Men in Black, A Novel About Lidice, By Owen Elford

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i c D o m a i n , G o o g l e - d i g i t i z e d

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a t h i t r u s t . o r g / a c c e s s_ u s e # p d - g o o g l e

Men in black, a novel about Lidice, by Owen Elford.

Elford, Owen.

New York, N.Y., A. Unger [c1942]

http://hdl.handle.net/2027/uc1.$b300195

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MEN

INBLACK

P u b l i c D o m a i n , G o o g l e - d i g i t i z e d

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MENINBLACK

A NOVEL ABOUT LIDICEby

Owen Elford

ALBERT UNGER, NEW YORK, N. Y.


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COPYRIGHT 1942, BY ALBERT UNGER PUBLISHING COMPANY

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reprinted in any form

without ^he written permission of the publisher, ex

cept by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages

in connection with a review written for inclusion in

a newspaper or magazine.

A.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

BY ERNST WILLARD, NEW YORK, N. Y.


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Dedicated to

the victims of Nazism

all over the world.

M181234


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For a long time Police Corporal Anton Redtenbacher

had directed traffic at a street crossing in the City of

Vienna. It was not like those intersections that are to

be found by the thousands all over the world, where

sidewalks and roadways meet at right angles and where

the traffic is regulated impersonally by shifting red and

green signal lights. From his post Anton could see

just an intersection—the corner where the dark-gray

opera house stood. But his wooden platform was

placed in the middle of a broad, open plaza whose

many limbs and tributaries flowed

haphazardly togetheramong high patrician mansions, flat, modern market

booths, magnificent public buildings and spacious gar

den plots. Park paths and the tracks of the gleaming

red and yellow tram cars turned suddenly here and

there to wind around buildings.

Anton was a well-built man of medium height, about

forty years old; his keen, tanned face above the

tight-fitting, darkgreen uniform made him look much

younger. He stood in the center of the square, upon a

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: rou^iwDHSn- platform, in the midst of passing pleas

ure cars, trucks, bicycles and pedestrians, his right arm

outstretched to halt the stream of traffic, or his white-

gloved hands waving in graceful, friendly gestures to

set the current in motion once more. Sometimes he

contented himself with a slight nod of his head or an

encouraging squint of his keen blue eyes.

He knew many people by sight, and he greeted them

by holding his upturned fingers on the visor of his cap

for as long as seemed justified by the social ranks of

each person. Sometimes his greeting was only the

briefest contact of his index finger with the rim of

his cap.

He stood at his post in the hot August sunlight when

gusts of wind blew toward him greasy scraps of paper

and green lettuce leaves from the long rows of booths

in the nearby retail market; he stood there when the

evening breeze wafted sweet and cool from the thick

foliage of the Leopoldsberg, whose silvery grey flank

he could make out on clear days above the confusion of

roofs and spires; he stood there on dark nights in heavy

rains that ran down to the gleaming asphalt along the

stiff, pointed monk's-hood of his sleeveless rubber rain

coat like the rain that runs down the grey sides of a

church. He stood there in wintry snowstorms, when

the bronze figures of the statues in the park wore whitefur coats and a tall Christmas-tree with electric candles

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glittered on the corner where the Opera House stood

and Vienna's handsomest limousines vanished under the

arch of the ramp. He stood untiringly, with his strong

mouth smiling pleasantly, moving his head, arms and

hands rhythmically, as though keeping time to an in

audible melody. When he looked down past the Opera

House along the broad, elegant, busy Kaerntnerstrasse,

he saw the delicate ashen spire of the Stephansdom,

towering above weatherbeaten roofs and chimneys. On

his right, almost at the other end of the spacious square

and flanked by two high spires, gleamed the wonderful

green copper dome of the Karlskirche; behind him the

business streets fanned out to the railroads and factories

on the periphery of the city.

In the days of the Danube Monarchy, when Vienna

was still the capital and imperial residence of a colorful,

many-tongued empire, old Kaiser Franz Josef had rid

den across this square when he left the ancient greywalls of the Hofburg and rode down the majestic

Ringstrasse to his pleasure castle of Laxenburg. He sat

in his open coach above the golden wheels in a bright

blue military cloak, on his head the tall general's hat

with a plume of dark-green feathers, his chin smooth-

shaven between the short sideburns that grew whiter

and whiter as the years passed, his watery blue eyes

expressing paternal approval as he nodded to the

cheering populace. Beside him sat his adjutant, in

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front of him, on the raised coachman's seat, a gold-

braided servant and the livried coachman who guided

the noble, thoroughbred horses with a sure hand.

Through this square, on one of the highest church

holidays, the colorful Corpus Christi procession passed

in solemn magnificence over strewn branches that bore

the first green leaves of spring. And in the midst of

the procession, beneath a brocade canopy, strode the

archbishop of Vienna in full ecclesiastical regalia.

Here rifles and machine guns had blazed after the

First World War, when a small Republic struggled up

out of the grave of the great monarchy—a miniature

state, but one that valiantly sent forth fresh shoots, like

a flower that has been transplanted from the soil of an

ancient garden to a narrow flower-pot.

Silently, heavily, the long rows of the Worker's

Defense League had marched eight abreast before

Anton's eyes; noisily, in

double-quick time, the short,

brown-shirted columns had later swung by; broad and

peaceful, with pheasant feathers in their caps, the

Heimwehr battalions had marched.

Days of chaos had come, when Anton's wooden plat

form stood deserted and Anton and his comrades, their

loaded rifles held at ready, had leaped across street

barricades. But always the small, well-trained forces of

law and order had won out after a brief struggle —and Police Corporal Redtenbacher would return to his

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post to regulate the pulsating traffic of a busy city with

friendly, gracious gestures of his hands. He returned

more than ever convinced that it was the inviolate

mission of his profession to maintain order. For he

had seen for himself how small was the number of

troublemakers and lawbreakers. In the eyes of all the

complex and different types of men who dwelt within

his beat or passed through it he read the assurance of

their essential goodness and their loyalty. For all their

feverish partisanship, these people loved their native

land above all else, and they were grateful to the

guardians in the dark-green uniforms for their tenacious

defense of it. Anton's own roots were sunk deep in

this soil, and he knew these people as a sheriff knows

his village or a forester his woods.

For some weeks now he had been aware of an

unusual disquiet in the faces of the people. It was like

the sudden fright of people

who in the midst of a

family quarrel are attacked by robbers. One of the

ne'er-do-well younger sons has often warned them

against the robbers, but no one had taken him seriously,

now the house is surrounded by them.

More and more often Anton had to blow his whistle

after pedestrians and drivers who absent-mindedly hur

ried by him without regarding his signals. People seized

the newspapers more eagerly from the hands of the

newsboys on the street corners, and daily the headlines

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became more stirring and more ominous. In the

evenings small groups of boys and young men appeared

suddenly to demonstrate illegally. In the chantingchoruses that the Government had prohibited they

called for the dissolution of the State. "Move on now,

don't stand still," Anton cried dutifully, and they

would vanish like phantoms into the darkness of the

sidestreets.

For two days Police Precinct "Gumpendorf HI" had

been on an emergency basis. The austere precinct office

was located on the ground floor of a rooming house,

and always smelled of Russian leather, boot polish

and cheap cigarettes. There was a narrow private en

trance and three small barred windows, through which

the twilight casted deep shadows in the room. Out

side a small, almost deserted street sloped upward

between the grey walls of buildings.

A few yards down the street, in the main entrance

of the six-storey building, the rotund, robust figure of

the landlady appeared for a moment, haranguing with

fluent tongue and expressive gestures one of the tenants

of the house. The man, whose leashed dog had in

fringed upon the sanitary code, listened in shamefaced

silence.

Dampened by the row of buildings in between came

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the regular humming, rattling, and honking of horns

from the main artery one block away. From that direc

tion, too, came the heavy tread of the policemen who

had just been relieved.

Frau Leopoldine Redtenbacher, the landlady, fin

ished reprimanding the unfortunate tenant and started

to retreat from the chill of the early spring evening to

the comfortable warmth of her kitchen. She looked up

as the tread of the approaching men came nearer,

recognized her son, Anton, and waved to him. By

expressive gestures she conveyed to him that a cup of

hot, strong coffee was waiting for him.

As he came abreast of her, Anton smiled gratefully

and replied in the same sign language, that as soon

as he could find a free moment he would visit her.

Then the men vanished one after the other through the

narrow entrance to the precinct office.

On the stairway Frau Redtenbacher encountered theold, invalid university professor, who today looked

more wan than usual. He was a frail old man with a

high, finely-chiseled scholar's brow, set in between two

tufts of snow-white hair that puffed out from under his

hat. He walked heavily, leaning upon a rubber-tipped

cane. "Evil times," he murmured as he stepped out of

the elevator. "What does your son have to say, Frau

Redtenbacher? Will the police be able to keep the

upper hand?"

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"Has anything special happened, Herr Professor?

My son is still on duty . . . I'll turn on the radio right

away . . .""You won't get anything new on the radio. But

take my word for i t ,

Frau Redtenbacher, there's some

thing in the air, something very bad ..." He went

out on the street and waved for ataxi. The landlady

followed and helped him in. She stood staring thought

fully after him for amoment, arm akimbo. Then she

began to shiver with cold and went in again—back to

her warm kitchen and the security of commonplace

things.

Anton had meanwhile delivered his report and gone

into the ready room with his comrades. Here he and

his fellows could smoke and rest upon the hard cots

whose crude wood was notched and nicked from years

of use.

Suddenly the men started. From the street, low at

first but quickly mounting in intensity, came strange

howls and shouts.

The police captain looked up. His dark-ringed eyes

and his grey stubble between the wings of his open

silver collar betrayed uninterrupted work. He lis

tened for amoment, briskly put the telephone receiver

back on the hook and nervously buttoned his collar.

The instructions he had just received from his superiorscontradicted strangely the confident declarations of the

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Austrian Government in the newspapers and over the

radio. The captain got up, and opened the middle

window. A wave of wild, inarticulate shouts, mingledwith an undercurrent of low, rhythmical battle-cries,

washed into the room. And the next moment a shim

mering white thing flew silently between the black bars

and into the room, shattered like a loosely-packed snow

ball and sank in flakes upon the crude brown tables

and chairs in the room. Some of the men picked up

the paper flakes. There were a hundred or so small,

delicate, carefully cut-out swastikas.

The eyes of the others turned toward the lean police

captain who stood motionless, his lips pressed lightly

together as though tasting some new food, his thin,

hawklike face set. Then his right hand moved up and

down several times, as though he were trying to weigh

the feathery bits of paper he held in his palm. He

had been instructed not to react to provocation under

any circumstances, though he was to intervene ener

getically where the public peace was threatened. Now

he opened his hand. His mouth twitched with re

pressed scorn as he dropped the bits of paper into the

wastebasket near his desk. "Redtenbacher," he said,

turning to Anton, "take three men and clear the side

walk in front of headquarters. But don't make too

much of a

fuss."Anton rose to his feet, buckled his leather straps

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and hurried out into the street, followed by three of his

comrades. He raised his whistle to his lips and blew a

short, shrill warning. As soon as the group of some

twenty youthful demonstrators saw the uniforms, they

broke into a run and disappeared. The four policemen

looked at one another with satisfaction. This game was

familiar to them. The paper swastikas alone were new.

But no sooner had the last of the four men returned

to the precinct office than across the street a new group

appeared out of a side street. This time the demon

strators were thin, fifteen to seventeen-year-old high

school boys, hatless, their hair fluttering, their voices

high-pitched and clear. They stood somewhat uncer

tain, ready for flight, opposite the police office and

began to speak in chorus. From a low, timid murmur

the chorus rose rapidly to a loud cry: "One People,

one Reich, one Fuehrer!" The words sounded clearly

through the bars of the open window.

This time Anton did not wait for orders. With a

surprisingly swift movement he sprang out on to the

street again. A second later he was across, and as the

band of boys scattered wildly in all directions his hand

fell heavily upon the loudest of them and held him fast.

All of a sudden the quiet street had come alive.

People stopped on both sides of the street, stepped out

of the doors of houses and

put their heads out

of win

dows to watch the brief encounter. "Hurrah for the

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police," an asthmatic voice cried excitedly from some

where on the second floor. "Boo," a shrill woman's

voice replied from the fifth floor on the opposite sideof the street.

Anton shoved his prisoner before him into the pre

cinct room. Outside doors and windows closed, and the

few bystanders continued on their way.

The captain turned on the light. In the glow of the

powerful, unshaded lamps the prisoner blinked. He

was of medium height with narrow shoulders and

thick, dark, close-cropped hair that stood up like the

bristles of a brush above his low forehead. There was

an angry gleam in his deep-set eyes. The left side of

his mouth was marred by a long, irregular saber scar

that reached almost to his ear. He was obviously older

than the boys he had lead.

The prisoner drew from his pocket, as identification,

an attendance card of the Technical University. The

name on the card was Eberhard Woitschek.

"I protest against this inhuman treatment," he said,

glaring at Anton, who had at last released him.

"Shut up," the captain snapped. "We know what

we're doing."

The boy trembled with rage, but his small eyes

turned mockingly to the office. "If you choose to

arrest me, captain,

I'm at your disposal,"

he said.

"You'll have to let me go tomorrow, anyway."

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The captain seemed not to hear him. "Put him on

the blotter and give him a warning; if it happens

again he'll see the judge; dismissed," he snapped drily,in a businesslike tone. He turned his back on the

young man, fumbled with his collar until he had it

open again and went back to his desk to pick up the

ringing telephone.

A few minutes later Anton asked for and received

an hour's leave to visit his mother before he went on

night duty. The whole police force was still operating

on a twenty-four hour basis.

There was a door from the police headquarters to

the yard, and from here there was a hallway to the

landlady's apartment. Anton rang the bell.

"I have a surprise for you," Frau Leopoldine said,

as she opened the door. She gazed lovingly at her son,

who was a good head taller than she. "Erna is here.

It's good to have her here for a change."

"Erna? Here . . . ?"

"She has something important she wants to talk to

you about." With a mother's delicacy she went back

to the kitchen and let Anton enter the living room

alone. Erna, a tall, pretty girl with brown hair, bright

grey eyes and soft features, put down her coffee cup

and came quickly toward him. Anton could tell from

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the way she kissed him that she was unusually ex

cited. "It's starting tonight, Toni," she said without

preliminary.

Anton gaped at her. He moved slowly away from

her and sank into the old-fashioned green velvet easy

chair. Erna sat down at the table again, her eyes

anxiously trying to read in his expression the effect of

her words.

"Nonsense," Anton exclaimed. "What do you think?

If you had been

right, the Nazis would have been here

when the Chancellor was murdered, and then after the

Olympic Games, and at least three times since ...""I can't help i t

, Toni. This time it's a fact. My

brother, Franz, told me two hours ago. All the illegal

Nazi workers are ready; whole railroad trains loaded

with secret Party members have come to Vienna from

the provinces. I f even the police don't know i t yet,

Toni, it's beyond me. The government must be asleep—or else they want to sleep."

Anton was silent for a moment. "That isn't my

affair," he said finally, and his voice was weary. "I do

my job and nothing else concerns me. I've told you

that often enough, I think. A Viennese policeman i s

not apolitician. That's the good old Austrian tradi

tion; without i twe would have gone to the dogs long

ago. That was the way i twas in the old imperial army

where I servfed my apprenticeship under fire. There

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weren't any questions; orders were orders and that

was all a squad leader had to know. Come, Erna, don't

look so frightened and eat your cake." He got up and

went to the place at the table that his mother had set

for him. "The police are on guard—they always have

been, even though people don't realize it. In '18, with

the monarchy falling, we put down the communists.

Later on we put down strikers and marchers and dem

onstrators in spite of their infernal machines and

bombs. And right now we're going to restore order

again. After all, there must be order!" As though to

stress his words he bit emphatically into the yellow,

fluffy cake and his tongue flicked over the wavy brown

crust with its sprinkling of flaky confectioner's sugar.

Erna had listened to him with lowered head. Now

she raised her eyes and gazed squarely into his. "There

must be order," she repeated. "The only question is

who will enforce it. Franz says that no one in Austriais strong enough to do it. In the Reich they have order

—and we belong to that order. They will come and

establish order among us, Franz says."

"What else is there for him to say? He's been in the

jug five times because he's a Nazi and can't keep his

wisdom to himself. It's a pity."

"Do you know what he said today in reference to

you, Toni?""No . . . ?"

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"Exactly what you just said: it's a pity. He means

that if you care at all about getting anywhere you must

join the Party tonight. Tomorrow will be too late. It

starts tonight!"

Anton's cup rattled against the saucer. "If he ever

lives to see me entering a political party—

by Jesus,

the world won't last much longer."

Frau Leopoldine came from the kitchen, she stood

a moment in the doorway, hands on her hips. "You're

quarreling as if you'd been married for ten years," she

laughed. Then she took her knitting from a pretty

woven basket, sat down at the table and began to

.chatter in her robust way. Her thick fingers wove the

long needles in agile turns, as though she were accom

panying the equally agile play of her lips upon some

silent musical instrument. She admired Erna's new

dress, informed them that the sweetest little girl had

been born in Number 12, that Factory Director Behr'schauffeur was unfaithful to his wife with the cook of

Number 15, that Aunt Peppi (who lived in Czecho

slovakia) sent her regards, that there had been another

riotous demonstration on the Ballbausplatz, and that the

horrible mutt in Number 9 had messed up the hallway

again.

Erna listened with assumed attention, but her eyes

lingered worriedly upon the face of her fiance who had

finished his meal and settled himself comfortably in

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the green-upholstered easy chair. Anton contentedly

puffed blue rings of smoke into the air. After a while

Erna got up. "I have to bring a business letter to the

post office."

"Do you have night work in the lawyer's office?"

Anton inquired. "Is that the kind of work they give

highly-educated secretaries?"

"Not the only work, but there was no one else in

the office and it's an important letter . . . ." Her voice

was humorless. "Take care of yourself, Anton." She

whispered these last words into his ear as he helped

her into her coat. Then she said goodby to his mother.

As she and Anton stepped out into the hallway,

they met the freckled chauffeur of Behr, the factory

director. The husky, square-built man held a leather

suitcase in each hand and an umbrella case under his

arm. As he stepped out of the elevator he gazed up

at them and his watery eyes squinted

a

greeting. Behind

him came another man carrying a suitcase and two

plaid bags. A chambermaid with automobile blankets

and coats followed them.

In front of the building stood a long black Packard,

and inside sat Frau Behr in an expensive fur coat,

waiting for her husband. Beside her were two pale,

dark-eyed daughters and a restless boy. Herr Behr, a

masculine counterpart of his daughters, stood countingthe number of bags.

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Anton and Erna noticed with amazement that behind

the Packard stood two cabs, so loaded down with suit

cases, trunks, blanket rolls and knapsacks that there

was scarcely room for the driver.

"Twenty-seven," Herr Behr was counting as Anton

greeted him. "Ah, the police department . . ." He

bowed with a genial smile.

"Are you going on a long trip, Herr Behr?"

"Just a little skiing tour in the Swiss mountains. The

doctor said the children need fresh air. Goodby,

In

spector — give your mother our regards." He shook

hands with Anton, then got into the car and closed the

door. "Aspern airport," he called to the chauffeur.

A moment later the procession began to move. Anton

stared after the confused heaps of baggage; he saw

none of the equipment needed for a skiing trip. "By

plane—that must be costing a fortune," he murmured

thoughtfully.Erna held his hand tightly. "The rats are leaving

the sinking ship," she said slowly. Then she strode

off down the street without looking back.

"God protect Austria!" With fervent nobility, in the

tones of a condemned man, the words of the depart

ing Chancellor sounded from the mahogany cabinet

of the radio in the Professor's library. At first glance

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the room seemed to have no furniture but rugs and

tall book shelves. The professor, sitting alone at his

big desk, sighed deeply. His head was resting on his

hands, between painfully tensed fingers. Now he let

it sink upon the russet-veined wood of the table top.

Inexorably like the ringing of an alarm clock, the

transmitting signal of the station shattered the paralyz

ing emptiness of silent, frozen time.

Tormented, the old man started up to turn off the

radio. And then, suddenly, music flowed from the

cabinet; familiar, moving Austrian music. Beethoven,

Mozart, Schubert .... alluring, dancing, billowing,

thundering, whirring tones that conjured up sweet

images of his native landscape: sloping meadows of

delicate green shimmering with dew beneath the white

blossoms of cherry trees; dark, rosin-scented pine

woods below snow-covered precipices; grain fields

stirred by the wind into long, flat billows, among themthe dazzling, slender petals of blue asters and red

poppies; pointed church spires rising above ancient

graveyards overgrown with wild roses; shining moun

tain lakes; farmhouses of blackened wood high up

the sides of steep hills; village streets meandering wil

fully beneath linden trees and red-candled chestnut

trees; the splendor of autumn leaves in the luxurious

parks surrounding the former imperial palaces —and

the broad, ancient river carrying in its breast the re

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flection of clouds and blue sky and winding timelessly

between mined castles and vineyards, between great

modern buildings and gas tanks ....Every symphony, every march, every song that poured

into the silent room was intimately familiar to the

old man—but never before had this music sounded to

him so stirring, so moving, so overwhelming and trans

figuring. It was as though in its dying hour the

country was breathing out the beauty of its soul, like

some wounded wild thing.

Humming like distant shells, roaring, howling and

snarling, the German pursuit fliers swept restlessly

down over the roofs of the city, glided above the up

lifted faces of the excited throngs in the streets and

squares and shot up again with deafening noise into

the cerulean morning sky, where they hovered for a

while like hungry vultures before screeching down

toward earth again.

Anton, exhausted by endless hours on duty and still

confused by the events of the night, walked slowly and

dreamily up the sloping gray street, as though he were

toiling up a mountain. The circling silver birds above

the peaceful city seemed shadowy and unreal to him;

unreal and fantastic the long crimson banners with the

no-longer-forbidden black swastika in the round white

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field. As though in response to a command they had

snaked out of thousands of windows and now fluttered

self-importantly above the streets.

Last night had passed like a moving picture before

his eyes as he stood at his usual post in the middle

of the intersection, directing traffic with his usual

gestures. Loudspeakers on the street-corners had

blarred forth world-shaking news. Ultimatum, troop

movements, cabinet meetings, advancing tanks. Anton,

still alert to guard law and order against any would-be

disturbers, found himself suddenly surrounded and

even kissed by a mob of frenetic, jubilant young men.

Total strangers embraced one another in intoxicated

joy; boys threw their hats into the air, shouted and

danced mad contortions as they raised their arms to the

starry sky in the long-banned Hitler salute. Then,

swinging around the corner from a side street, an

organized torchlight procession came marching pastAnton. The marchers sang in low, bass tones, alternat

ing with harsh, staccato spoken choruses. Two mounted

policemen who accompanied the procession called to

him: "Leave your post and report to headquarters."

As Anton pushed his way slowly through the close-

packed mob he realized that these cheers and shouts of

Heil were not spoken in the familiar Viennese dialect,

and that he recognized only a few faces. Where were

they, all the old inhabitants of his beat whose features

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




he knew as a sheriff knows his village or a forester

his woods?

At one of the many small park circles of the city,

where a bronze Neptune blew water from pursed lips

into a marble basin, someone was making a speech.

He was a thin-chested young man without a hat, with

thick, close-cropped hair standing up like the bristles

of a brush above his narrow forehead. By the light

of the passing torches Anton recognized the long saber

scar of Woitschek, the student. Standing on the rim

of the fountain, his eyes glaring hatred, his hand

resting for support upon the mighty arm of the water

god, he called for vengeance against the people's

oppressors and against the Jews. The crowd cheered

raucously. A few minutes later came the sound of

breaking window panes, almost drowned out by the

hoarse shouting.

Anton stood still and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Had he been walking so fast? The morning sun shone

coldly. A puff of wind blew several of the long red

banners over wall projections and gargoyles. They

became helplessly entangled and fluttered furiously in

wild efforts to get free. Anton suddenly recollected

that once before in his life he had had a similar ex

perience. That was almost twenty years ago, when

great, imperial Austria had fallen apart over night. Then, too, like so many others he had stuck to his post

29


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




and served his country. But at that time a long, hard

war was just over. He himself had fought on the

Isonzo and been wounded. All had fought, all hadbeen wounded and grown weary of fighting. As he

thought of those days, the events of the previous night

and of this morning seemed stranger and even more

unreal than before.

The screeching rubber tires of a big Mercedes touring

car that swerved around the corner at illegal speed

awoke him from his abstraction. He looked up in

time to see two tall, lean officers in Prussian uniforms.

"They will come and establish order . . . ." Erna's

words came back to him. He felt a dry, choking sen

sation in his throat.

He entered the precinct office. It seemed strangely

quiet; only the regular, cacophanous snores from the

ready room betrayed the presence of the exhausted men.

The Police Captain, his striped collar open beneath

his unshaven hawk's face, sat alone behind his desk,

the only man awake in the place. When he caught

sight of Anton, he rose silently. His gaunt figure

seemed to have shrunk; his thin lips were pressed

tightly together, as though he had difficulty keeping

his features in their normal position. Instead of the

customary military salute, the two men shook hands

in silent understanding.

Then the captain's posture

stiffened, and the same contemptuous twitch appeared

30


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




at the corner of his mouth as when he dropped the

paper swastikas into the wastebasket. "A first-class

funeral," he said bitterly."Why didn't the army fight, sir?" Anton's voice was

low and accusing.

"There are things no army can fight . . . Treason,

perjury, betrayal . . ."

"By Jesus . . ." The blood rushed to Anton's head

and his fists clenched. "Why did we stand day and

night for years, keeping order in the midsummer heat

and in the snow, never losing patience with any of

them, radicals or reactionaries? Why did we, if all we

do now is give up without firing a shot, while every

thing goes to the dogs and the people cheer and wave

flags and torches to the bargain?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Redtenbacher. Did you see

a single real Viennese face among all those brown

uniforms? Half-baked brats and paid tramps, profes

sional noisemakers, hysterical women and a few fools

who were promised the world with a fence around it—

those are the heroes of this revolution. And all our

good-hearted, dumb Viennese who haven't an inkling

of what they're in for have fallen for the torches and

the empty promises and the threats and the flags and

the music . . . ."

Anton tossed his cap on the desk. "My God, sir," hemurmured, and paused at the inadequacy of words.

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




Anton's rage seemed to help his superior regain his

usual self-possession. "Redtenbacher," he said, "all

of us have to live through it. It's happened now; itdoesn't do any good to grumble. Things won't change

so much for us policemen. Our motto has to be: 'Keep

your mouth shut and go on working.' Things may

change again—who knows—and then people like you

will be needed, Redtenbacher, real Austrians . . . ." The

captain's sober grey eyes gleamed for a moment, as

though illuminated by an inner flame. "Austria won't

die as long as we don't forget," he said slowly, stress

ing every word. He put his hand lightly on Anton's

arm for a moment. "Lie down and snatch a couple

of hours sleep," he said. "It's going to be a strenuous

day; we have to keep a grip on ourselves."

"Yes, sir."

"Redtenbacher!" This time the captain's voice was

hard and businesslike, though his fingers were nerv

ously tumbling at his collar.

"Yes, sir. . .?"

"We're old comrades and you know I want you to

do well. We're the only two in the precinct here who

were under fire together in the old army. That's some

thing that can't be wiped out; it's something that stays

inside of you. The younger boys have it easier ....I've

studied the Reich

system. Every one of us is

goingto be watched and spied on. So be on your guard and

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




don't say anything rash. 'Keep your mouth shut and

go on working,' understand. And if you need advice,

come to see me privately. All right?""Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

The harsher his captain's voice became, the more

clearly Anton sensed that his superior shared his feel

ings. It was good to know that. He stretched out on

a cot between two of his fellows and immediately fell

into a deep sleep.

■

The March sun blazed, the banners fluttered against

the pale blue sky. The thumping marching step of

the brown storm troops began, stopped and began

again in response to harsh commands. Processions

recruited from gymnastic clubs filled the streets: white-

bloused girls

and shivering

school children. The

radio's phantom voice— 'coordinated' overnight —in

cessantly cried paeans of triumph, proclamations of

recommended joy, regulations and promises. Above the

church towers and the roofs, humming, howling, snarl

ing, the menacing alien birds hovered restlessly. The

people hurrying to work through the unaccustomed

noise looked up timidly and uncertainly. On street

corners men rattling collection boxes pressed tinymetal swastikas upon them. Everyone had to wear

33


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




one as testimony of his enthusiasm, if he wished to

reach his place of work unmolested.

Peter, Factory Director Behr's chauffeur, vigorously

pressed the bell at the entrance to the landlady's apart

ment. On his left lapel gleamed an enameled Party

badge: a black swastika within a red circle.

Frau Leopoldine opened the door.

"Heil Hitler, Frau Redtenbacher," Peter said, and

raised his right arm rather awkwardly in the prescribed

greeting. His watery eyes blinked with embarrassment,

and his tough, freckled face twitched.

"Since when are you a Nazi?" the landlady asked,

with mingled astonishment and contempt in her voice.

"A man has to keep up with the times, Frau Poldi,"

Peter replied, tugging at his chauffeur's cap. "I'm a

family man, I have to earn a living. I'm an old under

ground worker —I've been in the Party three months

now, because I knew how things

would go.

Now the

Party has rewarded me by making me Blockwart .... There wasn't anybody else," he added apologetically.

"Blockwart? What's that?"

"In every street or big building there has to be a

Party man who sees to it that all the tenants conform

to the requirements of the National Socialist People's

Community ... In plain words, the Jews must go."

As was her custom, Frau Leopoldine placed herarms on her broad hips. "You yourself are working

34


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




for a Jew, aren't you, Peter?" she said. With head

tilted to one side, she studied him.

"I was working for a Jew—until yesterday. I'll tell

you a secret, Frau Poldi. Herr Behr isn't coming back

any more. I told him it was time to clear out, because

I knew from the Party what was going to happen to

the Jews. I would have felt sorry if anything happened

to Behr. He was always decent to me—I might almost

say handsome. If all Jews was like him . . . ."

"And what will happen now to the others who

haven't such handsome chauffeurs as you, Peter . . . .?"

"Very simple. You must give me a list of the

tenants and mark the ones who are Jews."

"How should I know that? And anyway, I haven't

any list—the owner has them all."

"Don't try to put anything over on me!" The

freckled face flushed. "And please think before you

speak, Frau Redtenbacher. I have authority now andyou have to follow my instructions."

"A big mouth, that's what you are," the landlady

said, her eyes flashing. "I take my orders from the

owner, you poor idiot, you. I wonder what Behr paid

you for tipping him off. A nice piece of change, I

suppose. But that didn't stop you from joining the

Nazis and bringing the Prussians down on our poor

Austria!" The landlady's agile tongue wound on at

high speed, and the chauffeur shrank back.

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




"What's a man to do?" he said. "I have a family

to think of "

"A fine family man you are. The cook in Number 15

has something to say about that. Go on, I don't want

to hear any more from you." And before the baffled

chauffeur realized what was happening, she slammed

the door in his face.

At seven o'clock in the morning the entire precinct

force was assembled in the main room for roll call.

The captain, freshly shaved and wearing an im

penetrable mask, read the order of the day from the

newly appointed Chief of Police. "It is to be expected,"

the concluding words ran, "that the people's spirit,

given free rein by the Fuehrer's historic deed after

years of shameless suppression, may here and there

overstep the bounds in the jubilation of the first few

days. In their enthusiasm the people may go farther

in justly punishing their oppressors than would norm

ally be the case. It is not the affair of the police to

interfere with the people's vengeance. The police must

rather restrict themselves to preserving public order

and protecting public property. In particular, notorious

supporters of the former criminal system, such as

proved Free Masons, Bolsheviks and Jews, are not to

be accorded police protection."

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




Anton pricked up his ears. Although he did not

grasp immediately the full sense of this order, he had

the unpleasant sensation of a man standing upon

heaving ground during an earthquake.

Shortly after the roll call one of the open riot cars

drew up in front of the door. Ten men, Anton among

them, were ordered into the car, which then set off

toward the outskirts of the city. The men were in

formed that the workers in one of the great steel

plants had struck in protest against

the dismissal and

arrest of their shopcommitteemen. SA men had been

beaten and swastikas trampled in the dust.

When the police entered the factory yard, men and

women were standing idly in small groups around

the few bare trees in the yard, their faces dark and

their fists clenched. In their sober, sorrowful eyes was

no trace of the noisy enthusiasm of the paraders who

had marched down the main streets of the city. Therewas an uncanny quietness about the way these people

stood around. And when they saw that resistance was

useless, they went back to their machines with the same

uncanny quietness, one after the other, with lowered

heads. But the machines would not run ; some hothead

had cut the electric cable.

Anton saw many strange things that day. Again and

again it seemed to him that all these events were un

real—shadowy images on a gigantic movie screen. His

37


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




short, deep sleep had refreshed him physically, but

even the blinding sun in the cloudless sky, which

brought out Sharply all the glittering lines and colors

of the city, did not restore his sense of reality.

Riding back down one of the broad main avenues

the police car was forced to stop before a large crowd

gathered in front of an old, ornate baroque building.

