They were friends as well. Zweig speaks of the intelligence and bravery of his friend Franz Werfel.
Both became exiles... several times over. Both, with their wives, had to flee for their lives. Zweig to Brasil and Werfel to Portugal... or so he had hoped.
In a moment of despair, and shortly after finishing his book "The World of Yesterday" Zweig and his wife committed the final act.
Werfel and his wife, realizing that escape to Portugal was impossible turned back into France and found his way to Lourdes.
It was in this manner that Providence brought me to
Lourdes, of the miraculous history of which I had hitherto had
but the most superficial knowledge. We hid for several weeks
in the Pyrenean city. It was a time of great dread. The British
radio announced that I had been murdered by the National
Socialists. Nor did I doubt that such would be my fate were I to
fall into the hands of the enemy. An article of the Armistice
provided that France should hand over certain civilians to the
National Socialists. Who could these civilians be but those who
had fought the modern pestilence in the days of its modest
beginnings? In my friends’ eyes I read the same conviction,
although their words sought to calm me. A few of the initiated
pretended to know the number of those who were to be turned
over and the very order of their documented names. At such
moments the boundary between rumor and fact is obliterated.
The most stubborn reports predicted again and again the
conqueror’s occupation of the Pyrenees on the following day.
Each morning when I woke up it was in ignorance as to
whether I was still a free man or a prisoner condemned to
death.
It was, I repeat, a time of great dread. But it was also a time
of great significance for me, for I became acquainted the
wondrous history of the girl Bernadette Soubirous and also
with the wondrous facts concerning the healings of Lourdes
One day in my great distress I made a vow. I vowed that if I
escaped from this desperate situation and reached the saving
shores of America, I would put off all other tasks and sing, as
best I could, the song of Bernadette.
This book is the fulfilment of my vow In our epoch an epic
poem can take no form but that of a novel. The Song of
Bernadette is a novel but not a work of fiction. In face of the
events here delineated, the skeptical reader will ask with
better right than in the case of most historical epic narratives:
“What is true? What is fiction?” My answer is: All the
memorable happenings which constitute the substance of this
book took place in the world of reality. Since their beginning
dates back no longer than eighty years, there beats upon them
the bright light of modern history and their truth has been
confirmed by friend and foe and by unbiased observers. My
story makes no changes in this body of truth.
One turned, sadly, to despair... the other turned to a saint.
