“Not to mine,” said the Colonel under his breath. “You can’t get drunk on tomato juice.”
“I wonder what the devil they can be talking about,” the club captain said as he stared at them both through the bay windows. The Colonel raised his binoculars to take a closer look at the two men.
“How could you possibly miss a four-foot putt, dummy?” asked Michael when they had reached the first green. “You must be drunk again.”
“As you well know,” replied Philip, “I never drink before dinner, and I therefore suggest that your allegation that I am drunk again is nothing less than slander.”
“Yes, but where are your witnesses?” said Michael as they moved up onto the second tee. “I had over fifty, don’t forget.”
Both men laughed.
Their conversation ranged over many subjects as they played the first eight holes, never once touching on their past quarrel until they reached the ninth green, the farthest point from the clubhouse. They both checked to see there was no one within earshot. The nearest player was still putting out some two hundred yards behind them on the eighth hole. It was then that Michael removed a bulky brown envelope from his golf bag and handed it over to Philip.
“Thank you,” said Philip, dropping the package into his own golf bag as he removed a putter. “As neat a little operation as I’ve been involved in for a long time,” Philip added as he addressed the ball.
“I end up with forty thousand pounds,” said Michael grinning, “while you lose nothing at all.”
“Only because I pay at the highest tax rate and can therefore claim the loss as a legitimate business expense,” said Philip, “and I wouldn’t have been able to do that if I hadn’t once employed you.”
“And I, as a successful litigant, need pay no tax at all on damages received in a civil case.”
“A loophole that even this Chancellor hasn’t caught on to,” said Philip.
“Even though it went to Reggie Lomax, I was sorry about the solicitors’ fees,” added Michael.
“No problem, old fellow. They’re also one hundred percent claimable against tax. So as you see, I didn’t lose a penny and you ended up with forty thousand pounds tax free.”
“And nobody the wiser,” said Michael, laughing.
The Colonel put his binoculars back into their case.
“Had your eye on this year’s winner of the President’s Putter, Colonel?” asked the club captain.
“No,” the Colonel replied. “The certain sponsor of this year’s Youth Tournament.”
CHRISTINA ROSENTHAL
THE RABBI KNEW he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon until he’d read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for over an hour and still couldn’t come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon spectacles up the bridge of his nose and started to read.
My dear Father,
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” were the first words I heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home straight, bands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn’t recognize her but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.
After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was, “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,” but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.
I tried to put them both out of my mind as I moved into the second lap. I had dreamed for years of winning the mile in the West Mount High School championships, and I was determined not to let them be responsible for stopping me.
As I came into the back straight a second time I took a more careful look at her. She was standing amid a cluster of friends who were wearing the scarves of Marianapolis Convent. She must have been about sixteen, and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you would have chastised me had I only shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no breasts,” in the hope it might at least provoke the boy standing next to her into a fight. Then I would have been able to tell you truthfully that he had thrown the first punch but the moment you had learned that it was Greg Reynolds you would have realized how little provocation I needed.
As I reached the back straight I once again prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at track meetings had become fashionable in the late 1950s when “Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek” had been roared in adulation across running stadiums around the world for the great Czech champion. Not for me was there to be the shout of “Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal” as I came into earshot.
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said, sounding like a Gramophone record when the needle has got stuck. Her friend Greg, who would nowadays be described as a preppie, began laughing. I knew he had put her up to it, and how I would like to have removed that smug grin from his face. I reached the half-mile mark in two minutes seventeen seconds, comfortably inside the pace necessary to break the West Mount High School record, and I felt that was the best way to put the taunting girl and that fascist Greg Reynolds in their place. I couldn’t help thinking later bow unfair it all was. I was a real Canadian, born and bred in this country, while she was just an immigrant. After all, you, Father, had escaped from Hamburg in 1937 and started with nothing. Her parents did not land on these shores until 1949, by which time you were a respected figure in the community.
I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate. Zatopek had written in his autobiography that no runner can afford to lose his concentration during a race. When I reached the penultimate bend the inevitable chanting began again, but this time it only made me speed up and even more determined to break that record. Once I was back in the safety of the home straight I could hear some of my friends roaring, “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it,” and the timekeeper called out, “Three twenty-three, three twenty-four, three twenty-five” as I passed the bell to begin the last lap.
I knew that the record—four thirty-two—was now well within my grasp and all those dark nights of winter training suddenly seemed worthwhile. As I reached the back straight I took the lead, and even felt that I could face the girl again. I summoned up my strength for one last effort. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed I was already yards in front of any of my rivals, so it was only me against the clock. Then I heard the chanting, but this time it was even louder than before, “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” It was louder because the two of them were now working in unison, and just as I came round the bend Reynolds raised his arm in a defiant
Nazi salute.