believe. But I don’t want to.’ ‘Tell me,’ he said and because he forgot the beauty of his own hands and turned towards me his ugly cheek, forgetting himself in the desire to help, I found myself talking—about that night and the bomb falling and the stupid vow. ‘And you really believe,’ he said, ‘that perhaps …’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Think of the thousands of people all over the world praying now, and their prayers aren’t answered.’ ‘There were thousands of people dying in Palestine when Lazarus …’ ‘We don’t believe that story, do we, you and I?’ he said with a kind of complicity. ‘Of course not, but
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