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life that history didn’t allow me to bring together. Not
inviting Lieesa was to betray my youth. Not inviting Anna
was to betray my gratitude toward her. But it was
unimaginable, and in fact dangerous, to bring Anna, my
Jewish friend, in contact with Lieesa. And both Kurt and I
wanted the ceremony to gloss over our tricky pasts.
Consenting finally to give me his name, Kurt had also
passed on to me his worst feature, his inability to make
difficult decisions—when, that is, the choice involved flesh-
and-blood creatures and not mathematical symbols. Anna
had made no objections; she understood. I brought her a
slice of wedding cake and some candied almonds for her
boy. Lieesa no longer spoke to me and hadn’t for some
time. “Frau Gödel.” Now I was
upper–crust
.
In a few minutes on September 20, 1938, after ten years of
shameful cohabitation, I, Adele Thusnelda Porkert, no
profession, daughter of Joseph and Hildegarde Porkert, was
married to Dr. Kurt Friedrich Gödel, son of Rudolf Gödel
and Marianne Gödel, née Handschuh. I removed my white
gloves to sign the register. Then Kurt took the fountain pen
and flashed one of his contrite little smiles at me. He kissed
me, looking away from his brother. I readjusted the flower
in his buttonhole. I was happy. A tiny victory, but a victory
all the same. The circumstances didn’t matter, the old coat,
the unanswered questions. Why now? Why so quickly, two
weeks before his departure? Kurt’s mother, who had stayed
in Brno, filled the echoing room with her unspoken
disapproval. Marianne Gödel had given her consent but not