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Authors: Yannick Grannec
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governments managed to stave off the ravages of the Great Depression. The tension in the streets was escalating, fanned by the Nazis: there were threats of a general strike and a German invasion. Chancellor Dollfuss had resumed control of the country by steamrolling every form of opposition, on the right as well as the left. He was in sole control of a sinking ship.
Nothing now stood in the way of the Nazis taking power. They wouldn’t burn down our parliament as they had burned the Reichstag. There was no parliament. From the border came rumors of a new order. Soon they would be here burning books, banning music, closing the cafés, and turning off the lights in Vienna.
My father was late that night. In my anxiety, I reread Kurt’s letter for the hundredth time. I lived in suspense between his letters, comforted by their regularity, disappointed by their coldness. Hating their author sometimes, never for long. Tearing up at imaginary signs of love, worrying over every line—half mother and half lover. Was he sleeping enough? Was he thinking of me? Was he being faithful? He seemed happy, but how longwould it last? How many days before he pulled the curtains shut? Did he have a stomachache or a headache? I was looking without admitting it for early signs of a relapse in every overly neutral statement. So as not to miss it this time.
Princeton, October 10, 1933
Dear Adele
,
In your last letter you asked for some particulars about Princeton and the surrounding area. I have had no time at all to engage in tourism. But here, to forestall your reproaches, is a brief description
.
Princeton is a university village in the greater suburbs of New York. The trip into the city is exhausting. To get from the university to the isolated little station at Princeton Junction, you have to take the “Dinky,” an uncomfortable shuttle. The commuter train then takes two hours, and you arrive at Pennsylvania Station, which is located at Seventh Avenue and 31st Street in Manhattan, to emerge at an intersection on Broadway that is dizzying with lights and noise. So it is unnecessary to ask me “not to traipse around New York every night.” I have neither the stamina nor the desire to do so
.
I am quite satisfied, on the other hand, with the IAS. The program is very ambitious and recruitment has been everything that Oswald Veblen and Abraham Flexner, the director, hoped for. They have assembled the cream of today’s scientific community. They even managed to attract Herr Einstein. Not bad considering that all of America was clamoring for him. I am not impressionable, but meeting him was an unforgettable experience. We spoke for more than an hour about philosophy and hardly even touched on mathematics or physics. He claims that he is too poor a mathematician! You would enjoy thisgreat man and his humor. Do you know what he says about Princeton? “It’s a wonderful little spot, a quaint and ceremonious village of puny demigods on stilts.”
I am just a lecturer on temporary appointment, and I envy the first resident scholars: von Neumann, Weyl, and Morse. Freed of any obligation to teach, their only assignment is to think. No one cares what you do as long as you look busy
.
Princeton is charming in the fall. You would hate its flame-colored forests and impeccable lawns, girl of nighttime Vienna that you are. For its first academic year the IAS is being housed in the university’s Fine Hall, a temporary arrangement. The buildings are acceptable, and Americans have a remarkable sense of hygiene. I am preparing my next course of lectures: “On the Undecidability of Propositions in Formal Mathematical Systems.” I’ll spare you the details, though an obscure exposition has never put you off! You’ll be glad to know that my work is at last being warmly received
.
My days are very full. I am a sort of emeritus professor during the day and a solitary student at night. My interactions with colleagues are cordial but, all in all, quite
Nothing now stood in the way of the Nazis taking power. They wouldn’t burn down our parliament as they had burned the Reichstag. There was no parliament. From the border came rumors of a new order. Soon they would be here burning books, banning music, closing the cafés, and turning off the lights in Vienna.
My father was late that night. In my anxiety, I reread Kurt’s letter for the hundredth time. I lived in suspense between his letters, comforted by their regularity, disappointed by their coldness. Hating their author sometimes, never for long. Tearing up at imaginary signs of love, worrying over every line—half mother and half lover. Was he sleeping enough? Was he thinking of me? Was he being faithful? He seemed happy, but how longwould it last? How many days before he pulled the curtains shut? Did he have a stomachache or a headache? I was looking without admitting it for early signs of a relapse in every overly neutral statement. So as not to miss it this time.
Princeton, October 10, 1933
Dear Adele
,
In your last letter you asked for some particulars about Princeton and the surrounding area. I have had no time at all to engage in tourism. But here, to forestall your reproaches, is a brief description
.
Princeton is a university village in the greater suburbs of New York. The trip into the city is exhausting. To get from the university to the isolated little station at Princeton Junction, you have to take the “Dinky,” an uncomfortable shuttle. The commuter train then takes two hours, and you arrive at Pennsylvania Station, which is located at Seventh Avenue and 31st Street in Manhattan, to emerge at an intersection on Broadway that is dizzying with lights and noise. So it is unnecessary to ask me “not to traipse around New York every night.” I have neither the stamina nor the desire to do so
.
I am quite satisfied, on the other hand, with the IAS. The program is very ambitious and recruitment has been everything that Oswald Veblen and Abraham Flexner, the director, hoped for. They have assembled the cream of today’s scientific community. They even managed to attract Herr Einstein. Not bad considering that all of America was clamoring for him. I am not impressionable, but meeting him was an unforgettable experience. We spoke for more than an hour about philosophy and hardly even touched on mathematics or physics. He claims that he is too poor a mathematician! You would enjoy thisgreat man and his humor. Do you know what he says about Princeton? “It’s a wonderful little spot, a quaint and ceremonious village of puny demigods on stilts.”
I am just a lecturer on temporary appointment, and I envy the first resident scholars: von Neumann, Weyl, and Morse. Freed of any obligation to teach, their only assignment is to think. No one cares what you do as long as you look busy
.
Princeton is charming in the fall. You would hate its flame-colored forests and impeccable lawns, girl of nighttime Vienna that you are. For its first academic year the IAS is being housed in the university’s Fine Hall, a temporary arrangement. The buildings are acceptable, and Americans have a remarkable sense of hygiene. I am preparing my next course of lectures: “On the Undecidability of Propositions in Formal Mathematical Systems.” I’ll spare you the details, though an obscure exposition has never put you off! You’ll be glad to know that my work is at last being warmly received
.
My days are very full. I am a sort of emeritus professor during the day and a solitary student at night. My interactions with colleagues are cordial but, all in all, quite
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