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    By 1939, Einstein had reached an age when, as he liked the say, the devil didn’t give one much time off. His losses, at sixty-five, were mounting: his wife dead, a step-daughter too, a son lost to madness, his own life uprooted and now lived in exile. His relentless battle to single-handedly save as many Jews from Hitler as he could, was lost as well: with the advent of war, it was impossible for Jews to emigrate from Germany.   How, absent a personal God, he dealt with “all the difficulties and bitterness that the past years have brought” is the subject of this painful, realistic, and ultimately optimistic letter. It concerns a “blow that has hit [him] terribly hard” – the death of his six-year old grandson. Link