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been able to think of an Italian refugee as other than some sort of misdoer. Beauty's own

friends had come out of Italy, reporting everything improved, the streets clean, the trains running

on time. Finally, she had gone and seen for herself; had she seen anybody beaten, or any signs of

terror? Of course not!

And now, here was the same thing in Germany. Wherever you drove you saw perfect order.

The people were clean and appeared well fed; they were polite and friendly—in short, it was a

charming country, a pleasure to visit, and how was anybody to credit these horror tales? Irma

was in a continual struggle between what she wanted to believe and what was being forced

upon her reluctant mind. Casting about for something to do for poor Freddi, she had a bright

idea. "Mightn't it be possible for me to go and talk to Goring?"

"To appeal to his better nature, you mean?"

"Well, I thought I might be able to tell him things about the Robins."

"If you went to Goring, he would want just one thing from you, and it wouldn't be stories

about any Jews."

What could Irma say to that? She knew that if she refused to believe it, she would annoy her

husband. But she persisted: "Would it do any harm to try?"

"It might do great harm," replied the anti-Nazi. "If you refused him, he would be enraged,

and avenge the affront by punishing the Robins."

"Do you really know that he's that kind of man, Lanny?"

"I'm tired of telling you about these people," he answered. "Get the Fürstin Donnerstein off

in a corner and ask her to give you the dirt!"

III

Any pleasure they might have got out of a visit to Berlin was ruined. They sat in their rooms

expecting a telephone call; they waited for every mail. They could think of nothing to do that

might not make matters worse; yet to do nothing seemed abominable. They thought: "Even if

he's in a concentration camp, he'll find some way to smuggle out a message! Surely all the

guards can't be loyal, surely some one can be bribed!"

Lanny bothered himself with the question: was he committing an act of bad faith with

Johannes in not informing him of this new situation? He had assured Johannes that the family

was all well. Was it now his duty to see the prisoner again and say: "Freddi has disappeared"? To

do so would be equivalent to telling the Gestapo— and so there was the same round of problems

to be gone over again. Even if he told Johannes, what could Johannes do? Was he going to say:

"No, Exzellenz, I will not sign the papers until I know where my younger son is. Go ahead and

torture me if you please." Suppose Goring should answer: "I have no idea where your son is. I

have tried to find him and failed. Sign—or be tortured!"

The agonizing thing was that anywhere Lanny tried asking a question, he might be involving

somebody else in the troubles of the Robin family. Friends or relatives, they would all be on

the Gestapo list—or he might get them on! Was he being followed? So far he had seen no signs of

it, but that didn't prove it mightn't be happening, or mightn't begin with his next step outdoors.

The people he went to see, whoever they were, would know about the danger, and their first

thought would be: "Um Gottes Willen, go somewhere else."

Rahel's parents, for example; he knew their names, and they were in the telephone book. But

Freddi had said: "Don't ever call them. It would endanger them." The family were not

Socialists; the father was a small lawyer, and along with all the other Jewish lawyers, had been

forbidden to practice his profession, and thus was deprived of his livelihood. What would happen if

a phone call were overheard and reported? Or if a rich American were to visit a third-class

apartment house, where Jews were despised and spied upon, where the Nazis boasted that

they had one of their followers in every building, keeping track of the tenants and reporting

everything suspicious or even unusual? The Brown Terror!

Was Lanny at liberty to ignore Freddi's request, even in an effort to save Freddi's life? Would

Freddi want his life saved at the risk of involving his wife and child? Would he even want his

wife to know about his disappearance? What could she do if she knew it, except to fret herself ill,

and perhaps refuse to let Lanny and Irma take her out of the country? No, Freddi would surely

want her to go, and he wouldn't thank Lanny for thwarting his wishes. Possibly he hadn't told

Rahel where Lanny and Irma were staying, but she must have learned it from the newspapers or

from her parents; and surely, if she knew where Freddi was, and if he needed help, she would

risk everything to get word to Lanny. Was she, too, in an agony of dread, hesitating to

communicate with Lanny, because Freddi had forbidden her to do so?

IV

Lanny bethought himself of the Schultzes, the young artist couple. Having got some of Trudi's

work published in Paris, he had a legitimate reason for calling upon her. They lived in one of the

industrial districts, desiring to be in touch with the workers; and this of course made them

conspicuous. He hesitated for some time, but finally drove to the place, a vast area of six-story

tenements, neater than such buildings would have been in any other land. Almost with out

exception there were flower-boxes in the windows; the German people didn't take readily to the

confinements of city life, and each wanted a bit of country.