On the sidewalk a small semi-circle had been cleared

by a group of brown-shirted men with swastika arm

bands. Smoke rose from their midst. Anton sprang

down from the car and pushed his way through the

crowd. Within the semi-circle, at the foot of a large

door decorated with curliques and lions' heads, he

saw a small bonfire. Above, on the second storey of

the building, open windows shone in the sunlight.

Through the windows boys with flushed faces were

throwing down books, accompanying each armful of

books with hoarse cries. As they fell the books

opened,as wounded men helplessly spread out their arms. The

shining gilt-trimmed volumes were caught amid roars

of laughter and handed to a black-uniformed SS man

who held each book quizzically up to his eyes, read

the title aloud and solemnly cast it into the flames.

"Despicable." Anton heard almost in his ear the

low voice of an elderly man who wore horn-rimmed

glasses and a high hat. "Why don't the police do

something?" someone else asked.

38


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




The crowd parted willingly before Anton, and in

voluntarily he found himself in the middle of the

circle, almost upon the crackling pyre. For a momenthe recalled the order of the days: "In their enthusiasm

the people may go farther than would normally be the

case . . . ." But the habit of intervening whenever

the peace was disturbed was too strong in him. He

spoke in his quiet, polite manner: "What's going on

here, gentlemen?" he said, turning to one of the brown-

shirted men who were keeping the space around the

fire clear. The man in the black uniform, a thick

leather-bound book in his hand, turned to Anton and

saluted him with a careless, challenging gesture.

"Fuehrer's orders, officer. We're destroying literary

trash and filth." He spat scornfully upon the book

and dropped it into the fire, while his accomplices

clapped and cheered. Before he turned to face the

building again, Anton recognized the narrow-shoul

dered fledgeling SS man by the ugly saber scar that

ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear: Woit-

schek, the student.

Anton was strongly tempted to take the young man

in tow. It was really too much; ever since yesterday

he had been meeting this student wherever peaceable

people were being incited to some sort of odious de

monstration. But a shrill whistle blast and wavinghands from the police car reminded him that he was

39


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




only supposed to clear the way for traffic. "Move on

now, don't stand still," he said mechanically, and

turned his back on the smoking bonfire. The crowd

parted and the police car drove on.

They turned into a broad side street and drove for

a while along the outskirts of the city. Here only a

few flags fluttered from the older houses and from

the massive modern communal apartment buildings

that stood here and there among them. The car

rolled on through almost deserted streets. At one of

the high, arched, soot-blackened railroad stations, a

group of the men were detached. While the car stood

still for a few moments, Anton saw pale, excited people

hastening up the steps of the station and rushing to

the ticket windows. As he watched, more and more

came from all directions: old men who struggled with

heavy trunks and suitcases; women with crying infants

in their arms. Harried faces: a steadily growing stream

of fleeing humanity, unreal in the cruel reality. In

their midst, young toughs in brown SA uniforms

shouted mockingly and waved their arms menacingly

at the hurrying throng. In the park opposite the

station a brass band played a military march that was

soon drowned out in a roar of Heils and jubilant

shouts.

Then the police car turned toward the center of

the city, driving along the long, wall-like enclosure

40


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




backed by the towering tops of high trees that already

bore pale, copper-colored buds. Through an ornate

barred gate they caught sight for a moment of the

handsome Belvedere castle. Then they drove by the

high, shimmering green dome of the Karlskirche,

passed through broad squares and neat parks, and

crossed the majestic Ringstrasse. All along the broad

avenue, as far as the eye could see, were milling

throngs and waving flags. Then the car turned into

the dark and crooked streets of the Inner City. At the

grey old building that housed the Commissariat of

Police they were dismissed and ordered to return to

their posts singly, and to stop only when they en

countered traffic jams.

On his way back Anton paused for a moment be

fore the imposing bulk of the Stephansdom. The dwell

ing houses and commercial buildings grouped around

the Cathedral had crowded so close that when you

leaned against the wall of one of them you had to

pull your neck far down between your shoulders to

make out the sunlight Cross atop the lofty spire. The

spire, adorned with Gothic capitals and grotesque

figures, seemed to grow ever brighter, whiter and

more slender as it strove toward the sky. A song

about the Cathedral flashed into Anton's mind. "Alter

Steffel", the Viennese familiarly called their Cathedral,and the song told how it had withstood the siege of

41


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




the Turks and the reign of the French, and promised

that it would survive many another peril.

"They have already grabbed our gold reserve andour foreign exchange

—that was the first thing they

did," Anton heard a bearded man saying to a

younger, smooth-shaven companion. The two passed

without noticing Anton standing in the niche of a wall.

Anton set out for home. He had almost to fight his

way down the Kaerntnerstrasse to the Opera House;

the huge mob had surged almost to the rim of the

Stephansplatz. Once more he saw many strange faces,

and only now and then someone he knew by sight.

Officers in German uniforms, recognizable from afar

by their loud voices, came out of clothing and leather

stores carrying all sorts of packages, obviously pleased

with the success of their shopping tours. A few had

women with them; the women generously gave from

their store of benevolent smiles to the populace.

From the open door of a lingerie shop Anton was

greeted by an employee he knew. "How's business?"

he asked in passing. The man wiped the sweat from

his brow. "If this goes on we'll be sold out by to

morrow," he said in a choked voice.

Three well-dressed young men passed Anton. "You

just watch," one of them said, "I'm going to buy a

Kaffeehaus. What do I mean,

buy? I'll Aryanize the

big Jewish cafe on the Schottentor

42


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




"Do you know anything about the business?" one

of the others asked.

"Like hell I do. But the main thing is to get it

cheap, isn't it? What are you doing?"

"I don't know yet . . . ."

"Get hold of a textile firm. I know one you can

get .... I wanted to take it at first, but I like the

idea of a cafe better."

In front of the State Opera House traffic was jammed

solid. Anton was now within his own beat; he worked

his way through the intricate arcades and corridors of

the Opera House to reach a less crowded intersection.

As he approached one of the many small public

gardens he saw two wooden poles rammed into the

earth, with a broad white canvas stretched between

them. On the canvas in gigantic crimson letters were

the words: "For the poorest of the poor—the National

Socialist People's Welfare Committee, Berlin." Behind

the sign stood a mobile field kitchen. A plump cook

in a white cap was tossing portions with practiced

motions into the tin cups and bowls held out by the

gaunt creatures who had been lured by the sign.

"Starvation times are over once and for all," the cook

cackled in his ugly Prussian dialect. "In the Third

Reich every comrade has something to fill his belly."

And once more he tossed a portion with sure aim into

the bowl that was held before him.

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




Anton caught up to the people who were slowly

streaming toward the other exit of the park. Most of

them were old women; only a few men were among

them. As Anton was about to leave the park, his eye

caught the gleam of an odd, silvery mound that gave

forth an unpleasant fishy odor. Just then he saw a

poorly-dressed woman empty her bowl with a gesture

of disgust upon the mound of silverly scales. "Stinking

Prussians," she murmured between her teeth. "Even

the pigs in Austria won't eat this stuff."

Anton went to a telephone booth and tried to call

Erna at her office—he had not been able to reach

her all day. This time she answered. Her voice

sounded harried. "We're frightfully busy, Toni," she

said. "I'm afraid I can't get away tonight. We're tak

ing over two closed Jewish offices. I'm going to be

promoted," she added excitedly. "I'm so glad every

thing has gone smoothly. I'm sorry, but I must hang

up now—I'm wanted on another phone. Is everything

all right?"

"Same as ever," Anton said. And Erna hung up.

The high, clear church bells in the nearby main

street and the dull boom of the tower clocks in the

distance struck ten as Anton returned with heavy stepfrom his last evening patrol. He reported briefly in

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




the precinct office, then made his way across the dark

courtyard and rang his mother's bell. There was no

answer.

"Toni!" He suddenly heard his mother's frightened

voice at his back. "Come up with me to Number 18."

"What's wrong, mother?"

"Something has happened .... hurry." Her round

face seemed to have become thinner from excitement.

She took Anton by the arm and drew him along.

With trembling fingers she groped for her keys and

opened the door to apartment Number 18. Not a

sound greeted them as they entered. Anton gingerly

turned the knob of a door inside the apartment, felt

for the lightswitch and turned on the lights. Low,

white furniture, walls decorated with children's

pictures and delicately painted flowers met his eye.

Besides the two little beds hung bright-colored child

ren's clothes; shoes and stockings

were placed carefully

beneath the beds. In one of the beds lay a ten-year-old

girl, in the other a boy somewhat younger. Both slept

without stirring. The lovely, peaceful, untroubled

features of the sleeping children and the almost in

visible bullet holes in their left temples showed that

the shots had been fired by a practiced hand. The

white-enameled door to the adjoining room stood open.

Anton, followed by his mother, again switched on the

light. In the glow of the shaded ceiling light he

45


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




saw a large painting of the Virgin, with the background

fading out in ever-darker tones. Below the picture

stood two oak-framed beds, that projected to the

middle of the room. In one of them lay a blond

woman, lifeless too, though she bore no mark of a

bullet. An empty glass and a flat pill-box on the night

table was explanation enough. Her fine, painfully

compressed lips showed that she had entered death in

despair and in full knowledge of her act. Beside her,

laying on his back across the bed, lay her husband in

the dress uniform of a high-ranking Austrian officer.

Beneath his stiff, dangling right hand lay the gleaming

revolver; his left hand clutched his wife's hand tightly.

The man's angular face beneath the dark-blonde mop

of hair bore an unearthly glow of transfiguration, of

deep inner pride in a liberating act.

It was some moments before Anton realized that a

broad cloth in the colors of Austria was stretched

across both beds. In golden letters the banner bore the

last watchword of the soldier: "Rot—weiss—rot bis in

den Tod!" ("Red, white and red to the death.") Anton

felt deeply moved—and ashamed. Was this the only

way the army could still fight and die?

"Good heavens," he heard his mother say, "such

lovely children. I can't understand it . . . ."

"I must make my report," her son said. In a hard,matter-of-fact voice, to conceal his own emotion.

46


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




Quietly as they had come, they left the weirdly

silent apartment. As they stepped out into the hallway

they heard an ugly hoarse voice coming through the

half-open door of the professor's apartment directly

across the hall. The voice rose and launched into

wild accusations and threats. It seemed to Anton he

had heard this voice somewhere before.

Frau Leopoldine was curious and professionally con

cerned about disturbances within her house. Her plump

figure moved swiftly and silently into the hallway of

the professor's apartment. She gestured excitedly to

her son to follow her. He obeyed mechanically.

The voice came from the living room, the door of

which stood wide open. In the shaded lamplight a

wall that seemed made of rows of books was visible.

To the right and left of the tall book cases, atop

smooth, green-veined columns, were two white marble

busts. To the left, in the full light of the lamp, the

Olympian head of Goethe; to the right, more in the

shadow, the bust of Schopenhauer, whose tangled tufts

of hair on both sides of the powerful brow were oddly

similar to the professor himself.

The professor sat in the opposite corner of the room,

in the leather armchair that stood behind his mahogany

desk. All the blood had faded from his finely-chiseled

face; the snow-white hair on the sides of his head al

most matched the colorlessness of his cheeks.

47


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




The young man, who was ranting at the professor

in a voice charged with hatred, stood near the door.

He turned sharply as Anton and his mother entered.

The ugly saber scar flamed red under his short, bristly

hair. Once more Anton had crossed the path of

Eberhard Woitschek.

"Heil Hitler, officer," he said, and raised his arm

stiffly toward Anton. "You've come in just in time. I

need a witness. Repeat what you just said," he com

manded harshly, turning to the professor. "Repeat it

now! What will happen soon?"

The professor remained silent. Then he recognized

Anton and his features relaxed into a weary smile.

"Will you please show this intrusive stranger the

door," he said politely.

"Shut up," the student bellowed. "I'm doing the

talking now. And if you claim you don't know me,

you're a stinking liar

.... I had to sit and listen to

your lousy lectures and take your damned exam—and

you flunked me, you remember damn well enough. Any

real National Socialist hasn't a chance with you. The

only ones you passed were the Jews. But that's over

now, and you'll pay for your behavior to me and the

German people."

The professor had slowly and wearily dragged him

self erect. His thin lips were twisted in an expressionof sorrowful scorn. "I doubt," he said slowly, "whether

48


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




anyone who possesses such a blaring voice can ever

express a cogent thought. A German philosopher once

made that remark

"I don't give a damn, see? You have no business

lecturing me and instructing me now. Now it's my

turn. And I ask you

"Just a moment," Anton interrupted, stepping closer

to him. "I think you'd better go now, Herr Woitschek."

The student started in surprise at hearing his name,

and turned to face Anton. In a moment he remem

bered the incident in the precinct office the night be

fore. "You're not doing any more arresting today,

officer," he said, and laughed challengingly.

"You heard the professor say he wants to be alone.

This is a private dwelling, so don't make any trouble,

Herr Woitschek." Anton's voice was more emphatic

this time.

The student's features dissolved in raucous, un

restrained laughter. "We'll see about that," he said.

From his breast pocket he took a paper bearing a large

seal and held it triumphantly under Anton's nose.

"This apartment, which belongs to a notorious enemy

of the people, has been assigned to me by the Party,

and I can remain here whenever and as long as I

please. Get that, officer?"

Anton could not believe his eyes. There it stood inblack and white, sealed with the stamp of the Gau

49


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




leitung—a seal he had never seen before. It was an

official paper that probably had to be obeyed now, like

any other official order. Nevertheless he hesitated and

stared indecisively at the sheet of paper. Finally he

looked up and said: "We haven't as yet received any

instructions about such assignments of private homes.

You'd better go now, Herr Woitschek."

"If anyone goes it will be you!" The words came

hissing between his teeth and his eyes flickered meanly.

"You're the last person to interfere when I'm dealing

with an enemy of the people. I still have charges

against you because of yesterday's brutal treatment. So

watch your step or I'll report you!"

Anton felt the blood hammering in his temples. To

him this was reversing the order of the universe —the

wrongdoer was threatening to report the policeman!

The student turned away from him as though this

threat were a dismissal. Once more he approached

the professor.

Something strange had happened to the old scholar.

He was gazing wide-eyed and fixedly at the illuminated

bust of Goethe. As Anton watched, his staring gaze

moved slowly along the shelves of books to the head

of Schopenhauer, which gleamed strangely in a play

of lights and shadow. Then his gaze moved again

back across the books to the head of Goethe. His lipstwitched in a low, grotesque laugh that broke in

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




voluntarily from him in staccato gasps. His fingers

clutched at the tangled tufts of hair that stood out from

his forehead.. "Failed," he cried sharply, and gestured

with both hands toward the marble statues. The sur

prised student shrank back at his commanding tone.

"Failed, Mr. Ignoramus, by the examining committee

of German culture. Failed, you and your whole class.

You've learned nothing. Ha ha ha . . . steel birds ....roseate flames .... bullets in the belly .... ha ha ha."

"Don't pretend madness," the enraged student

snarled. And in a helpless effort to stem the rapid,

violent gestures of the old man, he raised his right

arm in a solemn Nazi salute.

But the professor went on laughing. His frail body

trembled with insane, unrestrained laughter.

The student bent down suddenly. He drew some

thing from his tall boots. A moment later a pliant

yellow riding whip hissed through the air. There was

foam on Woitschek's thick lips and bestial fury in

his little eyes.

Frau Leopoldine, still standing paralyzed at the

door, cried out suddenly. "A sick man," she cried to

the raging student. "For shame."

"He has insulted the Fuehrer," Woitschek snarled.

"Whoever shields an enemy of the people is one him

self."Anton saw him raising the butt of the whip to strike.

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Feverish impulses flamed up within him. It seemed to

him for a moment as though his was the task of

destroying the whole shadowy unreality of present witha single blow of his fist. All the ugly, criminal, dis

orderly elements he had fought all his life seemed now

to spring alive in this hateful, black-uniformed

creature. Before he realized clearly what he was doing,

his right hand, trained by years of practice, reached

out automatically, rudely seized the student by the

shoulder and shoved him vigorously aside.

"I warn you," Woitschek snarled, ducking as though

to evade an expected blow. Whatever self-control he

had possessed vanished utterly. "We're the masters

now, we Austrian Nazis, and behind us stand the

German bayonets and the German tanks. For years

you've stepped on us, you police bloodhounds, you

dirty dogs . . . ." He reeled as Anton's fist lashed into

his face just above the saber scar.

"Jesus, Maria and Joseph," the landlady gasped.

A second later the snub-nosed barrel of a revolver

flashed in the student's hand. But again Anton's

practiced hand acted without waiting for the command

of his mind. He snatched his gun from its holster,

the shot cracked and the student sank soundlessly to

Anton's feet. Behind him Anton heard the piercing

laughter of the professor. The old man vanished intothe adjoining room, closing the door behind him.

■

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"Jesus, Maria .... is he dead?" the landlady asked

in a frightened whisper.

Anton inspected the gun. "Leave everything just as

it i s ,

don't touch anything," he said to his mother in

acool, informative tone. "I must make my report and

then an'investigating commission will probably come

up." He bent over the limp body. "Dead," he said.

Then he stood erect and straightened his uniform.

"It's hard to teach an old dog new tricks."

"The beast deserved it," Frau Leopoldine

said. "I

never in my life met such afilthy, rotten creature

Her voice rose in pitch as she launched into astream

of vituperation.

Anton interrupted her. "They may very well arrest

me for it," he said, staring at the floor.

"You, Toni? Have you done anything illegal? Jesus,

Maria .... Toni!"

Suddenly both turned and listened. Abrief, lowreport came from the adjoining room. Anton ran to

the door and wrenched i t open. The professor sat

slumped over abare table, on which lay astill-damp

sheet of writing paper, that fluttered in the breeze from

the open door. Anton carefully lifted the dead man

and laid him on the sofa that stood against the wall.

Then he took the sheet of writing paper and sat down.

His mother stood over his shoulder, reading.

"Destroy these lines at once. I am not mad. I am

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lost anyway. My last book is on the Gestapo's black

list. It's merely a question of time before they come

for me. I loved Austria too much. Don't forget this:

/ shot the student and you caught me in the act and

shot me down. My hand was too weak for your shot,

but it belongs to me; give it to a dying man as a last

favor. It is of no value to you and will only make

trouble for you. Think of your mother and your fiancee.

My old army pistol from the World War has the

same calibre as your service revolver. You see, thus

we solve all problems. Farewell to you both."

Anton stepped to the window. Behind him he

heard his mother sobbing. There was a choking sen

sation in this throat; he felt the need for fresh air and

opened the window wide. Outside the night was clear

and starry. Like bloody weals the long, alien banners

hung motionless in the windless space before the grey

buildings. He bent out the window and saw

by the

flare of a searchlight the delicate ash-grey spire of the

Stephansdom, rejuvenated by the night. In the distance,

above the tangled mass of roofs, glistened the lights

of the Leopoldsberg. Below, on the street corner, the

coordinated radios snarled proclamations and cheers

into the night.

"Jesus, Maria .... My milk is boiling over." Thememory of her untended kitchen stove dispelled for

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a moment Frau Leopoldine's horror-struck paralysis.

Anton looked up to see the plump figure of his mother

waddling swiftly through the door.

He sat down again at the table and stared at the

professor's suicide note. The fine, looping lines of

hasty writing began to dance before his eyes. He tried

to absorb their content and understand what such a

distortion of the facts would mean. Was it the fierce

urge for vengeance that had led the dying man to

write this strange note? Or was it a paternal feeling

for Anton? The more Anton considered i t , the more

his conscience insisted that there was no other course

for him but to report the encounter exactly as i t took

place, without considering the possible consequences to

himself. After all, he had used his own gun only in

self-defense; this was his legal right. I fthe new order

decided against him, he would have to suffer for it.

He got up, switched out the light and went into the

living room. From the book-lined wall the two marble-

heads looked down, immobile, yet somehow more alive

than the ugly crumpled thing in the black uniform

that lay on the Persian rug. At the sight of the rug

Anton thought of Erna, so well read and so artistically

inclined — he had admired her so much for her knowl

edge and taste. He seemed to feel her shrewd grey

eyes gazing at him and hearing her say cheerfully to

him: "I'm so glad everything has gone smoothly ....55


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




I'm going to be promoted . . . ." What would she say

about this note that crackled so disconcertingly in his

left hand?He looked up at the sound of rapidly-approaching

footsteps. Framed in the doorway between the living

room and the hall stood the lean, erect figure of his

captain.

"What's going on here, Redtenbacher ?" he asked.

"I hope you haven't done anything foolish."

Anton's last doubts vanished. He stood up straight,

saluted and said: "I beg to report, sir . . . ." And then,

gravely and precisely, coolly reciting each fact, he ex

plained the entire incident.

When he had finished the captain said nothing. Then

he turned and closed the door behind him. "Do you

know what you deserve?" he said harshly. "You fool

deserve a whipping. What the hell do you care about

this professor; why have you interfered here, in spite

of your orders? You're finished, done for. There's

no way to help you

Anton breathed heavily. His left hand crumpled the

professor's note into a ball and let it slip to the rug.

The captain frowned. "What have you got there?"

he asked, pointing to the paper. Anton picked it up,

smoothed it and handed it to his superior.

"What's the meaning of this?" the captain askedas he ran through the lines of writing. Suddenly his

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




eyes opened wide. Then his mouth twitched scorn

fully. "Why didn't you take his suggestion, Redten-

bacher?" he said softly."I beg your pardon, captain—I can't make a false

report."

"False report?" The officer's voice grew hard. "Who

said anything about a false report? You've not had

enough sleep these past few nights, my friend. Your

description of the incident was confused and full of

contradictions. Consider carefully what you're going

to report. What you told me sounds utterly incredible.

On the other hand, it's self-evident to me and will be

evident to everyone else that you shot down like a dog

the ruthless murderer of an SS man . . . ." As he spoke,

he reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette lighter,

snapped it open and held a corner of the paper over

it. Slowly and carefully he burned the professor's last

testament before Anton's eyes.

"You, my superior!

The captain gripped his shoulders and shook him.

"You have more luck than common sense, Redten-

bacher," he said, and the warmth of his feeling broke

through his reserve. "I haven't been your superior for

the past hour. I've been relieved and assigned to the

Chief's staff. A desk job. I no longer have any direct

authority over you. You must open your eyes andrealize that things have changed. I can't give you

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orders now, but I can give you some private advice

as an old comrade. You must remember to 'keep your

mouth shut and go on working' .... And now will

you kindly go down and immediately report this matter

to your new precinct captain .... and don't forget to

inform your mother—she's been so worried about you

she's let all her milk boil over." He cleared his throat,

shook Anton's hand and left the apartment.

Anton took a final brief look around the room. He

had no regrets about the student. The marble busts

gleamed in austere calm to the right and left of the

book shelves, as though they wished to say: "All these

things will pass; that alone is important which will

be transmitted in the records and books of the future."

Was not the whole jubilant uprising of the people of

Austria a false report? An urgent desire to embrace

Erna suddenly awoke in Anton. He slammed the door

of the apartment loudly

behind him.

■

Frau Leopoldine opened her child's eyes wide with

relief when Anton told her of his decision to obey the

professor's last wish. Her anxiety for her son banished

her scruples; she felt that God would forgive this

necessary lie, which harmed no one and was Anton's

only salvation.When Anton entered the precinct office, the new


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




commandant was sitting behind the captain's desk. He

was a Bavarian policeman with a bulldog face and

double chin. The blue-green blouse of his uniform

seemed strangely alien amid the familiar colors of the room. From the side of the desk high black top

boots projected, covering moss-green trouser-legs. On

the table lay an ugly, misshapen military cap. Beside

the cap stood a glass of light beer and a half-empty

bottle.

The captain did not seem to notice Anton first.

He was busy with two officers who had just delivered

their reports. "Don't bother me with these Jews,"

Anton heard him saying. "Let them get their police

protection in Palestine." He lifted the beer glass to

his mouth and let a long swig flow down his gullet.

Anton was still standing on the steps at the entrance.

Suddenly he felt a thin body behind him, and some

one burst wildly past

him and into the room. It was

a withered old woman with greying black hair. "Help

me, officer," she cried desperately across the desk. Her

bare arms whipped in jerky movements through the

air and her piercing black eyes flashed —they alone

seemed alive in her thin, wan face. "They want to

take him away ... my father . . . he's ninety-eight

years old . . .he has a weak heart . . . they beat my

son . . . they took away our jewels . . ." Sobs overwhelmed her words.

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The captain waited until the beer had gone down.

Then he put the glass back on the desk, without any

perceptible expression in his fat, good-natured face. He

gestured to one of the men and said in a bored, oily

voice: "Take the Jewess out and see to it that I'm not

bothered by any more of them." Then he poured him

self another glass, carefully tipping the bottle so that

the foam would not run over. The woman stared

helplessly for a moment, as though she had not heard

aright, then her sobs stopped and she fell into a numbed

silence. The policeman led her past Anton. Her bare

arm touched him in passing, and a shudder ran through

him, as though he had touched a cake of ice.

He stiffened, stepped forward and spoke his name.

"Redtenbacher? Oh, yes, you're the man with the

itchy trigger-finger." The captain's popping eyes smiled

benevolently at Anton. "The old captain told me about

you. I just received an order from the Gestapo that

the man you knocked off was to be taken immediately,

dead or alive. The Fuehrer needs men like you—as

long as they aim at the right one." A guttural laugh

rippled through his chins. "This time you had good

hunting. I've been ordered to recommend three of the

best-qualified men for officer's training—we need a lot

more officers. I'll see to it that you're one of them."

The blood pounded in Anton's temples. "Thank you,sir," he said mechanically.

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"Have you the personal documents of the corpse

with you?"

"I've left everything lying untouched . . ."

"What are you waiting for? We have no time and

no men for formal commissions now. Go ahead, make

sure of the identity, send the corpse over to the

morgue, seal the apartment and hand in a short report

in writing. We'll take care of the rest. Any relatives

who show up are to be sent here. That's all." Again

the captain raised the glass and drank the foaming

yellow liquid, this time sipping slowly and savoring

the taste.

Anton saluted and left. He felt like a pupil who

has cheated and nevertheless been praised by his

teacher. Officer training? He had never dreamed of

trying for it. In spite of all that had happened, it

was a confusing, intoxicating idea .... He would be

able to come to Erna and say:

"I'm to be promoted;

before long I'll be a police lieutenant

He had crossed the dark hallway, and now he rang

the bell to ask his mother for the key to the pro

fessor's apartment.

To his surprise, Erna opened. She drew him in, put

her arms around his neck and gave him a long kiss.

Behind the closing kitchen door he saw the plump, soft

face of his mother, signaling that she had concealed

the real truth from Erna. . .

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"I know all about it," Erna said, brushing her

heavy brown hair away from her forehead. "You did

your duty and shot an enemy of the people."

Anton sat down in the easy chair near the window.

He felt taken aback by her matter-of-fact acceptance

of things that came so hard for him.

"Think of it," she was saying, "I've only just come

from the office. But I had to see you, Toni, or at

least hear what you're doing . . . ." She took his head

in her two hands and slipped

on to his lap

as she

spoke. A releasing wave of well-being and happiness

colled over him; he was aware of her alone, of the

soothing warmth of her body.

"Now listen, Toni," she said, "everything is going

well. I was worried about you, terribly worried, be

cause I know how stubborn you are. But that's over

now." She sighed deeply, and he felt the movement

of her soft, elastic body against his. "Now I knowyou'll be sensible and find your place in the new

order. I'm so happy, I can't tell you how happy I am.

I've never loved you so much, Toni." She covered

his face with passionate kisses. Then she jumped up

suddenly and reached for her coat. "I must go home

now, it's terribly late. But I have two orchestra seats

at the Opera for tomorrow —my boss gave them to me

because he can't go. You must take the evening off,

Toni. You've earned it . . . and I have a surprise for

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




you, Toni. I've been made department head and my

salary has been doubled. What do you say to that?

If ever Herr Redtenbacher happens to think of marry

ing . . . money doesn't matter any more." And without

waiting for an answer she ran lithely to the door and

was gone.

Anton sat up straight and tightened his straps. Her

unclouded cheerfulness, which had always appealed so

strongly to him, now seemed vague and far away. Per

haps it was only his own fatigue. But he felt an odd

satisfaction that he had said nothing about his own

possible advancement.

Anton went in to his mother, who was standing

thoughtfully in the hall, arms akimbo, watching Erna

hurrying down the street. He asked her for the key to

the professor's apartment and left swiftly.

As Anton turned the key in the lock, it seemed to

him he heard a door closing in the interior of the apart

ment. He stepped in quickly and went the rounds of

the place. The courtyard window in the kitchen stood

open; a gust of wind must have made the sound. He

felt annoyed at his own jumpiness.

Everything lay just as he had left it. He turned on

the lights in all the rooms and set to work. In the stu

dent's pocket he found the attendance card of the Tech

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




nical University, which he had already seen. With it

was an appointment as squadron leader in the SS. An

ton took both documents. Then he went into the adjoin

ing room. The motionless white head of the professor

now seemed more than ever like the bust of Schopen

hauer in the library. Anton bent down and felt the

professor's coat pockets. No lumps, no crackling be

spoke the presence of a wallet or of papers. He went

back to the living room and tried to open the desk draw

er. It was locked. He was about to look for the key

when it occurred to him that he had not yet written his

report. His professional sense was aroused; he felt that

he ought to do it right here on the scene, where he

could test the credibility of his account by the position

of the dead men and the traces of the shots. He paced

off the distances and found that the professor might

very well have fired from where he stood, and that he

himself could easily have shot the

professor through

the temple, assuming that he had hurried in from the

hallway. There was nothing contradictory here. He sat

down in the armchair behind the desk, took a sheet of

paper and began to sketch the situation, as he was ac

customed to do with traffic accidents. Then he took out

his official notebook, inserted a sheet of carbon and

wrote his account in succinct, clear sentences. The

words flowed with ease and certainty, as though thekillings had taken place precisely as he described them.

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The marble busts seemed to nod approval.

Before he put away his notebook, he looked for the

key in the finely-wrought gold boxes that stood on the

edge of the desk. It was not there. He got up and sur

veyed the room, again without success. Then he went

back to the adjoining room and again searched the

dead man's pockets, more carefully this time. He turned

to the many trays, vases, and bowls, products of all na

tions—that stood around the room; he looked under

the sofa cushions and finally crawled around on the

floor without finding the key to the desk. There was

nothing left to do but force open the drawer, for he had

to have at least one personal document to complete his

report.

In the library something stirred; a grandfather clock

with golden dial struck twelve low, metallic beats.

Again Anton felt annoyed with himself for suspecting

that he was not alone in the apartment.

He impatiently

banished the childhood memories that persistently arose:

memories of the tales about ghosts of the dead who

come to life again at midnight. He got up from the

floor, determined to break open the desk drawer in the

library.

When he entered the room, he stood stock still for

a moment. In the chair where he had sat only a few

minutes ago, with head bent over his official report, sata girl he had never seen before. She looked up as the

65


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threshold creaked under his tread. The fine oval of her

head was accentuated by short brown hair, cut almost

boyishly; the color was nearly exactly like Erna's. But

her eyes were diff erent—a deep, gleaming black, like the

cherries of the South. Her nose and lips were delicate

and lovely. She wore a dark dress, and most of her

body was hidden by the desk, but he felt sure it was lithe

and slender. It was an extraordinary vision of beauty

to come upon at this midnight hour, in these rooms of

death.

She lowered her eyes and glanced through Anton's ac

count once more. Suddenly her whole body jerked con

vulsively. When she lifted her head again, a change

had come over her, like a thunderstorm over a peaceful

landscape. She glared at Anton with such savagery,

such boundless repulsion, that he involuntarily took a

step back. "Murderer!" her eyes said, while her lips

were silent.

Anton found it difficult not to reply. But he screened

himself behind his uniform and said in a cold, official

voice: "This apartment is under police surveillance.

Will you kindly identify yourself."

Nervously her thin white hands opened the snap of

a small Moroccan leather case with silver trimmings.

She took out a neatly-tied passport and dropped it on

the desk. On the cover Anton recognized the nationalinsignia of Czechoslovakia.

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"What are you, a foreigner, doing here?" he asked

sternly.

"I'm a niece of the . . . deceased." Her voice had a

quality like the sweet bell-tone of the old grandfather

clock. She paused and her eyes gazed at him in silent,

merciless accusation.

"How did you get in here?"

"I have my own key to my uncle's library. May I go

now?"

"Please give me your address. You may be asked to

come to headquarters."

Again the girl opened her purse and placed a small

visiting card on top of the passport.

Anton hesitated. "I need some personal document

of the professor's," he said finally. "Perhaps you can

show me where he kept his papers."

For the third time the girl reached into her purse.

She took out a key ring and selected a key. She opened

the desk drawer, drew out a large envelope and placed

it silently beside the passport and visiting card. Then

she got up, turned her head with a peculiarly graceful

motion, and went toward the door. Suddenly she

stopped, though she did not turn around. "May I say

goodbye to him," she said. Her voice was utterly

changed; it seemed to drift toward Anton from far

away.For answer Anton wrenched open the French doors.

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She stepped past him without looking at him, and he

followed her into the next room.

