We have an image, too, of the man from whose regime he fled, Adolf Hitler, and it is an image we view from a very remote distance, insofar as we feel compelled to protect ourselves from what he represented. If we allowed that remoteness to dissolve, what we would see would no longer be the very image of evil, but a boy growing up in Austria with a violent, authoritarian father and a mother whom he loved. We would see a sixteen-year-old so shy he hadn’t the courage to speak to a girl with whom he was in love, able only to profess his feelings by sending an anonymous card. We would see a man who, in order to survive, distanced himself from all in his proximity. We would see a man who loved cakes and was so fond of sugar he put it in even the most expensive of white wines. We would see a man with a gift of imitating others, who was especially good at putting on the accent of Göring’s Swedish wife. We would see a man who, in an astonishingly skillful manner, was able to pick up on popular currents of opinion and give voice to them in near-perfect pitch. We would also see a petty, mean-spirited man, a man who felt himself hard done by, an insufferably self-important man who always believed himself to know better. And we would see a man who, more than anything else, hated Jews, a hatred that would seem to defy explanation—all of a sudden, it was there in his life, hideous and repugnant. If we were to do this, we would see a human being.