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had worn off; until his imagination had had a chance to work on his nerves; until energy of the

soul, or whatever it was, had spent itself. The two men who led him by the arms took him to

one side of the room, against the wall, and there they stood, one on each side of him, two

statues, and he a third.

VIII

The door was opened again, and another trio entered; two S.S. men, leading an elderly

civilian, rather stout, plump, with gray mustaches, a gray imperial neatly trimmed; a Jew by his

features, a business man by his clothes—and suddenly Lanny gave a start, in spite of all his

resolutions. He had talked to that man, and had joked about him, the rather comical resemblance

of his hirsute adornments to those of an eminent and much-portrayed citizen of France, the

Emperor Napoleon the Third. Before Lanny's eyes loomed the resplendent drawing-room of

Johannes Robin's Berlin palace, with Beauty and Irma doing the honors so graciously, and this

genial old gentleman chatting, correct in his white tie and tails, diamond shirtstuds no longer in

fashion in America, and a tiny square of red ribbon in his buttonhole—some order that Lanny

didn't recognize. But he was sure about the man—Solomon Hellstein, the banker.

Such a different man now: tears in his eyes and terror in his face; weeping, pleading,

cowering, having to be half dragged. "I didn't do it, I tell you! I know nothing about it! My

God, my God, I would tell you if I could! Pity! Have pity!"

They dragged him to the bench. They pulled his clothes off, since he was incapable of doing it

himself. Still pleading, still protesting, screaming, begging for mercy, he was told to lie down on

the bench. His failure to obey annoyed them and they threw him down on his belly, with his

bare back and buttocks and thighs looming rather grotesque, his flabby white arms hanging

down to the floor. The four shirtless Nazis took their places, two on each side, and the officer

in command raised his hand in signal.

The thin steel rods whistled as they came down through the air; they made four clean cuts

across the naked body, followed by four quick spurts of blood. The old man started up with a

frightful scream of pain. They grabbed him and threw him down, and the officer cried: "Lie

still, Juden-Schwein! For that you get ten more blows!"

The poor victim lay shuddering and moaning, and Lanny, tense and sick with horror, waited

for the next strokes. He imagined the mental anguish of the victim because they did not fall at

once. The officer waited, and finally demanded: "You like that?"

"Nein, nein! Um Himmel's Willen!"

"Then tell us who took that gold out!"

"I have said a thousand times—if I knew, I would tell you. What more can I say? Have

mercy on me! I am a helpless old man!"

The leader raised his hand again, and the four rods whistled and fell as one. The man

shuddered; each time the anguish shook him, he shrieked like a madman. He knew nothing

about it, he would tell anything he knew, it had been done by somebody who had told him

nothing. His tones grew more piercing; then gradually they began to die, they became a

confused babble, the raving of a man in delirium. His words tripped over one another, his sobs

choked his cries.

Of the four beaters, the one who was working on the victim's shoulders apparently held the

post of honor, and it was his duty to keep count. Each time he struck he called aloud, and

when he said "Zehn" they all stopped. Forty strokes had been ordered, and the leader signed to

the civilian in spectacles, who proved to be a doctor; the high scientific function of this disciple

of Hippocrates was to make sure how much the victim could stand. He put a stethoscope to the

raw flesh of the old Jew's back, and listened. Then he nodded and said: "Noch eins."

The leader was in the act of moving his finger to give the signal when there came an

interruption to the proceedings; a voice speaking loud and clear: "You dirty dogs!" It rushed

on: "Ihr dreckigen Schweinehunde, Ihr seid eine Schandfleck der Menschheit!"

For a moment everybody in the room seemed to be paralyzed. It was utterly unprecedented,

unprovided for in any military regulations. But not for long. The officer shouted: " 'Rrraus mit

ihm!" and the two statues besides Lanny came suddenly to life and led him away. But not until

he had repeated loudly and clearly: "I say that you dishonor the form of men!"

IX

Back in his cell, Lanny thought: "Now I've cooked my goose!" He thought: "They'll invent

something special for me." He discovered that his frenzy, his inspiration, whatever it was, had

passed quickly; in darkness and silence he realized that he had done some thing very foolish,

something that could do no good to the poor old banker and could do great harm to himself.

But there was no undoing it, and no good lamenting, no good letting his bones turn to pulp

again. He had to get back that mood of rage and determination, and learn to hold it, no matter

what might come. It was a psychological exercise, a highly difficult one. Sometimes he thought he

was succeeding, but then he would hear with his mind's ears the whistle of those terrible steel

rods, and he would find that a disgraceful trembling seized him.

Waiting was the worst of all; he actually thought he would feel relief when his cell door was

opened. But when he heard the steps coming, he found that he was frightened again, and had to

start work all over. He must not let them think that they could cow an American. He clenched

his hands tightly, set his teeth, and looked out into the corridor. There in the dim light was the

S.S. man to whom he had been handcuffed for a whole night—and behind that man, looking over

his shoulder, the deeply concerned face of Ober-leutnant Furtwaengler!

