I said nothing and waited. I had often sat with a man in a similar
situation. Losses were harder to bear when you had no country of your own.
There was nothing to sustain you, and the strange country became so terribly
strange. I had been through it myself in Switzerland when I received the news
that my parents had been killed and cremated in a concentration camp. The
thought of my mother's eyes in the fire of the crematorium had haunted me.
"I assume," said Schwarz more calmly, "that you know what
refugee jitters are." (The Night in Lisbon, Erich Maria Remarque, 1961, p.
12)