A few months ago there had been civil war in these streets; the Brownshirts had marched and

the workers had hurled bottles and bricks from the rooftops; meetings had been raided and

party workers dragged away and slugged. But now all that was over; the promise of the Horst

Wessel Lied had been kept and the streets were free to the brown battalions. The whole

appearance of the neighborhood had changed; the people no longer lived on the streets, even in

this brightest spring weather; the children stayed in their rooms, and the women with their

market-baskets traveled no farther than they had to, and watched with furtive glances as they

went.

Lanny parked his car around the corner and walked to the house.

He looked for the name Schultz and did not find it, so he began knocking on doors and

inquiring. He couldn't find a single person who would admit having heard of Ludi and Trudi

Schultz. He was quite sure from their manner that this wasn't so; but they were afraid of him.

Whether he was a Socialist or a spy, he was dangerous, and "Weiss nichts" was all he could get.

Doubtless there were "comrades" in the building, but they had "gone underground," and you

had to know where to dig in order to find them. It was no job for "parlor Pinks," and nobody

wanted one to meddle with it.

V

Lanny went back to the hotel and continued his vigil. Sooner or later a note or a telephone

message was bound to come, and this painful business of guessing and imagining would end. He

went downstairs for a haircut, and when he came back he found his wife in a state of

excitement. "Mama called!" she whispered. "She has to buy some gloves at Wertheim's, and I'm to

meet her there in half an hour."

Irma had already ordered the car, so they went down, and while they were driving they

planned their tactics. Irma would go in alone, because the meeting of two women would be less

conspicuous. "Better not speak to her," suggested Lanny. "Let her see you and follow you out.

I'll drive round the block and pick you up."

The wife of Johannes Robin didn't need any warning as to danger; she was back in old

Russia, where fear had been bred into her bones. When Irma strolled down the aisle of the

great department store, Mama was asking prices, a natural occupation for an elderly Jewish

lady. She followed at a distance, and when Irma went out onto the street and Lanny came

along they both stepped into the car. "Where is Freddi?" she whispered with her first breath.

"We have not heard from him," said Lanny, and she cried: "Ach, Gott der Gerechte!" and hid

her face in her hands and began to sob.

Lanny hastened to say: "We have got things fixed up about Papa. He's all right, and is to be

allowed to leave Germany, with you and the others." That comforted her, but only for a

minute. She was like the man who has an hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray,

and he leaves the ninety and nine and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is

gone astray. "Oh, my poor lamb, what have they done to him?"

The mother hadn't heard a word from her son since he had called Lanny, and then written

her a comforting note. She had been doing just what Lanny had been doing, waiting, numb

with fear, imagining calamities. Freddi had forbidden her to call the Budds or to go near them,

and she had obeyed for as long as she could stand it. "Oh, my poor darling, my poor baby!"

It was a painful hour they spent. The good soul, usually so sensible, so well adjusted to her

routine of caring for those she loved, was now in a state of near distraction; her mind was as if in

a nightmare, obsessed by all the horror stories which were being whispered among the Jews in

the holes where they were hiding, apart from the rest of Germany. Stories of bodies found every

day in the woods or dragged out of the lakes and canals of Berlin; suicides or murdered people

whose fates would never be known, whose names were not mentioned in the press. Stories of the

abandoned factory in the Friedrichstrasse which the Nazis had taken over, and where they now

brought their victims to beat and torture them. The walls inside that building were soaked

with human blood; you could walk by it and hear the screams—but you had best walk quickly!

Stories of the concentration camps, where Jews, Communists, and Socialists were being made to

dig their own graves in preparation for pretended executions; where they underwent every

form of degradation which brutes and degenerates were able to devise—forced to roll about in

the mud, to stick their faces into their own excrement, to lash and beat one another insensible,

thus saving labor for the guards. "Oi, oi!" wailed the poor mother, and begged the Herrgott to

let her son be dead.

Only one thing restrained her, and that was consideration for her kind friends. "I have no

right to behave like this!" she would say. "It is so good of you to come and try to help us poor

wretches. And of course Freddi would want us to go away, and to live the best we can without

him. Do you really believe the Nazis will turn Papa loose?"

Lanny didn't tell her the story; he just said: "It will cost a lot of money"—he guessed that

would help to make it real to her mind. She couldn't expect any kindness of these persecutors,

but she would understand that they wanted money.

"Oh, Lanny, it was a mistake that we ever had so much! I never thought it could last. Let it all

go—if only we can get out of this terrible country."

"I want to get you out, Mama, and then I'll see what can be done about Freddi. I haven't

dared to try meantime, because it may make more trouble for Papa. If I can get four of you out

safely, I know that is what Freddi would want."

"Of course he would," said Mama. "He thought about everybody in the world but himself. Oi,