“The Jew is inherently antimetaphysical. In philosophy, he embraces logicism, mathematicism, formalism, and positivism—characteristics that Schlick possessed in abundance. It is to be hoped that Schlick’s gruesome assassination at the University of Vienna will hasten the discovery of a truly satisfactory solution to the Jewish problem.”
He threw the newspaper into the wastebasket.
“What a rag! This will destroy Kurt.”
That’s how I heard the news: Moritz Schlick had just been killed on the steps of the university by an anti-Semitic student. Schlick, a philosopher and founding member of the Vienna Circle, was more than Kurt’s professor, he was his mentor and friend. How would Kurt take his death, coming so soon after Hahn’s?
“Hans Nelböck, Schlick’s killer, studied mathematics at the same time as my brother, and he also lived on the Lange Gasse.”
I shuddered. I, too, lived on that street.
“They didn’t know each other. But Kurt and I were his neighbors, our paths must have crossed at some point.”
“These madmen are destroying the last remnants of intelligent life in Vienna. The Nazis jumble together positivists, logic, mathematics, and Jews even if the whole thing makes no sense.Kurt is going to have trouble too, I’m certain of it. As soon as he’s on his feet again, I’m going to advise him to leave the city. Morgenstern has told me that he’s putting his affairs in order. He’ll be on the boat soon.”
“Kurt is in no condition to travel, Herr Gödel.”
“None of these people are going to forget him immediately. Their ideas are short, but their memories are long.”
“He’s had very little contact with the university these last months.”
“Nelböck received treatment at a number of psychiatric clinics. One way my brother might react to these events is to see him as his dark doppelgänger. It might be better to say nothing about this for the moment. What do you think, Fräulein Porkert?”
I was not accustomed to giving Rudolf advice. Yet I was becoming a key figure in the mix. If Kurt was finally recovering his health, it was thanks to my ministrations.
“He has his own way of interpreting things, especially those you try to keep from him. And lying always entails more lying.”
“Will you handle it, then?”
I caught sight of Anna crossing the lobby. She signaled discreetly that she was going to the back door for a cigarette. I decided to join her, needing a jolt of friendship to calm my long-suffering nerves. No sooner was he himself again than his family was already planning to send him far away from me. Anna couldn’t persuade his doctor to talk them out of it all by herself, but it was worth a try.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “It’s still too early to send him away.”
We had to keep the terrible news from undermining his recent progress. I had seen a fragile man set off for Princeton and return a shadow of himself. In the months after his journey back from Paris alone, Kurt had stopped eating. He weighed underone hundred pounds, and only my voice was sometimes able to rouse him from lethargy.
I had no training and no official standing, but I listened to the advice of redheaded Anna, and she’d seen plenty of others fall apart. I gave it everything I had: my sense of joy, of beauty. I opened the curtains to let in air and sunlight when the doctors imprisoned him in the dark cage of sleep. I had his gramophone delivered when they were recommending silence. I brought in the first flowers of spring. I spoke to him, without a break, when he was withdrawing further and further into himself. I lied about the state of the world, lied while reading the newspaper, lied about my own happiness. I talked to him about the early-summer fruits that we would eat together, about the lovely light that once again bathed Vienna, about the sounds of children in the Prater, about sweet Anna and her adorable carrot-haired son. I talked to him about the sea, which Anna and
He threw the newspaper into the wastebasket.
“What a rag! This will destroy Kurt.”
That’s how I heard the news: Moritz Schlick had just been killed on the steps of the university by an anti-Semitic student. Schlick, a philosopher and founding member of the Vienna Circle, was more than Kurt’s professor, he was his mentor and friend. How would Kurt take his death, coming so soon after Hahn’s?
“Hans Nelböck, Schlick’s killer, studied mathematics at the same time as my brother, and he also lived on the Lange Gasse.”
I shuddered. I, too, lived on that street.
“They didn’t know each other. But Kurt and I were his neighbors, our paths must have crossed at some point.”
“These madmen are destroying the last remnants of intelligent life in Vienna. The Nazis jumble together positivists, logic, mathematics, and Jews even if the whole thing makes no sense.Kurt is going to have trouble too, I’m certain of it. As soon as he’s on his feet again, I’m going to advise him to leave the city. Morgenstern has told me that he’s putting his affairs in order. He’ll be on the boat soon.”
“Kurt is in no condition to travel, Herr Gödel.”
“None of these people are going to forget him immediately. Their ideas are short, but their memories are long.”
“He’s had very little contact with the university these last months.”
“Nelböck received treatment at a number of psychiatric clinics. One way my brother might react to these events is to see him as his dark doppelgänger. It might be better to say nothing about this for the moment. What do you think, Fräulein Porkert?”
I was not accustomed to giving Rudolf advice. Yet I was becoming a key figure in the mix. If Kurt was finally recovering his health, it was thanks to my ministrations.
“He has his own way of interpreting things, especially those you try to keep from him. And lying always entails more lying.”
“Will you handle it, then?”
I caught sight of Anna crossing the lobby. She signaled discreetly that she was going to the back door for a cigarette. I decided to join her, needing a jolt of friendship to calm my long-suffering nerves. No sooner was he himself again than his family was already planning to send him far away from me. Anna couldn’t persuade his doctor to talk them out of it all by herself, but it was worth a try.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “It’s still too early to send him away.”
We had to keep the terrible news from undermining his recent progress. I had seen a fragile man set off for Princeton and return a shadow of himself. In the months after his journey back from Paris alone, Kurt had stopped eating. He weighed underone hundred pounds, and only my voice was sometimes able to rouse him from lethargy.
I had no training and no official standing, but I listened to the advice of redheaded Anna, and she’d seen plenty of others fall apart. I gave it everything I had: my sense of joy, of beauty. I opened the curtains to let in air and sunlight when the doctors imprisoned him in the dark cage of sleep. I had his gramophone delivered when they were recommending silence. I brought in the first flowers of spring. I spoke to him, without a break, when he was withdrawing further and further into himself. I lied about the state of the world, lied while reading the newspaper, lied about my own happiness. I talked to him about the early-summer fruits that we would eat together, about the lovely light that once again bathed Vienna, about the sounds of children in the Prater, about sweet Anna and her adorable carrot-haired son. I talked to him about the sea, which Anna and
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