He was silent. Margaret wanted to leave, but she felt weak, and she was afraid she would stumble and fall if she got up now. Her eyes were hot and stinging and there was an uncertain feeling in her knees as though she hadn't slept for days. She blinked and looked out at the quiet, white hills, receding and less dramatic as the light grew stronger.
What a lie, she thought, the magnificent, peaceful hills in the climbing sun.
"I would like you to understand…" The man's voice was gentle, sorrowful and pleading. "It's too easy for you in America to condemn everything. You're so rich and you can afford so many luxuries. Tolerance, what you call democracy, moral positions. Here in Austria we cannot afford a moral position." He waited, as though for her to attack, but she remained silent, and he went on, his voice low and toneless. "Of course," he said, "you have a special conception. I don't blame you. Your young man is a Jew and you are afraid for him. So you lose sight of the larger issues. The larger issues…" he repeated, as though the sound of the words had a reassuring and pleasant effect on his inner ear. "The larger issue is Austria. The German people. It is ridiculous to pretend we are not Germans. It is easy for an American five thousand miles away to pretend we are not Germans. But not for us. This way we are a nation of beggars. Seven million people with no future, at anyone's mercy, living like hotel-keepers off tourists and foreigners' tips. Americans can't understand. People cannot live for ever in humiliation. They will do whatever they have to do to regain their self-respect. Austria will only do that by going Nazi, by becoming a part of the Greater Germany." His voice had become more lively now, and the tone had come back into it.
"It's not the only way," Margaret said, arguing despite herself. But he seemed so sensible and pleasant, so accessible to reason… "There must be other ways than lying and murdering and cheating."
"My dear girl," the ski-instructor shook his head patiently and sorrowfully, "live in Europe ten years and then come and tell me that. If you still believe it. I'm going to tell you something. Until last year I was a Communist. Workers of the world, peace for all, to each according to his need, the victory of reason, brotherhood, brotherhood, etc. etc." He laughed.
"Nonsense! I do not know about America, but I know about Europe. In Europe nothing will ever be accomplished by reason. Brotherhood… a cheap, street-corner joke, good for second-rate politicians between wars. And I have a feeling it is not so different in America, either. You call it lying, murdering, cheating. Perhaps it is. But in Europe it is the necessary process. It is the only thing that works. Do you think I like to say that? But it is true, and only a fool will think otherwise. Then, finally, when things are in order, we can stop what you called the 'lying and murdering'. When people have enough to eat, when they have jobs, when they know that their money will be worth the same tomorrow as it is today and not one-tenth as much, when they know they have a government that is their own, that cannot be ordered about by anyone else, at anyone else's whim… when they can stop being defeated. Out of weakness, you get nothing. Shame, starvation. That's all. Out of strength, you get everything. And about the Jews…" He shrugged. "It is an unlucky accident. Somehow, someone discovered that that was the only way to come to power. I am not saying I like it. Myself, I know it is ridiculous to attack any race. Myself, I know there are Jews like Frederick, and Jews, say, like myself. But if the only way you can get a decent and ordered Europe is by wiping out the Jews, then we must do it. A little injustice for a large justice. It is the one thing the Comrades have taught Europe – the end justifies the means. It is a hard thing to learn, but, finally, I think, even Americans will learn it."
"That's horrible," Margaret said.
"My dear young lady," the ski-instructor swung round and took her hands, speaking eagerly and candidly, his face flushed and alive, "I am speaking abstractly and it sounds worse that way. You must forgive me. I promise you something. It will never come to that. You can tell your friend that, too. For a year or two he will be a little annoyed. He may have to give up his business; he may have to move from his house. But once the thing is accomplished, once the trick has done what it is intended to do, he will be restored. The pressure on the Jews is a means, not an end. When everything else is arranged, he will come back to his proper place. And don't believe the American newspapers. I was in Germany last year, and I tell you it is much worse in a journalist's mind than it is on the streets of Berlin."
"I hate it," Margaret said. "I hate them all."
The ski-instructor looked into her eyes, then shrugged, sorrowful and defeated, and swung slowly round. He stared thoughtfully at the mountains. "I'm sorry," he said. "You seem so reasonable and intelligent. I thought, perhaps here is one American who would speak a good word when she got home, one American, who would have some understanding…" He stood up. "Ah, I suppose it is too much to ask." He turned to her and smiled, pleasantly, his lean, agreeable face gentle and touching. "Permit me to make a suggestion. Go home to America. I'm afraid Europe will make you very unhappy." He scuffed at the snow. "It will be a little icy today," he said in a brisk, business-like voice. "If you and your friend are going to ski, I will take you down the west trail myself, if you like. It will be the best one today, but it is not advisable to go alone."
"Thank you." Margaret stood up, too. "But I think we won't stay."
"Is he coming on the morning train?"
"Yes."
The ski-instructor nodded. "He'll have to stay at least until three o'clock this afternoon. There are no other trains." He peered at her under his heavy eyebrows, bleached at the ends.
"You don't wish to remain here for your holiday?"
"No," said Margaret.
"Because of last night?"
"Yes."
"I understand. Here." He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and a pencil, and wrote for a moment. "Here is an address you can use. It's only twenty miles from here. The three-o'clock train stops there. It's a charming little inn, and a very good slope, the people are very nice. Not political at all." He smiled. "Not horrible, like us. There are no Fredericks there. You will be made very welcome. And your friend, too."
Margaret took the paper and put it in her pocket. "Thank you," she said. She couldn't help thinking, how decent and good this man is, despite everything. "I think we'll go there."
"Good. Have a pleasant holiday. And after that…" He smiled at her and put out his hand. "After that, go home to America."
She shook his hand. Then she turned and started down the hill towards the town. When she was at the bottom of the hill, she looked back. His first class had begun, and he was crouched over on his skis, laughing, patiently lifting a seven-year-old girl, in a red wool cap, from the snow where she had fallen.
Joseph arrived, bubbling and joyful. He kissed her and gave her a box of pastries he had carried with great care all the way from Vienna, and a new skiing cap in pale blue that he hadn't been able to resist. He kissed her again, and said, "Happy New Year, darling," and "God, look at your freckles," and "I love you, I love you," and "You are the most beautiful girl in the world," and "I'm starving. Where is breakfast?" and breathed deeply and looked around him at the encircling mountains with pride and ownership, his arm around her, "Look! Look at that! Don't tell me there is anything like this in America!" and when she began to cry, helplessly, softly, he grew serious and held her, and kissed the tears, and said in his low, honest voice, "What? What is it, darling?"
Slowly, standing close to each other, in a corner of the little station, hidden from most of the people on the platform, she told him. She didn't tell him about Frederick, but about the singing the night before and the Nazi toasts, and that she couldn't stay there for another day, no matter what. Joseph kissed her forehead absently and stroked her cheek. His face lost the gaiety it had had when he got off the train. The fine bones of his cheeks and jaw suddenly showed sharp and hard under the skin, and his eyes looked sunken and deep as he spoke to her. "Ah," he said, "here, too. Indoors, outdoors, city, country…" He shook his head. "Margaret, Baby," he said gently, "I think you had better get away from Europe. Go home. Go back to America."