We went to England. What's that phrase they have—"muddling through"? That's what they were doing. Proudly, with a minimum of complaint, with no thought of rebellion, with no rationalizing or projection, living as the submerged tenth lives in America, and seeming to think that—well, things could be worse.
In Italy, it was the kids, the beggars and procurers and thieves and even murderers who were kids. In Spain we found much of the same. In France it was all the heat and no light, charges and counter-charges, lies and counter-lies, confusion and corruption.
In Berlin, it was Russia. The cloud that darkens the world looms darkest in Berlin. The apathy that grips the world is epitomized in Berlin. A people with no sense of guilt and no reason for hope, nor stirring to the promise of a re-armed Germany. A bled and devastated people, shorn of their chief strength, their national pride.
Jean said, "I've seen enough. Haven't you, Fred? How much can you take?"
"One more," I said. "Russia."
"Don't be silly," she said. "How would we get into Russia?"
"We wouldn't. But I would."
"Look, baby, whither though goest, I—"
"Up to here," I said. "Who's the big boss in this family?"
"Now, Fred—"