Suddenly, unexpectedly, she bent her face to her hands and was crying. She sat bolt upright, rigid except for the crying which shook her.
“I can’t, Franz, we mustn’t,” she began. “It is not your fault, I do not blame you for thinking I wished this too—I let you cable her without understanding what it would be—”
He stood up and came toward her. But he stopped a few feet away, listening to the words pouring forth between the concealing palms over her mouth. Between the spread fingers, he could see her eyes, tight closed in this violent rejection.
“For a long time, you knew that I did not want to think of leaving. Then—those first days after it really happened— Anschluss and the Webbers and the others—then I know you felt I was ready to go. Even my note today—I don’t blame you for feeling I agreed, because I did. But now—”
“Yes?” His voice was quiet, without disapproval.
“But now I know I can’t. You will have your work, new patients, and you are, anyway, different, stronger—men are always stronger. But I—I will never feel at home, never feel happy, always want to be back here—”
“No, Christl, it only seems hopeless now, because you are tired, because this packing up is hard—”
“I can’t, Franz. I feel I—I cannot learn to live over again—I—oh, I’m afraid—”
He sat beside her then, but did not make any other move.
“People are always a little afraid, Christl,” he said. “But your fears will go. We’ll be together, always, and the children. What could harm us? Many people are going through this same sadness and fear—all over the earth, everywhere. Think of all the Germans who’ve already gone to Holland, Belgium, Denmark, England—”
“That’s it, that’s just what I mean,” she broke in, passion and pleading in her voice. “Why can’t we simply go somewhere near—Holland or Belgium is as safe as America, and we would not be such foreigners there—the language—the habits—we could still see our friends, families—”
“As safe as America? Many Germans came to Austria, thinking it would always be safe here. I suppose that Holland or Belgium is safe—yet sometimes I think of the Wolffs in Holland, the Markheimers in France—”
“How wise they were. They’re at home—in Europe—Europeans are never happy anywhere else.”
He was looking off into a distance in history. “I try to imagine how it would be to settle again, build a new life, and then—have to fly once more—to have it to do all over again—”
“But really what I mean,” she cried out as if she were afraid to lose his attention to these new speculations of his, “I might as well say it. You will be angry, you will think I have no principles, but I must tell you—I have been feeling it more and more—”
“I will not be angry. Of course, say it. Say it wholly, and without keeping back any part.”
“—Say that I can’t—really—see any more why we should go at all. Do you hear, why we should go at all! It was an impulse—a fine, big impulse to protest, to stand on our principles. But, oh, Franz, maybe—”
“Yes—maybe?”
“I think perhaps the best thing is to stay here after all, and fight the Nazis here—not desert Austria now—”
Dismay lanced through his heart. This argument he had heard, too, as often almost as he had heard Schneirmann’s “it can’t be as bad in Austria.” Once he himself had dared to hope. But now? The hard, incorruptible fact that the Nazis would soon enough make any effective fight a mere dream, would kill or imprison the fighters, would plunder them of all power, of money, possessions, press, radio, meeting places—could this hard reality be overlooked any longer by anyone?
Yes, the fight would go on, of course, underground, latent, waiting for events which might let it come into the open. But those events? There would have to be, first, war—would it, after all, come to war? Or would the world outside the
“I can’t, Franz, we mustn’t,” she began. “It is not your fault, I do not blame you for thinking I wished this too—I let you cable her without understanding what it would be—”
He stood up and came toward her. But he stopped a few feet away, listening to the words pouring forth between the concealing palms over her mouth. Between the spread fingers, he could see her eyes, tight closed in this violent rejection.
“For a long time, you knew that I did not want to think of leaving. Then—those first days after it really happened— Anschluss and the Webbers and the others—then I know you felt I was ready to go. Even my note today—I don’t blame you for feeling I agreed, because I did. But now—”
“Yes?” His voice was quiet, without disapproval.
“But now I know I can’t. You will have your work, new patients, and you are, anyway, different, stronger—men are always stronger. But I—I will never feel at home, never feel happy, always want to be back here—”
“No, Christl, it only seems hopeless now, because you are tired, because this packing up is hard—”
“I can’t, Franz. I feel I—I cannot learn to live over again—I—oh, I’m afraid—”
He sat beside her then, but did not make any other move.
“People are always a little afraid, Christl,” he said. “But your fears will go. We’ll be together, always, and the children. What could harm us? Many people are going through this same sadness and fear—all over the earth, everywhere. Think of all the Germans who’ve already gone to Holland, Belgium, Denmark, England—”
“That’s it, that’s just what I mean,” she broke in, passion and pleading in her voice. “Why can’t we simply go somewhere near—Holland or Belgium is as safe as America, and we would not be such foreigners there—the language—the habits—we could still see our friends, families—”
“As safe as America? Many Germans came to Austria, thinking it would always be safe here. I suppose that Holland or Belgium is safe—yet sometimes I think of the Wolffs in Holland, the Markheimers in France—”
“How wise they were. They’re at home—in Europe—Europeans are never happy anywhere else.”
He was looking off into a distance in history. “I try to imagine how it would be to settle again, build a new life, and then—have to fly once more—to have it to do all over again—”
“But really what I mean,” she cried out as if she were afraid to lose his attention to these new speculations of his, “I might as well say it. You will be angry, you will think I have no principles, but I must tell you—I have been feeling it more and more—”
“I will not be angry. Of course, say it. Say it wholly, and without keeping back any part.”
“—Say that I can’t—really—see any more why we should go at all. Do you hear, why we should go at all! It was an impulse—a fine, big impulse to protest, to stand on our principles. But, oh, Franz, maybe—”
“Yes—maybe?”
“I think perhaps the best thing is to stay here after all, and fight the Nazis here—not desert Austria now—”
Dismay lanced through his heart. This argument he had heard, too, as often almost as he had heard Schneirmann’s “it can’t be as bad in Austria.” Once he himself had dared to hope. But now? The hard, incorruptible fact that the Nazis would soon enough make any effective fight a mere dream, would kill or imprison the fighters, would plunder them of all power, of money, possessions, press, radio, meeting places—could this hard reality be overlooked any longer by anyone?
Yes, the fight would go on, of course, underground, latent, waiting for events which might let it come into the open. But those events? There would have to be, first, war—would it, after all, come to war? Or would the world outside the
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