I had to hold my breath and writhe and squirm to keep from throwing up.

37

I ought to have been overcome by the same pity that I once felt for Christa in Nuremberg. Or rather for the condition humaine in general: for the human creature and the tragicomedy of its existence. But this would have led only to my suffering, and I have avoided suffering as best I could ever since I lost the first half of my life. There has been too much cause for pity since then; one simply can’t manage it.

Do credit me, however, with not dragging the past into presence at least on this occasion. Imagine how simplifying and abbreviating it would have been had I been able to give vent to my dichotomous feelings with a nice hearty “Kike!” What a lovely tension, with the possibility of release granted by such short circuits, has been lost to us because of German immoderation! Europe without hatred of Jews—why, that’s like faith in God without the devil. The loss of a metaphysical dimension. Naturally we’ve subbed in something else in its place: irony. As time goes by it gets ever more bloody. I, however, become more of a coward accordingly.

It was sheer cowardice that prevented me from confronting you, Mr. Brodny. I was afraid of the black bug on your heart. Your bug and mine might have pounced on each other. We would have had to become brothers, like Schwab and me. Even without the clarion fanfare of your voice, I would have recognized God’s angel in you, J. G. And I did not want to wrestle with the angel. Not after what I’d encountered in the past days and nights.

Out of cowardice I have armed myself with irony. The rest was simple and logical. I dropped into a couple of bistros and drank. I did not feel like eating (which you may understand). I even went to the Crillon and asked for Nadine. Luckily, she wasn’t in. A couple of Americans at the bar tempted me to bait them. But they noticed I was drunk and good-naturedly gave me the brush-off. I could have gotten pushy and provoked them into a fistfight, but I didn’t want the bartender to tell Nadine, because then she’d know I was in Paris. This way, he’d take it for granted that I was with her in the Crillon and find it superfluous to talk about me.

I wanted to walk across town again. The fog had lightened, but the golden day underneath had vanished. It was already getting toward evening; I don’t know what time it was. At the Madeleine, I ran into a streetwalker and unloaded my grief on her. I didn’t get home till late at night.