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the room beyond. Apparently there were many people there, victims of the torturing; moans

and cries came as from a section of Dante's inferno; the sounds made a sort of basso continuo to

all the infernal events which Lanny witnessed in that chamber of horrors.

A room about fifteen feet square, with a concrete floor and walls of stone; no windows, and

no light except half a dozen candles; only one article of furniture, a heavy wooden bench about

eight feet long and two feet broad, in the middle of the room. From end to end the bench was

smeared and dripping with blood, and there was blood all over the floor, and a stench of dried

blood, most sickening. Also there was the pungent odor of human sweat, strong, ammoniacal;

there were four Nazis standing near the bench, stripped to the waist, and evidently they had

been working hard and fast, for their smooth bodies shone with sweat and grease, even in the

feeble light. Several other Nazis stood by, and one man in civilian clothes, wearing spectacles.

Lanny had read all about this; every anti-Nazi had learned it by heart during the past year

and a half. He took it in at a glance, even to the flexible thin steel rods with handles, made for

the purpose of inflicting as much pain as possible and doing as little permanent damage. If you

did too much damage you lost the pleasure of inflicting more pain—and also you might lose

important evidence. Lanny had read about it, heard about it, brooded over it, wondered how he

would take it—and now here it was, here he was going to find out.

What happened was that a wave of fury swept over him; rage at these scientifically-trained

devils, drowning out all other emotion whatsoever. He hated them so that he lost all thought

about himself, he forgot all fear and the possibility of pain. They wanted to break him; all

right, he would show them that he was as strong as they; he would deny them the pleasure of

seeing him weaken, of hearing him cry out. He had read that the American Indians had made

it a matter of pride never to groan under torture. All right, what an American Indian could do,

any American could do; it was something in the climate, in the soil. Lanny's father had

hammered that pride into him in boyhood, and Bub Smith and Jerry had helped. Lanny

resolved that the Nazis could kill him, but they wouldn't get one word out of him, not one

sound. Neither now nor later. Go to hell, and stay there!

It was hot in this underground hole, and perhaps that was why the sweat gathered on Lanny's

forehead and ran down into his eyes. But he didn't wipe it away; that might be taken for a

gesture of fright or agitation; he preferred to stand rigid, like a soldier, as he had seen the Nazis

do. He realized now what they meant. All right, he would learn their technique; he would

become a fanatic, as they. Not a muscle must move; his face must be hard, turned to stone with

defiance. It could be done. He had told himself all his life that he was soft; he had been

dissatisfied with himself in a hundred ways. Here was where he would reform himself.

He was expecting to be told to strip, and he was ready to do it. His muscles were aching to

begin. But no, apparently they knew that; their science had discovered this very reaction, and

knew a subtler form of torture. They would keep him waiting a while, until his mood of rage

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

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

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

statues, and he a third.

VIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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