He saw her kneel down beside the sofa, but she did

not utter a sound. She did not sob or cry out, and in a

moment she straightened up gracefully. Once more he

felt the impetuous power of her gaze, though this time

it lacked the flashing hatred.

"How could you do it?" she said in a low voice.

"There wasn't a better man in the world."

It was an effort for Anton to contain himself. This

young girl seemed so composed, so pure ; it seemed so

impossible to deceive her that he felt an almost irresist

ible urge to confess the truth. "Duty is duty," he said

uncertainly, and cleared this throat.

"No," she exclaimed suddenly, and looked at him

with such directness and candor that he had to lower

his eyes, "no, you didn't do it. I'm only dreaming, I'll

awaken in a moment

Anton started and kept his eyes on the floor. She

was voicing his own thoughts; since last night every

thing that had happened to him had seemed unreal and

dreamlike.

He heard her clear, vibrant voice as from a great dist

ance. "You look just like all our placid traffic police

men," she said, "like all the men who take care of us

when we cross the streets, and who keep order in thecity. They stand somewhere on a wooden platform and

68


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direct traffic with white-gloved hands, but ..." her voice

choked off, as though she were confronted by a vision of

horror, "but they don't shoot peaceable citizens."

Anton did not stir. He felt that in some nameless

manner she had won power over him, that he had to es

cape from her. He raised his eyes. There she stood at

the side of the dead man, her slender body vibrating

with a wild inner movement, her sparkling eyes fixed

upon him with an imploring gaze. "Say you didn't do

it. . ."

she cried, and stepped closer to him.

"I didn't do it." Anton heard the words pass over

his lips without volition. But in a moment he had re

gained command of himself. "I must ask you to leave

now," he said, feeling shielded by his familiar official

tone. "There's no use . . ."

He could not finish the sentence. She had paid no

attention to his last words, and had taken his hand

gently but firmly in hers. Her large dark eyes were

filled with radiant gratitude, and her fingers caressed

his hand ever so lightly. "You must tell me the whole

truth now. I promise never to tell anyone. I can feel

how you yourself are suffering. . . You'll never see me

again. But you owe me the truth about my uncle's

death."

Anton wanted to protest, but he could not. Her dark

radiant eyes were fixed upon his, and their command

was inexorable. Jerkily, subtly irritated with himself,

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he told the story. When he came to the professor's

strange testament, he realized that the captain, by burn

ing the note, had destroyed his only proof. As thoughto help his memory, Anton looked at the dead man.

And in the dim light of the frosted lamp the pale, mar

ble-cold mask seemed to come alive and soundlessly

dictate to him the words he needed. >

When he had finished, he realized that the girl was

still holding his hand. Now she released it and thanked

him silently with her eyes. Then, after a brief embar

rassed pause, she spoke:

"You've been honest with me—I'll be the same with

you. You've seen my passport and visa. I'm leaving

early in the morning; by noon I'll be across the border.

I'm Austrian by birth, like you I've lost my country.

Our country has been betrayed, robbed, taken by sur

prise and overrun. But I'm not giving up. Many others

won't give up, even though they are forced to keep un

der cover now. My uncle had influential friends abroad ;

they must be told the truth about the killings and the

trumped-up enthusiasm in this city. I'll never forget

anything I've seen here—all the lies and the treachery

. . . Well—now you can arrest me if you like. Go ahead

if your conscience demands it—I'll not betray you if

you do. . ." *

Anton had turned away. Several times he made angry

gestures, trying to stop her from talking.

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"Why have you told me all this?" he said, reproach

ful but deeply moved.

"Because I trust you," she replied simply, and once

more her clear voice reminded him of the resonant tones

of the grandfather clock. "And because I believe it's

important for you to know that Austria's fate is not yet

decided. . . I'm waiting for your decision —what are

you going to do with me?"

Anton stood still before her, his mind in turmoil.

What she was asking of him was the choice between

two diametrically opposite paths. One path was shame

ful, disgraceful and painful ; he would be compelled to

arrest an innocent girl whose "crime" was that she had

courageously spoken out the things he himself believed.

The other path was frightening, new, and its end could

not be foreseen. For it would transform him, the man

of order, into a secret lawbreaker; as soon as he took the

first dangerous step he would become a rebel. But had

he not already taken that step, with that first lie, even

though his own superior had encouraged him to do it ?

And by using his gun to defend his old, familiar world

of decency against the assault of chaos and baseness?

Confused, fragmentary pictures ran through his mind:

the jubilation and torchlight processions, the gaunt

workers standing around with clenched fists; pale, flee

ing Jews at the railroad station; burning books, march

ing music and banners; the mound of fish; the dead of

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ficer, his lovely children, and the Austrian colors spread

on the bed; Erna's joyous face beside that of the despair

ing woman in the precinct office; the double chin andthe good-natured, popping eyes of the Bavarian captain

who had learned to drown all the vileness of his work

in glasses of foaming yellow beer.

Anton was now standing in the wide doorway bet

ween the rooms. He glanced from the one dead man

to the other. Now he must choose between their two

worlds.

This single glance was enough to form his decision.

Silently he took the passport and handed it to the girl.

Then he picked up the visiting card from the floor

where it had fallen, read her first name—Lydia—and

gave the card back to her. "Forget that you were ever

here," he said. "You found the doors locked and had

to go away without seeing your uncle. You don't know

me and I don't know you. ...""Thank you," Lydia said. "But I saw your name on

the notebook, Herr Redtenbacher—I shall not forget it."

She went into the hallway, but turned once more with

her peculiarly graceful motion of the head, and again

her dark eyes thanked him. Then she went, closing the

door almost noiselessly behind her.

Anton took a deep breath. The confusion of the day

just past was ebbing away. Were the stories of child

hood true after all? At midnight the clear, bell-like

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voice of his downtrodden homeland had spoken to him,

spoken a challenge and called forth a decision. He felt

a new strength within himself. He was alone now; as

yet there were no friends or comrades to whom he dared

speak. But at the same time he knew that countless

others in this city and in the villages and mountains

would hide like himself behind their duties, their every

day work and their everyday lives. They would lie in

waiting until the time came to emerge from their hiding

places. It was his job now to treat this hateful mum

mery as reality and not to expose himself again. Noteven Erna, not even his mother, must suspect his in

tentions. The secret of this hour would give him the

strength to keep his mouth shut and go on working.

His notebook and the professor's documents from the

desk went back to the precinct office. Here he made

the arrangements for the removal of the bodies in the

professor's apartment and in the rooms of the army of

ficer whose family had joined him in death. By early

morning he was able to add to his written report that

both apartments had been cleared and sealed.

In the morning roll call his name was mentioned

with praise, along with two others who, like himself,

were destined to rise in the ranks.

Once more Patrolman Anton Redtenbacher stood on

his wooden platform at his old post, as much a part of

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the scene as the ash-grey peak of the Stephansdom tower

above the weather-beaten roofs and chimneys, or the

two thick grey pillars beside the high, copper-greendome of the Karlskirche. With the usual friendly, eleg

ant gestures of his hands he directed the pulsating

movement of the traffic. And the many passers-by who

knew him by sight could detect no change in his clear

blue eyes.

Nevertheless, many things had changed for him, and

more changes took place every day. Under the gleam

ing cross atop the Cathedral waved a small red flag, and

Anton had put off his neat dark-green uniform and

donned coarse, greenish-blue blouse, rough, moss-green

trousers and the black top boots. The clumsy military

cap sat on his head like an oppressive reminder of all

that had happened.

And the people whom he knew so well had also

changed. Many familiar faces were gone; new, strange

faces floated on the surface of the current of traffic.

And those that remained seemed transformed in car

riage and behavior. Was this perhaps because the old

traffic rules had been changed to correspond with those

of the Reich? Now cars drove on the right instead of

on the left. Again and again he heard old cab drivers

and coachmen cursing; their habits were deep-seated,

and their inability to learn the new rules took lives al

most every day.

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But this external reversal in the streets was only one

of the more obvious symbols of what was going on in

houses, shops and factories. All the newspapers spoke

of changes, transformations, revisions—and all the

newspapers printed the same stories. All the brown,

black and white-shirted columns that now marched past

Anton sang the same songs. All saluted in the same

way. Everywhere, the victims of "coordination" fell,

but these victims did not speak.

Anton worked as carefully and as well as ever. Now

and then he listened to stray bits of conversations, but

he did not ever seem to hear when the people aired their

sound impulses in his presence. "Fraternal guns," an

elderly storekeeper had once remarked during those

fateful March days when the endless trains of German

motorized artillery rattled past. "What are our Berlin

comrades sending in return for our butter and eggs?"

he heard one woman

asking another. "Blue Bean Sal

ad," was the invariable reply, and every Viennese knew

that this signified rifle bullets.

Anton stood at his post under the hot sun of August

when dust-charged gusts of wind brought greasy scraps

of paper from the long rows of vegetable booths in the

nearby market—there were no longer any green lettuce

leaves among them. Now it was eggs, then butter, then

fruit. But every night great sealed trucks, heavily laden,would rattle past Anton toward the north.

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One morning a strange procession approached him

from the direction of the market: women with bright

aprons, and kerchiefs on their heads, vigorously swinging empty market-baskets. "We thank our Fuehrer,"

they repeated in chorus, and the bitter scorn in their

faces aJ lowed no doubt as to the meaning of this un

bidden homage. Anton saw them tangle with the riot

squad that had been called, and the belligerent market

women, fighting with nails and teeth and cursing vi

ciously, almost carried the day.

He stood at his post when the leaves turned red in

the autumnal parks and the newly-installed loudspeak

ers waged a new type of warfare against Czechoslovakia

—a warfare of incessant atrocity stories, threats and

proclamations. And he thought of Lydia, from whom

he had not heard since that night in March.

One foggy November day he was on patrol in the

quieter streets of his beat. This was the day when in

all the cities of the Greater German Reich the soul of

the people had flamed up at the command of the SA, so

that by evening thousands of windows in Jewish homes

lay shattered on the pavement and luminous clouds of

smoke rose from burning synagogues. Anton saw those

same rough, brown-shirted men he had seen months be

fore when they broke down the venerable baroque port

al of the Archbishop's palace and triumphantly walked

off with precious holy vessels from the treasure room of

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the church. All those narrow-browned faces with close-

cropped, bristly hair reminded him of the student,

Woitschek. But he had learned to obey orders and keep

out of the way.

He went even further: he reproached his own mother

when she quarreled with Peter, the freckled former

chauffeur. Peter, in his capacity as Blockwart of the

house, protested that she spoke seditiously, and illegally

aided the only Jewish family remaining in the house.

Her seditious speech had consisted of a remark about

rationing. "We have butter cards again," she had said.

"So before long we'll have war."

Erna was so busy with her work that he saw her less

and less as the weeks past. He was surprised to find

that he did not care very much. There was no longer

the same feeling between them; his closely-guarded

secret had erected a dividing wall. Erna felt awk

wardness in their relationship,

but she ascribed it to her

self and her overwork. To make their evenings to

gether more interesting to Anton, she took to bringing

along her brother Franz. She thought, too, that Franz'

connections with the higher Party circles might prove of

practical advantage to Anton.

Before March Franz had been a minor clerical as

sistant in the central office of a large industrial firm.

Now, as the only Nazi Party member on the firm's staff,he had suddenly received spectacular promotions. With

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in a few months he became purchasing agent, and short

ly afterwards one of the directors. He had exchanged

his rather shabby clothes for fashionable English tweeds,

which he had bought shortly after the Nazi invasion

when the city's finest stores unwillingly sold out all

their wares. In addition he wore flashy silk ties that

rarely matched his suits, and newly-acquired expensive

shirts. Instead of the cheap Memphis cigarettes, his thick,

characteristic lips now sucked constantly on long brown

cigars. During directors' meetings he strove to impress

his colleagues, absorbing from these cigars the business

experience and talent he lacked completely. His pale

grey eyes had the contented look of a man whose indub

itable merit has unexpectedly been recognized.

He always treated Anton with simplicity and friend

liness. Only now and then, when the three drank toasts

to one another, did he make political predictions based

on his private sources of information. In the beginning

he repeatedly tried to justify to Anton—who never chal

lenged him—the fact that he had joined the Party years

before; it had after all proved lucky for him and for

the firm, he pointed out. In recent months, however, an

odd change had taken place. After a few glasses of

Grinzinger wine Franz would often grow critical. At

first he criticized the attitude of a few of his colleagues

in the firm who from fear or ambition exhibited theirnewly-discovered racial consciousness a little too con

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spicuously. Then he began to murmur about ordinances

that went "a little too far," and about street excesses.

Finally he even became critical of the ultimate aims of

the movement itself. Franz, risen overnight to a well-

paid, highly-respected position, seemed to be worried

about the permanence of his good fortune. Clearly, he

was afraid that the mounting injustices endangered the

new order.

Anton had got into the habit of listening more than

talking. But now, in order to disguise his true thoughts,

he found himself in the peculiar position of arguing

against Franz. Franz grew angry.

"As one of the oldest Party members I guess I have

a right to criticize certain evils," he said once.

"None of us has that right," Anton replied, and

looked down into his glass.

"Toni is right," Erna smiled. "Watch out, Franz;

you might run into trouble."

"Me? ... An old fighter? Don't be silly. You're

not going to tell on me, are you, Toni ?" he added with

an uncomfortable laugh. Many things had changed.

When the bronze statues in the parks were wrapped

in white and a Christmas tree stood on the Opera House

Corner, Anton and two of his comrades were orderedto report to the officers' course. One of the policemen

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was known by the nickname of "Beppo" ; he was a close-

mouthed, extremely ambitious fellow with a sharp nose

and a sharp chin. Though he had an Italian name, his

parents were Sudeten Germans. The other man was the

son of a peasant from the Stubai Valley; a slow-moving

man with the tanned, ruddy complexion of a farmer.

His enthusiasm for the Third Reich sprang solely from

local patriotism. He had been told that when Austria

would be taken into the Reich, the Duce would present

the Fuehrer with the provinces of Southern Tyrol, which

had been given to Italy at the end of the last war. Like

all true Tyrolians, the separation from the Southern

provinces was to him a festering wound. But nine

months had passed now, and the promised restoration

had not yet taken place.

Everyone feared Beppo and guarded his tongue be

fore him. Before Sepp—the Tyrolian had been bap

tized Franz Josef, after the former Emperor, but was al

ways called Sepp—one could be as open as one pleased.

He was a loyal fellow who would not have betrayed his

worst enemy if that enemy wore the same uniform as

he himself.

Anton spent most of his leisure time between classes

and drills with these two. There were many new things

he had to learn, and some of them would not stick in

his untrained mind. But in conversations with Beppohe sharpened his tongue and perfected himself in the art

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of conducting apparently innocuous conversations which

adroitly concealed his thoughts. Often, in the presence

of Beppo, he would censure the crude, straightforward

Tyrolian. Then, later, when he was alone with Sepp,

the two would make fun of the ambitious spy and ce

ment the growing friendship between them with a few

old-fashioned country oaths at Beppo's expense.

The requirements of the course, which was a kind of

cross between school and army drill, gradually took up

so much of Anton's time that he no longer paid atten

tion to what went on in the world. The eternal same

ness of the radio proclamations disgusted him, so that

he no longer listened. He rarely saw the headlines in

the newspapers, which he used to read from his wooden

platform as they lay on the nearby newsstands. And

so it came almost as a complete surprise to him when

one day—almost exactly a year after the occupation of

Austria —the entrance of

German troops

into Bohemia

and Moravia was announced. Once more he thought of

Lydia and her hopes and promises. Those hopes seemed

to fade more and more now before the relentless ad

vance of the Prussian conquerors. How was it possible

that the Czech Army, a well-prepared force of thirty to

forty divisions, armed with the most modern equip

ment, had been robbed of its chance to fight, just as had

the little band of Austrian peacetime troops ? He recalled his own words to his captain: "Why didn't the Army

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fight, sir?" What mysterious powers came to the aid

of this pale, strange man who had been no good for any

kind of work in his native land of Austria, who had been

expelled from the almhouse where he had received the

bread of charity and where he had made confused,

revolutionary speeches? How was it possible that he,

by shouting louder than all the other malcontents, had

risen almost unopposed to a position where at a gesture

he could set in motion the whole gigantic machine that

German industry and German obedience had created?

How was it that this machine went wherever he directed

i t ,

in blind submission?

Anton had no clear conception of the outside world,

but he could not understand. Were there no longer

any forces of law and order to put astop to the dissolu

tion of all order ? Once more the house was surrounded

b y

robbers before the inhabitants had realized what was

happening. Anton felt that the Czechs shared his own

fate. They were a people whose fathers and grand

fathers had once been united with his own forbears in a

variegated family under the roof of the great Danube

Empire—the Empire that had stretched from the Adri

atic Sea to the Bohemian Forest, from the Swiss Alps to

the Russian steppes. Through the centuries there had

been many violent quarrels within the walls of that great

mansion. But what did these intense little disputes forindividual privileges mean now, compared to the descent

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of hordes of armed barbarians upon both lands equally.

For these barbarians, deceptively clothed in the gar

ments of German duty and German order, were destroy

ing all the rights, liberties and securities of both peoples.

Anton knew the Czech people from childhood visits

to his aunt, who had married a Czech. He had even

gone to school in a Czech town for an entire winter when

his father was critically ill and his mother had wanted

the house free of children. He could imagine the help

less fury of his uncle, a quiet, hard-working foreman

who was one of the leaders of the Sokol—the Czech

gymnastic organization —in his small country town. It

seemed even more terrible when he thought that Lydia

was now in the midst of this new danger zone. And

this time he was not there to protect her against her own

rash and ardent love of liberty.

There was nothing left for him to do but to bury

himself deeper than ever in his books; to forget, if pos

sible, the things that were happening, the things he

could not change; to forget that his hopes of liberating

his country were flickering and on the verge of going

out—like those of so many of his countrymen. The

whisper of hope was drowned out by the victorious bel

lows of the enemy, and hope became more intangible as

the enemy's grip upon everyday life grew firmer and

firmer. There was no escape from this. SometimesAnton awoke in the middle of the night and felt

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ashamed. Was his absorbtion in work in order to stupefy

himself any different from the behavior of the Bavarian

captain who drank so many bottles of foaming yellowbeer to forget the cruelties his office forced him to in

flict? Was this not worst of all, this hopeless dulling of

the senses that made decent men useful to the enemy,

that made them see as their sole choice obedience or

the concentration camp ? Then again, recalling his mid

night encounter with Lydia, he would say to himself

that this was his way, this his mission—to spy out the

hidden forces and resources of the enemy, to learn the

secret of his strength in order to be armed with knowl

edge when the day for action dawned.

He felt a profound gladness when Sepp returned

from a brief leave to his native Tyrolian village and told

him candidly that the peasants were refusing to give up

their cattle. They would hide the animals in the remotest

pastures. They lied to the German commissioners about

the number of eggs their hens laid. When the "brothers

from the Reich" vacationed in Tyrol, they were hated

and laughed at for their arrogance and their ignorance

of the mountains.

From the other Austrian provinces, too—they were

now known as districts—came similar stories, although

spreading such reports was severely punished. Now and

then a

factory would catch fire from unknown causes, a

powder magazine would blow up, an unmanned loco

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motive would collide with a munitions train. Once all

the airplanes manufactured in a factory in Lower Aus

tria fell apart on their test flights.

Anton did so well on his examination that, together

with Beppo, he was assigned to a preparatory course

for the Secret Police. Only a few, carefully selected men

were admitted to this course. Sepp was not among them.

Those who attended the course took an oath of sec

recy that no outsider was ever to be told of the methods

they learned.

A Gestapo colonel from

Breslau, with thedrooping mustaches and the watery eyes of a grammar

school teacher, taught the principles of starvation, in

timidation, holding of hostages and extracting of in

formation from children. He spoke a good deal about

the lofty educational value of the practical doctrines he

advocated.

One evening after class Anton noticed a new bulletin

on the corridor wall. It was a call for volunteers to

work in the occupied Czech territories. Men with knowl

edge of the Czech language were preferred. Anton

volunteered at once. An inward voice told him that this

was his proper course.

That evening he found a postcard lying on his bed.

It was postmarked from a small town near the Bohem

ian border and read:

"Dear Anton, Do you still think of me occasionally?

I haven't forgotten you. I'm very well. Please write to

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me about yourself. Yours, Lily." On the back of the

postcard was the name E. Gruber and a return address.

Anton knew no one in that particular small town.

Then his heart began to beat more rapidly. This

greeting must come from Lydia! There could be no

doubt about it. She was alive and, apparently, not in

immediate danger. The card did not indicate whether

she herself had again crossed the border, or whether the

return address was merely a cover from which her mail

would be forwarded. But why should she be writing

him now, after a whole year ? In any case, he had come

to associate her indissolubly with his secret hopes for

the liberation of his country, and as he read and re-read

the few meaningless lines of her card he felt a quiet,

sure sense of joy mounting within him. He wrote that

same evening that he was well and that within the next

few days he would make a trip that would take him

over the same route she had traveled a year before. He

was eager to hear further news from her, he added. He

took his friend Sepp a little into his confidence —Sepp

was always willing to help a comrade —and had Sepp

sign the card with his first name. He gave Sepp's rented

room as the return address. Sepp agreed cheerfully to

forward any mail from Lydia to Anton's new address,

wherever in Czechoslovakia it should prove to be.

Next day Anton was asked to fill out a lengthy form.

He had to answer such questions as when he had been

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in Bohemia or Moravia, how long he had been there,

whether he could read, write or speak the language,

whether he was related by birth or marriage to any in

habitants of the territory, what inhabitants, what his

relationship was, and so on. In answer to these last

questions he wrote down the name of his uncle and his

family, adding that at the age of twelve he had attended

a Czech school for an entire winter and could both speak

and write the language. He was assigned to the first

group, which was to depart very soon. Beppo was sup

posed to follow within a few weeks.

For a long time Frau Leopoldine had not seen her son

so confident and cheerful as when he told her about his

impending transfer. She was unhappy at the thought

of a long separation, but soon became reconciled to it

and gave him an endless list of things she would like

her sister in Bohemia to send—in case he should find

himself anywhere near the remote town where she lived.

It was rumored that in Bohemia there were still ample

food supplies, and cloth of legendary wool content.

These things had been unknown in Vienna for months,

but the parcel post and express service were none too

safe, and written requests for shipments of food or

other scarce goods were noted by the censor; those

who made the requests were branded as suspicious

malcontents.

Anton took the entire list, although he doubted that

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chance would ever lead him to his old aunt's town.

He spent the last evening before his departure with

Erna. He was glad that she came with her brother Franz,who also wanted to say goodby to him. Franz' pres

ence kept the conversation on a superficial level and

saved them both a serious talk they preferred to avoid.

Erna was clever enough to be a little worried about

Anton's cheerfulness, but she thought that she herself,

or rather her ambition and consequent overwork, was re

sponsible for his coldness. Besides, this was not a separ

ation forever, and her feminine intuition suggested that

a temporary parting might be the best way to win him

back. That was the way it always worked out in novels.

She carried the thought to its logical conclusion.

"If you happen to lose your heart to some Czech beau

ty, Toni," she said, imitating humorously the melodic

Czech intonation, "you mustn't think of me—you're

quite free."

"You, too, of course," Anton said, in order to evade

replying. "If you happen to fall for some handsome

black SS man. . ."

This remark seemed to offend Erna for a moment.

But Franz intervened. "Don't talk nonsense," he said.

"Waiter, another bottle of wine." And they drank to a

happy reunion.

* * *88


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




When Anton's bags were packed and everything was

ready for his trip, he still had an hour to spend. He felt

a need to say goodbye to the city itself, to its streets,

spires and palaces. He went strolling through the streets,

and without realizing where he was going found him

self suddenly in the broad plaza where he had spent so

many hours of his life standing on a wooden platform

and gazing up over the roofs and chimneys to the ash-

grey spire of the Stephansdom or, on clear days, to the

distant, silvery-blue shimmering flank of the Leopolds-

berg. How often had he heard or read the phrase:

"Beautiful Vienna"; how often had he laughed at

wrinkled old men and women whose eyes filled with

tears when they spoke of the "good old days inVienna" ?

Had he ever realized how good they were when he stood

upon his wooden platform, secure, accustomed to the

routine, sometimes even a little bored? Had he realized

how achingly

beautiful was this city of his ? Now anoth

er man stood at his post, and an uncertain future await

ed him. Anton looked at the clock and began to hurry,

in order not to miss the train.

Anton had been ordered to travel in civilian clothes

and to report to the headquarters of the Gestapo in

Prague. When he arrived at the glass-ceilinged hall of

the old railroad station which still bore the name of

Emperor Franz Josef, the express train already had

steam up. The hissing white clouds beneath the long

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




body of the locomotive, the inscriptions in many lan

guages on the maroon walls of the dining car and on

the dark-blue walls of the sleeper, the bustling pas

sengers and porters—all gave a sense of intimate con

nection with the world. The impression was strength

ened by the soft cloth of his grey summer suit—it was

so long since he had worn "civvies" —and the fact that

he was to travel first class.

After looking around he chose a compartment in

which the two corner seats near the corridor were al

ready piled with baggage. He stuffed his handbag and

coat into the net and stretched out comfortably on the

red plush seat.

Just before the train pulled out, the occupants of the

corner seats appeared. One of them was a broad-

shouldered tall man in the uniform of a German Gen

eral Staff officer. He wore a rimless monocle clamped

against the right side of his strong, hooked nose. As

he talked he would release it by raising his bushy eye

brows, catch it in his open palm and immediately re

place it in his eye.

"Eleven minutes late at the start," he said to his com

panion. Each word came from his mouth like metal

from a punch-press, and as he spoke his right eye con

temptuously expelled the monocle. His companion was

a small, thin man with violet eyes, blonde hair and abroad forehead; he was dressed in a stylish light flannel

90


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suit with a black shirt and black tie. On the lapel of

his jacket, above his Party badge, he wore the insignia

of the "law-preservers" —lawyers no longer existed in

the Third Reich. His pronunciation betrayed his Berlin

origins, but it had also the polish of the man of the

world. "It won't be long now, Colonel," he said, set

tling himself in his seat, "before we teach these Austrians

what punctuality means." As he spoke he glanced quizz

ically and encouragingly at Anton. But Anton, swallow

ing his annoyance, had turned to the window and was

ostentatiously gazing at the passing landscape.

They had already passed out of the city. Everywhere

the gables and small towers of villas and country estates

rose above green lawns and meadows. Everywhere the

cherry trees bloomed, white as foam of the sea under

the pale blue sky. Bathing tents and small summer cot

tages stood under willow trees along the tributaries of

the Danube. Here and there boys in bathing trunks

waded out into the waters and splashed one another.

Then churches and houses grew rarer; the train flew by

sleepy villages. And then came the plain, broken here

and there by chains of hills.

The train rattled and shook as though it had heard

the officer's scornful remark and was doing its best to

make up for the delay. The unaccustomed rocking

movement lulled Anton. He had stopped listening tothe murmured conversation of the two other men in the

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compartment. But then, just as he snuggled comfort

ably into the soft back of the seat, yawned heartily and

closed his eyes, the thin lawyer said something that

made him listen attentively. No change of expression

flickered over Anton's face; he lay still, pretending to

sleep.

"No more business in the Ostmark," the man was

saying. "We've milked the place dry. My office Aryan-

ized a lot of factories and commercial houses and got

rid of our Jewish colleagues. We made plenty, Colonel,

plenty. But now what? Everything's gone. I need new

fields to conquer. So I'm going to Prague."

"I say—"

the officer's voice growled, and he paused

for a moment, apparently to make sure that Anton was

really sleeping; Anton began to snore lightly —"I say,

you must have got a good idea of Austrian business.

How are the chances for increasing production under

our Five Year Plan? I've heard all sorts of rumors. . . .

Lax bastards, these Austrians, aren't they?"

"Plenty lax," the lawyer grumbled. "Between you

and me, Colonel, a serious tactical mistake has been com

mitted there. I've already sent my cousin in the Reich

Economic Ministry a detailed report about it. These

Austrian workers were treated as though we were home

in the Reich and dealing with our own people. Instead

of doing

a thorough job right away, installing

German

managers and German foremen, we've tried to soft

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pedal things. If we'd smashed the old set-up right off,

their production wouldn't have dropped to eighty and

in some places fifty per cent of its former level. We'vebeen duped by our own propaganda. Occupied countries

have still to be conquered. But believe me, we won't

make the same mistake in Bohemia. We'll make a thor

ough clean-up there right away."

Anton had been holding his breath; now he released

it in a long gasp. But then he really fell asleep, and

when he awoke his two fellow-travelers were just leav

ing the compartment, on their way to the dining car.

He was alone when the border guards came around

for the inspection. After showing his police card, he re

ceived a stiff salute and was passed by.

In the late afternoon the lawyer began making con

versation about conditions in Vienna before the "liber

ation." But Anton had no chinks in his armor; the cun

ning he had learned in the course of the year stood

him in good stead and he easily turned aside every

question that the man's skillful tongue proposed.

It was about ten o'clock at night when they emerged

from the almost unbroken darkness of the Prague sub

urbs into the brightly-lighted hall of the Wilson Station.

To the right and left of the tracks stood rows of soldiers

in field dress, wearing steel helmets. As each passenger

left the train he was directed to one of the exits, wherepassports and papers were examined. At both ends of

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the station Anton saw the gleaming barrels of machine

guns.

When he showed his papers he was instructed to re

port to Ticket Window C. Here he was given the ad

dress where he was to spend the night, and a written

order to report to his superiors the following morning.

His hotel was located in a narrow street back of the

railroad station. As he walked there, with. a silent port

er gloomily pushing his suitcase along on a small cart,

he noticed that the big open square in front of the sta

tion, as well as the nearby streets, were almost deserted.

In the empty streets he heard the clumping, regular

tread of the pairs of sentinels, and now and then a grey

military car roared past him, a waving swastika pennant

on the radiator.

To find out how well he remembered the language,

Anton tried to talk to the silent porter. The tall, strong-

looking boy did not reply. When Anton stood still and

repeated his question, the boy shrank away from his

cart, raising his arm as though he feared a blow. Anton

called to him to come closer and get his tip, but the boy,

apparently afraid that this was designed to lure him

within reach, vanished swiftly into a sidestreet. Anton

picked up his bag and carried it the rest of the way to

the small hotel. At the entrance an old waiter received

him with low bows, took his

baggage and murmured in

broken German that he would show him to his room.


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




The room was on the top floor. In the linoleum-carpet

ed corridors through which they passed dusty soldier's

shoes and high riding boots stood before the doors.

Anton slept soundly and long in the soft bed. In the

morning, after washing and shaving carefully, he put

on his grey suit and went down to the small dining room

for breakfast. The room was filled with men in uniform

who talked boisterously as they consumed big, crumbling

slices of white bread with several cups of good coffee.

After breakfast Anton still had an hour to kill before

he was due to report to the Gestapo office, which was

across the river, near the Burg. He asked the old waiter

for directions, learned that he had plenty of time and

decided to take a walk through the Old City.

He crossed the broad Wenzelplatz, where scattered

modern buildings stood in the midst of grey old pat

rician dwellings. Then, he strolled through narrow,

crowded business streets until he reached the stout old

Gunpowder Tower. The massive Tower, looming slant

wise above arched gateways, seemed to close off the

street. Anton did not feel strange in these streets, al

though this was his first visit to Prague. The churches,

shop windows and portals reminded him of his native

city. Centuries of similar development and similar cul

ture had stamped the character of both cities. Here, too,

the long red swastika banners seemed as out of place as

bloody welts on a peaceful, venerable countenance.

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When Anton finally emerged from the dark tangle

of the Inner City on the bank of the Moldau, he saw

across the river, shimmering in a faint haze, the magicalvision of the high Hradschin. All around the old castle

were delicate spires and walls, and down to the shore,

like gigantic steps, were a succession of smaller palaces.

Among them stood clumps of trees and beautiful gar

dens, resplendent with the tender green of spring. Anton

crossed one of the long bridges that spanned the broad

stream and slowly climbed up to the Tower. Through

out his walk he kept meeting detachments of the Ger

man army of occupation. And throughout his walk he

had the feeling that he did not stand out among the few

timid natives who were in the streets. When he asked

directions in Czech he was answered politely and found

the old Ducal Palace without difficulty. His headquart

ers was located within the thick walls of this ancient

building.

From the medieval sentry-box near the main gate

stepped a heavily-armed guard who demanded his pa

pers. Anton identified himself and was then turned

over to another guard who led him through corridors

and up stairways to an old assembly hall, where he was

instructed to wait. He had time to study the large oil-

painted battle-pieces on the walls; they, were enclosed in

the same kind of ornate gold frames as the pictures inthe Vienna Imperial Museums.

