Dear Georgette,

Our trip to Detroit was quick and efficient. We left at 6 a.m.
on Wednesday March 3, and were back in Belmont with a minivan full
of books and other belongings on Friday March 5, at 11 p.m. Much
of the 17 hour drive west, I reflected on Anschluss, more perhaps
than appropriate inasmuch as I read your novel only once, and rather
quickly at that. However, it made a deep impression on me.

I remembered my college days, just after the war, when holier-than-
thou historical analyses were academic rage, the theorizing especially
of one A.J.P. Taylor, a British historian, to the effect that the 
Protestants - from Luther on down were the bad Germans who laid the
groundwork for, and supported Hitler, while the Catholics, Haydn,
Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert - were the good Germans who would have
prevented the Nazi catastrophe if only there had been more of them.
I never accepted Taylor's theories, as a matter of fact, I found 
them rather offensive in their superficiality. I must have heard
about, but never pondered the cataclysmic ferocity of Austrian
antisemitism in the wake of the annexation which is the theme of
your novel. I am very wary of generalizations, but as I understand
it, Protestantism is characterized by the individualization of
conscience: each person is his own priest, and establishes his
own relationship to the deity, while for the pious Catholic that
relationship is mediated by a social organization, the church,
which tells him what is allowed and what is forbidden. Is it
extravagant to suggest that an unquestioning fealty to the church
of the Catholic believer prepared her or him for correspondingly
unquestioning fealty to the new social order? I understand, of
course, that at one time Elizabeth was a student of Moritz Schlick,
and was presumably unaffected by the orthodox religious ambience
of Wien, - which nonetheless constituted the environment to which
she adapted herself.

The suddenness, the precipitateness of the transformation from
friend to enemy, is startling and alarming, suggesting that potentially
if not actually, all friendship is the mask of enmity, that each of
us is irreparably alone. That is an apperception of tragedy with which
I can sympathize, although fortunately my personal experience is
different. In contemplating Elizabeth's betrayal of Maria, I am
reminded of the betrayal of Jesus, classical in our tradition, by
his disciple Judas. Many years ago, I toyed with the iconoclastic
hypothesis that Judas' betrayal of Jesus was an expression of affection.
When I search my diaries for the name Judas, I find the following entry
in September 1985:
"Vor Jahren ist es mir aufgefallen, dass Judas den Verrat
an Christus aus Liebe zu ihm, um ihn vor seinen Juengern
und vor den Glaeubigen zu retten, begangen haben muss."
That argument might seem to be the unavoidable consequence
of the glorification of martyrdom as the elevation of spirit
to a higher level, as is described by the librettist of
Bach's Cantata 31:

Fürst des Lebens, starker Streiter,
Hochgelobter Gottessohn!
Hebet dich des Kreuzes Leiter
Auf den höchsten Ehrenthron?
Wird, was dich zuvor gebunden,
Nun dein Schmuck und Edelstein?
Müssen deine Purpurwunden
Deiner Klarheit Strahlen sein? 

It was, after all, Judas, who was the agent through whom
the glorification, if not deification, of the crucifixion
was realized. Arguably in Maria's life, Elizabeth had a
similar role. In any event, your novel demonstrates that
love and hate are closely allied, and may indeed be
inseparable one from the other.

Finally, on that long drive to Detroit, at 65 miles per hour
between snowcovered fields through the Mohawk Valley, I mused on
the parody implicit in your Maria giving birth to a child
in circumstances of utter destitution, analogous to her prototype
in the Bethlehem manger, the child's father, however you choose
to designate him, being far away, in another world.

The epilogue in Paris, I admit, without all criticism, is presently
beyond my understanding. All I can say now is that the situation
of Elizabeth, looking back on what she has done, reflecting on her
responsibility and on her guilt, is different only in a matter of
degree to the experience of the rest of us.

Jochen