Dear Marion,

Thank you for your sensitive and perceptive reading
of my letter. With respect to my way of thinking,
you've got my number. So did Shakespeare's Porter,
who was guarding the gates of Hell:

Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name?
Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in both
the Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treason
enough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:
oh come in, Equiuocator.
(Macbeth II,iii)

Interestingly, the literal minded and pious Germans couldn't deal
with Shakespeare's profundity. Wieland translated "equivocator"
with "J*s*t", (or could it have been that "Jesuit"  was also the
character whom the agnostic Shakespeare had in mind?) and Schiller
in his translation of Macbeth missed the point entirely when he
substituted for this drunken Anti-Peter presiding over the path
to perdition, a sober God-fearing sacristan who warbles a hymn of
praise to the Lutheran God.

You are, of course, correct in your observation that in a novel,
a theoretical exposition without pathetic, comic relief is
inappropriate. I intend to provide the necessary drama. I find,
however, that as I write, I must give free rein to the spontaneous
development of the ideas. Whether I will be successful in
subsequently parceling them out as integral parts of my narrative
remains to be seen.

This morning I'm in a state of perplexity. A lady, Edith Boehme,
a teacher at the Nibelungenrealschule in Braunschweig who was involved
with the Stolpersteine project about which you know, has e-mailed me
that next week she and her husband are visiting their two daughters,
both in their late twenties who are studying dancing in New York City.
They are planning a motor trip through New England and would like to
stop in Belmont to hand to me a book about the Stolpersteine project
with reference to our family. The four of them would also, subsequent
to a perhaps ill advised invitation, like to spend the night of
October 14, at our house.

Our first response was to accommodate them by returning to Belmont
a week early. I'm fascinated by the pathos and drama of the situation,
and from the depths I can hear my father's voice: Das hat mit uns
nichts zu tun. And yet, it obviously does, and I thought if only to 
demonstrate our share der Hoeflichkeit des Herzens we shouldn't hide. 
This morning, however, Margaret seems weak and ill, complains of
shortness of breath. Today at least, she's not able to do the necessary
packing. She's also not able to tell me what needs to be packed, for
the obvious reason that until she opens the bureau drawer or the closet
door, she doesn't remember exactly what's inside and can't decide what
should be left and what should be taken back to Belmont.

Meanwhile, in about 10 minutes, my lumberjack neighbor who scavenges
our woods, is scheduled to arrive to fell another very tall dead
locust tree that is looming over the house. He wants and needs my help.
I hope neither he nor I get hurt, and I'll keep you informed.

Jochen