Legacy of Silence Read Free

you, to a concert or to the opera, since you said you like music.”
    Had she said so? She did not recall. Although they had begun to walk side by side and she was not looking at him, she felt that he had turned toward her with expectation.
    “Your neighbors, the Cassells at the end of your street, are friends of my family. You can ask them about me.”
    “Oh, no, I don’t need to. I can tell for myself, I—”
    “Can you?” There was a slight amusement in his tone, and as she looked up at him, a slight, appealing twinkle in his eyes. “From the first minute yesterday, I was sure we would get along. That happens sometimes, you know, not only in fairy tales.”
    “Yes, I know.” She hesitated, and then, diving into cold, unfriendly waters, said directly, “You shouldn’t even be talking to me. I’m half Jewish.”
    For a moment as she watched, he stood still, regarding her. Then he said quietly, “It doesn’t matter.”
    Even though she had not known what to expect from him, the stillness, as though he was disappointed, and also the words, were startling.
    “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can it not matter, the way things are?”
    “It is only a complication. One finds one’s way around complications. That’s all there is to it.”
    Their eyes were looking into each others. In his, she saw a sympathy that would have made her cry ifshe had given way to it. There was so little kindness these days.
    And she said gently, “I wouldn’t want you to have any trouble because of me.”
    For an answer, he took her hand, saying only, “Let’s walk.”
    Already, they were behaving as if there was going to be a
connection
. Neither spoke. They arrived at a place where the path sloped toward a small lake on a wide sward, where in fine weather people walked and children played ball games. There were benches. To one of these he drew her, and they sat while the dogs lay down willingly at their feet, as if they, too, sensed the mood of the day.
    Unlike the day before, there was no sun, and it was very cold. Bitter November had finally settled itself upon the world. All was quiet. In the windless air, the topmost elm twigs made a delicate black pattern against the pale gray sky.
    “Look. Like a Japanese print, or calligraphy,” Walter said, pointing upward.
    He was still holding her hand, and she was still holding back tears. Why? What was happening?
    From the lowest branches of the trees, there sounded a sweet twittering of birds, little winter creatures with dark heads.
    “Hunting berries, going their cheerful way as usual, in spite of everything,” he said. “Yes, nature. Nature and art. Nothing else lasts, so in the long run, nothing else matters.”
    “Nothing matters? How can you say that?”
    “In the long run, I said.” Letting go of her hand, he faced her to ask abruptly, “What are you going to do in the short run?”
    “My family, you mean?” She had not needed to be warned against putting trust in strangers. Yet this time, she did just that. “We are trying to emigrate to America. But we are very late, and you need to have people over there who will support you so you will not be a public charge. My mother has gotten hold of some New York City and Chicago telephone books. People are all passing them around. She writes to people with names like those in her family, although we have no relatives abroad. Perhaps generations ago they were relatives. Who knows? But perhaps they will have a heart anyway.”
    He shook his head. “It’s all insane. Insane and evil. This whole country—”
    “It’s dangerous to talk that way.”
    “I know that. I don’t usually talk that way.”
    “Except at home? One has to talk someplace.”
    Again he shook his head. “Never at home.”
    For a few moments he was silent. Three lines were drawn across his forehead. She wondered, and had never noticed, whether other people as young as he was ever had such marked lines. When he spoke again, it was with