Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/311

Then the images change, fade back to her youth. She sees the wise and sensitive face of her father, of her uncle Eli, with the pack on his back. There is the rabbi of the town, his velvet hat pressed down over his eyes, hiding the evil world from his sight. There is Boris the water-carrier, Jack the shoemaker, and Bumach, the town intellectual, with his pale drawn face. Children like little Rachel, who loved to play in the brook. The teachers and students, the orthodox and the free thinkers; the wealthy and the poor; enamoured couples and sad poets with murdered dreams in their eyes.

And now all their phantom fingers point at her: "You, you! You saved him from the firing-squad, the Nazi killer; you saved him for yourself, for your bestial lust, you harlot! Now you are corresponding with him, writing love letters ready to patch up your broken experiment. Go ahead; clean your conscience while you are free to stew in your harlotries."

Anna shifted nervously in her bed. The thought of Eric continued to torment her; it was like a gadfly buzzing in her mind, stinging it into agony. "Shall I start again?" she asked herself. "Revolve on the same treadmill of love and pain? A new beginning? Are two beginnings possible?"

"In the beginning God created Heaven and earth . . . There can be no second creation, no second love. The die is cast. Love is dead. Only hate remains, only vengeance!"

There is no new beginning, Anna. . . Gertrude's eyes swam out tenderly from the sea of eyes before her... There is no new beginning. Forget Eric. Stop searching. You have survived; you are alive; make the most of it, Anna. My place must be filled. My children must have a mother-and Morris a wife. He has a temper-overlook and forgive! Forget your own sufferings, Anna; think only of others. That is where you will find peace. . . think only of others, Anna.