“Of course, Franz.”
“Zen you must come back,” he said quietly. “It vould be quite dretful if you did not.” He looked at George searchingly again, but George said nothing. In a moment Heilig said: “And I—I shall hope zat ve shall meet again.”
“I hope so, too, Franz,” said George. And then, trying to throw off the sadness that had fallen on them, he went on as cheerfully as he could, voicing his desire more than his belief: “Of course we shall. I shall come back some day, and we shall sit together talking just the same as we are now.”
Heilig did not answer immediately. His small face became contorted with the look of bitter and malicious humour which George had seen upon it so often. He took off his glasses quickly, polished them, wiped his tired, weak eyes, and put his glasses on again.
“You sink so?” he said, and smiled his wry and bitter smile.
“I’m sure of it,” George said positively, and for the moment he almost believed it. “You and I and all the friends we know—we’ll sit together drinking, we’ll stay up all night and dance around the trees and go to Aenna Maentz at three o’clock in the morning for chicken soup. All of it will be the same.”
“Vell, zen, I hope zat you are right. But I am not so sure,” said Heilig quietly. “I may not be here.”
“You!” George laughed derisively. “Why what are you talking about? You know you wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. You have your work, it’s what you always wanted to do, and at last you’re in the place where you always wanted to be. Your future is mapped out clearly before you—it’s just a matter of hanging on until your superiors die off or retire. You’ll always be here!”
“I am not so sure,” he said. He puffed at his cigarette, and then continued rather hesitantly. “You see—zere are zese fools—zese stupid people!” He ground his cigarette out viciously in the ashtray, and, his face twisted in a wry smile of defiant, lacerated pride, he cried angrily: “Myself—I do not care. I do not vorry for myself. Right now I haf my little life—my little chob—my little girl—my little room. Zese people—zese fools!” he cried—“I do not notice zem. I do not see zem. It does not bozzer me,” he cried. And now, indeed, his face had become a grotesque mask. “I shall always get along,” he said. “If zey run me out—yell, zen, I may tell you zat I do not care! Zere are ozzer places!” he cried bitterly. “I can go to England, to Sveden. If zey take my chob, my girl,” he cried scornfully and waved his hand impatiently, “may I tell you zat it does not matter. I shall get along. And if zese fools—zese stupid people—if zey take my life—I do not sink zat is so terrible. You sink so? Yes?”
“Yes, I do think so, Franz. I should not like to die.”
“Vell, zen,” said Heilig quietly, “wiz you it is a different matter. You are American. Wiz us, it is not ze same. I haf seen men shot, in Munich, in Vienna—I do not sink it is too bad.” He turned and looked searchingly at George again. “No, it is not too bad,” he said.
“Oh hell, you’re talking like an idiot,” George said. “No one’s going to shoot you. No one’s going to take your job or girl away. Why, man, your job is safe. It has nothing to do with politics. And they’d never find another scholar like you. Why, they couldn’t do without you.”
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently and cynically. “I do not know,” he said. “Myself—I think ye can do wizout everybody if ye must. And perhaps ye must.”
“Must? What do you mean by that, Franz?”
Heilig did not answer for a moment. Then he said abruptly: “Now I sink zat I vill tell you somesing. In ze last year here, zese fools haf become quite dretful. All ze Chews haf been taken from zeir vork, zey haf nozzing to do any more. Zese people come around—some stupid people in zeir uniform”—he said contemptuously—“and zey say zat everyone must be an Aryan man—zis vonderful plue-eyed person eight feet tall who has been Aryan in his family since 1820. If zere is a little Chew back zere—zen it is a pity,” Heilig jeered. “Zis man can no more vork—he is no more in ze Cherman spirit. It is all quite stupid.” He smoked in silence for a minute or two, then continued: “Zis last year zese big fools haf been coming round to me. Zey demand to know who I am, vhere I am from—whezzer or not I haf been born or not. Zey say zat I must prove to zem zat I am an Aryan man. Ozzervise I can no longer vork in ze library.”
“But my God, Franz!” George cried, and stared at him in stupefaction. “You don’t mean to tell me that—why, you’re not a Jew,” he said, “are you?”
“Oh Gott no!” Heilig cried, with a sudden shout of gleeful desperation. “My dear shap, I am so Gott-tam Cherman zat it is perfectly dretful.”