"Of course!" Tanzler snorted, his moustaches fluttering. "Jochim," he said positively, "it is not as if we were young men, I admit. But life goes on, even for us old crocks." Tanzler was a good five years Kempfer's junior. "We must look ahead—we must live for a future. We cannot let ourselves sink into the past. I realize you were very fond of Marthe. Every man is fond of his wife—that goes without saying. But fifteen years, Jochim! Surely, it is proper to grieve. But to mourn, like this—this is not healthy!"
One bright spark singed through the quiet barriers Professor Kempfer had thought perfect. "Were you ever in a camp, Georg?" he demanded, shaking with pent-up violence.
"A camp?" Tanzler was taken aback. "I? Of course not, Jochim! But—but you and Marthe were not in a real lager—it was just a ... a.... Well, you were under the State's protection! After all, Jochim!"
Professor Kempfer said stubbornly: "But Marthe died. Under the State's protection."
"These things happen, Jochim! After all, you're a reasonable man—Marthe—tuberculosis—even sulfa has its limitations—that might have happened to anyone!"
"She did not have tuberculosis in 1939, when we were placed under the State's protection. And when I finally said yes, I would go to work for them, and they gave me the radar detector to work on, they promised me it was only a little congestion in her bronchiae and that as soon as she was well they would bring her home. And the war ended, and they did not bring her home. I was given the Knight's Cross from Hitler's hands, personally, but they did not bring her home. And the last time I went to the sanitarium to see her, she was dead. And they paid for it all, and gave me my laboratory here, and an apartment, and clothes, and food, and a very good housekeeper, but Marthe was dead."
"Fifteen years, Jochim! Have you not forgiven us?"
"No. For a little while today—just a little while ago—I thought I might. But—no."
Tanzler puffed out his lips and fluttered them with an exhaled breath. "So," he said. "What are you going to do to us for it?"
Professor Kempfer shook his head. "To you? What should I do to you? The men who arranged these things are all dead, or dying. If I had some means of hurting the Reich—and I do not—how could I revenge myself on these children?" He looked toward the passersby. "What am I to them, or they to me? No—no, I am going to do nothing to you."