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One of the tall wooden doors opened and Anton's

name was called. He entered a small room, whose ceil

ing had the same far-flung arch as the hall, and found

himself facing a young Gestapo officer. The man's chest

was covered with medals, most of which Anton did not

recognize. The officer did not get up from the enormous

baroque desk at which he sat. He nodded to the guard,

indicating that he wished to be alone with Anton. Anton

noticed now that his uniform bore the insignia of very

high rank. The man's narrow head with its straggly

light-blond hair was the kind of head one would expect

a German tax-collector or assessor to have; he had the

forehead of a man who could understand orders and

learn them by heart, the eyes of one who knew how to

obey, a mouth that could say "yes" easily and bawl out

subordinates with equal ease. His face was so ordinary

and impersonal that Anton thought he might fail to

recognize him if he should meet him an hour afterwards

in the street. He would have to remember the man's

insignia, for therein lay his entire personality.

The man looked up from the papers he had been ex

amining.

"You have relatives in the Pilsen district?" he said

in an unpleasant, ugly voice which he obviously con

sidered benevolent. Anton said yes.

"We have a special mission in mind for you. Youspeak Czech." Again Anton said yes.

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"Your record before, during and after the Anschluss

of the Ostmark is satisfactory. You have already proved

that you have the ability to act energetically on your

own initiative." His small sharp eyes gazed penetrating

ly at Anton; then he went on, speaking even faster than

before: "What we need desperately here are men who

can give us reliable information on the secret leagues

and organizations the Czechs have set up. Arrests and

executions aren't enough; we must know what they're

up to. . . Your uncle and his son were both arrested

with the other "Sokols" in their village. I'll order both

of them released . . . and you can let it be known that

it was you who persuaded the authorities to take this

step. ...""Why, will I see them?" Anton asked in amazement.

"Look here, Redtenbacher!" The gentle, ugly voice

strove to be even more benevolent. "We're giving you

a big chance. We've studied your record. You were

picked for reliability, discipline, courage, knowledge of

the language and close relations among the native pop

ulation. I don't doubt that you'll prove worthy of the

confidence of the Fuehrer and of those to whom he has

delegated his authority. We're sending you as though

by chance to this village where your relatives live. You'll

establish contact with them, but on the quiet, behind our

backs, so to speak. Win their confidence, systematicallyingratiate yourself —that's the first thing. By and by you

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start finding out a few things—especially what's really

going on in these Sokols . . . Once a month, let's say the

fifth of every month, you'll come up here and make a

detailed report. Naturally, if you make any special dis

coveries you're to report them immediately. Our district

commandant there will be instructed. You're to main

tain contact with him, but you're directly responsible to

headquarters here in Prague. If you do this big job the

way you've done smaller jobs before, Redtenbacher, I

can congratulate you in advance —you'll be an officer of

the Gestapo by Christmas. I needn't tell you the kind

of career any one of us has a chance to make in these

times!"

Anton stood stiffly. Not a muscle in his face twitched.

He knew very well that the slightest hesitation, the first

uncertain question, would inevitably render him suspect.

At the same time he had the vague feeling that this new

assignment was a part of the road he had to travel, wasa preparation for the work he connected in his mind

with Lydia's picture. "Thank you, sir," he said. A mo

ment later he was turned over to an aid who instructed

him in the details of his mission.

By afternoon Anton was again on a train, this time

riding second class—there were no first class cars in

this passenger train. He sat alone in a window seat and

watched the passing landscape. Gradually the countryside grew hilly; waving fields of grain, dense forests,

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large ponds and small lakes flew by, and over even the

smaller ponds gulls circled.

Anton tried to recall his uncle's modest home. It had

stood close to the factory, the last of a row of similar

low, close-packed houses. Next to it was the yellow,

three-storey dwelling with columned entrance and round

towers that was known in the village as "the palace."

Here the factory manager lived. The palace stood in an

open square. Opposite, along the width of the factory,

the street ran to a small bridge. Below this bridge the

river flowed along the foundation of the factory. If,

however, you walked along the front of the palace, you

found yourself crossing a longer bridge, for the river

widened here. This bridge led to the crowded older

section of the town. Here stood old factories and anc

ient homes, as well as the school Anton had attended.

There was not too much he could remember. But just

beyond the

bridge was the

pastry shop that smelled so

wonderful when you stopped to buy the delicate white

cookies that were no bigger than your thumb. They dis

solved so sweetly on the tongue that they were popular

ly known by the Czech word meaning "little kiss." He

remembered, too, the bumpy cobblestone road in the

street where his uncle lived; the cobbles were small,

round stones that soon gave way to clay and mud-

puddles.He remembered his aunt well, for a picture of her had

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always hung in his mother's room. His uncle had worn

straggly whiskers. There had been no children in the

house. It occurred to him as he thought of this that his

cousin, of whom his mother had occasionally told him,

must by now be a grown man. Old enough, at any rate,

for the Gestapo to put behind bars. He reckoned back

and discovered to his amazement that it was almost

thirty years since he had spent a winter in this country.

Through the train window he saw a German military

car stop on the highway because a flock of geese had

blocked the road. At every honk of the horn they

stretched their long white necks and honked wildly

themselves. The train rounded a curve and stopped

at a small station; on the wall was painted the name of

Anton's destination. He took his bags and sprang down

from the train. This little station, too, was heavily

guarded by soldiers. After satisfying the curiosity of

the commander of the guard, Anton took his seat in a

small hotel bus which was to take him to police head

quarters in the town square. Already it was almost dark.

During the short ride, Anton saw many new houses and

factories; the town seemed far larger and more impos

ing than he remembered it.

The officer in command at headquarters was away

when Anton arrived. He had left word, however, for

Anton to take a room in the small hotel opposite the

headquarters building and to report again at eight the

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following morning. Anton looked at his watch, gave

his baggage to the sleepy bellboy and set out to find his

aunt's house. The streets had changed so much since

his childhood, there were so many new and handsome

buildings, that at first he had difficulty finding his way.

The main square itself had once been merely an irreg

ular space between the row of modern buildings higher

up and the low-lying border of old, one-storey houses.

Now two parallel paved streets ran through i t ,

one on

the upper, one on the lower level. Along the upper

level street arow of handsome shade trees had been set

out, and the street was lined throughout with tall build

ings. The cobblestones in the street leading down to

the palace had also been replaced b y

smooth asphalt.

Where once the pastry shop had stood alone beyond the

bridge, i twas now surrounded b y

buildings, so that he

almost passed i tby. The show window was filled with

luxurious cakes, but in one corner he saw abowl con

taining the delicate white cookies of his youth, piled in

atantalizing pyramid. Anton went in and bought abag

ful of them. He intended them as a present for his

aunt, but he could not resist tasting afew and thought

fully letting them melt on his tongue.

The electric lights of the nearby cafe were already

on. Now, lights gradually winked on in all the sur

rounding buildings. By the light of the rather sparsestreet lamps Anton saw gloomy, careworn faces that re

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minded him of the workers in the Vienna suburbs. The

impression grew stronger and more disconcerting as he

approached the palace and heard the long-drawn howl

of the factory siren. A moment later a stream of home

ward-bound men and women poured out of the factory.

He reached the narrow alley where the low, grey

house of his uncle stood. The irregular cobblestones

were still there, a little more worn, perhaps, but un

changed. Anton stepped into the arched hallway and

pulled the old bell-cord. After a long silence he heard

footsteps slowly approaching the door, and a small win

dow opened. "Who's there?" a woman's voice asked in

Czech. The voice was startlingly like his mother's.

"Toni from Vienna," Anton said pleasantly, as though

he had been absent no more than a week.'

"Who?" The door opened. "Jesus, Maria . . . Toni !"

She drew him in, and switched on the light. Then she

threw her arms around him and kissed him, while jerky

sobs shook her plump body. She released him, placed

her hands on her hips and wiped her eyes with the rim

of her apron. "What a surprise," she said, in unspoiled

Viennese German. "My, how big you are. But I would

have recognized you by your blue eyes."

She pushed him along in front of her into the simple,

spotlessly clean living room. Along one narrow wall

stood the most prominent piece of furniture in the room:a tall china closet of polished oakwood that contained

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pretty porcelain bowls, silver jugs and other small, or

namental tableware.

"How is mother?" she asked, and took a seat oppositeAnton. Anton began to tell her about home. He gave

her the bag of cookies, and they both ate busily as they

talked.

Suddenly his aunt's eyes began to blink, as though

she had suddenly recalled the tragic events of the past

months, which she had temporarily forgotton in the sur

prise of Anton's visit. Anton saw the deep marks of

grief in her plump face. "I'm alone with the girls," she

said. "They took both of them away from me, uncle and

Frantisek. It's weeks now—they just came and took

them. ...""I have good news for you, Aunt Peppi," Anton in

terrupted. "They'll both be back by tomorrow at the

latest."

"What's that?" She stared at him wide-eyed.

"I've just come from Prague. They promised me. . . "

"Toni! Have you become a big shot?" She shrank

away from him as the significance of his words came to

her. "Toni . . . are you . . . are you with them?"

"I'll explain that to you later on, maybe tomorrow.

Now tell me about yourselves and don't get excited

again. Everything will be all right." He spoke with a

conviction that surprised

himself.

"Never again, Toni," she said, and again her eyes

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began to blink. "Things will never be the way they

once were. Too many horrible things have happened

here. ..." They heard the front door slam. "That's the girls

coming from the factory," his aunt said, and wiped her

eyes hastily before her daughters entered. "We have a

visitor," she called to them, "a nice visitor," she added

as the tw<5 hesitated shyly at the door; "Toni from Vienna." She added a few words in Czech, speaking so

fast that Anton did not understand. "These are the

twins," she said, turning to Anton. "Your mother must

have told you about them. They weren't born yet when

you were here. . . Yes, it makes us realize how old we

are."

The two slender, well-dressed blonde girls gazed at

Anton out of lively brown eyes, and shook hands with

him. They were about eighteen years old, and had pert

little uptilted noses and round, soft cheeks. They tried

to say a few words in German, but immediately glided

into their own language when Anton jokingly replied

with a bit of Czech gallantry that he still remembered.

Then he looked at his watch and said he must go.

"You must promise to come again tomorrow," his

aunt said. "Where are you staying, anyway?"

Anton gave the name of his hotel. When he turned

his back to the girls, he seemed to feel their searching,

suspicious gaze upon him.

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He returned by the same route he had come. Al

though it was still early, the streets were almost deserted.

Pairs of German guards in steel helmets patrolled the

bridge.

Anton slept fitfully that night, awakening frequently.

The bed was hard and none too clean ; a vague, dampish

odor suggested the presence of vermin. Several times

Anton turned on the light and inspected the lumpy quilt.

He was too warm when he kept himself covered with i t ,

too cold when he threw i toff the bed.

He became more and more aware of his difficult po

sition; he had to keep the confidence of the authorities

and of his relatives at the same time. The suspicious

glances of his aunt's pretty daughters and his aunt's

own incredulity worried him. Would he be able to

keep up this infernal rope-dance? In Prague i thad

seemed easy to him, especially when he thought of

Lydia. But here? And suppose he could not? Would

he use his candid face and his frank, honest eyes to de

ceive these oppressed, tormented people, to find out their

secrets ? Would he finally be defeated b ythe refined,

intricate system of supervision? And i fhe were, would

not that mean the loss of everything, of all self-respect

and sense of decency? In that case, would i tnot have

been better to have followed the example of the Austrian

officer right at the beginning, to send a

bullet into hisown brain ?

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Toward morning he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And when he arose and stood before the wash-basin in

the bright sunlight that poured in through the open win

dow, the spectres of the night seemed utterly vanished.

He felt a profound strength within himself, a joyous

confidence that he would not yield; that, if necessary, he

would find a thousand roundabout ways and a thousand

disguises in order to deceive this greatest of deceivers,

in order to restore order and decency.

He reported punctually at headquarters. The head of

the Civil Guard Division, a big-boned East Prussian with

the lean face of a good watchdog, gave him his general

orders. He then turned him over to an officer whom he

introduced to Anton as Commissar Strehse. Strehse was

a Saxon. His lips were thick, his straw-blonde hair was

combed straight back from his receding forehead, and

his chin was cleft under his wide mouth. The hair on his

temples already had a

silvery sheen; his

greenish eyes

shifted uneasily behind polished glasses as he talked.

At times his eyes were still for a moment, and then a

hard gleam was visible. But this was never for more

than a moment. He showed Anton to his desk and in

structed him in his duties.

At noon Strehse suggested to Anton that they lunch

together in the restaurant on the opposite corner of the

town square. Over a few glasses of stinging Pilsnerbeer he grew talkative.

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"A hell of a town, this," he said to Anton. "Not a

single decent place to eat or drink in the whole town.

A pampered Viennese like you won't like i t ,

let me tell

you. In Dresden, too, we had i tpretty good. But what

can we do—our duty to Greater Germany comes first. . .

The only things worthwhile here," he went on, nudg

ing Anton with his elbow, "are the dolls." His green

eyes blinked meaningfully. "In the textile factory over

there beyond the bridge there are some nice pieces, be

lieve me. Good Slavic bodies. . . Some marvelous broads,

believe me." And as though he had just swallowed a

juicy morsel, he wiped his thick lips with the paper

napkin.

Anton's stomach turned. I twas hardly pleasant to

think of this greying philistine with his ridiculous

paunch playing the Casanova among young girls.

"You seem to be quite aman with the ladies, Herr

Strehse," he said, forcing himself to look at the man

with an admiring gaze.

"Well, I take i tmore or less in line with business,"

Strehse replied. "With alittle gallantry you can often

get more out of these girls in asingle night than you

can in days of examining these goddamn stubborn men."

"No doubt you've already had considerable experi-

"So so, thanks. Iwork myself to death for the cause."

He giggled foolishly.

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After lunch the two went back to the office. The

Saxon immediately put on his most businesslike man

ner and with exhausting loquacity continued to instruct

Anton in his duties.

It was somewhat later than the previous evening when

Anton once more entered his aunt's gloomy hallway

and pulled the old bell-cord.

This time the door was opened quickly. One of the

two sisters greeted him and led him into the living

room. The family was at supper, sitting around the

oval table. All stood up when Anton entered. He saw

the square-set figure of his uncle, whose beard was as

straggled as ever, but had changed color. It was not

yet white, but it was considerably lighter. The uncle's

voice was deep and calm as ever, and his speech delib

erate. "Your aunt has already told us about you," he

said. "Come, sit down at our table. ..."

While Anton was shaking hands with his uncle, hethought he heard a low, excited exchange of words bet

ween his aunt and his young cousin, whom he had only

seen for a moment. Then a door slammed and the

young man was gone before Anton had a chance to greet

him.

"I'm sorry, Toni," his aunt said. "Frantisek will be

back later. He just remembered that he has to report

over at the factory, so that he can start work in the

morning. ... I hope you'll take potluck with us."

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"I didn't expect to at all," Anton said. "I just wanted

to say hello and see if everything's all right. Are you

sure I'm not intruding? ...""Come, no exaggerated politeness now," he heard

his uncle murmuring, and he remembered that this was

one of the old man's favorite phrases.

They all sat down. Conversation was halting. How

ever, there was plenty of food, and it was all good. After

supper the girls helped to clear away the dishes and

then joined their mother in the kitchen.

Anton's uncle took out a bottle of brandy and some

cigarettes. He and Anton sat down in the bay window

near the china closet.

The old man slowly poured two glasses of brandy.

He held the glass toward Anton and then drained it all

at once.

"You got us out of jail, Anton," he said slowly,

weighing every word. "I thank

you for that . . . But

you must tell us what it all means. . . Do they know at

headquarters that you come here to us ? . . . How do you

stand; where do you stand? We must know, or it's go

ing to be unpleasant for all of us."

Anton, too, gulped down his glass of brandy and

put it back on the table. "I've been transferred here," he

said, "because I know the language. . ."

"As an interpreter?""Yes, an official interpreter. . . . Naturally they know

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I'm visiting you. If they didn't know, they'd find out. . . .

They're efficient, our German brothers."

"That's what Frantisek says. He says they must know.

And there's no need for exaggerated politeness. He

says they've sent you here to spy on us. That's why he

wouldn't sit at the same table with you. . ."

The old

man spoke gravely, in a composed, moderated voice.

Anton had anticipated some such reaction, but it had

come sooner than he thought. Nevertheless, he was glad

his uncle had posed this delicate question now.

"If you'd rather I didn't come any more," he replied

without embarrassment, "I'll stay away. ...""What are you thinking of, Anton?" the old man in

terrupted him. "We're grateful to you in any case. Who

knows what might have happened to the family if the

boy couldn't work any more. He was always a good,

quiet boy. He did his work well and spent most of his

time over books

—neither talked much, nor went out

too

often. But since the ocupation he's seen so many un

believable things—and he's changed. . . . The way they

examined him up there in Tower, I was afraid some

thing bad would happen. . . . He's like a good horse, my

boy is; he won't take blows."

"Did they hit him?"

"They beat us all. . . But it didn't do them any good."

"The swine!" Anton's face flushed with rage as the

word burst from him.

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




The old man gripped his hand. "That's enough for

me, Toni," he said slowly. "Now I know where you

stand. It will be better if you and I say no more about

it. And I wish you'd have a talk with the boy one of

these days— just the two of you. Maybe he can learn

from you not to be rash. ..."Aunt Peppi came in from the kitchen and sat down

beside them, her knitting on her knees, very much like

Anton's mother. They talked of the old days and for a

while they forgot the present. Later, one of the two

sisters came in with a basket of fresh cherries. Frantisek

did not return.

Anton was pleased when the occupation authorities

began to call upon him frequently to act as interpreter.

It was a task that gave him both insight into local con

ditions and practice

in the language. At times, however,

he was appalled at the brutal insouciance with which the

life or death of the Czechs was decided. In Vienna—

except in the cases of Jews and of so-called enemies of

the State—the Nazis had preserved the semblance of

orderly procedure. But here no one, of whatever race

or class, had any rights at all. People were casually ar

rested and sent to Prague, or they were simply stood up

against a wall and shot."The country hasn't enough jails," Strehse remarked

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to Anton in reference to one such case. "We have to do

our best with what we have. Anyway, they all have

something on their consciences. Every Czech we knock

off is a gain for the Reich. If you want my advice, the

best way I know is to report them 'shot while trying to

escape'. You get me, don't you? Then nobody can

complain; everything is squared up."

Anton had often heard of this special Gestapo method,

but this was the first time anyone had ever openly re

commended it to him. From then on he tried to avoid

lunching with Strehse. It was not easy; the fat Com

missar seemed to have taken a liking to him.

"I've discovered a new doll," he said one day, raising

his glass of Pilsner beer, "a marvelous piece, believe

me. I'm going to wait for her this evening and take her

out in my car. That goes to their heads like a glass of

champagne. . ."

That evening Anton was sitting in his aunt's living

room when one of the twin sisters came panting into

the house, her cheeks flaming and her whole body trem

bling. She said that a strange man had waited for her

on the street corner and tried to lure her into his car.

He must have been one of the occupation officers in

civilian dress; he could hardly speak a word of Czech.

When she refused, he had grabbed her arm and tried

to drag her into the car by force, but she had managedto slip away and run home.

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Anton did not voice his suspicions to the family. But

the following morning he reported the incident to his

commandant."Can you swear to it?" the man bellowed, drawing

his chin up above his high white collar. Anton said yes.

The Prussian became cold and business-like. "We don't

stand for playing around with women while on duty,"

he growled. "It was your duty to report this and I'll

pass on your information. Thank you."

He was good as his word, for a week later Strehse

informed Anton with a sickly smile that he was being

transferred to a more interesting post in a neighboring

district.

The time for Anton's first report to Prague drew

nearer, and he became uneasy whenever he thought of

it. Anton was now having dinner with his aunt's family

twice or three times a week, and his young cousin sat

at the table—obviously under pressure from his parents.

But Frantisek never took part in the conversations; he

claimed he could not understand a word of German,

which was always spoken at table in honor of Anton.

Whenever Anton spoke to him in Czech, he replied curt

ly in monosyllables. But Anton always felt Frantisek's

dark-brown eyes gazing searchingly at him. And in his

turn Anton observed his cousin. He liked the boy's

gravity, his handsome, tanned face topped by curly

blonde hair, and the graceful movements of his muscles.

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The more he saw of him, the more convinced he be

came that this young man knew all the secrets of the lit

tle town, that he was involved in all the clandestine illegal activities the German authorities were so eager to

uncover.

On the eve of Anton's departure for Prague he found

himself for the first time alone with Frantisek in the

living room. It seemed to have happened by chance.

His uncle had been delayed at the factory and his aunt

was in the kitchen with her two daughters, preparing

supper.

The two sat in silence for a while. Then the young

man spoke suddenly.

"Mother says you're going to Prague," he said in

Czech. "I suppose you'll report what you've spied out

about us. . . ."

"That won't be very much," Anton laughed. He felt

glad that the cold silence between them was at lastbroken.

"If you really mean to help us, as father and mother

say, you can do something for our people who are still

locked up in the Tower. None of them has done any

more than what father and I did."

"What can I do for them?"

Frantisek took a crumpled piece of paper from his

pocket.

"Here is a list," he said. "None of the people on

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the list are alive any more. You can tell the Gestapo

bloodhounds in Prague that you got the list from me,

and that it's the complete list of the ringleaders amongour Sokols. If they believe you they'll release the others;

if they don't, the worst they can do is shoot me for try

ing to trick them. ..."Without hesitation, Anton reached for the paper.

"Give it to me," he said. "I'll try i t ,

anyway."

For the first time he saw aflicker of gratitude and

dubious trust in his cousin's brown eyes. And he him

self felt doubly grateful. For now he had abasis for

his report. '

: i ^ j

While Anton waited in the spacious assembly hall of

the Ducal Palace, he thought he heard alively alterca

tion in the commandant's office. Several times the high

oaken door was thrown open and slammed shut again;

guards and officers hurried past him. Inside he heard

the ugly voice that had explained his assignment to

him in such mild and benevolent tones. Now the voice

was angry and broke into excited falsetto tones. "We'll

wipe them out," he could hear clearly, even through the

thick wood of the door. "Fairies like you ought to work

in aladies' seminary. Get hold of the wives and chil

dren of the men who escaped.

Start with Intimidation

Scheme II, at once! Post awarning in both languages

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that the hostages will be shot immediately if there is one

more slightest disturbance of the peace." The voice

broke off with a harsh oath. After a brief pause Anton

heard several men apparently giving information or de

livering reports. They spoke lower and he could not

make out what they were saying. Finally the sound of

conversation died down. The door opened again and a

portly high official, his face red with embarrassment and

his eyes fixed on the floor, strode heavily past Anton

to the exit. A few moments later Anton's name was

called.

The commandant's thin, impersonal, undistinguished

face was pale and revealed his irritation. When Anton

entered, he waved his hand and the other agents left

the room. Each of them was visibly relieved that the

commandant had discharged his fury at someone else's

expense. However, they walked out with lowered heads,

as though they feared a sudden attack from the rear.

"Make it short," the commandant said, getting up.

I'm leaving for Berlin at noon. Did you accomplish

anything?" Anton answered briefly and handed his su

perior the list of conspirators that Frantisek had given

him.

"Are you sure this double traitor isn't tricking us?"

the officer asked. His narrow eyes looked up from per

usal of the list and gazed penetratingly at Anton. "Did

you promise the man a good reward?"

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"Nothing definite," Anton replied, a little embar

rassed. "I didn't want to anticipate the decision of

headquarters. After all, the information hasn't been

checked yet. ...""Oh, the devil with that!" the commandant barked.

He reached for a pad and hurriedly scribbled a note.

"In cases like this you have to fling the marks around—

that's what they're for, after all. We'll never get any

information for love, not here or anywhere else. I don't

think much of this list the man gave you. But it gives

you a good pretext to toss him some bait. Take this,

cash it in Room 23, and pay the man. And let him know

that he'll get ten times as much from us as soon as he

does us a real service." He ripped the note from the

pad and handed it to Anton; it was an order for ten

thousand Czech crowns.

The telephone rang, and the commandant dismissed

Anton with a

gesture that indicated he could

spare no

more time for him now.

When Anton returned from Prague, he found a let

ter from his mother awaiting him. There was not much

news from Vienna, she wrote. Both she and Erna were

well, although she had not seen Erna, merely spoken to

her on the telephone. His friend Sepp had visited herto say that he had had no word from Gruber.

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Anton was bitterly disappointed. Why had Lydia re

vived his memory of her by her card just before his de

parture, if nothing was to come of it? Or had some

thing happened to her? Would he ever hear from her

again ?

The following night, when he visited his aunt, he

managed to get a moment alone with Frantisek. He

told the boy how his list had been received in Prague;

that he had been given money for him, but that he could

hold out little hope for the release of his friends, since

the commandant had been so wary. Anton had expected

an indignant refusal of the bribe. But his cousin held

out his hand, saying: "I'll give it to those whom they

have robbed of everything." And his dark eyes gleamed

at the sight of the huge sum.

Frantisek stepped closer to Anton and his voice

dropped to a whisper. "I'll give you a present in re

turn," he said

gaily, blinking his blonde lashes.

"Well?"

"There'll be war soon." A profound inner joy lit up

his handsome face, as though he were speaking of the

imminent arrival of some dear one. Anton thought of

his mother's ominous remark about the buttercards,

which Blockwart Peter had called seditious.

But this young firebrand was right, of course. Pos

sibly only the bloody flame of war could melt the chains

that were daily being forged tighter around the helpless,

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enslaved peoples of his country and Frantisek's. Almost

all those who had fought in the last war believed for the

past twenty years that nothing could be worse, nothingmore insane than war; that war was a senseless slaughter

of human beings, monstrous, meaningless destruction of

property and uprooting of all normal living. But Anton

had seen that there were worse things than this.

"How do you know?" he asked, and unintentionally

his voice became stern and officious.

Frantisek shrank away from him and gazed at him

askance, as though all his suspicions had returned. But

he could no longer contain his knowledge; the words

burst forth. "We have secret information from our

people in England. France and England are arming.

Probably Russia will join them. They'll march before

next fall."

"And what about all of you here?"

"We. . . ? Our whole people will rise in revolt when

the armies of our allies march. We'll wipe them out;

we'll exact tenfold vengeance for every one of our vic

tims!"

"If war comes," Anton said, "they'll guard you more

closely than ever before. Every attempt at revolt will be

suicidal. No methods will be too terrible for them. Iknow them well. They're strong and their soldiers are

tough. In war they'll be

stronger still,

perhaps stronger

than all the others. ..."120


/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




The young Czech did not answer. He bowed his head,

but his eyes gleamed fiercely. "You don't belong to us,

after all," he said slowly.

From then on he was as distrustful and reticent as

ever in Anton's presence. He did not relent even when,

several weeks later, most of his comrades in the town

were released. Anton never found out whether their

release had anything to do with his report, or whether

it was merely an application of the general instructions'

to the occupation troops to "systematically ingratiate"

themselves. In any case, other Czechs were arrested to

take the place of the released men. The factory director,

who lived in the "palace," his secretary, and a bookkeep

er of his firm were among the new arrests. They were

charged with clandestinely sending money abroad.

Frantisek, too, who worked in the export division of the

factory, was examined closely, but he was not arrested.

Anton acted as

interpreter during the

questioning.While these investigations were in progress, the time

for Anton's report to Prague arrived. Since he was

temporarily indispensable, his superiors in the town re

quested that he be permitted to postpone his report a

month. The request was granted, and the next month

passed in long and wearisome hearings. As the time for

his report again approached, Anton wondered what he

would say. Perhaps it would be best to report that he

had not yet accomplished anything and doubted he

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would ever penetrate the secrets of the underground

movement in the town.

A few days before his scheduled departure came the

news of the German invasion of Poland. This time there

was fighting, and this time, too, the Powers declared

war on Germany. A week of feverish expectancy surged

through the little town. Anton saw the expression of

hope in the eyes of his cousin and the rest of the towns

people. But as yet no revolt could be risked. The guards

at street intersections, bridges and the railroad station

were doubled. An entire German army division paraded

through the streets of the town for hours, on its way

north. At the same time, a new wave of arrests spread

over the entire country.

Anton's train to Prague left late, and was forced to

stop several times on the way. The midsummer sunshone with undiminished intensity upon the metal roofs

of the cars. During one long stop Anton went to get a

cold drink, and returning entered the wrong car by mis

take. In the corridor he encountered the Saxon Com

missar, Strehse, who had been transferred because of

his excessive interest in the factory girls.

"Aha, my young friend from Vienna," the man

greeted him. "One of the hottest days in the year, letme tell you. You on your way to Prague, too ?"

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Anton said yes. They talked a while, and Anton

learned that Strehse was escorting a number of persons

who had just been arrested to the Prague headquarters.

He had them stowed away in a locked compartment of

the train, he said. The rest of the train was crowded

with soldiers.

Strehse's green eyes shifted uneasily behind his thick

glasses as he talked. "Every one of them," he said, "al

ready has his ticket to Dachau or one of the other sum

mer resorts. And they take an express from there straight

to Heaven. Most of them haven't any idea where they're

going ; some of them are even looking cheerful. There

are a couple of women, too—two swell dames. A

blonde and a brunette. I wouldn't mind giving them a

better time than they'll get in the camp. ..."Anton felt disinclined to continue the conversation.

He said he had to look after his bags, and fled. As he

passed the locked

prisoners' compartment, he glanced

through the glass of the door. A violent tremor ran

through his whole body—he had recognized Lydia, sit

ting in one of the window seats. His momentum carried

him past, and he was not sure whether or not she had

seen him.

Anton's long training stood him in good stead. He

knew that now he must not make a single move. And

so he walked on as though nothing had happened. Hereached his seat and sat down, outwardly calm. But his

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mind was in turmoil. Lydia was condemned to death;

the Commissar had as much as told him this. He dared

not even think of the cruelties and torment in store forher before she died. Was there anything he could do

to save her ? Even as he asked himself this question he

knew that he was prepared to face any peril for her, pre

pared to die in her stead if need be. But what could he

do ? If it were only a matter of shooting down the re

pulsive Saxon who was escorting the prisoners, he

would not have hesitated a moment. He could feel no

remorse for taking the life of this murderer, who, by his

own admission already had the lives of hundreds of in

nocent human beings on his conscience. . . But it was no

good to kill Strehse; the train was full of soldiers. And

how would she escape? The compartment was locked

from the outside and Strehse probably had the key. The

train was heavily guarded, as was the entire railroad in

time of war.

Beads of perspiration formed on Anton's brow. Had

he found her after so long, only to sit passively a few

yards away from her, knowing she was doomed, and un

able to aid her? His temples throbbed painfully; he

saw no solution. Hours passed. The time was grow

ing shorter; before long they would arrive in Prague

and then there would no longer be any chance at all.

It was already growing dark outside; cool air, mingledwith streamers of smoke, poured in through the half

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open window. Anton recognized a castle standing in a

large park on the edge of a forest. Now they were barely

an hour and a half from Prague. Something had to

happen. He got up. He would go over and talk with

Strehse. He felt that he had to be near her, at least; see

her and wait for his chance.

As he entered the corridor, he saw the Commissar

leading a blonde woman, who had just come from the

washroom, back to the compartment. Strehse closed the

door behind her and carefully locked it; then he put the

key-ring with the key to the compartment back in his

pocket. There was the key. Anton knew he must ob

tain possession of it.

Strehse was standing with his back to Anton, and had

not yet noticed him. The sliding doors of the other

compartments were almost all open to admit the eve

ning breeze. Anton heard groups of men singing sol

dier's songs. Three or four men, their shirts unbut

toned, stood smoking in the corridor.

During the moment while Strehse's back was still

turned to him, Anton looked over the man's shoulder

and caught Lydia's attention. He felt certain that she

had recognized him before, when he passed by, for

there was no surprise in her dark, glowing eyes—only

relief that he had come.

He called Strehse's name. The Commissar turned onhis heels and greeted him cordially. "Where have you

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been hiding yourself all this time?" he blustered cheer

fully. "You can't expect me to pay you a return visit;

I'm stuck here with these damned prisoners. A hell of a note, let me tell you. But I'm personally responsible

for every one of them and can't let them out of my

sight. ..."In spite of his inward turmoil, Anton forced himself

to adopt the Saxon's light tone. "I see you've been hav

ing a little fun with your female prisoners," he said.

"Fun ? I can think of better things to do than sit out

here in the corridor and keep my eye on that crew in

there."

"Why don't you go in and sit with the girls?"

"Oh, hell—in this heat, with seven in one compart

ment. Not me. I'd rather sit out here and have some

fresh air."

The brakes of the car suddenly began to screech and

the train lurched to an unscheduled stop at a small sta

tion. Evidently the heavy traffic on the line was delay

ing them again. Back of the station, beneath the thick

foliage of tall shade trees, they could see a beer garden.

Foaming glasses of light beer stood before the guests on

the uncovered wooden tables.

Strehse sighed. "If we only knew how long the train

was stopping. . . A glass of beer would hit the spot."

An idea leapt into Anton's mind. He bent out of thecorridor window and asked the conductor, who was

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standing near the track, why the train had stopped.

"Military trains ahead of us," was the answer.

"How long will we wait? Is there time for a beer

over there?"

"Plenty of time. We won't start for at least twenty

minutes. . ."

"Did you hear that, Herr Strehse?" Anton asked,

turning to the Saxon. "Plenty of time, twenty minutes

at least."

"Well, this is too good a chance to pass up. You'll

do me the favor and take over here, won't you, Redten-

bacher?"

