines and his people have already gone over it, I want to make a careful search of Lieutenant Dunbar’s apartment,” said Taggart. “He doesn’t impress me as particularly thorough.”
After carefully ladling a large portion of the Stroganoff onto her plate, he watched Liza intently as she took her first spoonful.
“How is it?” asked Taggart, as if the fate of the war hung on her answer.
She smiled and said, “It’s the best meal I’ve had since arriving in London.”
“Where have you been eating?” he asked, and she laughed.
They both made short work of the simple supper. As Liza dipped the last of her bread into the gravy, Sam said, “So your father is a holy man.”
“A holy man?”
“A rabbi.”
She chuckled.
“Not really. Not a holy man in the sense of a Catholic priest. A rabbi has no special privileges, no rank or holiness. When it comes to God, he is simply a scholar in the law … the Jewish law.”
“Well, I’ve seen plenty of rabbis marching in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade,” said Taggart.
“Yes. Well, there are community obligations for any religious leaders,” said Liza.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the image of her father in his study at home, poring over his well-thumbed copy of Caro’s Shulchan Arukh. He was so very different from other rabbis she had met growing up, men with egos worthy of Moses who were convinced that they stood at the right hand of God. Her father was just the opposite—thin, rumpled, and bookish. With his metal-rimmed spectacles and tangled gray hair, he looked exactly like the scholar he was.
“My father is more of a teacher … an interpreter of the most complex questions and traditions of Jewish law.”
“Traditions of faith?”
“No,” she said. “Not of faith in the sense of Christianity. Jews don’t believe that this life leads anywhere. Essentially, they believe that virtue is its own reward.”
“What about heaven?” he asked.
“There is no heaven or hell. Every Jew is made to feel responsible for his own actions and life decisions. He has only one chance to make a difference, and that is here on earth in his or her own lifetime,” she said.
“So what happens when you die? Nothing?”
“If you’re a believer, then your spirit lives on through your children, or in the legacy of what you have accomplished, or in the fact that people remember you and what kind of person you were.”
“I prefer eternal paradise,” said Taggart.
She smiled and said, “Well, I hope you get there, Major.”
“Sam,” he said.
“Sam,” she repeated, sipping another cup of tea.
“I gather you separate yourself from your father’s religion,” he said.
“Well, let’s just say I don’t practice it,” she said.
“Why not?” asked Taggart, lighting another cigarette.
“I guess I question things too much. Mostly, I question the existence of an all-seeing, benevolent God. How could a just God stand by while someone like Hitler unleashes the greatest suffering in the history of the world?” she asked.
“Yeah … and, according to the Jewish religion, Hitler faces no penalty beyond the grave, right?” asked Taggart.
“Aside from the belief that evil diminishes the evildoer, no,” she said softly.
“So what do you think?” asked Taggart.
“I hope he burns in hell,” said Liza.
CHAPTER 9
T he rain had finally stopped shortly before dawn. Standing in the darkness, Taggart pulled the scrap of notepaper out of his trench-coat pocket and rechecked the address. It matched the elegant brick apartment house across the street, in the center of Belgravia’s Hamilton Row. An apartment in the building was far beyond the means of a Wren lieutenant, but well within the family expectations of Lady Jocelyn Dunbar.
Liza had learned from a co-worker that Joss lived on the top floor. Taggart glanced up at the apartment. The windows were dark and the
Similar Books