"Well, well, Herr Budd!" said the young staff officer. "What have they been doing to you?"

Lanny had to change his mood with lightning speed. He was busily hating all the Nazis; but

he didn't hate this naive and worshipful young social climber. "Herr Oberleutnant!" he

exclaimed, with relief that was like a prayer.

"Come out," said the other, and looked his friend over as if to see if he showed any signs of

damage. "What have they done to you?"

"They have made me rather uncomfortable," replied the prisoner, resuming the Anglo-Saxon

manner.

"It is most unfortunate!" exclaimed the officer. "Seine Exzellenz will be distressed."

"So was I," admitted the prisoner.

"Why did you not let us know?"

"I did my best to let somebody know; but I was not successful."

"This is a disgraceful incident!" exclaimed the other, turning to the S.S. man. "Some one will

be severely disciplined."

" ZU Befehl, Herr Oberleutnant!" replied the man. It conveyed the impression: "Tell me to

shoot myself and I am ready."

"Really, Herr Budd, I don't know how to apologize."

"Your presence is apology enough, Herr Oberleutnant. You are, as we say in America, a sight

for sore eyes."

"I am sorry indeed if your eyes are sore," declared the staff officer, gravely.

It was like waking up suddenly from a nightmare, and discovering that all those dreadful things

had never happened. Lanny followed his friend up the narrow stone stairway, and discovered

that there were no more formalities required for his release than had been required for his

arrest. Doubtless the officer's uniform bore insignia which gave him authority. He said: "I assume

responsibility for this gentleman," and the S.S. man repeated: "At command, Herr Oberleutnant."

They went out to the official car which was waiting. Rain was falling, but never had a day

seemed more lovely. Lanny had to shut his eyes from the light, but he managed to get inside

unassisted. Sinking back in the soft seat he had to struggle to make up his mind which was real

—these cushions or that dungeon! Surely both couldn't exist in the same city, in the same

world!

29

Too Deep for Tears

I

LANNY was living in a kaleidoscope; one of those tubes you look into and observe a pattern,

and then you give it a slight jar, and the pattern is gone, and there is an utterly different one.

He was prepared for anything, literally anything. But when he heard his friend give the order:

"Seine Exzellenz's residence," he came to with a start, and became what he had been all his

life, a member of the beau monde, to whom the proprieties were instinctive and inescapable.

"Surely," he protested, "you're not taking me to Seine Exzellenz in this condition! Look at my

clothes! And my beard!" Lanny ran his hand over it, wondering again if it was gray.

"Where are your clothes, Herr Budd?"

"When last heard from they were in a hotel in Munich."

"A most preposterous affair! I will telephone for them this morning."

"And my money?" added the other. "That was taken from me in Stadelheim. But if you will

drive me to the Adlon, I am sure they will cash my check."

The orders were changed, and the young staff officer entered with amusement into the

enterprise of making his friend presentable by the magic of modern hotel service. While the

guest bathed himself, a valet whisked his clothes away to sponge and press them, and a bellboy

sped to the nearest haberdashers for a shirt, tie, and handkerchief. A barber came and shaved

him—and collected no gray hairs. In half an hour by the Oberleutnant's watch—Lanny had none—

he was again the picture of a young man of fashion, ready to meet all the world and his wife.

It was truly comical, when they were motored to the official residence of the Minister-

Präsident of Prussia and escorted up to his private apartments. This mighty personage had all

the sartorial appurtenances of his office: blue trousers with a broad white stripe; a coat of lighter

blue with a white belt and broad white sash from one shoulder crossing his chest; numerous gold

cords and stars, epaulets and insignia of his rank—but it was a blazing hot day in mid-July, and

all this honorificabilitudinitatibus had become intolerable to a fat man. He had it hung on a

chair near-by, and was sitting at his desk in his shorts and that large amount of soft white skin

with which nature had endowed him. Beads of perspiration stood out on the skin, and before

Lanny's mind flashed the vision of a Jewish banker. Impossible to keep from imagining this still

larger mass of flesh and fat laid out on a blood-soaked and slimy bench, bottom up!

II

It was the General's intention to take Lanny Budd's misadventure as a comic opera

divertissement in the midst of very grave business; and it was up to Lanny to be a good sport

and do the same. "Ja aber, mein lieber Herr Budd!" cried Seine Exzellenz, and caught Lanny's

hand in a grip that showed he was by no means all fat. "Was ist Ihnen denn passiert?"— he

insisted upon hearing all about a playboy's misadventures. "Were you afraid?" he wanted to

know; and Lanny said: "Wait until your turn comes, Exzellenz, and see if you're not afraid."

That wasn't so funny. The great man replied: "You had the misfortune to get caught in the

traffic at a very busy hour. We have some wild fellows in our party, and it was necessary to