"Of course," Anton said. "Be sure to bring me some

beer." And he took the key from the Commissar's damp

hand.

"Just in case," the Commissar said. "In case I should

miss the train."

Anton's knees shook. It seemed to him his agitation

must be obvious to the other. What had seemed impos

sible had been accomplished almost without effort. But

what now ? He looked out the window at Strehse, who

was hurrying toward the beer garden, and saw that men

were jumping down from other cars and heading the

same way. Gradually the darkness grew thicker. Lights

flickered on in the beer garden and in the train itself.

Anton hesitated no longer. He drifted casually overto the glass-windowed compartment door and waited

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until the corridor was empty. Then he looked in. Some

of Lydia's fellows were sleeping, others were staring

blankly into space. The blonde woman sitting opposite

Lydia was busily knitting. Lydia alone saw Anton's

face at the glass pane. She seemed alert and tense. He

felt he could communicate with her without words. He

raised his hand and showed her the key. At once she

stood up and indicated by pointing that she wished to

go to the washroom. Anton opened the door and she slid

past him into the corridor. He closed the door behind

her at once. One of the older men in the compartment

lifted his eyes in astonishment for a moment when she

brushed past him, but immediately relapsed into his

gloomy abstraction. How strange it i s ,

Anton thought,

it's all working out as though i thad been planned. "A

spade," he heard someone say from the adjoining com

partment, where soldiers were playing cards. He took

Lydia b y

the hand and drew her around the corner of

the compartment, where they could not be observed.

"Your life depends on this," he breathed, hoarse with

excitement.

"I know," she replied coolly. Her voice still rang

with the soft bell-tone, but i twas hushed and tremulous

now. Anton realized that the calm expression of her

face as she sat near the window had been only amask.

Inwardly she was aflame, as she had been that

night in

the dead professor's apartment. Her body was tense as

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that of a doe fleeing from the hunter. She wanted to

rush past him to the door of the car. "You're mad!"

Anton exclaimed. He seized her wrist firmly and

wrenched her back. "The train is guarded. . .

"His

painful grip upon her wrist seemed to restore her com

posure somewhat. "I'll hide in the washroom and jump

off when the train starts moving," she said. "I must get

away, away." Her eyes, her whole trembling body,

pleaded desperately with him.

Anton relaxed his grip, but he held her right hand

firmly.

"We have fifteen minutes yet," he said. "The Com

missar won't be back for fifteen minutes. We must think

out some plan. . . If you jump from the moving train,

you'll break your neck."

Her face suddenly grew radiant, as though a revela

tion had come to her. "The emergency signal," she

said, and looked up at the lead-weighted red lever on

the wall above Anton's head. "I'll pull the emergency

signal, wait until the train has slowed down, and

then . . ."

"We haven't time for that," Anton interrupted.

"When the Commissar comes back he'll see at once that

you're missing. The washrooms will be the first place

they look. . ."

"We can pull the shade on our compartment door. . .""He wouldn't fail to notice that. His business is to

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watch the prisoners. . . And even if we succeeded in

getting you off the train, what then?"

"Then I'll be free and I'll make my way as I always

have before!" She threw her head back in a resolute,

graceful movement, and her brown hair swirled defi

antly.

"Do you have any friends who could hide you? Do

they know whom you're connected with ? Would they

have any trail to follow?"

A sudden transformation came over Lydia's features.

Again he felt her dark eyes gazing hostilely at him, as

on the first night they had met. Her eyes seemed to ask

whether this strange attempt to rescue her was no more

than an old trick to extract from her the secrets that no

torture could make her reveal ?

Anton guessed her thoughts. "You needn't answer

my questions," he said, looking squarely into her eyes.

"But just in case, I'll give you my aunt's address. They

won't look for you there. . ." He took his note pad,

tore out a sheet of paper and wrote down his aunt's

name and address.

"Thank you," she said, taking the paper from him.

Her tone was guilty, and with her glowing eyes she

apologized to him for her unjust suspicions.

Anton started suddenly. He had glanced down at

his watch and seen that already thirteen minutes hadpassed since he had spoken to the conductor. Seven

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more minutes. And they still had no more than a vague

plan for saving Lydia. Already he could envision the

inevitable failure: Strehse would come to the door and

the whole childish plot would burst like a shimmering

soap-bubble. As he pictured the Saxon's cynical ex

pression, he recalled a remark the man had once made

to him: "Report them 'shot while trying to escape'; then

nobody can complain."

The solution came to him in a flash. It was fascinat

ing; he would use the man's

suggestion against him

self.

"Listen," he said to Lydia, "I still don't see where

and how I'm going to hide you until the train pulls

out, but I know what to do afterward. I know this

section of the country well. A few minutes' ride from

here those woods over there extend almost to the tracks.

Further down the slope there's a river. I'll pull the

emergency signal. In the first confusion, as soon as thetrain slows down, you jump out and run into the woods.

I'll pursue you before the others are alarmed and keep

firing in the dark until you find me. I'll lead you to

the river. Then I'll go back to the train and report you

shot while trying to escape."

Lydia had listened tensely to him. "Will you really

do so much for me ?" she said in a soft, tremulous voice.

But Anton paid no attention; he was immersed in his

plan, anxiously trying to pick out weak spots. "You

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must leave some identifying paper in your coat, and leave

the coat in the bushes along the shore about a hundred

yards down the river. Hang it so that it will appear to

have drifted ashore there. Then I can say I shot you

while you were swimming the river and saw your head

go under. If we're lucky, they'll find the coat next day.

Then you'll be officially dead and won't be troubled

any more."

Lydia shook with suppressed laughter. The hope that

Anton held out to her was so intoxicating that she forgot

the present danger. It was as though all the tension of

her excitement broke forth in this hysterical laugh,

which she could hardly control.

At that moment the locomotive whistle blew three

short, high-pitched blasts. An icy chill gripped Anton.

What help was all this plotting when there was no

place to hide Lydia. Through the car window he could

see the Commissar and the other passengers hurryingfrom the beer garden to the train. Lydia's flushed face

lost color and the laugh froze on her lips. Her hand

clutched helplessly at Anton's arm. Anton felt the blood

pounding in his temples. There was not a moment to

lose; Strehse was barely fifty yards away.

"I have it," Anton exclaimed suddenly, and his blue

eyes gazed triumphantly at Lydia. "I'll take you back

to your compartment now—that's the only place you're

safe. But I'll only pretend to lock the compartment. It

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won't occur to him to test it. For the rest, we follow my

plan. As soon as the train starts to slow down, leave the

compartment . . . And don't jump too soon."

Unresisting, she allowed him to lead her back to the

compartment. He could feel by the pressure of her

hand that she understood and approved. No sooner

had he closed the door and pretended to turn the key

in the lock, than Strehse appeared at the other end of

the corridor. He seemed refreshed and in good humor.

"Well, I almost did miss the train," he said, chuck

ling as though there were something extraordinarily

funny about it. "But these Czech swine brew a beer

that makes your head ring. Here's yours. . . Thanks,

Redtenbacher," he added, handing Anton a paper cup

filled with beer and taking the key. He snapped it on

to the key ring, put the ring in his pocket and then took

out a big, colored handkerchief and wiped the sweat

from his brow. When the train started, Anton saw thathis companion was no longer too steady on his feet ; he

seemed to have difficulty keeping his balance. With a

super-keenness of mind born of his inner tension, Anton

realized at once that this unsteadiness would hamper

Strehse and help him when the moment for action

came. Every trivial thing now could make the difference

between life and death for Lydia.

He had to distract the man's attention. Any means

would do, the wildest and most foolish if necessary.

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Anton gulped down the beer, then ventured the first

idea that came to him.

"Planes," he said, and squinted out the window at the

starry sky that flew by overhead. Involuntarily, the Com

missar's eyes followed his gaze. "I don't see anything,"

he said. "Probably shooting stars you saw."

"Now they're right over that clump of trees there.

But they have queer lights—yellow and blue. . ."

Strehse bent out the open window. "Just a moment,"

Anton said, "I'll get my binoculars from my compart

ment." And without waiting for an answer, he ran

off. At the end of the corridor he looked around and

made sure that Strehse was still staring out the window.

Then he reached up and pulled the lever of the emer

gency brake so hard that the safety weight swung into

his face.

A second later a shudder ran through the entire train

and Anton was hurled against the wall. He heard the

howling, grinding and screeching of the brakes as they

gripped the tracks. In a moment he had unlatched the

exit that Lydia must use to escape. And then he felt

Lydia's slender, tense body pressing past him; he had

not even heard the compartment door open and close.

"Wait," he whispered. It seemed to him the train was

still moving too fast. But she slipped by him and stood

on the step. "No one noticed me," she breathed in thefaintest of whispers. Then he saw her leap skillfully

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from the train and vanish into the darkness of the pine

forest.

Immediately, Anton dashed into his compartment in

the adjoining car. Here his fellow-travelers were striv

ing to keep their balance and to avoid tripping over

the bags and packages that had tumbled down from the

nets. In the general confusion he grabbed his field-

glasses unnoticed and ran back down the corridor.

Strehse had lurched forward and half fallen from the

shock of the sudden stop; he was clinging to the door

knob of a compartment and trying to pull himself erect.

"Shrehse, Strehse," Anton cried as he ran toward him,

"Look after your prisoners. I'm sure I saw someone

jump from the train and run into the woods. Alarm the

guards; I'm going after him."

"What?" he heard the man gasp in dismay. But

Anton, gun in hand, was already at the steps.

"Who goes there?" someone cried from below, and

the steel helmet of a guard appeared out of the darkness.

"Gestapo," Anton replied in the same tone. He hasti

ly showed his card by the beam of his flashlight. The

guard lowered his rifle and let him pass. As Anton ran

toward the woods, he saw soldiers forming searching

parties all along the length of the train. Low commands

mingled with incisive warnings to the passengers not to

leave the train.As soon as he had gone a short way among the trees,

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he fired several shots so that Lydia could find him. She

answered from close by with a choked scream. Once

more Anton had the feeling that they could communicate without words. It was so simple. She was where

he could find her, where he had to find her.

"The danger isn't past yet," he said quickly. "You

have to face the hardest part of it now, Lydia." It was

the first time he had ever spoken her name aloud. He

could not see her in the darkness, but again their hands

touched.

"As a child I never dreamed that God would send his

guardian angel to me in the guise of a policeman," she

said, laughing a little hysterically.

There's no time for joking, Anton thought. Both of

them were doomed if his plan did not work perfectly.

Silently, carefully, he led her between the trees, hold

ing the low-hanging boughs aside. Once she slipped on

a fungus growth and lay for a moment in his arms,

breathing heavily. The woods seemed wider than Anton

had thought. But it was as he recalled: at the other

end a slope covered with willow shrubs led down to

the bank of a river.

"I must leave you now, Lydia," Anton said. Here

among the low bushes he could almost make out her

features. "If you can't find any place to hide, remember

the address I gave you. I'll be back there myself withina few days. ..."136


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Lydia did not reply.

"Don't be frightened now. I'm going to shoot sev

eral times. Stay here, hiding in the bushes, until you

hear our train pull out. Then walk down the river to

the next village. Go into any peasant's house there and

say the Germans are after you. Any Czech will help

you. . . Have you money for a railroad ticket?"

"No, they took away everything I had."

Anton hastily placed a few bills in her hand. "Good

bye, Lydia," he said.

He could not see her face, but suddenly she threw

her arms around his neck and kissed him. For a brief

moment her pliant form pressed against his body in an

impulsive expression of gratitude and trust. Then she

moved lithely away. "Fire!" she commanded softly,

holding her hands over her ears.

Anton raised his revolver and fired. When he looked

around again for Lydia, she was gone. A feeling of

joyous gratitude overwhelmed him. For the first time

he felt certain that she would escape and he would be

able to cover her flight and deceive the pursuers.

As he climbed the slope to the lower rim of the

woods he heard the heavy tread of the soldiers, the

crackle of snapping branches and low- voiced commands.

He called to the officer in command of the search. When

they met,Anton reported that he had seen the fugitivespring from the train, followed him and shot him 'while

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trying to escape.' The officer questioned him closely,

and Anton answered each question satisfactorily. Then

the search was abandoned, and shortly afterwards the

express train continued its interrupted journey.

Anton returned to his seat, wondering whether he

should avoid talking with Strehse. But he realized at

once that this would be noticed and would inevitably

make the man suspect him. He decided to go to see

Strehse and try to allay the man's suspicions—for he was

fairly sure Strehse would be suspicious anyway.

The Saxon was still wiping the sweat from his brow

with his big handkerchief. His green eyes shifted un

easily behind his thick glasses. "Absolutely a mystery,"

he exploded when he saw Anton. "Absolutely inexplic

able! . . . Did you notice anything suspicious while I

was outside, Redtenbacher?"

"Not a thing," Anton replied, and he was pleased

with himself that his voice was clear and steady.

"I questioned the other prisoners," Strehse said, and

it seemed to Anton that his thick lips twitched in an ex

pression of sly mockery. Sudden alarm assailed Anton.

He remembered that one of the prisoners, and old Czech,

had glanced up when Lydia brushed past him.

"But they all say they saw nothing," Strehse went

on. "Either that damned girl had a lock-pick on her

somewhere —though

she was searched carefully —or else

I must have forgotten to lock the door when I let that

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other girl in before. I can't believe that is possible.

"Was it one of the girls?" Anton asked. "I couldn't

see clearly enough to know.""Lucky you were right there, Redtenbacher. I con

gratulate you on your wonderful shot in the dark. . . .

Those planes with the blue and yellow lights were in

teresting, too. Too bad you didn't have time to bring

me your field-glasses."

The blow struck home. It was clear that the man's

trained mind had immediately grasped the possibility

of Anton's complicity. It may have seemed improbable

to him, but he would not dismiss the idea casually. And

although he was neither courageous enough nor sure

enough to say it openly, he wanted Anton to know his

suspicions. Probably he thinks he can frighten me into

exposing myself, Anton thought.

"In any case, I'll take the liberty of naming you as

witness when I make my report," Strehse concluded.

"And thanks, Redtenbacher."

"Glad to help where I can," Anton said, and returned

to his compartment. He knew now that he must be on

his guard. If possible,he must try to forestall the oth

er's attack as soon as they reached Prague.

While he was still considering the matter, the train

pulled into the Prague Station.

* * *

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That night, in his small hotel room near the Wilson

Station, Anton had a nightmare. He dreamt he was

fighting to the death with the Saxon Commissar. Againand again he felt the repulsive breath of his paunchy

opponent in his face and freed himself only at the last

moment from the man's stranglehold. Then he awoke.

His mind cleared slowly, but the vision remained.

"He or I!" an inner voice repeated again and again.

There was no doubt about it: it was a struggle to the

death. As he considered i t , i tseemed inevitable that one

of them would lose out in the official investigation.

And i t was equally inevitable that the clever Saxon

would do his utmost to prevent even an accusation of

neglect of duty from spoiling his record. What could

Anton do? I fhis own story were doubted, Lydia, too,

would be endangered. As yet there was no certainty

that his plan would work; her coat might not be found,

or the trick might be seen through at once. And so

much depended on this small detail.

Anton sat up suddenly in bed. A thought had flashed

into his mind that at first seemed diabolic to him. Sup

pose he himself made against Strehse the very charge

that might cost him his life? Strehse was anotorious

woman-chaser. Anton knew the Saxon's record would

reveal this, because he himself had reported the man and

was responsible for Strehse's transfer. Why should not

Anton repeat under oath the words the Commissar had

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said to him shortly before Lydia's escape: "There are

a couple of women, too—two swell dames. A blonde

and a brunette. . . " The suspicion that the leader of

the escort himself had been duped by the beautiful girl

and had contrived her escape would, once aroused, be

hard to lay. And then he, Anton, would appear to his

superiors as a clever, alert officer whose swift and reso

lute intervention had foiled the plot. The circumstantial

evidence favored Anton rather than Strehse. And An

ton could certainly locate witnesses to swear that the

Saxon had gone to the beer garden shortly before the

escape. This, too, would count against Strehse. There

were no possible witnesses against Anton, except the

other prisoners. But he was certain the Czechs would

not talk; none of them would admit having seen any

thing. Whatever charges Strehse made against Anton

would appear as a crude attempt to divert suspicion

from himself.Anton was appalled by his own scheme. Could this

be called self-defense? Could he argue away the real

significance of this and sacrifice the life of another man

because that man was a danger to him and to Lydia?

Could he use their weapons, he who had always wanted

to fight honestly for decency and order? The answer

was no longer so simple as it had once been; many of

his ideas had changed. Had it been possible to defend

peaceful Austria by peace? Could you shrink from em

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ploying the methods of an utterly ruthless foe if by those

methods you could strike him before he overwhelmed

you ? Anton remembered that he would not have hesit

ated for a moment to shoot the Saxon, if by doing so

he could have assured Lydia's safety. This present

scheme of his was far less drastic. Strehse would at

worst only be suspected; there could be no conclusive

proof one way or the other. Who knew how their su

periors would react? Moreover, Anton ran the risk of

having his own weapon turned against himself.

Toward morning, he felt utterly fagged out from

wracking his brains and fell asleep again. When he

awoke from his dreams, only the vision of Lydia re

mained. But in sleep the decision had been made; he

was resolved to enter the lists with his opponent.

When he reported

in the Ducal Palace, he was led

at once to the office of the Commandant. Here the of

ficer on duty questioned him briefly; then he was dis

armed and confined in a small room. The Saxon must

have acted fast, he told himself, and reproached himself

for not having carried out his plan that night or at least

early in the morning. But he did not lose heart. With

nerve and resolution, he could still win out at the hear

ing.It took some six hours before they came for him

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again. During this time he waited alone in a bare room.

They had promised to bring him something to eat at

noon, but no one came. Anton had time to think through

every possible question and answer over and over. When

his mind wavered from the immediate problem for a

moment, he thought of Lydia and tried to follow in his

imagination the dangerous road she must be traveling.

The consciousness that by boldly striking back at

Strehse he was helping to protect her cheered and en

couraged him.

During the hearing he remained cool and objective.

He answered every question without hesitation, with a

kind of somnambulistic sureness. There were several

lengthy interruptions. During this first day he was

questioned four separate times. That day he saw neither

the Commandant with the undistinguished assessor's

face, nor the Saxon Commissar. Toward evening some

food was brought

and at the same time an iron army

cot

was set up for him.

This went on for two days. Everything was the same,

except that the hearings grew shorter and rarer. On the

fourth day he was unexpectedly confronted with Strehse.

This time the commandant himself presided, and in his

ugly voice threw catch questions at both of them.

Strehse seemed older and in bad form. His green eyes

shifted incessantly, and often his thick lips trembled inthe midst of an answer.

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Anton was encouraged by Strehse's insecurity. Al

though he was in the wrong, he felt that his conscience

was the clearer. It was strange, he thought; things had

changed so much and yet a clear conscience was still

terribly important in a police investigation. Whenever

he looked straight into Strehse's eyes with his own clear

blue eyes, the Commissar lowered his gaze.

Anton was not told what interpretation his opponent

had put upon the incident. But from the questions and

the facial expressions of the examiners he guessed they

were trying to decide whom to believe. After the cross-

questioning both men were taken under guard back to

their rooms.

About five o'clock that afternoon Anton was again

sent for and led into the Commandant's office. "You're

free," the Commandant said without preliminary. "I had

the area of the escape searched once more and this time

traces of the fugitive were discovered which support

your story. Moreover, investigation has shown that this

is not the first time Strehse has been guilty of such der

elictions. He was mixed up with a number of women

before this and was never reported because some of

our men had a false idea of comradeship. What's more,

he threw away government funds on these women. A

poor specimen, to put it mildly. You've worked with us

long enough to understand why I had to arrest you andexamine you just as strictly as Strehse. I'm sorry that

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you've lost several valuable days because of it. We have

a big job to do in Poland and, who knows, perhaps else

where before long. I've proposed you for special service

in our Mobile Corps. Hold yourself in readiness for

marching orders within the next few days."

Anton stood stiffly at attention. He thanked his su

perior for his confidence and asked where he was to

await his orders. "At your present post," he was told.

Anton's jubilation at the success of his counterstroke

was dampened by the impending separation from Lydia.

Separation? As yet he did not know whether she had

made her way to his aunt's, whether she had made any

effort to go there. It was strange: during these last few

days in Prague he had never for a moment doubted that

if all went well he would meet her again in his aunt's

home. Instead, he had been constantly tormented by the

fear that he himself would not arrive in time to take

care of her. But now all the imps of the imagination

conspired to convince him that they would never meet

again, that he would wait in vain for some word from

her. During the whole return journey this disturbing

conviction gnawed at him.

Anton arrived in the little town late at night. When

he reported to his office next morning he found all themen intoxicated with victory. The news of the first suc

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




cessful battles in Poland made it appear certain that the

German troops and German tanks would win a quick

victory. Then, they said, England would follow her traditional role of accepting the facts and would be glad

when the Fuehrer offered a peace with honor.

Anton left at the first opportunity and hurried to his

uncle's house. His heart was pounding as he pulled the

old bell-cord. His aunt opened the door; she was alone in

the house. "Nothing new?" Anton asked as he entered.

"Nothing but German victories in Poland," she replied.

"The same thing is happening to the Poles that hap

pened to us."

Anton paled. No mention of Lydia. It was inconceiv

able that his aunt would conceal Lydia's arrival.

"You seem upset," his aunt said.

Anton considered for a moment, then decided to pre

pare her, in case Lydia came. "If somebody asks after

me", he said, "have him or her wait here for me. I'll

drop in again later."

"You've been away a long time. Will you come this

evening, Toni?"

"Thanks, I'll be glad to. Especially since I'll probably

be transferred away from here soon."

"Back home?"

"I don't know yet."

"In any

case, I'll pack

the things your

mother want

ed." She placed her hands on her hips and looked after

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




him with a worried expression as he hurried off. In his

disappointment that Lydia had not come, he had for

gotten to thank his aunt.

Early in the afternoon he again stopped at his aunt's

for a moment, but no one had been there for him.

In the evening, at supper, conversation lagged. The

news from Poland depressed them all. Anton tried to

relate some of the superficial events of his trip to

Prague, but his mind was not on what he was saying.

Suddenly the words froze on his lips. The bell had

rung. Everyone looked up. Who could be coming at

this hour?

One of the sisters went to the door and brought Anton

an official telegram that a soldier had brought from

headquarters. Anton tried to conceal the doubly pain

ful deflation of his hopes. He opened the telegram and

read: "Report in Vienna tomorrow and await orders to

depart with Eastern Group." The telegram was signed

by the Prague Gestapo headquarters.

This was what he had feared all during his ride from

Prague. Now he would be separated from Lydia when

he had only just found her. Perhaps separated for ever.

He stayed with his aunt's family longer than usual

that evening, clinging to the last to the improbable hope

that a miracle would happen, that she would appear at

the last moment. When the clock struck eleven, he roseand thanked them all for the hospitality he had enjoyed

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so often. None of them suspected how hard it was for

him to leave.

"No exaggerated politeness now," his uncle said, andshook hands with Anton in his dry, quiet fashion.

"We've all been glad to have you Anton."

Aunt Peppi hastily brought in a large package. "I

almost forgot to give you these things for your mother,"

she said. "There's a whole roast goose in here, and the

liver is wrapped separately in waxed paper. Mrs. Neme-

cek, who was in Vienna last week, told me you can pass

that much as a snack for the trip. So you won't have

any trouble with the customs. As an official you can

easily pass the woolens and the linens, as well as the

butter and eggs and the other little things. Give my love

to your mother. And the next time you come, Toni, she

must come with you. Tell her I said so."

The eyes of the twin sisters grew moist when they

saw their mother's emotion. Frantisek gazed at Anton

with grave, penetrating eyes. "Is anyone else coming

to take your place here?" he asked, extending his hand.

"I hardly think so," Anton replied.

He said goodbye to all once more. Then, at the door,

he added: "I'll drop in for a moment in the morning

to give you a letter in case the person I expect asks for

me after I leave."

"All right," his uncle replied. "We'll take care of it."

"The package!" his aunt called after him.

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"Thanks, I'll take it in the morning." Anton closed

the door behind him. He crossed the rough cobblestone

street and set out for his hotel. He had reached the

path leading up to the 'palace' when he heard steps be

hind him in the deserted street. He turned and saw

Frantisek.

The young Czech hastened up to him and whispered

excitedly: "Come right back with me. Someone has

come for you."

Anton could scarcely believe his ears. It must beLydia. The miracle had happened.

"A girl?" he asked, to settle his lingering doubts.

"A beautiful girl, a wonderful, beautiful girl !"

They had reached the street lamp over the castel gate

and Anton saw that his cousin's sullen reticence had been

replaced by the expression of frank trust that Anton had

glimpsed once before.

Frantisek took him by the hand and drew him into the

dark hallway. "If you need anything for her," he whisp

ered, "count on me. She's one of our people; she

brought me vital news from the Pilsen Sokols. If she

trusts you, I trust you too."

Anton did not answer. He was too choked with joy

ful anticipation to speak. They entered the living room.

His uncle sat alone in his armchair in the bay window.

"You have no time to lose, Frantisek," he said coolly.

"We must have a baptismal certificate and residential

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certificate for her tonight; by tomorrow everything must

be in order. We'll call her Maria Svoboda and say

she's the daughter of my late sister."

Anton looked around for Lydia. Things were hap

pening so fast his head was reeling. But the new name

pleased him. It was a common Czech name, but the

meaning of it was "liberty."

"I'll go to see Sokoup right away," Frantisek said

eagerly. "He's our former town clerk," he added, turn

ing to Anton. "He managed to save all our rubber

stamps and official seals so that he can forge any kind

of certificate with genuine signatures." Swiftly and

smoothly as a cat, he went out again.

The door of the adjoining bedroom opened and Lydia

appeared. Behind her, giggling and chattering, came

the two sisters, and then Anton's aunt.

Anton stood gazing at Lydia across the table. Her

lovely oval face smiled radiantly at him, but there was

something strange about her. Then he realized that it

was her clothes; she was wearing the bright, charming

costume of a Czech peasant girl.

His uncle rose silently and led his wife and daughters

into the bedroom. A moment later Anton felt the lace

of Lydia's peasant blouse against his throat and her lips

on his. It was as though they had belonged together

for years, as though they had been marking time duringtheir brief separation and only now awoke once more to

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the fullness of living. Questions, answers, exclamations

of astonishment and joy burst from them. Within a few

minutes each knew everything that had happened to the

other in the interval since they had parted.

Lydia's severest trials occurred during the first night

of flight. She had walked downstream along the river

for hours without finding a house she, dared enter. Twice

she had almost run into patrolling German soldiers and

had hidden only at the last moment. She had almost

collapsed from hunger and exhaustion. For several

hours she had slept among bushes and awakened half-

frozen. Shortly before dawn she had finally reached a

small village and knocked on the window of a house.

An old woman had heard her and opened the door. Sh<

was taken into the kitchen, given potato schnaps and

warm tea and put to bed. Toward noon she had awak

ened refreshed, told the old peasants her story and been

given the clothes she was now wearing. She had offeredto pay them with some of Anton's money, but they had

indignantly refused and sent her to the next village on

a wagon loaded with bricks. From then on everything

had gone smoothly, except for a few tense moments

when she had to hide again from German guards. On

the second day she had reached the railroad and might

have come to him that night if she had not had business

more important than her safety. She had gone to the

nearby town of Pilsen, where she had stayed in hiding

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for several days. Then she had taken the night express

here and easily found her way to Anton's uncle's house.

Lydia listened anxiously and her dark eyes sparkled

wantonly when Anton told her how he had overcome

his dangerous opponent. She lightly kissed away his

doubts about the ruthless methods he had employed.

"Only a man could be so scrupulous," she exclaimed.

"We women know by intuition that against these ban

dits all the bars are down." With clarity and self-as

surance she had voiced the thought he himself had

found it hard to defend before his own conscience.

Time had ceased to exist. They were still standing in

close embrace at the spot near the table where they had

found one another again. The painful realization awoke

in Anton that he must soon leave her again. He would

have to tell her. And yet, there were so many questions

he must ask before he left. He could not part from her

again without knowing what her secret work was, what

dangers she was facing, what she had done in Pilsen and

what he himself could do to help safeguard her.

As he took the telegram from his pocket, he saw by

her expression that the others had told her he would

be leaving soon.

"We still have tonight," she said, her dark eyes fixed

upon his. "But I don't think we ought to trouble your

aunt any longer. Your uncle and the children must workin the factory tomorrow and need their sleep."

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"Where will you stay?" Anton asked anxiously.

"I'll ask them. I won't stay here long in any case."

Anton knocked at the bedroom door. His aunt came

out.

"Your bed is ready," she said to Lydia. "Aninka

will sleep on the couch tonight and tomorrow we'll

make better arrangements. ...""Oh, I can't impose on you like that," Lydia replied.

"No exaggerated politeness", said the uncle, standing

in the doorway. "Our house is at your disposal as long

as you stay here in town. And I think there's no safer

place for you."

Lydia thanked them and accepted the invitation.

"Both of us have a good deal to talk over," she said,

hesitantly.

"Don't worry about us," Anton's uncle replied.

"We'll just go to bed. Good night."

"Good night," his aunt said. "And don't forget tocome for mother's package tomorrow, Toni."

"And the letter," his uncle added.

"I won't have to leave the letter now," Anton laughed.

The others left the room and once more he was alone

with Lydia. They sat down at the table, and only then

did they notice that Aunt Peppi had set out an assort

ment of sweets and a bottle of homemade rose wine

for them.

Anton got up again to make sure that no suspicious

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gleam of light shone through the windows. The high,

tightly-closed shutters reassured him; no light could

possibly penetrate through the smooth brown wood. He

knew he could easily explain his long absence from the

hotel—though it was unlikely anyone would question

him—as due to a farewell party.

As he uncorked the bottle and poured the golden

liquid into their glasses, the old clock on the sideboard

opposite the china closet began to strike. Twelve har

monious chimes sounded, and again

Anton was remind

ed of Lydia's voice. He looked into her eyes, and she

returned his gaze. Both knew they were thinking of

that midnight they had first met. Wordlessly, they

touched glasses and drank. Then, as though she were

the mistress of the house, Lydia took the bowl of sweets

and offered them to Anton. For a while they sat in

silence, letting the delicious "little kisses" melt upon

their tongues."Strange," Lydia said, "here we are far away from

home, in a strange room, sitting together as though it

were the most natural thing in the world. And yet neith

er of us knows anything about the life of the other."

She jumped up suddenly and went to the bay window.

She had noticed there a framed engraving on the wall

near the china closet. It was a print of the Stephansdom

in Vienna. She began to hum the song "Old Steffel," the

song that recounted the many trials the old cathedral

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had experienced. Anton's deep bass hummed accompa

niment. But almost at once he put his finger to his lips

to silence her, and Lydia came back to the table.

They began to question one another and to talk of

their childhood days in old imperial Vienna. Lydia

knew it only through the descriptions of her parents,

both of whom had died very young. But she knew the

Vienna that had slowly reawakened in the period bet

ween the two wars. She knew all its suffering, its sor

rows and its hopes.

And she cherished it for its un

spoiled magic and charm and its unspoilable joie de

vivre.

They found that they had lived for years in the same

district of the city, without ever having met before that

fateful night. The delicate oval of Lydia's face, seem

ing even frailer in contrast with the peasant dress,

darkened, and the fire of hatred came into her eyes as

she recalled those sad days of March when Austria hadlost her freedom.

Anton hesitated to hurt her. Yet he felt that he must

make use of the short time they still had together to

find out about her life, to learn of its wounds and its

secrets.

The strong rose wine had flushed her cheeks. She

seemed to Anton almost divinely beautiful. And finally

she consented to talk about herself.

She had been born on her father's small estate near

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the former Austrian city of Gmuend. The estate was

close to the Bohemian border, and she had learned

Czech and German at the same time. Now her com

mand of the two languages stood her in good stead.

Both her parents were dead by the time she was nine

and she had been brought up by relatives in Vienna. The

estate was sold, and the proceeds were enough to as

sure her a modest living. She fitted in easily everywhere,

and everyone was kind and friendly to her. But her life

had seemed to her dull and purposeless until her uncle,

the professor, had opened up to her the world of in

tellect. All sorts of interesting people came to his house:

musicians, students of the various arts and sciences.

There were foreigners, too: Americans and Rus

sians and Chinese. Conversation flowed free and fast,

and Lydia felt that she had probably learned more vital

things about the world in her uncle's living room than

others ever learn in time-consuming travels. Occasion

ally she had helped the professor with his work, and he

had got into the habit of dictating his letters to her.

Gradually she had become his secretary; she had been

familiar with all his business and all his interests. He

had been one of the few men in the world to see through

the lying German promises and assurances of peaceful

intentions. In his writings he had bitterly fought the

Nazis and all they

stood for. He knew that he was per

sonally doomed if the Nazis should ever enter Vienna,

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but he never dreamed of retracting or fleeing abroad,

though several foreign universities had offered him seats.

