We had two rooms, comfortable
ones, for Vienna, and I tried to explain to her that if I
could work hard, and get into concert, and keep at the
composing, we'd be rich some day, and famous, and happy, and
she'd have clothes, and jewels. But she was too stupid, or
too bored. Olga is the kind of woman who only believes what
she sees. Things got worse all the time. She had a temper.
So have I--or I used to have. But when hers was aroused it
was--horrible. Words that--that--unspeakable words. And
one day she taunted me with being a ---- with my race. The
first time she called me that I felt that I must kill her.
That was my mistake. I should have killed her. And I
didn't."
"Teddy boy! Don't, brother! You're tired. You're excited
and worn out."
"No, I'm not. Just let me talk. I know what I'm saying.
There's something clean about killing." He brooded a moment
over that thought. Then he went on, doggedly, not raising
his voice. His hands were clasped loosely. "You don't know
about the intolerance and the anti-Semitism in Prussia, I
suppose.
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