AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Zillah blinked, the tears suddenly flooding her eyes. “No. But this time was worse. It’s becoming harder to believe this persecution is just a temporary madness. Medicine, banking, art, the sciences, music—all the things that bring wealth and prestige to a nation—will not save us…” She trailed off, unable to finish.
Elena knew what she had been going to say. “And Hitler feeds people’s resentment,” she finished. “Because it is the real wealth of the nation. It’s what people admire and envy. No one wants to believe so much of the best part of their culture was contributed by someone else.”
“We are not someone else!” Zillah said between her teeth, but she did not look at Elena. “We are Germans!”
Elena realized her own clumsiness. She felt the heat rise up her face. “I’m sorry. But they need to blame someone, someone different. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense or not! People are capable of believing anything they want, to justify what they feel. And of believing what they need to be true to justify what they are doing.”
Zillah stared at her. Finally, she whispered, “I know that. But Eli still has hope. I need to believe he’s right. I need to.”
Elena said nothing.
“At least I need him to believe that I do,” Zillah amended.
Elena could think of nothing to say. She was choked by emotion for this proud, gentle woman who had offered her hospitality at such great addition to her own risk. She shouldn’t have said what she did, and she couldn’t take it back. She ate another bite of the toast, and another.
She had just finished and was insisting on washing the plate when Jacob came in, carrying several newspapers. He wished them all good morning, looking at Elena carefully but showing no surprise at her new appearance. He put the papers on the kitchen table, then made himself a cup of coffee, glanced to see what Elena was drinking, and made coffee for Zillah as well
.
Zillah broke the silence at last. “What do the papers say?” she asked.
“A lot about Scharnhorst, of course,” he replied, setting her coffee beside her and bringing his own to the table, opposite Elena. He seemed to be watching her closely. Normally it would have irritated her, but now she found it comforting.
“Anything about who shot him?” Zillah countered.
“An unknown person, believed to be English,” he replied. “And either a woman, or someone dressed as a woman.”
“They can’t tell the difference?” Elena said with a ghost of a smile.
“Covering themselves,” Jacob replied with a shrug. “In case they catch some poor man and decide to pin it on him. They’ll look like fools if they don’t get anyone at all. Hardly German efficiency. They can’t afford to have people think you can shoot the vermin and get away with it.”
“I am a German,” Zillah asserted grimly, then smiled at him, to show she had no ill feeling.
He looked back at her without a shred of humor. “You are a German Jew,” he replied. “If you don’t know the difference by now, God help us.”
“Not that again, Jacob, please,” she said quietly. “I know what people are saying, and I fear there is some truth in it.”
“Even after last night?” he said. There was anger in his voice and he was struggling to keep it gentle toward her.
“Eli still thinks they wouldn’t be so…so self-harming,” Zillah said, looking down at her plate, as if she did not want Jacob to see her eyes. “We are a big part of German society. We have contributed far too much—we still do—for them to do anything more than make a lot of noise and exercise the basest of cruelty now and again. It will be unpleasant, but we’ve survived unpleasantness before.”
“You sound like Eli,” he said grimly.
“Of course I do. I’m his wife. But I’m glad someone killed Scharnhorst, whoever it was.”
Jacob waited a few moments, eating his slice of bread and sipping at his coffee, still too hot to drink comfortably, his eyes on Elena, watching to see how she would react.
“Have you learned about the un-German books?” he said at last, directing his question to Zillah.
“The what?” She looked at him incredulously.
“The un-German books,” he repeated.
“For goodness’ sake, what is an un-German book? If it is printed in German, then it’s German, isn’t it? So, you mean something translated from another language? It’s a big world out there, and some of the best literature, the very best, comes from other languages.”
“Un-German thoughts and ideas,” he explained, intense contempt in his face. “The works of such French barbarians as Gide, Emile Zola, Marcel Proust; American barbarians such as Jack London and Ernest Hemingway; Englishmen like H. G. Wells; and native traitors to German thought like Marx, Freud, and Einstein.”
“Ridiculous,” Zillah said with a mirthless laugh.
