“I’m so sorry, Franz,” George said. “So damned sorry. I never knew of this.”
“Vell, zen,” said Heilig indifferently, “I may tell you zat it does not matter. It really does not matter.” He smiled his tortured smile, snuffling a little through his lips, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and shifted his position. “I shall do somesing about it. I haf engaged one of zese little men—zese dretful little people—vhat do you call zem?—lawyers!—O Gott, but zey are dretful!” he shouted gleefully. “I haf bought one of zem to make some lies for me. Zis little man wiz his papers—he vill feel around until he discover fazzers, mozzers, sisters, brozzers—everysing I need. If he cannot, if zey vill not believe—yell, zen,” said Heilig, “I must lose my chob. But it does not matter. I shall do somesing. I shall go somevhere else. I shall get along somehow. I haf done so before, and it vas not too terrible…But zese fools—zese dretful people!” he said with deep disgust. “Some day, my dear Chorge, you must write a bitter book. You must tell all zese people just how horrible zey are. Myself—I haf no talent. I cannot write a book. I can do nozzing but admire vhat ozzers do and know if it is good. But you must tell zese dretful people vhat zey are…I haf a little fantasy,” he went on with a look of impish glee. “Ven I feel bad—yen I see all zese dretful people valking up and down in ze Kurfürstendamm and sitting at ze tables and putting food into zeir faces—zen I imagine zat I haf a little machine gun. So I take zis little machine gun and go up and down, and ven I see one of zese dretful people I go—pingping-ping-pingping!” As he uttered these words in a rapid, childish key, he took aim with his hand and hooked his finger rapidly. “0 Gott!” he cried ecstatically. “I should so enchoy it if I could go around wiz zis little machine gun and use it on all zese stupid fools! But I cannot. My machine gun is only in imagination. Wiz you it is different. You haf a machine gun zat you can truly use. And you must use it,” he said earnestly. “Some day you must write zis bitter book, and you must tell zese fools vhere zey belong. Only,” he added quickly, and turned anxiously towards George, “you must not do it yet. Or if you do, you must not say some sings in zis book zat vill make zese people angry wiz you here.”
“What kind of things do you mean, Franz?”
“Zese sings about”—he lowered his voice and glanced quickly towards the door—“about politics—about ze Party. Sings zat vould bring zem down on you. It would be quite dretful if you did.”
“Why would it?”
“Because,” he said, “you have a great name here. I don’t mean wiz zese fools, zese stupid people, but wiz ze people left who still read books. I may tell you,” he said earnestly, “zat you have ze best name here now of any foreign writer. If you should spoil it now—if you should write some sings now zat zey vould not like—it vould be a pity. Ze Reichschriftskammer vould forbid your books—vould tell us zat ve could no longer read you—and ve could not get your books. And zat vould be a pity. Ve do so like you here—I mean ze people who understand. Zey know so vell about you. Zey understand ze vay you feel about sings. And I may tell you zat ze translations are quite marvellous. Ze man who does zem is a poet, and he luffs you—he gets you in, ze vay you feel—your images—ze rhythmus of your writing. And ze people find it very vonderful. Zey cannot believe zat zey are reading a translation. Zey say zat it must haf been written in Cherman in ze beginning. And-0 Gott!” he shouted gleefully again—“zey call you everysing—ze American Homer, ze American epic writer. Zey like and understand you so much. Your writing is so full of juice, so round and full of blood. Ze feeling is like feeling zat ve haf. Wiz many people you haf ze greatest name of any writer in ze world to-day.”
“That’s a good deal more than I’ve got at home, Franz.”
“I know. But zen, I notice, in America zey lull everyvun a year—and zen zey spit upon him. Here, wiz many people you haf zis great name,” he said earnestly, “and it vould be too dretful—it vould be such a pity—if you spoil it now. You vill not?” he said, and again looked anxiously and earnestly at George.
George looked off in space and did not answer right away; then he said:
“A man must write what he must write. A man must do what he must do.”
“Zen you mean zat if you felt zat you had to say some sings—about politics—about zese stupid fools—about----”
“What about life?” George said. “What about people?”
“You vould say it?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Efen if it did you harm? Efen if it spoiled you here? Efen if ve could no longer read vhat you write?” With his small face peering earnestly at George, he waited anxiously for his reply.
“Yes, Franz, even if that happened.”
Heilig was silent a moment, and then, with apparent hesitancy, he said: