The Test of Courage: (A Biography of) Michel Thomas by Christopher Robbins

cultured and educated country in Europe. German anti-Semitism was manufactured for political reasons and not an intrinsic part of German society at all. Not like Russia, where anti-Semitism ran deep, or Poland, where the strain was the most virulent of all.
    Anti-Semitism was a fact of life, a condition Jews had to endure and overcome. Even the Jewish population in Lodz struggled endlessly among themselves for supremacy. German Jews considered themselves the cream of the crop, followed by the Poles. Both groups resented and looked down on those expelled from Russia, while Lithuanians - known as Litvaks - were considered even worse, existing only on bread and herring and dismissed as ‘onionheads’: ‘All they brought with them to Poland were their teapots and their razors with which to shave once a week.’ [27]
    It was in this worldly and sophisticated manner that Uncle Usher dismissed Michel’s warnings as youthful exaggerations, and no doubt Freida was greatly comforted. But as Michel left the country and made his way by train to Vienna, he was full of foreboding. His return had been a bittersweet experience that left him emotionally upset and inexplicably angry. The happiness and tears of the people he loved most in the world had moved him deeply, but he worried about the danger his aunt and uncle faced in Germany, and the uncertain future of his parents in Poland. He had savoured every moment of their company, recalled every gesture and word, committing them to memory. It was the last time he saw any of them alive. [28]

III - Exile
    In the middle of a busy afternoon at the Language Centre on Fifth Avenue, New York, the secretary of Michel Thomas made the rare exception of interrupting a session in progress to put through an urgent call. She sounded concerned and upset, and announced there was a woman from France on the line long distance. And it was important. Perhaps more than important.
    ‘Who is it?’ Michel demanded. The interruption broke one of his strict rules, and he was irritated. ‘What does she want?’
    ‘I don’t know... but you must take the call.’
    There was something unusual in the tone of his secretary’s voice, and she was so uncharacteristically demanding that he did not argue. He excused himself and made his way along the corridor to his private office.
    ‘Hello, Michel Thomas speaking,’ he said softly into the phone.
    There was no reply, and at first he thought that the caller had hung up. He was about to replace the phone in its cradle when he heard a series of strange choking noises - a terrible, heart-rending sound of somebody in unbearable emotional pain. And he did not need to hear a voice to identify the person. He felt his own pulse beat faster and a sense of dread took hold of him.
    ‘Suzanne?’
    The reply was a low moan of distress. Michel listened, helpless. There was an attempt at speech but no words came, only a pitiable sobbing.
    ‘My God, Suzanne - calm down! Please! Calm down! Try to talk to me! Please talk to me!’
    He tried to soothe her, but it was useless; Suzanne would attempt to talk and then break down into uncontrollable tears. Nothing could stop the outpouring of anguish from the other end of the line. Every attempt at speech was overwhelmed by outbursts of weeping.
    Tm going to put the phone down and call you back in half an hour. Okay? Give you a chance to pull yourself together. And then we can talk. Do you understand?’ The sobbing continued. ‘Suzanne, I’ll call you in half an hour.’
    The call had shaken him and disturbed powerful memories. He sat in silence for a long time and did not move. At last he spoke to his secretary over the intercom and told her to apologise and explain to the student that he was incapable of continuing that day. As he waited to call Suzanne back, he rehearsed a hundred soothing phrases, dismissing each one as empty and inadequate. The time crawled by.
    It was night in France, a little after ten, when he called. The