In 1914, while stationed at the front, Franz Blümenfeld wrote to his mother. He would be killed eleven
days before Christmas.
Your wishing you could provide me with a bullet-proof vest is very sweet of you. But strange
to say, I have no fear. None at all of bullets and shells, but only of this great spiritual
loneliness. I am afraid of losing my faith in human nature, in myself, in all that is good in the
world. How is it possible that it gives me more pain to bear my own loneliness than to
witness the suffering of so many others. What is the good of escaping all the bullets and
shells if my soul is injured?
What is Franz's greatest fear?
Why doesn't Franz tell his mother how horrible conditions are?
This is early in the war. If Franz had survived, how would his perception of human nature been affected by
the next three years of the war?