Lydia withdrew her hand from Anton's. Her features

tautened and her dark eyes flashed as she continued:

"During the crisis in Berchtesgaden, when for the

first time the Germans openly threatened to employ

force against Austria, a group of us were gathered at

my uncle's house. Four students, a concert violinist, a

painter, my best friend and I myself. My uncle ex

plained to us what was facing Austria. And all of us

took an oath not to let Austria be swamped by the flood

of German propaganda lies, not to be taken in by their

myth of the union of all Germans. We knew that the

eight of us couldn't hold back the course of history. But

we felt we were at least strong enough to fight for truth,

to help reveal the monstrous lie to the free nations of

the earth. "We Austrians are as different from the Ger

mans as the Americans are from the British,' my uncle

had said over and over again. But the trouble was the

Austrians were not used to making a fuss about being

Austrians. Many of them didn't understand until after

our country was invaded. Then they learned to their

dismay that an alien race had fallen upon them, an

enemy with whom they had nothing in common but a

literary language. . . Forgive me, you know that as well

as I." She broke off and glanced at his face.Anton nodded. He did know. But Lydia did not

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give him a chance to speak. "I want you to know ev

erything now," she said, gazing down at the table. "The

eight of us formed a secret league that night. Each of

us swore to my uncle to sacrifice his personal happiness

and personal safety without hesitation in the fight for

our goal, for the liberation of our country. We decided

on an order of rank—who would lead our league after

my uncle. Actually it is the violinist; he succeeded in

crossing into Tyrol and then into Switzerland. The

painter, two of the students and my girl friend fell in

to the hands of the Nazi hangmen. My friend is dead ;

I don't know what happened to the others. Two of the

students succeeded in remaining in Vienna and work

ing unobtrusively. Our secret radio station has been in

constant contact with them. I myself succeeded in taking

my uncle's important papers and his letters to his friends

over the border on the first day—thanks to you!"

She stood

up, and Anton drew her down at his side.

"Did you know that night how I felt, Lydia?" he asked.

"I didn't realize at first. But still I sensed that you

had to share my opinions and my feelings. Your face

and your familiar green uniform, which always meant

order and security to me, were as much a part of the

Austrian landscape as the profile of the Leopoldsberg or

a mountain slope at Salzburg. . . But it was only when

your face appeared at the door of the train compartment, the same as ever in spite of the terrible danger,

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that I knew it hadn't been chance that brought us to

gether that first time. ...""For me you are my native land," Anton said. He

kissed her and they clung together in a long embrace.

Suddenly they started up. A sound like the opening

of a door came from the hallway. A moment later

Frantisek bounded into the room, his brown eyes alight

with pride and zeal.

"Here are the papers, all ready," he burst out breath

lessly. He threw two judiciously crumpled sheets of

paper, resplendent with official seals, on the table in

front of Lydia. "We tried to make them look old," he

laughed, blinking happily.

"Marvelous!" Lydia exclaimed as she examined the

papers. Anton joined in her praise.

The young Czech said a few words to Lydia in his

native tongue. He spoke too fast for Anton to under

stand, and when Anton looked up questioningly Fran

tisek repeated what he had said in fluent German.

"Since when did you learn German?"

"I attended the Technical Trade School at Aussig for

three years."

"You deceiver", Anton laughed.

Meanwhile Lydia had taken another glass from the

sideboard. She poured Frantisek the remainder of the

rose wine. The clock struck two."I haven't finished my story, Anton," Lydia said.

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"Your cousin has heard what happened through his

friends in Pilsen. A week ago our secret transmitter

was discovered —we'd been broadcasting to England,

Switzerland and Austria for over a year. In connection

with that I was arrested. The most important task we

have now is to see to it that our voice doesn't vanish

from the air. Our friends must hear us and know they

can count on us. . . We must do something. . .

"Again

the inner fire that Anton knew so well smoldered in

her eyes.

Frantisek interrupted her. "You use our transmitter

in the factory," he said, with an involuntary worried

glance at Anton.

Anton was astounded. "You have a secret transmitter

here in the factory?" he exclaimed. "Here, under the

noses of the occupation authorities?"

The young Czech smiled proudly. "They'll never find

it," he said. "It's built into father's dye-room,

hidden

under hundreds of bottles and tubes. And it has special

equipment that diverts suspicion a thousand miles away.

The Germans are looking for the transmitter somewhere

abroad."

"Your father knows about it?"

"He runs it."

Anton gasped. It was hard to believe that the old

man's dry moderate manner concealed the knowledgeof such a dangerous undertaking.

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"Do you send to Austria?" he asked.

"They don't know our wave length there yet . . . at

least, I don't think they do.""That's too bad," Lydia said. She seemed to be

thinking hard. "We must let my friends know the wave

length and broadcasting time. ..."Anton understood before she turned to him. "I'll

take care of that," he said eagerly. He was rewarded

by a warm glance that expressed all her gratitude. Fran-

tisek sprang to his feet with a low cry of joy. "If Anton

helps us," he exclaimed, "there's nothing we can't do."

They began to talk excitedly. Outside the silent night

pressed upon the room; inside the three conspirators

exchanged ideas, plans, hopes. Lydia named her as

sociates in the free nations abroad. She knew the trem

endous forces that were slowly but inexorably gathering

to oppose the German conquerors. Frantisek amazed

them both when he revealed how widespread and tight

ly-knit was the band of determined conspirators among

his countrymen. And Anton saw clearly for the first

time why he had traveled his long and bitter way; why

he had been forced, almost against his will, to enter the

very body of the monster in order to strike, to blind and

to kill it. He promised to use his position to help their

cause; to obtain information about impending German

actions; and to help^ protect

the underground

workers

against the German police, as he had done in Lydia's

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case. He vowed to trace the movements and stopping

places of the highest Nazi leaders, and to probe all the

weak spots of their system. The clock struck three, then four, and still the three

conspirators sat around the oval table, no trace of weari

ness in their eyes. They thought out a hundred possib

ilities and probabilities, decided on passwords and on

code words for all important information.

Shortly after four in the morning Frantisek got up to

go; this was one of the days when he met his fellow-

conspirators in a corner of the castle gardens. All that

he felt and thought was expressed in his handshake as

he bade Anton goodbye. A new confidence in victory

flamed in his dark brown eyes.

"Be careful, Frantisek," Anton said. "Don't do any

thing without uncle's advice."

When he was again alone with Lydia, he silently em

braced her. "Now you belong to us," Lydia said, laying

her cheek tenderly against his. "And tonight we've ful

filled a part of the oath to sacrifice our own happiness

to the cause. But we will see each other again, Anton,

and then I'll belong to you fully.". Her soft body pressed

against him in confirmation of her words and the kisses

of her iips.

The following morning,

when Anton stopped by

at

his aunt's to fetch the package for his mother, Lydia

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was still sleeping soundly. Anton was glad. Why should

they endure another painful leavetaking, now that her

whole being had become forever a part of himself.

This time he had a compartment to himself during

the greater part of the journey. He stretched out and

made up for some of the sleep he had lost the night be

fore. At the border he showed his papers and was

passed without examination of his baggage. Early in

the afternoon his train pulled into the Franz Josef Sta

tion in Vienna, in the midst of a pouring rain. He en

tered one of the few taxis waiting at the ramp and gave

the driver his mother's address.

During the brief ride he was troubled by the thought

of Erna. How far apart they had drifted! Not once

during his absence had she written him, and although

he had always intended to send her at least a postcard,

he "had kept putting it off. Since that last evening to

gether he had

scarcely thought of her. And after his

reunion with Lydia, the memory of her had almost van

ished from his mind. Now that he was probably going

to see her again, she seemed to him no more than the

pleasant, cheerful and inconsequential girl he had once

thought her, before he fell in love with her. Pretty and

well-mannered, to be sure, but far too concerned with

small pleasures and a secure future. The fate of all the

good, honest people she had been intimate with meantlittle to her. Indeed, she had scarcely been touched by

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the great changes that the cruel invasion had brought.

Her only reaction was excitement at the prospect of

material advancement —which meant taking the placesof the victims of the new regime.

Anton wondered how he could ever have imagined

he loved her. And yet he must have; he must have

loved her for a long time in those distant days when

he had stood stolidly on his wooden platform, perform

ing duties that often proved difficult, but that were al

ways definite and simple. Now the current of events

had changed all this. Through all the turmoil of de

cisions in his own uprooted life, Lydia's dark eyes smiled

at him, tender with love and at the same time afire with

the exciting knowledge of a common fate—and a com

mon peril. Their future was obscure, but it would not

be dull.

Through the rain-spattered windows Anton could see

little of the city. They drove past the white, Gothic twin

towers of the Votive Church. Then the cab turned into

the majestic Ringstrasse, where the red and brown leaves

of autumn already were swirling down from the lanes

of trees. Then around a corner and up the familiar grey

side street.

"Home!" he whispered to himself as they stopped

before the building that housed the police precinct.

Frau Leopoldine

stared wide-eyed

when she saw her

son standing in the open doorway. Her plump face

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seemed thinner. She threw her arms around Anton.

Anton, to conceal his own emotion, soberly put down

his bags and gave his mother the packages from his aunt.

While she unpacked i t ,

carefully, not to tear the string

or the strong wrapping paper, she asked questions and

chattered in her old lively manner. Each of the presents

called forth exclamations of delight; i twas along time

since such delicacies had been seen in her kitchen. She

told Anton that almost all important foods were already

rationed, and that even with ration cards they could not

always be obtained. There were shortages of clothes,

linens, cotton-goods and shoes. Things that could be

had without cards were usually of the worst quality.

Nevertheless, she had saved some of her good old

coffee for Anton, and soon the familiar fragrance was

wafted to him as he sat smoking in the old green arm

chair b y

the window.

His mother told him that the declarations of war at

the end of the summer had opened the eyes of many

misguided Viennese. The war had been aterrible blow

to the city as awhole, and had depressed everyone.

They had been promised apeaceful revival of economic

life within the newly-established Greater German Reich.

Instead they faced aperiod of privation and hardship

for who knew how long. The freckled chauffeur, Peter,

had been drafted and with almost his entire company

had fallen in abattle in South Poland. In fact, i twas

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said that Austrians were always sent into battle first,

whenever a situation was critical. If they won, well and

good; if they died, the Prussian generals didn't worry

too much about it. Erna's brother, too, had been called

to the colors, although his firm had tried to keep him

as an indispensable man. He was to be sent to the front

in a few days—Anton's mother had heard from a mutual

acquaintance. She no longer saw Erna at all. Had Erna

and Anton quarreled? The same acquaintance had

hinted that she had seen Erna going out with another

man.

"If it were only true," Anton thought. For his cons- ■

cience still troubled him about Erna, although she had

jokingly released him that last night they were together.

Anton washed, and drank his coffee. Then he set out

for headquarters. The rain had stopped, the dark as

phalt gleamed and the air had a fresh, autumnal frag

rance. He crossed the Ringstrasse to the Schottentor.

The tall, ornate park railings along both sides of the

Hofburg were gone, so that you could touch the trees

in passing. "Melted into cannon," Anton thought. He

observed the faces of the people. Most of them were

blank and weary; it was as though an invisible leaden

cloud had descended upon them. Many people stopped

talking and looked around cautiously when he ap

proached them. On the backs of the benches along theboulevards, in thick black letters, were the words: "For

" l r -

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Aryans only." The benches gleamed wetly and were all

unoccupied. Every second man seemed to be wearing

some kind of uniform: grey, brown or black. A proces

sion of the BDM, the League of German Girls,—also

in uniform—marched past, singing in sweet, youthful

voices the coarse melody of the Horst Wessel Song.

The palaces, monuments and churches still stood in their

old places. But Anton, with his sharpened awareness of

street-traffic, could sense behind all the outward show

the helpless resistance of this city to the unwanted, sense

less, alien war that was like a cancer upon the inner life

of the people.

At police headquarters he delivered his report. No

new orders had come for him; he was instructed to re

port on the following day to another headquarters,

where he would be trained and instructed for his new

tasks. He asked one of the men he knew what had hap

pened to his old police captain, whom he

wanted to

visit. "Transferred to Pomerania," he was told. Trans

ferred—like so many others. The Nazis systematically

exchanged Austrians with police officers from the prov

inces of the Reich. Beppo? Beppo was supposed to be

on a secret mission in Linz. And Sepp ? Sepp had not

yet passed his examinations. Anton decided to visit him

in the morning.

He waited in a cafe until after dusk and then tookthe tram to a district near the Leopoldsberg, where he

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hoped to find one of Lydia's students. It was already

quite dark by the time he reached the hilly, slippery

side-street in which the student lived.

After searching for some time with the aid of his

flashlight, he found a small house that bore the number

Lydia had given him. He climbed the wooden steps to

the second story. On one of the doors a small metal

strip bore the name of the student. He stood at the

door for a moment, listening. It seemed to him he

heard voices from within the apartment. He lifted the

knocker and rapped sharply. The voices fell silent, but

no one answered. He knocked again. Still nothing

stirred. He began to pound heavily on the door. A

barely audible sound came to him, like the careful open

ing of a window or a chest. Then silence again. "They

think I'm—what I am," Anton realized. What could

he do? Today might be his only opportunity to dis

charge his mission and carry out his

promise. Tomorrow

he might be sent away again. He must get in. He began

to pound heavily on the door again, until his knuckles

smarted. Still no answer.

There was no help for i t ,

he decided; he must use

extraordinary methods to break this senseless, paralyz

ing silence. "Open at once, State Police," he cried in

the urgent, threatening tone he had learned so well.

Again no answer. "If you don't open immediately we'llbreak down the door."

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At last he heard footsteps approaching. The door

was unbolted and Anton stood face to face with a tall

young man with the blonde hair and blue eyes of the

ideal nordic type. "I beg your pardon, officer," he said

calmly. "I was working in the next room and didn't

realize the knocking was for me. My roommate seems

to have gone out. What can I do for you?"

Anton entered and closed the door behind him. "I've

just come from Bohemia," he said without preliminary,

"and I've been asked to bring you regards from Lydia."

"Lydia. I don't happen to know anyone by that

name." Not a muscle twitched in the student's strong,

angular countenance. "It must be a mistake. ..."He sounded so convincing that for a moment Anton

was nonplussed. But how could he expect the man to

admit his connection with Lydia to an utter stranger—

and one, moreover, who had just cried aloud that he

was a Gestapo agent."I'm sorry that appearances make it hard for you to

believe me," he said. "Your own caution made it neces

sary for me to take such drastic measures to get in. But

I am not your enemy. I know the whole story of your

secret league, not because I spied out your secrets but

because I've become a member —even though I do be

long to the Gestapo!"

The student still seemed hesitant. He now wore a

puzzled expression, as though he were listening to the

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disconnected, incomprehensible talk of a madman.

"Yes," Anton continued gaily, "I am a member, even

if I did not swear an oath to the professor, like Lydiaand the violinist and the painter and the other. ..."

The student suddenly gripped Anton's hand, and his

cold mien warmed instantly. "I believe you," he said

cordially. "No one of us would have betrayed the oth

ers. Forgive my suspicions; I was rather amazed, as

you can well understand . . . You've really seen Lydia ?

She's alive ?

"She's free and living in a safe place."

"Thank God. . . We haven't had a word from her for

over a week; we feared the worst. ..." There was much to talk about, many questions to be

asked. The student led Anton into his study. "Heinz!"

he called. The door of a large chest opened and a young

man clambered out. He looked like a smaller edition

of the nordic student. He was the younger brother of

Anton's host. Otmar, the eldest brother, was soon to

take his doctoral examination in chemistry; Heinz had

specialized in radio. Both brothers were blonde young

giants who looked like typical nordics. They were the

kind of men whose pictures were constantly being print

ed on the covers of magazines of "racial science", as

typifying the master race. Laughing, they told Anton

how safe they

were behind their "nordic"

masks. No

Nazi spy dreamed of suspecting them.

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Within an hour all important details had been dis

cussed. Anton was given secret telephone numbers and

addresses which he could use to keep in touch with the

two. But most important of all, the two now had the

wavelength of Frantisek's station. Tonight, within some

forty minutes, they would hear Lydia's voice on the air.

They left the apartment and Heinz led them by a de

vious route to where he had cleverly installed his re

ceiving set.

And in the midst of a world oppressed by sorrow and

killing, the miracle took place. Across mountains, rivers

and plains the voice of his sweetheart came to Anton ;

her clear, vibrant, bell-like voice. For a moment Anton

was terribly afraid for her. Wasn't she running an in

sane risk; wouldn't the Gestapo listening posts recognize

her voice? Then the manufactured death by drowning

would be exposed and the hunt for her would begin

again. But the two brothers reassured him. Lydia had

never spoken before; she had always acted merely as

the liaison agent between them and those who ran the

secret radio station.

Anton listened breathlessly. He yielded completely

to the joy of being with her once more. Otmar took

down her speech, which lasted for some twenty minutes.

Later they would check it over for code words contain

ing special messages. Only once, during the broadcast,did an interfering station try to jam the air waves.

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When the message was decoded, Anton learned that

America was leaning more and more to direct aid to

England. This was news that the German newspapers

completely suppressed. In addition, there were greet

ings to Anton and word that Lydia and her friends

were well and safe.

Anton wanted to come again to hear more broadcasts.

But he decided not to. Visiting the students once more

might lead to complications; there was always the

chance that he might be seen with them. He knew that

chances must be taken only when the risk was worth

while.

He would not see them again. But the peril they

shared in common had linked him closer to these two

young men, whom he had known for so short a time,

than years of ordinary acquaintanceship could have done.

Anton left them before they reached Otmar's apartment

again and rode back to the city, which was already

shrouded in the gloomy semi-darkness of the blackout.

In the course of his official duties the following day,

Anton met his old friend, Sepp the Tyrolian. As soon

as they were alone Sepp burst into a series of dialectal

oaths. Apparently he had been storing them up ever

since Anton's departure, for lack of suitable listeners. The two had not seen one another since the outbreak

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of the war. If before the war the officers and officials

from the Reich had been arrogant and superior, they

had now dropped all pretenses and behaved like feudallords in Vienna, demanding gratitude and loving hom

age. Slow-moving, easy-going Sepp was one of those

who had secretly begun to grumble soon after the oc

cupation. But only now was he beginning to under

stand what had been lost. With tight-lipped sullenness

he told Anton what terrible losses the Tyrolian regi

ments had suffered during the first weeks of fighting. In

his own tiny village in the Stubai valley alone, a dozen

families mourned their sons. Meanwhile, the German

lords drank up the new wine in Grinzing and guarreled

with the natives, who evinced no eagerness to join them

in drinking to victory and world empire. Some of the

instructors in the courses Sepp now attended were also

"stinking Prussian swine who cheat the life out of you."

Anton let the man talk. He felt that the day was not

very distant when this essentially good fellow, who was

a slow but unyielding hater, would be a valuable ad

junct to his cause.

That afternoon Anton was stopped in the street by a

soldier whom he failed at first to recognize. It was

Franz, Erna's brother. In his sober military grey he did

not look quite so distinguished as he had in the soft

flannels of the industrial director. He was in a hurryand only stopped to say hello. Nevertheless, he found

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time to make a remark in keeping with his position of

former industrialist — about the economic idiocy of

warfare. There was no knowing whereto all this wouldlead, he added timidly. When Anton asked after Erna,

Franz shifted uneasily. "She's always terribly busy,"

he replied evasively. Anton asked him to give her his

regards and to tell her she could probably reach him

at his mother's during the next few days.

"There's still some hope that things will turn out all

right," Franz said in parting. "Maybe a miracle will

happen."

The following day Anton was unable to leave the

building on the Schottenring that housed the police

headquarters. With others who were to join the

Mobile Corps, he was given instruction in the "pacifica

tion of occupied territory" and the treatment of the

civilian populace. The same Breslau Gestapo Colonel

lectured, the one with the drooping mustaches and the

watery eyes of a grammar school teacher. He pounded

home his doctrines of how to choose hostages, how to

destroy existing offices and organizations, how to main

tain unostentatious but constant watch over the entire

intelligentsia. He spoke on the technique of systematic

provocation and the degrees of persecution to be appliedto the local Jews.

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They were to depart in two days, and each man

could expect to spend at least six months in Poland.

Anton left the building that evening tired out from

the hours of lectures. When he stood at last on the

street, taking deep breaths of the stimulating cool breeze

that blew down from the Leopoldsberg, he resolved that

he must make good use of the short time still remaining

to him in Vienna. He did not want another six months

to pass without his having done anything to extend the

webb of intrigue—for liberty. It was bitter enough that

an endless time must pass before he would see Lydia

again. At least he could arrange for her to hear from

him soon and to know that even during his absence

progress was being made here.

He looked for Sepp. The Tyrolian had already left,

but Anton found him at his home. Together they went

out to a small, obscure cafe where there was no one to

disturb them.

Anton spoke openly for the first time. He knew that

at worst Sepp would simply refuse; the man would

never betray a comrade. The effect of his little speech

was not at all what he had imagined. The Tyrolian

listened attentively, and his ruddy peasant's face seemed

to flush even deeper. Then he put down his half-empty

glass of wine and said, "Well, well, here I thought I

knew you well and I haven't known you at all." Thenhis big hand slammed down on the table so heavily

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that the glasses danced. "And you didn't know me

either!" he roared, shaking with laughter.

Anton stared at him in astonishment."Do you think you Viennese have a lease on brains?"

Sepp went on. "Before those German dogs came we

Tyrolians in Vienna had our club and our "Berg-Isel"

evenings. They said it wasn't "desirable", so they dis

solved our club. They didn't know us. Let them stop

us, we said, and since then we've been meeting at the

home of a minister. ..."

Anton's face lit up. "Prosit, Sepp!" he said, and

drank down his glass. "Why didn't you ever tell me

about it?"

"We were sworn to secrecy," Sepp replied. "But your

own damned frankness made me spill it."

"What do you talk about when you meet?"

"We don't talk much, we swear. And ever so often

we do things. Our ministers have connections all over

the country. And we have some Tyrolians working in

factories. Sometimes machines have broken down and

now and then we've smuggled fugitives over the mount

ains. . . If only we knew what the others are thinking

and feeling, in Lower Austria and in Kaernten and in

Steiermark. They must be catching on that they've been

tricked. ...""Don't you have any contact with them?"

"It's too dangerous to speak openly with anyone you

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haven't known all your life. And those Nazis watch

us like hawks. Once they almost caught us."

It was nearly eleven o'clock when the two men left

the cafe. There were no longer any secrets between

them. They both agreed that it was hopeless to venture

anything like an open revolt at the moment. But for

that very reason it was vitally important to recruit re

liable friends and prepare the way for the hour of libera

tion. And it was clear to them both that the Austrians

had a special task to perform. They must catch the

conquerors in their own net of lies, penetrate into the

ranks of their oppressors in the guise of "German broth

ers", bore from within among the officials, the army of

ficers and the enlisted men. Then, when the time was

ripe and the enslaved peoples rose up, they would be in

a position to strike the weapons from the hands of the

rulers.

Before the two men parted it was arranged betweenthem that Anton would introduce Sepp to the two stu

dents. Thus contact would be established with the

Czechs, and also with a former union leader who worked

in a factory town in Lower Austria. With the help of

these men, the web could gradually and cautiously be

extended to other parts of the country.

As Anton was bidding Sepp goodbye on the street

corner near the latter's home, they saw a uniformed

figure emerge from the doorway of Sepp's apartment, —

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it belonged to a tailor from whom he rented a room.

In the dim light they could just distinguish the man as

he walked away in the opposite direction. "Beppo!"

Sepp whispered, and meaningfully put his fingers to

his lips.

"Is he still spying on you?"

"He's more dangerous than all the rest of them!"

Twenty-four hours later, seven hours before Anton

was to leave the city, he found time to meet Sepp and

the two students. Otmar and Heinz, it developed,

had

done a good deal of mountain climbing among the Stu-

bai glaciers and precipices, and a common chord was

quickly struck between them and the Tyrolian. Once

more, as a farewell gift to himself, Anton listened to

Lydia's distant voice over the hidden radio. Again it

seemed like a miracle to him that she was one of them.

Lydia had decided that the safest way for Anton and

herself to exchange mail would be through Frau Leo-

poldine and her sister, Aunt Peppi. On the eve of his

departure, Anton confided in his mother. He knew her

mettle, knew that for all her love of gossip she would

be able to guard such a secret behind an irreproachable

air of innocence. Still, he had hesitated to speak to her.

He was afraid she would be terrified by the perils he

faced. But she listened thoughtfully to him with hands

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on her hips, and made no interruption. When he fin

ished he realized that she was rubbing her eyes with the

hem of her apron. She put a brave face on the matter.

"Good boy, Toni," she said, and a few fat tears rolled

down her cheeks. "Sometimes I almost thought you'd

become a Nazi!"

Relieved that she had taken it so calmly, Anton ex

plained to her just how she was to pass on his reports

in her letters to her sister. The code was very simple:

in his letters every word after a semicolon would havea hidden meaning and was to be used by her in her let

ters to Aunt Peppi. The same code applied to the letters

from Bohemia that contained messages for him.

Anton's mother asked many questions about Lydia.

She seemed to find it extremely interesting that her son

had such a dramatic relationship with this beautiful girl.

She knew Lydia by sight, having met her when she came

to visit the professor. With a mother's wisdom, she

grasped the situation immediately, and declared em

phatically that Erna was not worth a straw compared

to Lydia.

Anton also instructed her to include in her letters in

formation from Sepp, whom she already knew, and

from the two students, whom Sepp would introduce to

her. Fearing her memory might fail her, he wrote down

the code she was to use. But she waved the paper away

from her. "The words after the semicolons are the

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important ones," she said. "I can remember that easily,

and I don't like having notes like this around the house.

Nowadays you can never know when your house willbe searched, and I'd rather not have anything around

for them to find. ..."Anton was happy that his mother had not failed him.

He felt satisfied that everything had been arranged

rather well under the circumstances. He slept soundly

and peacefully that night in his own bed, which he had

to leave now for longer than ever before.

They rode eastward. Endless fields of waving grain,

farmhouses that grew more dirty and ramshackle, vil

lage churches with bulbous cupolas. Wherever the rail

road tracks approached a highway he saw long convoys

of grey military trucks and horsedrawn wagons. Often

they were scarcely visible within the clouds of dust the

wheels churned up. Farther along in the plain the loose,

snakelike columns of marching infantry wound along

little roads —roads that were often indistinguishable

from the surrounding plains.

It was all so familiar to Anton. He himself had

tramped along just such roads more than twenty years

ago, when they marched against the Russians. The sol

diers seemed a little more comfortable now; they rode

more and marched less than in the last war. But, Anton

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thought, the "blue beans" must taste just as bitter.

Since they had passed beyond the magnificent slopes

of the Carpathians, decked with the varicolored foliage

of autumn, the landscape had become a continuous, mo

notonous repetition. Fields, villages, bulbous cupolas,

strips of gloomy fir forests, then more villages and fields.

The night fell and Anton tried to sleep as best he

could in the crowded compartment. And on the follow

ing morning the unchanging plain was still there, as

though the train had not moved during the night.

On the evening of the third day the landscape

changed. Streamers of smoke and glowing red roofs

were warnings of the nearness to the front. More and

more frequent now, roofs shot high with flames into the

blackness of the night. Whole villages were burning ;

bare foundations, smoke-blackened and hollow, gaped

like craters under the sky. . . And twenty years ago, too,

the paths of warfare had been seared into the peacefullandscape and its milestones made by burning towns

and villages.

Misery was commonplace. Vacant lives of broken

men; sightless eyes; desperate, furrowed faces of old

men; pale, pleading mothers; blonde young men,

bloody from beatings, their throats defiant as those of

chained bulls; shy, ragged, hungry children; dead priests

nailed to crosses; girls whose cheeks had lost their

bloom, whose gay laughter had been strangled; scat

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tered household goods trampled into the brown mud of

the streets; the wailing murmur of pale, feverish Jews

penned in a barn or haymow, intoning their prayers;bodies of guerilla fighters bloated with the brackish

water of the swamps and woods where they had been

shot down; the hate-filled, immeasurably bitter eyes of

weavers driven at bayonet's point back to their looms;

hostages dying proudly, silently; nocturnal raids by oc

cupation troops who from fear of hidden snipers fired

wildly in all directions; burning houses, ruins—these

were Anton's impressions of the land of Poland. Thiswas what he looked upon for days, weeks, months. So

profound was the resentment and torment of these peo

ple that no effort of Anton's could console and help

them. He tried whenever he was alone with them, but

they did not trust him. Dying men to whom he offered

water thought it was poisoned and dashed it upon the

charred earth.

Sitting at the long, well-provisioned table in the com

mon mess of the occupation officials, he had to put on

a cheerful face. Every night he had to drink to new

victories of the German Army, toast with the wines and

liqueurs plundered from the cellars of helpless citi2ens.

The army post office transmitted letters slowly, but

regularly. Anton learned that the underground move

ment in Bohemia and Moravia was making life difficult

for the "protectors" by discreet sabotage that was hard

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to detect and almost impossible to stop. The two stu

dents had established cells of their secret organization

in Upper Austria and in Kaernten. Even in the Styriancapital of Graz, once a stronghold of Nazified Austrian

youth, a big boiler had inexplicably blown up. Lydia

was well, and spoke every night over the secret radio.

This news was a consolation to Anton, but it hurt him

that he was chained here in Poland, where he could do

nothing for the cause. What work could he do but send

reports on the inhuman cruelty and atrocities he saw all

about him? His mother transmitted these reports to

Lydia, who broadcast them to the free world—stirring,

hate-filled messages.

Anton now wore the dreaded black uniform with the

death's-head emblem. To his own surprise he had be

come accustomed to it. It was like a strange, constrict

ing garment of chain mail that protected him well

against the prying eyes of Nazi spies within the ranks.

At the year's end, when soft snow, like a coverlet fringed

with glistening borders of icicles, fell upon all the ruins

and corpses, Anton was appointed lieutenant of the

Secret Police. At the same time he was assigned in

dependent command of a district. Externally, this made

little difference in

his life, except that he

could be alone

more often. It did him good to use his tours of inspec

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tion as a pretext to go walking through the broad snow-

sheathed pinewoods where glistening blue- white crystals

hung in figures delicate or grotesque upon the trees andcrooked branches. He inhaled the pure, biting, frosty

wind that swooped the heaped snow off from the branch

es. After all the horrors he had witnessed, the purity

of the winter woods soothed him. He felt obscurely

that the horror of the things he saw every day was too

great for words, that the syllables broke on the tongue

when you tried to strive and wrestle with Fate about it.

Be silent and endure —this was the fate and the message

of the sturdy trees in winter.

Winter was still lying heavy over the land, though

the calendar proclaimed the beginning of spring, when

Anton was unexpectedly recalled from his post. At the

end of March he and a group of other officers were sent

into the hinterland. They took the northern railroad

route to Berlin, and then beyond. For days they stopped

in small stations and waited. On April 10, while they

were traveling between two small towns, word was

passed around that on the day before the German Army

had successfully invaded Denmark and Norway. Short

ly afterward Anton received his orders —he was assigned

to Oslo. But the army did not seem to be making the

expected rapid progress; Anton's group had to stop off

in small fishing ports on the Baltic Sea and wait forfurther orders. Their new orders changed their destina

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tion, and after a brief stormy crossing they finally ar

rived in a region of precipitous slopes and chasms—the

Norwegian Coastal Mountains —where the climate remained cold and wintry as in Poland. Anton was not

used to boats and fell seasick during the crossing; he was

glad to feel land under his feet once more. From the

mountain, the view down to the rocky, reefy fjord that

licked into the land with a thousand grey tongues re

minded him somehow, in spite of its newness, of his

own mountains at home. The open sea, half concealed

by low-lying clouds, seemed not unlike a large lake.

Everywhere along the coast German soldiers and ma

rines thronged. Heavy artillery was set up between

cliffs, their long smooth snouts pointing out to sea.

After a few hours' journey they reached the headquar

ters to which Anton had to report. The slowly retreating

bellow of the mountain cannon and the storklike clack

ing of machine guns made it apparent that the Nor

wegians, though still resisting, were gradually being

pressed back into the mountains of the interior.

Anton was ordered to take a small detachment of

men and relieve the temporary military command in one

of the small market towns near the coast. His secret in

structions read differently here from those given in

Poland. As in Poland, the local offices and organizations

were to be dissolved and all

suspicious persons, particu

larly members of the intelligentsia, were to be placed

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under constant supervision. But here the orders concern

ing the treatment of the local populace were the same

as the former policy

in Bohemia: "systematic ingratia-

tion." After his first contact with Norwegians, Anton

smiled a little quizzically at the orders. As soon as he

met the people he sensed what they thought of their

"German blood brothers and liberators." His first im

pression was confirmed again and again: the Germans

were surrounded by a whole nation of cool, tenacious,

irreconcilable enemies, not one of whom seemed to

doubt that sooner or later they would throw the plundering conquerors back into the sea out of which they

had crept by treachery and stealth.

From the very first Anton felt drawn toward these

people. Was it because he saw the Austrian betrayal re

peated here ? Treason among the guards— the familiar

treacheries committed by a handful of bribed and mis

guided Judases. Now they were destined to play the

same sardonic farce of Germanic Racial Unity and En

thusiastic Jubilation over their own subjugation.

