Israel.
She herself was just an ordinary person. But if she knew her historical
roots, she would be a little less ordinary.
She would not be living on this planet for more than a few years. But if
the history of mankind was her own history, in a way she was thousands of
years old.
The Middle Ages
... going only part of the way is not the same as going the wrong way…
A week passed without Sophie hearing from Alberto Knox. There were no more
postcards from Lebanon either, although she and Joanna still talked about the cards
they found in the major’s cabin. Joanna had had the fright of her life, but as nothing
further seemed to happen, the immediate terror faded and was submerged in
homework and badminton.
Sophie read Alberto’s letters over and over, looking for some clue that would
throw light on the Hilde mystery. Doing so also gave her plenty of opportunity to
digest the classical philosophy. She no longer had difficulty in distinguishing
Democritus and Socrates, or Plato and Aristotle, from each other.
On Friday, May 25, she was in the kitchen fixing dinner before her mother got
home. It was their regular Friday agreement. Today she was making fish soup with
fish balls and carrots. Plain and simple.
Outside it was becoming windy. As Sophie stood stirring the casserole she
turned toward the window. The birch trees were waving like cornstalks.
Suddenly something smacked against the window-pane. Sophie turned around
again and discovered a card sticking to the window.
It was a postcard. She could read it through the glass: “Hilde Moller Knag, c/o
Sophie Amundsen.”
She thought as much! She opened the window and took the card. It could hardly
have blown all the way from Lebanon!
This card was also dated June 15. Sophie removed the casserole from the stove
and sat down at the kitchen table. The card read:
Dear Hilde, I don’t know whether it will still be your birthday when you read
this card. I hope so, in a way; or at least that not too many days have gone by. A week
or two for Sophie does not have to mean just as long for us. I shall be coming home
for Midsummer Eve, so we can sit together for hours in the glider, looking out over
the sea, Hilde. We have so much to talk about. Love from Dad, who sometimes gets
very depressed about the thousand-year-long strife between Jews, Christians, and
Muslims. I have to keep reminding myself that all three religions stem from Abraham.
So I suppose they all pray to the same God. Down here, Cain and Abel have not
finished killing each other.
P.S. Please say hello to Sophie. Poor child, she still doesn’t know how this
whole thing hangs together. But perhaps you do?
Sophie put her head down on the table, exhausted. One thing was certain—she
had no idea how this thing hung together. But Hilde did, presumably.
If Hilde’s father asked her to say hello to Sophie, it had to mean that Hilde
knew more about Sophie than Sophie did about Hilde. It was all so complicated that
Sophie went back to fixing dinner.
A postcard that smacked against the kitchen window all by itself! You could
call that airmail!