The Road to Grace (The Walk) by Richard Paul Evans

truth. Finally he said, “No.”
    “You’re right. I’m kidding. I’m just passing through South Dakota. I’m walking to Key West, Florida.” I took another bite.
    He watched me eat, then said, “Key West, Florida. Yes, I know Key West, Florida. So you are like my grandson, you have no wife to keep you home.”
    I looked up at him. “No, I don’t.”
    He nodded. “So why does a clever man walk from Seattle to Key West?”
    “What makes you think I’m clever?”
    “You use words that are clever. A man’s words say more about a man than his clothes. Because English is not my mother language I am more aware of words that are clever.”
    “I was in advertising,” I said.
    “Like to make the television commercials?”
    “Yes. But I did more magazine ads and product design.”
    “Have you made commercials I would know?”
    “Probably not. My clients were mostly confined to Washington.”
    “The capital Washington, D.C.?”
    “No. Washington state.”
    He nodded. “Of course. Of course. Seattle.” He took a bite of bread. “Were you good at your advertising?”
    “Some people thought so. They gave me awards.”
    “Is that what makes you good? The awards?”
    “No. They are only symptoms of the disease. Not the disease itself.”
    Leszek laughed. “See, you are clever. But you have not yet answered my question. Why does an advertising man, one with many awards, walk from Seattle to Key West? Plenty of time? Or, maybe, as they say in Poland, you stuck your head above the other poppies, so they chopped you off at the advertising business?”
    “No,” I said. “I lost my wife.”
    His smile disappeared. “Oh. I am very sorry. You have divorce?”
    I shook my head. “No. She passed away.”
    He looked distraught. “I am very, very sorry to hear. She was sick?”
    “She was in a horse riding accident and broke her back. She died a few months later of infection.”
    “That is very bad. And now I understand that is why you walk away from your job.”
    “Mostly. The advertising agency I worked for was mine. While I was taking care of my wife, my partner stole all my clients and forced me into bankruptcy.”
    “That is bad,” Leszek said. “Poor man.”
    I wasn’t sure what he meant by this. “Me?”
    “Your partner. He is a poor man. I feel most sorry for him.” He stood up. “Let me get you some more soup.” He reached across the table and ladled more soup into my bowl. “There you are. Eat plenty.”
    “Thank you,” I said, waiting for him to sit down. After he did I said, “You feel most sorry for him?”
    “Yes. He has made for himself a world of no trust. Now he must spend his days afraid for when someone will steal his business. The things we do to others become our world. To the thief, everyone in the world is a thief. To the cheater, everyone is thinking to cheat him.”
    “That is an interesting way to look at it,” I said.
    “So what of you?” Leszek said. “Are you free yourself from this man?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Have you forgiven your partner?”
    “That’s not going to happen.”
    He looked at me sadly. “Then I must feel much sorrow for you too.”
    “Sorrow because I won’t forgive a thief? Actually, he’s worse than a thief, he’s a betrayer. Dante said the devil reserved the deepest level of hell for men like him.” I sat back. “No, I don’t think I will be forgiving him.”
    He looked very distressed. “How can you live your life when you have given it to a betrayer and thief?”
    “Some people don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
    “No,” Leszek said. “You must forgive everyone.”
    I gazed at the old man intensely. “You can’t be serious. You’re telling me that Holocaust survivors should forgive Hitler?”
    The man looked at me with a peculiar expression. He clasped his hands in front of him then said softly, “I am.”
    “You believe even Hitler deserves to be forgiven?”
    The man looked at me without flinching. “That is not the