She told herself that she would not contact him, that February in 1950, but the minute she reached Freiburg she picked up the phone. Within hours he was at the hotel. Two days later she wrote to him,

When the waiter announced your name it was as though time had stopped. Then, in a flash, I became aware -- I have never before admitted it, not to myself and not to you and not to anyone else -- that the force of my impulse [to get in touch] has mercifully saved me from committing the only truly unforgivable disloyalty, from mishandling my life. But you must know one thing . . . that had I done so, it would have been out of pride only -- that is, out of pure, plain, crazy stupidity. Not for any reason.

Three months later Heidegger sent her four letters in quick succession to say that her return to his life had brought him joy; that she alone was close to him when he was thinking; that he dreamed of her living nearby and of running his fingers through her hair. He sounded like a man newly charged, filled with hope and longing, excited and immensely glad to be alive.