anymore.”
Rosa tends to favor Jan or Roman; she feels it’s time to get away from the traditional names. When it’s no longer necessary to wear the yellow star, why not choose different names? Frankfurter shakes his head over such women’s talk, and suddenly Mischa wishes he had arrived at this moment instead of earlier, blurting it out the moment he arrived. For if he starts telling them now, they will feel just as he did in his error: Why did he wait till now to tell us? He can’t have forgotten it! He’s been sitting and sitting while they talk themselves ever deeper into their gloomy mood. Either he doesn’t tell them till tomorrow and then pretends that it’s the latest news, or he’ll have to think up some story to explain why he’s telling them only now and not as soon as the door was opened. He decides on today. It’ll be a little extra punch line for Frankfurter. Mischa gets up, affects reluctance, even he doesn’t know whether it’s simulated or real, looks diffidently at Frankfurter, who is already wondering about the lengthy prelude, and formally requests the hand of his daughter.
Rosa discovers something on her fingernail that claims her undivided attention, something so important that her face turns fiery red: they have never exchanged so much as a syllable about it, which, of course, is really the way it should be. Mrs. Frankfurter bends lower over the shirt, which is nowhere near small enough yet, most of the work being required by the collar because of the great importance of a perfect fit. Mischa relishes his inspiration, successful or otherwise; Frankfurter is taken aback and is about to say something. It is his turn to speak, since a polite question deserves an answer, and, no matter how out of place the question may seem at first, Frankfurter’s answer will build a bridge to the great news, and this will at the same time explain why Mischa waited until now to tell them. That is Mischa’s plan, devised in extreme haste and not so bad at that; Felix Frankfurter will build a bridge, it’s his turn, they are all waiting for his answer.
So, great astonishment on Frankfurter’s part, incredulity in his expression; he has just been drawing on his pipe and has forgotten to blow out the smoke. The father who would give his only daughter to no one but Mischa, loving him as he does like his own son, the man of hard facts who is nobody’s fool, is staggered. “He’s gone mad,” he whispers. “Suffering has confused him. It’s these cursed times when perfectly normal desires sound monstrous. Why don’t
you
say something?”
But Mrs. Frankfurter won’t say anything. A few tears drop soundlessly onto the shirt; she doesn’t know what to say, all important questions having invariably been decided by her husband.
Felix Frankfurter resumes his pacing, inner turmoil, and Mischa looks as hopeful as if the next words could only be “Take her and be happy.”
“We are in the ghetto, Mischa, don’t you know that? We can’t do what we want because they do what they want with us. Should I ask you what security you can offer, since she is my only daughter? Should I ask you where you intend to find a place to live? Should I tell you what kind of a dowry Rosa will receive from me? Surely that must interest you? Or should I give you some advice on how to conduct a happy marriage and then go to the rabbi and ask when it would suit him best to perform the
khasene?
You’d be better off racking your brain for a place to hide when they come for you.”
Mischa remains confidently silent; that still wasn’t an answer, after all.
“Just listen to that! His ship has foundered, he’s swimming in the middle of the ocean, not a soul in sight to help him. And he’s wondering whether he’d rather spend the evening at a concert or the opera!”
His arms sink to his sides; Frankfurter has said all that was to be said, even throwing in a little allegory at the end. No one need be clearer than that.
But
Rosa tends to favor Jan or Roman; she feels it’s time to get away from the traditional names. When it’s no longer necessary to wear the yellow star, why not choose different names? Frankfurter shakes his head over such women’s talk, and suddenly Mischa wishes he had arrived at this moment instead of earlier, blurting it out the moment he arrived. For if he starts telling them now, they will feel just as he did in his error: Why did he wait till now to tell us? He can’t have forgotten it! He’s been sitting and sitting while they talk themselves ever deeper into their gloomy mood. Either he doesn’t tell them till tomorrow and then pretends that it’s the latest news, or he’ll have to think up some story to explain why he’s telling them only now and not as soon as the door was opened. He decides on today. It’ll be a little extra punch line for Frankfurter. Mischa gets up, affects reluctance, even he doesn’t know whether it’s simulated or real, looks diffidently at Frankfurter, who is already wondering about the lengthy prelude, and formally requests the hand of his daughter.
Rosa discovers something on her fingernail that claims her undivided attention, something so important that her face turns fiery red: they have never exchanged so much as a syllable about it, which, of course, is really the way it should be. Mrs. Frankfurter bends lower over the shirt, which is nowhere near small enough yet, most of the work being required by the collar because of the great importance of a perfect fit. Mischa relishes his inspiration, successful or otherwise; Frankfurter is taken aback and is about to say something. It is his turn to speak, since a polite question deserves an answer, and, no matter how out of place the question may seem at first, Frankfurter’s answer will build a bridge to the great news, and this will at the same time explain why Mischa waited until now to tell them. That is Mischa’s plan, devised in extreme haste and not so bad at that; Felix Frankfurter will build a bridge, it’s his turn, they are all waiting for his answer.
So, great astonishment on Frankfurter’s part, incredulity in his expression; he has just been drawing on his pipe and has forgotten to blow out the smoke. The father who would give his only daughter to no one but Mischa, loving him as he does like his own son, the man of hard facts who is nobody’s fool, is staggered. “He’s gone mad,” he whispers. “Suffering has confused him. It’s these cursed times when perfectly normal desires sound monstrous. Why don’t
you
say something?”
But Mrs. Frankfurter won’t say anything. A few tears drop soundlessly onto the shirt; she doesn’t know what to say, all important questions having invariably been decided by her husband.
Felix Frankfurter resumes his pacing, inner turmoil, and Mischa looks as hopeful as if the next words could only be “Take her and be happy.”
“We are in the ghetto, Mischa, don’t you know that? We can’t do what we want because they do what they want with us. Should I ask you what security you can offer, since she is my only daughter? Should I ask you where you intend to find a place to live? Should I tell you what kind of a dowry Rosa will receive from me? Surely that must interest you? Or should I give you some advice on how to conduct a happy marriage and then go to the rabbi and ask when it would suit him best to perform the
khasene?
You’d be better off racking your brain for a place to hide when they come for you.”
Mischa remains confidently silent; that still wasn’t an answer, after all.
“Just listen to that! His ship has foundered, he’s swimming in the middle of the ocean, not a soul in sight to help him. And he’s wondering whether he’d rather spend the evening at a concert or the opera!”
His arms sink to his sides; Frankfurter has said all that was to be said, even throwing in a little allegory at the end. No one need be clearer than that.
But
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