pleted while I was still in Germany. During my work on the third volume "Joseph in Egypt," the break in my outward existence occurred, the trip from which I could not return, the sudden loss of my life's basis: the larger part of "Joseph in Egypt" is work born in exile. My oldest daughter who dared to return to our already confiscated house in Munich, after the revolution, recovered the manuscript and brought it to me in Southern France; and slowly, after the first shock of my new, uprooted situation, I resumed the work which was continued and completed in the Swiss refuge which we enjoyed for five years, on the Lake of Zurich.
Now, then, the narrative entered into the highly developed and sophisticated cultural sphere of the Nile Empire, which, through sympathy and reading matter, had been familiar to the since the time of my boyhood, so that I knew more about it, than even the teacher who during Religion Class questioned us twelve-year-old boys as to the name of the holy steer of the ancient Egyptians. I showed that I was eager to answer, and was called upon. "Chapi," I said. That was wrong, in the opinion of the teacher. He reproached me for having raised my hand, when I knew only nonsense. "Apis" was the right name, he corrected me angrily. But "Apis" is only the latinization or hellenization of the authentic Egyption name which I had given. The people of Keme said "Chapi." I knew better than the good man, but discipline did not allow me to enlighten him about it. I kept silent—and all my life I have not forgiven myself for this silence before false authority. An American boy would certainly have spoken up.
Occasionally I thought of this early incident while I was writing "Joseph in Egypt." A work must have long roots in
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