Marc Chagall had been living in an ancient stone house in the half-abandoned town of Gordes, to the northwest of Marseille. He hadn't wanted to leave France when I first wrote him, because he had been nationalized French some years before, and he didn't see any reason why he should go. As it is a serious responsibility to uproot and transplant a great artist, I didn't press him. But after the adoption of the anti-Jewish laws, he was so disgusted that he changed his mind. Almost the first question he put to me was, "Are there cows in America?" When I said yes, there were, I could see from the look of relief on his face that he had already decided to go.