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wouldn't shoot him just because he had met a friend on the street. But then he thought: "Those

banknotes!" They would attach a still more sinister meaning to them now. They would say:

"What were you paying Hugo Behr to do?" And what should he answer? He had said that he

hadn't known what Hugo wanted of him. They would know that was a lie. They would say:

"You were helping to promote a revolution against the N.S.D.A.P." And that was surely a

shooting offense-even though you had come from the sweet land of liberty to do it!

Lanny thought up the best way to meet this very bad situation.

When he was questioned, he would talk about his friendship with the great and powerful, and

wait to pick up any hint that the questioner had made note of the bills, or had found out about

Freddi Robin. If these discoveries had been made, Lanny would laugh—at least he would try to

laugh—and say: "Yes, of course I lied to those S.S. men on the street. I thought they were

crazy and were going to shoot me. The truth is that Hugo Behr came to me and asked for

money and offered to use his influence with the S.A. in Dachau to get my friend released.

There was no question of any bribe, he said he would put the money into the party funds and

it would go for the winter relief." One thing Lanny could be sure of in this matter—nothing that

he said about Hugo could do the slightest harm to the young sports director.

VII

Footsteps in the corridor; a slot at the bottom of Lanny's door was widened, and something

was set inside. He said, quickly: "Will you please tell me how long I am to be kept here?" When

there was no reply, he said: "I am an American citizen and I demand the right to communicate

with my consul." The slot was made smaller again and the footsteps went on.

Lanny felt with his hands and found a metal pitcher of water, a cup of warm liquid,

presumably coffee, and a chunk of rather stale bread. He wasn't hungry, but drank some of the

water. Presumably that was breakfast, and it was morning. He lay and listened to more shooting

off and on; and after what seemed a very long time the slot was opened and more food put in.

Out of curiosity he investigated, and found that he had a plate of what appeared to be cold

potatoes mashed up with some sort of grease. The grease must have been rancid, for the smell was

revolting, and Lanny came near to vomiting at the thought of eating it. He had been near to

vomiting several times at the thought of people being shot in this dungeon of horrors.

A bowl of cabbage soup and more bread were brought in what he assumed was the evening; and

this time the warder spoke. He said:

"Pass out your slop-pail." Lanny did so, and it was emptied and passed back to him without

washing. This sign of humanity caused him to make a little speech about his troubles. He said

that he had done nothing, that he had no idea what he was accused of, that it was very

inhuman to keep a man in a dark hole, that he had always been a lover of Germany and a

sympathizer with its struggle against the Versailles Diktat. Finally, he was an American citizen,

and had a right to notify his consul of his arrest.

This time he managed to get one sentence of reply: "Sprechen verboten, mein Herr." It

sounded like a kind voice, and Lanny recalled what he had heard, that many of the permanent

staff of these prisons were men of the former regime, well disciplined and humane. He took a

chance and ventured in a low voice: "I am a rich man, and if you will telephone the American

consul for me, I will pay you well when I get out."

"Sprechen verboten, mein Herr" replied the voice; and then, much lower: "Sprechen Sie

leise." Speaking is forbidden, sir; speak softly! So the prisoner whispered: "My name is Lanny

Budd." He repeated it several times: "Lanny Budd, Lanny Budd." It became a little song. Would

that it might have wings, and fly to the American consulate!

VIII

For three days and four nights Lanny Budd stayed in that narrow cell. He could estimate the

number of cubic feet of air inside, but he didn't know what percentage of that air was oxygen,

or how much he needed per hour in order to maintain his life. His scientific education had been

neglected, but it seemed a wise precaution to put his straw sacks on the floor and lie on them

with his mouth near the breathing hole.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday—he could tell them by the meal hours —and during a total of some

eighty-two hours there were not a dozen without sounds of shooting. He never got over his

dismay. God Almighty, did they do this all the time? Had this been going on ever since the

National Socialist revolution, one year and five months ago? Did they bring all the political

suspects of Bavaria to this one place? Or was this some special occasion, a Nazi St. Bartholomew's

Eve? "Kill them all; God will be able to pick out His Christians!"

Lanny, having nothing to do but think, had many and varied ideas. One was: "Well, they are