Strangely enough, Anton found things far easier for

his purposes. The Poles, whom the Nazi leaders were

systematically trying to exterminate, had spat out the

water he offered them. In Bohemia it had taken him

months merely to win the confidence of his own cousin.

But here in Norway the people looked into his face with

alert eyes and knitted brows. "Austrian?" they asked

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when there was no one else about. "Yes," he said, and a

peculiar warmth would illuminate their grave faces.

"That's good!" their eyes seemed to say. Later Antonlearned that a company of Austrian Alpine troops had

been posted in the village for several days. Obviously

that had been long enough for the straightforward

minds of these coastal fishermen to perceive the differ

ence that the propagandists of the Reich were eternally

striving to deny.

And a day came when beneath his black uniform

Anton's heart beat harder and prouder that it had done

for years. Again a regiment of Austrian Alpine troops

were landed in the town, and a company of them was

detached to relieve the Pommeranian Grenadiers in the

garrison. The people of the town, freed at least tem

porarily from the deliberate ill-treatment and the un

conscious cruelty of their conquerors, seemed to breathe

a sigh of relief. But this was not all. The very first

evening Anton spoke with several of his countrymen.

Among them he met a Stubaier from Neustift who

turned out to be a former schoolmate of his old friend,

Sepp. After cautiously feeling out each other's opinions,

they spoke openly and Anton learned that no less than

ten men in the newly-arrived garrison belonged to the

secret league. Here, in this little town, such a number

of conspirators could

accomplish wonders. For the me

thod of "systematic ingratiation" soon proved a failure.

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Throughout the whole occupied portion of the country

there were daily incidents of sabotage, stubborn resist

ance to the German authorities, and military assistanceto the British forces who had landed further north.

Hostages were chosen at random and shot. And then,

Austrian soldiers risked their own lives to help im

periled men escape to freedom. Several times Anton

reported to his superiors that an escaped partizan or

rebel leader had been pursued and "shot while trying

to escape"—when in truth the fugitive was already

crossing the North Sea on board a British destroyer.

Early in June, the last Norwegian battalions were

forced by the superior power of the enemy to lay down

their arms. The British destroyer flotillas evacuated the

landing forces and restricted their activities to nocturnal

raids. But during all this time, when open battle could

no longer be offered, every dark, stormy night saw fugi

tives, men who had been hunted like wild beasts find

their way to the quiet, unimportant coastal town. For

word had soon got around that here was a gate out of

the prison, kept by men who despite their field-grey uni

forms were nevertheless friends. And at the same time

the secret league of Austrian soldiers grew, for it was

cemented by the revulsion of plain, decent men for what

was being done to the peaceful peasants, fishermen and

shopkeepers of Norway.As often as he found time, Anton wrote to his mother.

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But it was not until May that the first letter arrived from

her; it had been forwarded to him from Poland. Shortly

afterward he received several direct letters all at once,

though they had been sent off at intervals. From the

code words in the apparently innocent notes Anton

learned how depressed Lydia and his friends were at

the continued—and unhalted—series of German suc

cesses. In mid-May Holland was overrun; at the end of

the month the King of the Belgians capitulated; on

June

14 came the climax of the steady, victorious march

of the Germans: the Nazi army entered Paris. The Prus

sian officers, with whom Anton occasionally had official

dealings, expressed the conviction that there would be

a victorious peace in the near future. In the course of

the summer, after the inhabitants of the British Isles had

had bombs and incendiaries rained on them, after they

had shown the world that though their homes were shat

tered their courage remained high, Anton heard less talkof the victory of German arms. The bombing squadrons

had come back bleeding heavily; they were no longer

strong enough to repeat their mass attacks. Both op

ponents seemed to be pausing for breath and gathering

strength.

However, the Mobile Corps to which Anton was as

signed had all the more to do. A tremendous area of

Europe was occupied and had to be guarded; and soon,

it was whispered, there would be new territory in which

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order had to be maintained. Furloughs were granted

only in very special cases and from month to month

Anton lost hope of seeing Lydia again. In August he

was transferred from Oslo, where he had earlier been

sent, to Rotterdam—a city of dreadful ruins. Soon

afterward he was again transferred to sleepy old Bruges,

where it was almost possible to forget the war, were

it not for the constant warnings in the orders of the

day—for several times single German sentinels had

vanished without a trace.

Once Anton carried out a night raid on the quarters

of an escaped Flemish political leader who was suspect

ed of having comunicated with the enemy. Well hidden

in the cellar of the house Anton found a radio receiving

set equipped with earphones. He made sure he was

alone, then sat down and began feverishly to turn the

unfamiliar dials of the apparatus, trying to find the

wavelength over which Lydia spoke at this hour. Helost precious time setting the instrument. Finally, just

as he was about to give up, he heard her voice— loud

and bell-like in clarity—coming from the earphones.

Quickly he reached for the dial and lowered the volume.

But already two of his men, attracted by the sudden

sounds, came hurrying in from the hallway, and there

was nothing for him to do but officially confiscate the

apparatus and have it dismantled. Nevertheless, he had

heard his sweetheart's voice for a second, heard her

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talking to him as though she stood at his side. It was

like the first sip of a precious wine after a long, thirsty

journey, more wonderful and refreshing than a whole

glass full might be at other times. At the same time,

there was bitterness in the thought that it had only

been a taste, granted to him by perverse chance.

It happened more and more frequently nowadays that

Anton was

transferred from

place to

place staying onlya few weeks in each. Nowhere could he stay long

enough to do any appreciable work, as special circum

stances had enabled him to do in the Norwegian market

town. However, wherever he went he found the op

portunity to note down the names of men whom his

superiors had marked as especially suspect, for that

alone qualified them as good prospects for his own

cause. At times he wondered why he was being trans

ferred around so often. Was it being done intentionally,

this sending him into a new territory almost as soon as

he had got the hang of working in his present place?

Did it mean that the authorities were on the trail of

the secret league ? But no, if that were so, it was pre

posterous that they should have waited so long; they

would have arrested him at once. Perhaps it was simply

their device, because they no longer had time to watch

all the thousands of watchers. It helped them somewhat

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if none of their agents remained long enough in one

place to gain a foothold.

So, with dizzy rapidity, Anton became acquainted

with foreign lands—a strange, unwilling traveler. In

the spring of 1941 his knowledge of Slavic languages

won him a transfer to the Balkans, now emerging once

more into the spotlight of history. In July, shortly after

the outbreak of the war with Russia, which had surprised

them all, he was in Belgrade. Here he received orders

to depart for the newly-opened Eastern Front. With

some dismay he reckoned that this would be the six

teenth different post to which he had been assigned in

the past ten months.

His route included Vienna as a transfer point. At last,

after nearly two years, he was going home again. As the

train slipped past the first of the small stations whose

names were familiar to him, he became moody and

sentimental. On what a

tangled, adventurous

path the

events of the past three years had led him ! The simple

traffic cop of former days had become a tried conspirator,

familiar with all the tricks of his opponent and wearing

the enemy's own garb of terror in order that he might

stand close to the heart of the monster when the time

came to strike the first blows. And he felt certain that

the longed-for hour was approaching. The new, gigan

tic armies that had sprung into being in the east gave

new hope.

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As he had expected, Anton had barely twenty-four

hours in Vienna before his group set out for the East. If

the atmosphere of the city had been gloomy during his

last stay, it was now embittered and despairing. Now

that Russia had been made another of the enemy nations,

there was no hope felt for an early peace—which had

been promised so often. The people were no longer de

ceived by the army communiques which spoke of the

greatest victories in the greatest battles of world history.

Day by day new recruits were called up, and even the

older married men, who until now had been spared,

were called to the colors in ever-increasing numbers.

Again Frau Leopoldine had heard from reliable sources

that the Austrian regiments were suffering the worst dis

asters under the red fire. Erna's brother lay in a hospital

with a bullet in his lung. This she heard from the "mu

tual friend", who had also reported that Erna was ex

pecting her second child around Christmas time. It was

strange—the letter in which Frau Leopoldine had in

formed her son of the marriage of his former fiancee to

a functionary of the National Socialist Motor Corps,

had somehow never reached him . . . must have gone

astray en route. Second child—it gave you an idea of

how much time had passed.

Anton visited Franz at the hospital. He found him

already convalescing from his wound and was able totalk privately with him in one of the reception rooms.

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"Bandits and criminals," the former industrial direct

or declared. "That's what they are. Isn't it absolute

madness to attack Russia, in addition to all the rest?Don't we have enough enemies in the world ? . . . From

the economic standpoint," he added self-importantly,

"it's nothing but suicide. I can tell you that." And

there followed a long list of charges against the meas

ures and restrictive regulations which in the eyes of this

"old fighter" had robbed the Nazi system of all the al

lure it had had at the time Austria was first overrun.

Anton had to calm him and reminded him that in his

condition he must not talk too much.

"On the road to recovery —and not only from his

bullet wound," Anton thought as he left the hospital.

In the evening he accompanied Sepp to the house

where he had once met the two blonde brothers. Sepp

was unchanged and had a good many encouraging sto

ries to tell. Three days ago, on July 25, the anniversary

of the murder of Chancellor Dollfuss, warning inscrip

tions had once more appeared over night on the walls

of the Administration Building where the Gauleiter had

his office. And on the lamp-posts opposite the building

were found little cards bearing the word "reserved",

each followed by the name of one of the hated Nazi

leaders. "To the lamp-posts" had always been the mot

to of lynch justice

in Vienna, so that there was no doubt

as to the meaning of the little cards.

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All these things were but isolated symptoms of the

rankling defiance. Occasionally its outbreak took a more

violent turn—as when a football match ended in a loud

demonstration against the "German brothers," and the

Gauleiter who was present at the game had his tires

slashed. Factories were now closely guarded against

sabotage. But nevertheless sand often got into the ma

chinery; sulfur and zinc put into blast furnaces spoiled

the steel; explosions took place in munitions factories

and the authorities could find no traces of the saboteurs.

Heinz had been drafted in the fall of 1939. Otmar,

working in a chemical laboratory, had been granted de

ferment as indispensable to the war effort. He now car

ried on the liaison work with Bohemia alone. Anton

could not find time in his crowded schedule to wait for

the broadcast from Bohemia. But he was pleased to

learn that the secret radio had evaded all the investiga

tions by Anton's colleagues

in the Gestapo,

and broad

cast daily the vital news from the outside world. "It

always feels good," the lanky student remarked, "to

answer one of their propaganda lies with the facts and

then watch the effect—for the truth always makes the

lie seem foolish."

After they left Otmar, Sepp remarked to Anton

with a kind of grim pride that he had failed the final

examinations of his course because, as he put i t ,

htcouldn't get their "refined swinishness" into his head.

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Since then he had been assigned to the riot squad. Here

he had good opportunity to observe that more and more

of his comrades were sickening at their orders topersecute and torture innocent persons. And wherever

posssible they avoided their duties.

Sepp accompanied Anton home. He could not hear

enough of Anton's experiences in the other occupied

lands. His eyes sparkled with pride when he heard

what had been done in Norway with the aid of the

Alpine soldier from Stubai.

Next morning, when Anton rode across the broad

plaza between the parks, where his old wooden plat

form still stood, a driving rain was beating down upon

the pavements and the dusty, summer-dried shrubs. A

yellow flash of lightning darted above the ash-grey spire

of the Stephansdom; gray against a gray sky stood the

two thick columns before the copper-green dome of the

Karlskirche. Was it only the lowering storm that made

the once-festive buildings seem old and grey and

gloomy, untended and deathly silent? Or was it Anton's

own disappointment that the vague hopes he had un

reasonably founded upon this visit home had shattered

against harsh, unyielding reality? For during this one

summer day he had seen over and over again, reflected

a thousand times, one single image: a tortured, plund

ered, terrorized, subjugated city. When would the

dayfor courageous, resolute action finally dawn; the day

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for the great act of liberation, in lieu of these petty, al

most childish acts of sabotage and scribbling on walls —

with which his friends so pitifully fed the quiet, steady

flame of their faith ?

Often in the following months Anton thought of his

native city, seen through a thunderstorm, sapped of all

color. Sleeping on his camp bed or on the bare ground,

the hard Russian earth, there flickered through his

dreams the streets, mountains and villages of the various

and variegated lands he had seen. Sometimes nightmar

ish visions came to him, as though all the enslaved,

tormented, starving people who had been driven from

their homes were screaming at him in insane, helpless

rage; as though all their voices flowed together to form

menacing thunder, as though all the fire in their eyesbecame bolts of yellow lightning. Was their wild hatred

directed only at the accursed death's-head uniform he

wore, or was it not also meant for him who wore the

uniform, for the compliant, obedient link in the endless

chains that shackled them? To these millions of ruined

people could he be anything but the damnable lackey

of the pitiless plunderers ? Did it matter to them what

his heart felt beneath the black cloth? Was he any

less guilty of the monstrous crime than all the thousands

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of sober, honest Germans who had taken their place in

the system without protest; than the Bavarian captain

who drowned his disgust in beer; than Erna who went

her way gaily, ignoring the death around her, who bore

the children of a Nazi? . . . Shivering, Anton would

start up from his sleep. There remained only one justi

fication, he would say to himself. An Act. An act such

as he alone could attempt ; an act that would turn the

whip against its brutal masters; an act whereby the be

trayed, defenseless, oppressed people would summon

up their will to freedom. This, he felt, was his special

mission he must fulfill it even at the cost of his life.

It was a strange place, this land of Russia. All day

the fiery August sun brooded over the plain, but in the

mornings the dew was frozen and crackled under An

ton's feet. The Polish woods had been broad and wide,

but the Russian forests were unending. You felt in

significant with your detachment

of fifty men in a district

embracing many square miles. Here, too, you saw ruins ;

blackened foundations and flaming church steeples be

hind the battle lines. But most of the villages were

deserted. People and animals had fled; they had retreat

ed into the impassable swampy thickets among the fir

forests. Here there was no opportunity for house-search

es, or for the pacification of the civilian populace, re

quired by Anton's orders. For there was no real civilianpopulace. Every man, and the women as well, carried

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away their rifles as their most important possessions

when they fled their homes. What was officially called

"service in the hinterland" became a matter of securing

fortified camps. Again and again there were nocturnal

alarms. Cossack raids from woods that had already been

"mopped up"; continual skirmishing with guerilla

fighters. It seemed as though the system of terror which

had held all Europe in bonds had at last outreached

itself here—because there was no one to terrorize. Per

haps the system worked as usual in the conquered cities

—but there were so few cities. How could the lawyers

of an occupied area be put under protective custody

when there were no lawyers there? How could the

mayors be arrested as hostages when the mayors lived

in the woods? And when wrinkled old women who had

been picked up somewhere would persistently shrug

their shoulders when asked for the name of the village

elder. "I don't know," they would say, indifferent to

threats. "I don't know. . ." That was what they all

said when they were captured. And if you didn't know

the way and let them guide you, they would lead you by

a tangle of little paths back to where you started from.

If you shot them, they died, but you were no closer to

the right road, and time was lost.

Nevertheless, the army moved forward. Regions

greater than many lands of Europe were assaulted by

the armored impetus of the German tanks and overrun

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by the infantry. Mighty rivers were crossed, bridges

sprang up overnight. Endlessly, they marched eastward,

and Anton's little troop marched with them.

Then the cold began. Silently, suddenly it came. The

frost that had frozen the morning dew in August set

tled over swamps and pools. The great streams froze

hard, and bridges were no longer necessary. On the

warmer days snow fell, myriads of downy white flakes

sifted softly down upon the myriad fir trees. For weeks

on end the snow fell, and at times the soldiers sank in

up to their hips in the snow-covered bogs. Anton was

reminded of Poland. "God is beginning to speak out

again," he thought, and continued the long march.

Around the middle of November Anton was assigned

to guard the railroad station of an important communi

cation center. He and his men were provided with

newly-arrived winter uniforms, warm woolen under

wear, heavy mittens and fur boots. It was good to be

dressed warmly against the biting winter cold, but it

was a dismaying testimony to the magnificent organiza

tional ability of the Germans. So it wasn't true, Anton

told himself —all the things the foreign newspapers

wrote about shortages of materials, and thin ersatz

overcoats. Just propaganda,

like the German propagan

da. But he soon found out the truth. Loaded in the

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homeward-bound trains he saw wounded soldiers with

frozen limbs and faces. All of them were dressed in

the thin summer uniforms, with inadequate underclothesand rent shoes. Only the officers and the guard troops

were equipped like himself. And what they had to

guard were mainly the soldiers returning from the field.

More and more wounded, half-frozen men came from

the front. Shuddering, they told tales of their many

comrades who after infinite hardships had remained ly

ing in the deep snow.

Guarding these freezing soldiers, whose pain often

drove them to mutiny, soon became a commonplace to

Anton— just as had the ironic task of standing by and

observing the first days of occupation in Vienna; just as

had the exercises in the Gestapo school, the interpreting

during the brutal examinations of Czechs, the searches

of private homes from Norway to Belgrade, and the

posses in Volhynia. All familiar, all commonplace, all

routine. Months passed. More and more often Anton's

nights were troubled by the unanswered question: how

in this eastern wasteland, at this snowbound railroad

station, could he ever find the chance he sought ? Some

times in dreams he saw Lydia's eyes, gleaming black

like the cherries of the South. Those eyes seemed to

look upon him with a sad, questioning expression. Had

he aimed too high ? Would he gradually be worn down,

a little cog in the onrushing machinery of destruction ?

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Then, one day, the order came for him to escort a

large transport of Russian war prisoners westward. He

felt relieved, released. Slowly, with endless pauses, the

train of cattle cars, equipped with small field kitchens

and wooden partitions, neared the former border of

Poland. An ancient passenger car had been coupled on

to the train for Anton and the rest of the escort. But

Anton seemed to take his responsibilities very earnestly

and spent many hours with the prisoners. He spoke

with them in Czech, and pieced together their Russian

answers. Almost all of them were peasant's sons and

workers; tall, handsome boys, easy-going and docile,

but absolutely convinced that their army would win the

victory. The most interesting of them was an engineer

of artillery from Kharkov, who had only recently re

turned home from America to take part in his people's

battle for freedom. He refused to tell Anton whether

he had come over with war machines and munitions

from the United States, but he readily recounted his im

pressions of the greatest industrial country in the world

-—the German papers had been suppressing all mention

of America for a long time. From him Anton learned

to his utter amazement that the United States had de

clared war on Germany, Italy and Japan over a month

before. The Russian smiled his impenetrable Asiatic

smile when Anton at first refused to

believe him, for

in the section of the front from which he had come not

■"3

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a word had been published about Germany's new enemy.

"You can never win this war," the Russian said, "no

more than you were able to win the last one. Yourpropaganda has succeeded in convincing your own peo

ple of your greatness and splendor and strength, but it

hasn't convinced the rest of the world. The entrance of

America into the war has made your defeat a cer

tainty. . . ." Anton's dutiful objections seemed to have no

effect upon the Russian. "We'll see "he said quietly.

Anton's orders were to escort his prisoners only as

far as Warsaw, and he feared he would be sent back

to the front again from there. But he had luck; he was

ordered to remain with the escort and take the prisoners

to their camp, deep in Saxony. When he handed over

the official papers to the commandant there, he was

given a letter that had arrived for him from Gestapo

headquarters. His head reeled for a moment after he

had opened

the letter and glanced through

it. It was an

order to go at once to Prague by the shortest route;

there he would be assigned to his new duties.

The commandant of the camp curiously asked him his

destination. When Anton told him, he did not seem

surprised. "No peace in that damned Protectorate," he

growled. "Headquarters are sending in every man who

understands a few words of Czech. ..."* * *

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People in Prague seemed changed. Their looks were

more bitter, more suffering, grimmer than before. And

at the same time more courageous and hopeful. As the

old waiter in the small hotel opposite the railroad sta

tion served Anton his ersatz coffee and black bread for

breakfast, the corners of his mouth twitched maliciously,

though the rest of his face was expressionless. Anton

saw the same expression in the faces of almost all the

Czechs he met as he crossed the broad Wenzelsplatz

and walked down the narrower Graben into the Old

City.

The February sun glittered upon the ornate forms

of the snow-fringed baroque portals. From the roof of

the old Gunpowder Tower that defiantly stood athwart

the street a frozen mass of snow slid loose, as though

by chance, and fell in the midst of a short line of Ger

man SS troops who were marching through the arched

gate. Anton was some distance away. He saw the line

break up at a quick command, and even as the clump of

ice flew to pieces against the pavement the soldiers were

rushing to both ends of the street, guns at ready, to

form a cordon around the Tower. Several bystanders

were arrested and led away.

Anton noticed numerous proclamations in German

and Czech posted on the walls of buildings. Many of

them had been slashed, or corners had been ripped away,so that the contents could not be made out. But already

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German soldiers with pots of glue and brushes were

pasting clean new posters over the old ones.

Several times Anton stopped to read one of them.

Warnings, threats, reports of executions that were in

tended to terrify the populace. All those posters were

signed by the newly-appointed supreme commander, the

Reich Protector for Bohemia and Moravia, whom Anton

knew as one of the highest Gestapo functionaries. In

his special training course Anton had learned that this

man was famous for inventing the marvelously efficient

system that was used in the Dachau concentration camp.

To all appearances, this man was now engaged in trans

forming all of Bohemia and Moravia into a single great

concentration camp.

And nevertheless the people seemed better-spirited

and more hopeful. It was not hard for Anton to guess

the reasons. The reasons were Russia and America. In

stead of

the embittered desperation among

the Czechs,

which Anton had seen three years before, there was now

grim confidence and a malicious joy.

Across the river, gleaming white under a pale blue

sky, was the snow-covered Hradschin, surrounded by

delicate white spires and walls and palaces built down

to the shore like gigantic steps. Anton crossed one of the

long bridges, between the old, grey carved stone figures

that guarded the walks, and climbed the short slope

to the Ducal Palace. His headquarters were still here.

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After waiting for some time he was led through the

assembly hall to the small high room, where an adjutant

of the commandant received him. The commandanthimself had been called to the castle only an hour ago.

Anton saw by the lettering on the door that the com

mandant was no longer that blonde young man with the

impersonal assessor's face who had once given Anton

his orders. Anton learned that he himself would be as

signed for the present as an assistant to a special In

spection Department of the Gestapo command. He was

to go on duty immediately.

The Inspection Department had its headquarters in

the next street up, in a plain-looking building. The

chief, who looked a little like a uniformed bookkeeper,

was nervous, overworked and in a hurry. He barked a

few instructions, in the form of slogans, haphazardly

picked out one of the dossiers that were piled high on

his desk and gave it to Anton. Curtly, he ordered Anton

to leave at once for the village in question to check up

on the case at its proper locale.

Taking the dossier, Anton went to his assigned desk

in one of the improvised office rooms. He spread out

the dossier and began to study it. Anton had never

heard of the village it concerned. He asked one of the

men sitting opposite him for a map and was told there

was one on the wall of the adjoining room. He studiedthe dossier more closely, trying to locate the village

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on the map. The name of the district in which it

was situated was also unknown to him. Suddenly he

started, and the pencil with which he had been trac

ing the thin lines of the map slipped from his hand.

The province in question bordered on the Pilsen dis

trict, and the village Anton had to investigate could not

be more than ten miles from the little town where his

aunt—and Lydia—lived ! The country road that linked

the two places snaked in a wide curve around a wood

ed mountain slope. Across this mountain there was a

footpath, indicated on the map by a tiny hairline. An

ton recalled the name of the mountain top. He had

never climbed i t ,

but his uncle had once told him that

on the summit were remains of aburial vault of the

ancient Celtic inhabitants. They had intended awalk

to visit the historic site—the people of the neighbor

hood seemed very proud of i t—but bad weather had

intervened.

Anton felt as though alump of ice around his heart

had begun to melt. A feverish inner turbulence gripped

him. But he knew he must think coolly now and do

nothing premature that would betray himself or en

danger others. With outward calm, he took his dos

sier and left the office.

As he descended the street to the Moldau bridge,

his heart lighter than i t

had been for along time, hecame to his decision. I twas clear that the summit of

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the mountain was destined to be a meeting-place for

him and Lydia. As soon as he reached his hotel, he

wrote a few lines to his aunt. In the letter he remarked

casually that he intended tomorrow night to visit the

Celtic ruins, as they had once planned. He had be

come so cautious that in his letter he avoided any pos

sible hint that would be significant to strangers, al

though it was hardly likely the letters would be cen

sored. Nevertheless, he had seen often enough how,

for no apparent reason, men were placed under special

observation by the Gestapo. Then every letter they

received was picked out and examined. This might

quite possibly happen to his uncle's house. Consequent

l y ,

he signed the letter merely with the Czech trans

lation of his nickname, and dropped i t into amailbox

at one of the last railroad stations he passed through.

That same evening he arrived at his destination—

in civilian clothes, as he had been ordered. The last

two hours of his journey he had ridden over asingle-

tracked local railroad in an ancient, jolting car. He

reported at the local Gestapo headquarters, and found

that only afew men were posted here. There was no

officer permanently on duty, and the non-commissioned

officer who was in charge seemed so busy that he feltcertain the man would not bother him. Anton took

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a poorly-ventilated room in the sole village inn. Here,

too, even in this outlying village, the walls of build

ings were plastered with the posters he had seen in

Prague.

Anton slept little that night. His whole life since

his parting from Lydia ran through his feverish mind.

He had opened both windows in the stuffy room, and

he shivered with cold, although he had spread his coat

and clothes over the blanket. But such petty discom

forts meant little. His mind was filled with the com

ing meeting. Repeatedly, he rose on his elbow and

struck a match to look at the clock on the night table.

Every hour seemed to pass more slowly than had weeks

and months in the past.

Finally, toward morning, he fell into a deep sleep.

He awoke shortly before seven, a little surprised to

find himself in such unusual surroundings, but re

freshed and full of confidence. The work Anton had to do in order to complete

the information in the dossier was neither difficult

nor interesting. He was supposed to examine the village

archives and church books to check the statements of

a man who had been arrested six months before. The

arrested man had said he was born in this village and his

family had lived there for five generations. It was sus

pected that his papers were forged; he might be guilty of more serious infractions of the new laws. Anton po

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litely questioned the village clerk and the pastor in

Czech, and the two men answered readily enough. The

prisoner's allegations seemed to be true, but in orderfurther to check them Anton found he would have to

visit other parishes some distance away. This was pre

cisely what he had hoped, since it gave him a good

pretext for remaining away from Prague another night.

As he glanced through yellowed old books and as

he walked between the small villages, he kept thinking

of the evening to come. He did not dare to imagine

what he would feel if Lydia did not come to the ren

dezvous. He was not sure of his own self-control.

Perhaps he would not be able to resist the insane tempt

ation to walk down to his uncle's house; and if he did

not find her there, to try to trace her and follow her

trail wherever it led, to prison or to death. Then again

he argued with himself that fate could not have led

him all this long way in order to have him chase after

his sweetheart like a sentimental boy; that his destiny

was to meet the act he had dreamed of for so long,

the act that was to justify all that he had done until

now. He would meet i t ,

together with her or, i fmust

be, alone.

In the afternoon his way took him b y

chance to the

fork in the road where the footpath mounted steeply

up the side of the mountain. He fixed the spot wellin his mind. From this place i tcould not take more

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than an hour to reach the summit. On Lydia's side the

mountain sloped more gently and the distance she had

to travel was correspondingly greater.

At last dusk began to fall. Anton remarked casually

to the innkeeper that he still had work to do in a neigh

boring village and would therefore be back late. He

made a similar remark to the non-commissioned officer

who was in command here.

At six o'clock Anton stood once more at the branch

in the road which he had noted earlier in the day. He

began to climb slowly, taking calm, regular strides.

But gradually he increased his pace and marched hur

riedly through the snow. In a small circle around the

trunks of the tall pine trees the snow had already melt

ed, and now and then an earthy fragrance rose from

the

damp soil, mingled with the

tingling odor of rosin.

Although the sky was cloudy, there was still a good

deal of light over the snow-covered clearings among

the trees that lined the path. Now and then Anton

turned on his flashlight for a moment to see whether

there were any footprints on the path. He found them

only along the lower end of the road. After he passed

an isolated farmhouse the double trail ceased.

When Anton reached the upper rim of the woodsand saw before him the flat summit, sparsely covered

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with bushes, he began to run. Although less than an

hour had passed since he started up, he dashed madly

ahead, as though he were in danger of arriving too

late and losing an opportunity he would never find

again.

When he reached the summit, he looked around for

the Celtic burial place. He had no exact idea of what

it looked like. He found nothing. Somewhat annoyed

with himself, he realized that the plateau up here was

larger and more difficult to survey than he had assumed.

And the growing darkness made the prospect of a

meeting seem unlikely, especially since he had not set

tled any specific time; he had merely mentioned the

hour he planned to start out.

Anton considered. What should he do? Should he

call, or flash his light ? Minutes passed. Now and then,

through the clear, still night air he heard distant noises

from the village and the long-drawn howl of a watch

dog in the lonely farmhouse. He looked in vain for

the lights of the little town on the other side of the

mountain. Obviously a complete blackout had been

ordered, for occasionally British bombers came over

this section.

Then Anton heard the faint tapping of footsteps

coming from the rim of the woods on the side toward

the town. He thought he saw a solitary figure detachitself from the trees. He held his breath and his pulses

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hammered. With a few strides he reached the dark

figure. Frantisek stood before him, excited and breath

ing hard from his rapid climb.

Anton stood numbed. He could not even speak a

word of greeting, so paralyzed was he by disappoint

ment and the wild anxiety for Lydia that surged up

within him. The young Czech took his hand and shook

it heartily. "Maria is waiting down below in the cave,"

he said. Maria? Then Anton remembered that this was

the name Lydia had been given

at her new birth. Maria

Svoboda, and Svoboda meant freedom. The painful

physical tension relaxed into silent rejoicing. He fol

lowed his cousin some fifty yards down the hill. Here,

as his cousin explained, low dunes in the bluish, shim

mering mantel of snow revealed the presence of the

Celtic ruins. Anton would never have found the place

by himself. Unable to speak for the excitement of

anticipation, Anton followed Frantisek a little fartherdown. Here they stepped upon the half-frozen, dry

soil of an outflung strip of woodland, and their foot

steps left no visible tracks. Anton had to bend down

and they passed beneath low-hanging branches and

through thick underbrush. Finally Frantisek knelt and,

with an effort, cautiously lifted an ordinary flat stone.

He raised it on its end and pushed it aside. From with

in the earth came the faint light of a lamp. "Youmust follow the glow of the lamp," Frantisek said.

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"If you need me, whistle. I'll keep watch on the foot

path. Maria will tell you all about us. Usually a pa

trol passes by here at night; they pass along the east

side before they approach us. I'll give you the signal

when they're past. It's good you're here so early; I

still have time to clear away the tracks before I go

home. Father and mother send their regards; they hope

to see you soon. ..."It was still difficult for Anton to speak. "Thank

you, Frantisek," he said finally. "Tell your parents

I'd like very much to see you all. I'll come as soon

as I can without endangering our cause. . ."

A sudden gleam in Frantisek's brown eyes and a faint

smile on his handsome face, which was dimly illum

inated by the light from the underground passageway,

showed Anton that his cousin understood.

"Goodbye and good luck," Frantisek replied. And

Anton stepped past him into the passageway. Behindhim Frantisek pushed the flat rock back into place.

Involuntarily, Anton rubbed his eyes, wondering

whether he was not dreaming all this. Was this reality ?

Was it possible? He felt as though the replacing of

the rock were a gesture from a higher power, sealing

the world behind him for a brief span: the world of

confusion, the world of cruelty and heavy responsibility.

It was as though this had been granted him to strength

en him for the great task he had still to accomplish:

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these few hours outside the world, beyond the events

of the world, wholly alone with the one he loved.

The sweet odor of earth surrounded him as he

groped his way along the crooked corridor. After some

ten yards, a doorless entrance, almost head high,

opened into a small room to one side of the passage.

He saw that the room was fully furnished, but he did

not have time to wonder at this underground dwell

ing place. Lydia sprang toward him with a cry of joy

and they held each other in a silent embrace, lips pressed

tightly together, as though nothing could ever part

them again. It seemed now, even more than it had

so long ago in his uncle's living room, that they had

belonged to one another for years, and as though they

had been marking time during their separation and

only now awoke once more to the fullness of living.

Lydia's soft brown hair on his cheek, her dark eyes

with their inner radiance so close to his, her lips, herpliant, quivering body—to Anton these were now the

only real things in the world. Everything else, outside,

was shadowy and distant.

Slowly she released him, tossing her head with a

gracious movement of her neck. "We must secure the

entrance," she said, and drew him into the passage

way along which he had just come. She shone her

flashlight upon the flat rock that Frantisek had pushed

back. Anton saw a strong iron hook set into the mid

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die of the stone. Lydia lowered the beam of her flash

light and showed him a coil of steel cable. One end

was fastened to a pile that had been rammed into the

earth. The other end had a short, spiral spring and a

ring. Anton had to exert himself to draw the rope

taut enough to pass the ring over the hook in the stone.

