She nestled in the chair, which was now hers, facing the photograph that the principal of the school had brought in from the faculty room and placed on the mantelpiece.

The black ribbon crossed it diagonally, like a mark of distinction that someone had added to it in haste, and her father looked out at her with a severe expression, as he was and as he liked to be seen, with brows and lips tensed. Even the colour photograph added no light to him.

And suddenly he seemed to be smiling as he looked at her, something in his eyes telling her she was now indeed free, but a different obligation, new and more dangerous than the ones he had imposed, was unfolding for her.

The house was quiet. The shivah, the seven days of mourning, had passed, and the rabbi explained that his children couldn't do without their bedtime story, apologised, and left. She closed the door behind him and listened to his footsteps that pounded the pavement like tom-tom drums.

Translated from Hebrew by Philip Simpson