It was a clever arrangement which made it almost im

possible for anyone on the outside to break in. But

should the rock be smashed and an entrance made—

even this was provided for; a meandering underground

passage led some thousand yards to an emergency exit

lower down, which was closed in the same manner.

Anton was amazed and impressed. He learned that

for more than a year this cave had served as the secret

meeting place of the movement. And Lydia, who had

succeeded in obtaining, by devious routes, a part of

the money she had abroad, had transformed the cold

and uncomfortable hole in the ground into a very liv

able, neat little room that bore the stamp of her own

personality. Proudly she pointed out the paneled walls.

Along the upper border of the paneling ran a carved

shelf on which stood colorful dishware and pottery.

The same light-brown wood served as floor and ceil

ing. On one of the walls a window was simulated by

bright, flowery drawn curtains that hung from a shiny

brass curtain rod. On the opposite

wall a green

tile

stove gave out a comfortable warmth.

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"We don't heat with wood," Lydia laughed. "We

have a new, smokeless fuel. One of Frantisek's friends

who works in "a military factory got a chance to ex

amine the patent application and built this model for

us. ... "She drew the heavy, dark-green curtain over

the doorway and invited Anton to sit down at the table,

which was already set. Nothing was lacking, not even

the rose wine and the sweet white cookies for dessert.

Anton could not understand how the chance of his

being sent to the neighboring village had led him to

pick this mountain summit, of all places, for their ren

dezvous. Was there any such thing as chance? At all

the crises of his life he had sensed something like pre

destination, but never so sharply as now.

The meal was simple but nourishing, enhanced by

delicate, graceful touches. It lasted overlong because

their eager questions and answers often made them

pause with forks and

spoons halfway to their mouths.

Just as Lydia had finished clearing away the table

and was spreading a bright cloth over i t ,

Anton started

up. He heard astrange, humming sound. The sound

was repeated three times at brief intervals. Lydia

breathed asigh of relief. "Now they've passed," she

said, setting down close to Anton on the wooden arm

of the sofa, which stood under the "blind window."

Anton remembered that this must be Frantisek's signal; he had quite forgotten about it.

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He had eyes and ears for Lydia alone. He drank in

every one of her graceful movements, he intoxicated

himself with the crystalline tone of her voice. Thiswas something more, he told her, than sitting in the

damp cellar of the Flemish political leader and rejoic

ing to hear a few words of her distant voice over the

air. Of all the things Anton told her, this little story

seemed to please Lydia most. Perhaps because it re

vealed to her so simply how boundless had been An

ton's longing for her.

"Today I'm not speaking over the air," she said.

"Today my voice is for you alone. You can make me

speak or be silent, as you like. ..."And he silenced her voice, first by kisses, then by

embraces. For Anton this night became a night be

yond the world, beyond all temporal things. Here be

neath the earth time stood still. Yet it flew by all the

same, though stars could not rise here nor sun set.

Their cave was a tiny island in the universe, where noth

ing existed but their two souls flowing together, their

two heartbeats become one, and at last, their sweet

sleep without desire, sheltered in one another's arms.

Anton was awakened by the faint clatter of cups.

Lydia was just setting the cups and the steaming teakettle on the breakfast table. Anton awoke from the

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commonplace world of his dreams to the fairy-tale of

reality. He jumped up and asked Lydia what time it

was. It might as easily be three in the morning or

twelve noon. Actually, it was six o'clock in the morn

ing.

"Hurry and get ready," Lydia said. "I didn't want

to wake you too early, but we have a great deal to talk

over."

Lydia was no longer wearing the dark, fine dress

in which she had received Anton. She had donned a

coarse, dull grey smock, which she wore to her work

in the so-called quilt section of the factory. Here, day

after day, she sat at her sewing machine between the

twin sisters. She got on well with the other girls and

no longer attracted any attention. She had been granted

permission to stay away from work today in order to

visit a sick relative of Anton's uncle, who lived in a

small community halfway up the mountain. In orderto avoid suspicion, she intended to pay this visit punct

ually on the way back.

It was a different Lydia who sat opposite Anton now

in her grey work clothes, who, between quick swallows

of ruddy tea, told him of previous successes and future

plans of the secret organization. She spoke coolly, sob

erly, resolutely. Disguised behind this poor and com

mon dress was the fellow-conspirator of oppressed millions; Lydia was ho longer the sweetheart of the night

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just past, who had belonged to him alone. And he

felt that precisely because of this she meant more to

him, not less; because the same inner voice had obvi

ously spoken for both of them—the voice that had told

him earlier that this meeting was their last repose be

fore the impending action.

And the act was being prepared. From Lydia's re

port it was apparent that her comrades had not wasted

time. In spite of all the threats and bloody executions,

the number of conspirators within the country had

grown. But what was needed now was a signal to the

outer world, a blow that the oppressors could no longer

suppress by silence or lies, something that would make

the conquerors tremble and the free peoples take heart.

They had heard from London that the Allies would

govern the time of their landing on the European Con

tinent by the striking power of the underground move

ments. The coordination between the individual groups

made it seem likely that the men who committed the

act could be concealed and their trail could be covered

over. In the course of time sufficient explosives and

weapons had been collected and stored in such hide

outs as this. What had to be avoided—and this had

led to many quarrels between Lydia and the impatient,

reckless Frantisek —was a premature blow. If the blow

were not well enough prepared, it would fail, andwould result only in more bloodshed for their people.

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There had been a poll taken among the members of

the conspiracy to find out who should be the victim

of the first great blow. The answers had been almost

unanimous: strike at the highest in the land, the prime

head of the monster, the new Protector himself. The

notorious bloodhound of Bohemia must be the first

to fall. But how reach him, how penetrate through the

thousands of armed guards and lackeys around him?

He never appeared in public unless surrounded by a

whole company of military police. He was seldom

seen; he seldom spoke in public; but all death sentences

bore his name. When he had selected a victim, the

man died ; there were no delays. Spreading terror and

death, he had passed through other countries. Where

the torturing and slaughtering was vilest, there he was.

For almost five months now he had been wielding his

bloody scourge over Bohemia, and in every one of those

months hundreds of

the Czech leaders in "protective"

custody had been tortured to death.

Lydia's dark eyes flamed; her own words had added

new fuel to her fury. She seemed to see the hated, mur

derous tyrant in the flesh before her; she seemed on

the point of striking him in the face as he stood there

in the corner opposite the tile stove. And suddenly

Anton felt that somewhere in the room he, too, could

see the man. Over the black, death's-head uniformrose the outlines of a thin, ordinary face, topped by

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sparse, light-blonde hair, like the face of the man who

had first issued orders to him in the Ducal Palace at

Prague. Perhaps the sallow forehead was a little higher; the lips, tightly compressed in blind obedience, a

little thinner; the piercing eyes of an even more in

definite color; the chin a little more ordinary.

"Why have you picked him?" Anton asked.

Lydia turned to him. "I saw him once," she said.

"It was in the village where I hid during my flight and

was given the peasant dress. Since that time I've visited

the old woman three or four times. And once, when

I was sitting in her living room, her son—a hulking

peasant about fifty years old—brought the news that

a bridge had just been blown up by a bomb on the

main highway to Prague. The Protector, who had ob

viously been the object of the attack, was delayed for

some time. I went outside with the man to see if we

could find out more about the incident. Suddenly a

motor columri raced toward us and stopped in the mid

dle of the village. We all realized it was the blood

hound and his escort, who had had to make a wide

detour around the wrecked bridge and were now pass

ing through here. In the third car, very close to where

we were standing, a window was rolled down as a

motorcyclist rode up to make a report. A narrow head

appeared in the window, wearing a cap with the visorpulled down over the forehead. I knew at once that

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it was he. He listened to the report, glanced around

, and then waved to my companion to come to the win

dow. From inside the car a voice asked in German:

"Who set the time bomb ?" The peasant shook his head.

"I don't know anything about a bomb. . ."

he said.

The bloodhound made a gesture I shall never forget,

while at the same time his thin lips moved as he said

something indifferently to his companion in the car.

That gesture! His right index finger made a swift

movement across his Adam's apple and at the same

time he blinked at the SS man, who was leaning on

his motorcycle about a yard away. The next moment

a whistle shrilled. Several other SS men sprang from

one of the cars, seized the peasant, overpowered him

and dragged him behind one of the houses. I wanted

to tear at the murderer's throat with my bare hands.

But before I quite realized what was happening the

motor roared and a few seconds later the first few cars

of the column were gone. Then I heard shots from be

hind the house. The men, with smoking rifles, swung

into their car and the rest of the column began to move.

Never before and never since have I witnessed such

helpless rage, such terrible grief, as I saw in the face

of that old woman, the peasant's mother. Never have

J so deeply felt the nature of the paralysis that still

hung over those heavy, slow-moving peasants besideme. They could not move, nor could they understand

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this cold-blooded murder as part of a system of ter-

rorization. And even after the murderers had passed

like an ominous storm, they still stood unmoving. . .

"

She paused for a moment. "The other, who sent him,"

she said finally, "may be an insane criminal. But this

man is a cold-blooded, cynical hangman, and I've sworn

vengeance against him. . . Forgive me!" she broke off,

tossing her head gracefully. "What I've just told you

accounts for my personal hatred, so it really doesn't

matter. Certainly, every one of those wholesale murd

erers deserves death, at least. But this man is in our

reach ; once we almost had him. A plan has been worked

out to the last detail—where and how we can strike

at him. There's only one thing lacking. He's become

sly and careful. Chances such as I had then, when he

suddenly came within two yards of me, don't happen

any more. We never find out in time when he's leav

ing the Castle at Prague. Again and again we've missed

opportunities. We can only carry out our plan if some

one on the inside helps us. . . ."

She fell silent. Anton

had understood before she was half through. It was

his long-awaited task she was assigning to him.

In her dark eyes Anton could read the conflict bet

ween her fear for her lover and the demand she wanted

to make on him. "Don't worry about me," he said

firmly. "I've been waiting for years for this . . .

I'mready."

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Lydia kissed him. Then she took from a hiding place

in one of the walls a number of sheets of paper, and

handed them to him. There were sketches of the place

and exact details on how the planned attack was to

be executed. Each person named by code numbers in

the plans was assigned a definite part, including Fran-

tisek and Lydia herself.

"When? ..." Anton asked.

"As soon as you send us word on what day he is

going to Berlin by car. But we must know it at least

twenty-four hours in advance. We must be certain. If it fails this time, it will never be possible again." Then

she gave him addresses and passwords of liaison men

in various towns and villages throughout the country,

so that whenever the time came he would be able to

send word to her.

Anton held her close as they said goodbye. "When

will we have each other again, Lydia?" he demandedpassionately.

She drew away from him and tossed her head. The

motion was different this time, painful and weary, as

though she were seeking some resting place for her

gaze upon the wooden ceiling. "We must be strong,

Anton," she said, a soft vibrancy in her voice. "We

must not see each other before .. . . before it's done."

The stern voice within himself, which he knew wellfrom many nights in Russia, told him she was right,

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haxd though it was for him to admit it. Once more

he kissed her; then he tore himself away and groped

his way through the passage. Lydia did not have the

will to accompany him to the exit. He released the

steel cable, pushed up the flat stone and ascended into

the blinding sunlight, among bushes and pine trees.

Carefully he pushed the rock back into place, and

strode downhill in the cold winter morning.

That same day Anton returned to Prague and re

ported the results of his investigation, which confirmed

the prisoner's story. From the eternally nervous, over

worked Departmental Chief with the face of a uni

formed bookkeeper Anton received another dossier to

investigate. And when this was done, he was given

others. Almost all these investigations concerned small

towns and

villages in the

provinces; the dossiers had

piled up in the Inspection Department for lack of time

and personnel. -

Anton had little free time, and months passed in

which he had noopportunity

to find out where the

enemy was staying at the moment or where he intended

to go. It proved to be a serious disadvantage that the

office in which he worked was situated in the grey,

plain-looking building up the hill, for he seldom hadthe chance to visit the Castle or the Ducal Palace,

■ K, i.

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where he would be more in touch with the highest

circles.

Sometimes, at night, he sat tensely studying the pa

pers Lydia had given him; the papers containing the

plan of attack. Here, at the heart of a super-efficient

spy system, their plot seemed to him a hopeless, insane

undertaking, and he was often on the point of send

ing Lydia word that he thought it impossible.

Once a fellow-agent pointed out to him a grey auto

mobile with a long hood that was being washed in an

open garage they were passing. "The chief's car," he

said, and Anton knew whom he meant. A little later

he came back and succeeded in drawing the chauffeur

into conversation. He pretended interest in the speed

of the car, and cautiously felt his way toward more

important questions. But the closer he came to them,

the more taciturn the chauffeur became. "Official

secret,'" he growled

at last, saluted stiffly

and turned

to examine the newly-washed car.

The snow melted from the roofs. A warm rain

washed the stone figures on the bridges, and under

the bridges the Moldau flowed cloudy and swollen.

The twigs in the garden on the lower slope of the

Hradschin were already tipped with their first tender

green. And Anton had accomplished nothing.

In the middle of April he had occasion to visit the

villages mentioned in Lydia's plan. He used the op

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portunity to study and fix in his mind the details of

the marked places and the surrounding landscape. He

found that all the information in the sketches wascorrect, and he thought, too, that the terrain had been

cleverly chosen. But what good was all this when the

most important prerequisite of success, which depended

on him, could not be obtained ? Twice he had learned

too late about trips of the Protector that had passed

through this district, and each time his blood had- run

hot with rage and shame that the chance had been

missed.

The fresh green of spring covered the land. In the

mornings one heard birds singing merrily through the

open window. In the so-called "vineyards", which

were really orchards, the fruit trees bloomed in foam

ing whites and delicate pinks. And still nothing had

happened. Outside, in the world, the war went ort,

slowly, with changing fortunes. The exaggerated hopes

that the winter successes of the Russians had aroused

in the Czechs were not fulfilled. Day after day there

were new arrests in Prague, and none of those arrested

earlier were ever released. Day after day the people

heard or read of executions and atrocities in Bohemia

and in other occupied countries. And on every poster

on every wall, below threats, penalties and execution

orders, was signed the hated name of the bloodhoundof Bohemia.

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Then, toward the end of May, an unexpected and

incredible opportunity came to Anton. The Gestapo

command in Prague had sent a large number of its

officers and men to Bruenn to help on a big raid. The

commanding officer called upon the Inspection Depart

ment to release all the men it could spare for urgent

special duty. The uniformed bookkeeper shrugged

nervously, decided that it hardly mattered if the long-

neglected investigations were neglected a little longer,

and said he could spare Anton.In the small high room adjoining the assembly hall

Anton, together with a number of other officers, was

given his instructions by the same adjutant who had

received him when he arrived in Prague. Anton could

scarcely believe his ears. The "special duty" was to

supplement the escort which was to accompany the

Protector on his trip to Berlin next day.

With pulses hammering, Anton left the Ducal Palace.Now the hour of decision had arrived. He looked at

his watch and started in dismay. Not quite twenty-four

hours were left before the scheduled departure from

Prague. Nevertheless, he told himself, this time it

must be risked. His personal presence at the scene,

which had not been reckoned on in the plan, opened

all sorts of new possibilities.

What he had to do now had been carefully planned

and was very simple. He merely had to mention the

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time of departure to the barber in a small barber-shop.

The barber would immediately call up a soap dealer

and casually repeat the hour, subtracting six from i t ,

so that even i f the telephone conversation were over

heard no suspicion would be aroused. The number six

had been chosen because i t yielded the same result

whether added or substracted, so that even in the ex

citement no misunderstanding was possible.

When Anton entered the barber shop, a Prussian

colonel was just having cut the sparse ring of hair

around his shiny bald pate. Again and again he felt

the length of the remaining wreath of hair, trying to

make his complicated demands understood b ymeans

of sign language. Anton suppressed the urge to speed

up the procedure b y

volunteering his services as inter

preter. He did not want to make himself conspicuous

in any way. Finally the shorn Colonel declared him

self satisfied and left the shop. Anton, alone with thebarber, spoke the hour without preliminary.

"Just amoment, sir," the barber said, his expression

unchanged. "I'll be with you in aminute." Then

Anton heard the man speaking over the telephone in

the adjoining room. When he came back, he began

to shave Anton, and not another word was exchanged

between them. But Anton felt the barber's hand tremb

ling, and several times the man had to put down the

razor to avoid cutting him.

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Punctually at the scheduled hour the line of motor

cars assembled, manned by heavily armed elite guards

and police officers. In their midst was the steel-walled

armored car of the Reich Protector.

Anton had succeeded in getting a front seat, next

to the chauffeur; from this position it was easiest to

watch what went on along the road. The car in which

he rode was in the line of rearguards, the third car

behind the high chief's.

They swept past the gloomy factory buildings on

the outer rim of Prague and past the blooming gardens

and fruit trees of the suburbs. The pace grew swifter;

dust flew up as the car hit the dirt on the side of the

road while rounding a curve.

Anton's feverish excitement of the night, which had

given him scarcely a moment's rest, had ebbed as soon

as he got into the car and the procession began to move.

Now the decision was already made, the wheels were

in motion, and he himself could do nothing but ob

serve and be prepared. As always in moments of peril

ous anticipation, this gave him a sense of cold certainty

and command of himself. He remembered having had

the same feeling in his early days as a policeman, when

he set out with his comrades in pursuit of notorious

criminals. You never knew whether you were going

to come back with a whole skin from such expeditions.

Strange, he thought, today much the same thing was

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happening. Except that now the defenders of order

and justice had to crouch bushes along the road, while

he himself rode with the criminals, wearing policeuniforms.

The pace slowed; they were passing through a

village. Anton knew that this was an important moment

for the success of the attack. Somewhere along the

road here sat a well-hidden observer. As soon as an

artificial obstruction had reduced the speed sufficiently,

the observer would determine the order in the line of

the bloodhound's car. Then he would speak the number

into a field telephone. The line had been specially

laid for this purpose and would be taken up at once.

Now they were scarcely three miles from the fateful

spot, which Anton had studied during his trip there in

April. The drivers had a broad, smooth roadway before

them; they followed their instructions and drove at

full speed. The telephone message was to be passed

on by primitive wigwag signals. Would the signals

match this furious pace and reach their goal before

the enemy roared past them and out of reach for ever ?

Anton's heart stopped beating. Now, in the distance,

a church steeple rose above the hilly fields. At this

wild pace it could not be more than a minute before

they would reach the spot. Anton had rolled down

the window at his side, as though he wanted a breath

of fresh air. On his side of the road he saw the tumble

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of hay piled close to the edge of the road. He knew

that beneath that pile of hay death lay concealed. Al

ready the leading cars had roared past it; Anton's own

car was scarcely two hundred yards away.

There came an explosion, like the sound of a tire

blowing out at full speed. Anton, leaning out the

narrow window, saw that the Protector's car had been

struck directly by the bomb; it swerved helplessly from

side to side and finally plunged into the ditch at the

side of the road. At the same time Anton felt a violent

pressure in the pit of his stomach as his own driver

jammed on the breaks. "An attack" the man screamed

at Anton as the car, brakes and tires screeching, lurched

hard into the bumper of the car in front and came to

a stop.

Anton tore open the door and sprang out. The men

in the cars behind, who obviously thought a tire had

blown out, slowly followed his example. Even beforeAnton touched ground, a series of shots rang out from

the direction of the haystack. For a second it seemed

to him he caught a glimpse of Frantisek's brown eyes

gleaming triumphantly from amid the yellow hay.

A moment later the men in the two cars ahead of

Anton began to fire. More and more shots were fired;

the men began shooting wildly in all directions. Anton

had to stand still to keep out of the line of fire. Thecars in front of the bombed car had raced on. An

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SS man from the motorcycle escort was sent ahead to

fetch them back. Shrill commands were hurled through

the air. The shooting slackened and Anton couldapproach closer. He glanced at the automobile in the

ditch. The chauffeur hung twisted and motionless over

the steering wheel. From inside the car came whimper

ing sounds. Then a voice cried for help. For but the

fraction of a second Anton made out the narrow, blood

less face beneath the visor of the cap; the face for

which he had been anxiously looking. In the small,

glistening eyes stood the fear of death; the thin lips

were twisted as though by an ugly wound. And from

those lips came the whispering, gasping sounds.

"All officers over here!" snarled the voice of the

commander of the escort, who had climbed uninjured

from the car. Even as he spoke lines of men, their

rifles held at ready, were swarming out in concentric

circles to comb the surrounding terrain. Anton stepped

forward with the others. He knew that the next few

seconds would determine whether Frantisek and his

companion got their headstart, as the plan provided.

He saw an SS man approaching with a self-important

expression. The man was carrying a raincoat and an

empty leather wallet, apparently dropped by the fugi

tives while running. From somewhere deeper in the

woods someone cried that he had found an abandonedbicycle. Involuntarily, the lines of black-uniformed men

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surged toward the left side of the road, where these

finds had been made. Anton breathed easier. He knew

that the false clues had been placed there to mislead

the pursuers; meanwhile Frantisek and his friend were

fleeing into the woods on the other side of the road.

Here the two would crawl through a hidden water pipe.

If all went well, they would by now have passed

through tall bushes and have reached an isolated farm

house, where they would vanish into the shaft of a

dried-out well. At an exit some distance downhill they

would find two bicycles. As soon as they were away,

the wall of the well would be dug out immediately

by men standing ready and connected with the new

well nearby. The pursuers would find nothing but

water, so that even bloodhounds would lose the trail

from here on. On the bicycles the two would ride

parallel to the highway for a while, behind a fence of

high bushes. Finally they would exchange the wheelsfor waiting motorcycles and, apparently coming from

the opposite direction, ride into the village where Lydia

had once been given her peasant dress and where Anton

knew she was now waiting.

The commandant had unfolded a General Staff map

and was angrily trying to hold it smooth in the high

wind that persistently whipped it awry in his hands.

"Knowledge of the neighborhood is extremely im

portant," he growled. "The abettors of these assassins

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in the neighboring villages must be located at once.

Reinforcements have already been sent for from all

nearby garrisons. Until then all approaches must be

closed off and the nearest villages occupied. Everyone

who knows anything about this district report im

mediately."

The officers bent over the map. Anton glanced at

it for only a second. "Lidice," he said. "I know it

from my inspection work

"Take four men there at once. Report your find

ings!" the colonel growled. And a moment later Anton

again sat beside the driver. Lidice was the name of

the village where Lydia, disguised in the uniform of

a German nurse, was waiting for the arrival of the

two fugitives.

Anton directed the driver over the narrow, dusty

country road.

The colonel's swift order to investigate the

villagesbefore making a mass search of the surrounding terrain

threatened to spoil all their plans. But Anton thought

he had averted this danger by his prompt volunteering.

This gave him the opportunity to intervene personally

in the events of the village

His mind raced feverishly. Already they were ap

proaching the first houses. Then, from the other end

of the village street, several shots rang out. "Stop!"Anton ordered. "Ready for action!" He considered.

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The shots could mean only two things: either the few

guards in the village were firing on suspicious persons

--or else the conspirators were proceeding with the

plan, and overpowering the guards in order to take

possession of their ambulance-car in which the two

fugitives were to be carried out of the village.

Whatever the case, he must act now. As always in

moments of danger, Anton's mind was already determ

ined. "Take cover along the right line of buildings and

proceed," he commanded. He allowed the four men

to pass him und then followed cautiously behind them

as they crept along the walls from house to house. A

few yards down the street curved. Anton waited until

the men were well ahead. Then he raised his revolver

und fired four well-aimed shots, one after the other.

Three of the men in front of him sank silently to the

ground. The fourth, at the head of the row, had

turned sharply

at the first shot. Now his eyes were

staring uncomprehendingly at Anton and his finger

was tightening around the trigger of his gun. Then he,

too, fell heavily against a gate.

Anton had sprung to one side. He felt a searing

pain in his left shoulder. But he had no time now to

worry about it. He must not run the risk of being taken

for one of the hated enemies or he would be shot down

by his own people. The wound in his arm began to

pain him. Until this moment he had not seen a single

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one of the inhabitants at this end of the village. Now,

as he came around the curve in the road, he heard a

confusion of voices and loud outcries. He knew the

conspirators' password, and called it out.

The voices fell silent suddenly. Again Anton cried

the password. When he turned the corner, a small

number of men and women fled in all directions with

wild cries.

Several of the men, however, pointed their guns

threateningly at Anton. Once more he cried out the

password in Czech. Loud cheers greeted him. In one

of the small houses at the other end of the street a

window flew open. The wrinkled, white-haired head

of an old woman bent out. Her feverish eyes, red

from weeping, flamed fanatically. "Don't trust him !"

she shouted in a fierce piercing voice. "One of them

murdered my son!" And then, from the door of a

nearby house, a shot rang out. Anton felt a hard blow

against the left side of his chest. He reeled. Then he

lost consciousness.

When he came to, he saw through a thick haze

Lydia's dark eyes over his. He did not know where

he was, or whether he was dreaming. He felt no pain,

merely a pleasant fever that pulsed through his veins.He felt Lydia's cool, gentle hand upon his forehead,

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then her soft lips on his mouth. Then everything

vanished and he fell into a deep slumber.

When he awoke for the second time, he felt strength

ened from hours of sleep. He lay alone on a hard bed

in a strange peasant's room. He felt bandages on his

chest and on his left arm. Slowly the memory of what

had happened returned. Then the door opened and

again Lydia£ stood before him, her dark eyes glowing

with pleasure at finding him conscious once more. She

was wearing the costume of a German nurse.

"Is everything all right?" Anton asked painfully.

"Don't talk!" she said gently. "We're going to take

you to the ambulance now . . . We obtained it and kept

it by a miracle!"

"I . . ." he began, and pointed his finger at himself.

She put her hand imploringly on his lips. "Darling!"

she said tearfully.

"I . . . shot the four men

..." He felt his

strengthebbing and fell silent. Lydia kissed him on both eyes.

"Anton!" she whispered passionately. "Promise me

you'll lie still now and get better!" Her voice broke

from agitation and anxiety.

The cloud once more descended upon Anton. It hurt

him when they lifted him from the bed and placed him

on a stretcher. Then, under Lydia's directions, he was

carefully placed in the dark interior of the ambulance."If I only knew whether the bloodhound is dead," he

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




v

heard Frantisek's voice say, nearby. The memory of the

whimpering pale face gave Anton renewed strength

for a moment. "He won't get up any more ... I sawhim," he said grimly. A cry of joy from the two men

at his side was his answer. Frantisek sprang from the

car for a moment and announced the joyous tidings.

A distand roar of unleashed triumph mingled with the

close roar of the motor. Then Frantisek was again at

Anton's side and the car drove off slowly. Soon the

speed increased. "Is Lydia along?" Anton asked feebly.

Frantisek replied that she was sitting in front with the

driver. And Anton yielded once more to the profound

unconsciousness that closed over him like a dark wave.

Anton slept. He saw and heard nothing of the count

less police cars and military cars that roared past them

in all directions in the lowering twilight. Unlike the

others, he did not start when they were halted midway

by a barbed wire roadblock and a harsh voice asked

the destination of the ambulance. And he did not

hear Lydia's convincing replies, snapped out in im

peccable German. He did not feel it when Frantisek's

friend, who was experienced in the care of the wound

ed, gave him liquid nourishment during brief stops. All

the rattling and shaking of the old ambulance did not

awaken him from his deathlike sleep.

* * *

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Late in the evening he awoke and could not believe

what he saw. In the shaded lamplight he glimpsed a

green tile stove, light, paneled wooden walls, flowerycurtains in front of a blind window. He did not know

when and how he had come here, but he knew he was

in the same incredible cave he had come to three

months before.

The dark green curtain over the doorway parted and

Frantisek's friend entered to look after Anton. He bent

over him and felt his pulse. "The doctor prescribed

absolute rest," he said in a calm, pleasant voice. "He'llbe up tomorrow and look you ovef again. He gave us

exact instructions . . ."

"Where is . . . ." Anton tried to ask.

With a commanding gesture, the man forbade him

to speak. "Maria is coming up tonight ... If she stayed

away too long, it might be noticed when the house is

searched. Besides, she felt it was her duty to send out

the great news over the air to the rest of the world . . ."

Anton felt relieved. She was safe and he would see

her tonight.

"Do you want to hear her speak?" the man asked.

"We can switch on our set here."

Anton nodded gratefully. A moment later he felt a

new weakness overwhelm him, and a vague anxiety

that his strength would not last until she came. He

felt no fear of death, only an aching longing for her.

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Then Lydia's voice filled the room, muted, but

clearly audible and pure as a bell. The broadcast was

almost over, approaching

its end.

"This is a

brief de

scription," he heard her saying, "of what happened this

afternoon on the road from Prague to Berlin. The

first great blow has been struck; one of the most ruth

less killers and hangmen in history, the bloodhound of

Bohemia, lies tonight between life and death in the

Castle at Prague. A quick, honorable soldier's death

would have been too good for him. He is suffering,

before he dies, a fraction of the torments he has merci

lessly inflicted on thousands and tens of thousands of

innocent people. And the memory of those thousands

whom he smilingly, cold-bloodedly slaughtered, will

increase a thousandfold the torments of his own

death!" She had spoken these last words in a hard,

unemotional voice. It seemed to Anton he saw a

wondrously beautiful angel of vengeance waving a fiery

sword in the heavens.

Now once more there came into her voice the warm

belltone that reminded Anton of the clock in the

library with the two white marble heads. "Free

brothers and sisters of the world," she cried ardently,

"What happened today near Lidice was the outcry of

millions of enslaved, downtrodden human beings, not

only in Bohemia, but in all the lands conquered by the

bloody madness of the Germans: in Greece, in Yugo

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




slavia, in France, in Belgium, in Holland, in Luxem

burg, in Denmark, in Norway, in Poland, in Austria.

Every one of us is ready to die in this fight for freedom.

We know that every one of our deeds will bring upon

us new suppression, new deaths among our ranks.

Already a state of siege has been declared in Bohemia

and Moravia, and once more innocent blood is flowing.

But we know, too, that in this struggle we, the op

pressed, will be the victors in the end. We know that

even today, at the news of what has happened, thealmighty leader of Germany trembles upon his tyrant's

throne . . . ."

The voice broke off. Frantisek's friend

turned off the receiver before the last words, which

were repeated every day.

Anton felt weary. The new weakness had spread

through his body, and seemed to be growing steadily.

A terrible fear came over him that he might die now,

now when he could no longer hear her voice and had

not yet seen her eyes. It would take at least another

two hours before she could be here with him.

The man at his bedside seemed to guess his thoughts.

"Just go to sleep now," he said. "I'll wake you when

she comes."

An hour later Lydia pushed aside the hangings over

the door. She sent Frantisek's quiet, modest assistant

home. The young man had a long way to go, to a

district so far from the scene of the bombing that it

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




was unlikely any house-to-house searches would be

made there at once.

Lydia was out of breath from her long climb; she

had run almost the whole of the way. She had hurried

to say farewell to Anton. The doctor had told her that

one of the bullets had lodged in his heart; there was

no use attempting an operation.

It was almost midnight when he opened his eyes

once more. He smiled blissfully when he saw her. Her

dark eyes were dry, as they had once been at this same

hour when she knelt before the dead body of the pro

fessor. As he had then, Anton sensed now something

of her great inner strength, her inflexible courage. From

the very beginning her voice had been to him the voice

of his native land. That vibrant voice would go on;

its message would pulsate through the air, even when

he himself was no longer. Strange, now the last re

maining fear of death had departed from him. Sweetly,

peacefully, the dark cloud sank down upon him.

It seemed to him he heard soft music, familiar, mov

ing Austrian music that Lydia had caught out of the air

like a bird on the wing and brought down for him.

Alluring, dancing, singing tones that conjured up bright

images of his native landscape. The silvery grey flank

of the Leopoldsberg above the tangle of roofs; the

broad open plaza before the thick columns standing at

either side of the coppergreen dome of the Karls

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/ h t t p : / / w w w . h




kirche; the wooden traffic platform and the ash-grey

spire of the Stephansdom, towering over chimneys and

rooftops. Then visions of earlier times rose in his

mind: the good, plump face of his cheerful mother; ice

packs gleaming in the Danube; the bright military

band playing marches in the inner courtyard of the

castle of Vienna; old Emperor Franz Josef in an open

carriage, riding above golden wheels ....But at the last, through the dancing, darting frag

ments of many visions, he saw Lydia's dark eyes,

gleaming like the cherries of the south. His bloodless

lips opened for the last time: "We are home . . ." he

breathed into her ear. And then he no longer knew

whether the crystalline bell-tones of her voice as she

gently answered him came from this dark island of

freedom hidden beneath the soil of a foreign

land, or whether they came to him through the ether

waves, or from a place where the ether waves, vibrating

in strange, magical chords, lost themselves in infinite

starry spaces.

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RETURN TO the circulation desk of any

University of California Library

or to the

NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITYBldg. 400, Richmond Field Station

University of CaliforniaRichmond, CA 94804-4698

ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS2-month loans may be renewed by calling

(415) 642-6233

1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books

to NRLFRenewals and recharges may be made 4 days

prior to due date

DUE AS STAMPED BELOW

my 11990

JU?\ 41991

MAR 0 9 2004


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Documents

Men in Black, A Novel About Lidice, By Owen Elford