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That was the way it was between them; their argument was resumed even before their love. It

was going to be that way from now on. He didn't want to make any promises; he didn't want to

talk about that aspect of the matter—and she didn't want to talk about anything else. For two

weeks she had been imagining him dead, or even worse, being mutilated by those gangsters.

She had had every right to imagine it, of course; he couldn't tell her that she had been foolish or

unreasonable; in fact he couldn't answer her at all. She wanted to hear his story, yet she didn't

want to hear it, or anything else, until her mind had been put at rest by a pledge from him that

never, never would he go into Germany, never, never would he have anything to do with that

hateful, wicked thing called the class struggle, which drove men and women to madness and

crime and turned civilized life into a nightmare.

He tried his best to soothe her, and to make her happy, but it couldn't be done. She had been

thinking, and had made up her mind. And he had to make up his mind quickly. For one thing, he

wouldn't tell her the whole story of what happened to him in Hitlerland. That would be for

men only. He would have to tell the Hellstein ladies about the torturing; but only Robbie and

Rick would ever know about his deal with Göring. Rumors of that sort get twisted as they

spread, and Lanny might get himself a name that would make him helpless to serve the

movement he loved.

Now he said: "Control yourself, darling; I'm here, and I'm none the worse for an adventure.

There's something urgent that I have to do, so excuse me if I telephone."

Her feelings were hurt, and at the same time her curiosity was aroused. She heard him call

Olivie Hellstein, Madame de Broussailles, and tell her that he had just come out of Germany,

and had seen her Uncle Solomon, and had some grave news for her; he thought her mother

and father also ought to hear it. Olivie agreed to cancel a dinner engagement, and he was to

come to her home in the evening.

He didn't want to take Irma, and had a hard time not offending her. What was the use of

subjecting her to an ordeal, the witnessing of a tragic family scene? He had to tell them that

the Nazis were cruelly beating the brother of Pierre Hellstein to get his money; and of course

they would weep, and perhaps become hysterical. Jews, like most other people, love their

money, also they love their relatives, and between the two the Hellstein family would suffer as

if they themselves were being beaten.

Then, of course, Irma wanted to know, how had he been in position to see such things? He had

a hard time evading her; he didn't want to say: "Göring had me taken there on purpose, so that I

might go and tell the Hellsteins; that is the price of his letting Freddi go." In fact, there wasn't

any use mentioning Freddi at all, it was clear that Irma didn't care about him, hadn't asked a

single question. What she wanted to know was that she was going to have a husband without

having to be driven mad with fear; she looked at Lanny now as if he were a stranger—as

indeed he was, at least a part of him, a new part, hard and determined, insistent upon having its

own way and not talking much about it.

"I owe Olivie Hellstein the courtesy to tell her what I know; and I think it's common

humanity to try to save that poor old gentleman in Berlin if I can."

There it was! He was going on saving people! One after another —and people about whom

Irma didn't especially care. He was more interested in saving Solomon Hellstein than in saving his

wife's peace of mind, and their love, which also had been put in a torture chamber!

VI

The scene which took place in the very elegant and sumptuous home of Madame de

Broussailles was fully as painful as Lanny had foreseen. There was that large and stately

mother of Jerusalem who had once inspected him through a diamond-studded lorgnette to

consider whether he was worthy to become a progenitor of the Hellstein line. There was Pierre

Hellstein, father of the family, stoutish like the brother in Berlin, but younger, smarter, and

with his mustaches dyed. There was Olivie, an oriental beauty now in full ripeness; she had

found Lanny a romantic figure as a girl, and in her secret heart this idea still lurked. She was

married to a French aristocrat, a gentile who had not thought it his duty to be present. Instead

there were two brothers, busy young men of affairs, deeply concerned.

Lanny told the story of the dreadful scene he had witnessed, sparing them nothing; and they for

their part spared him none of their weeping, moaning, and wringing of hands. They were the

children of people who had set up a Wailing Wall in their capital city, for the public

demonstration of grief; so presumably they found relief through loud expression. Lanny found

that it didn't repel him; on the contrary, it seemed to be the way he himself felt; the tears

started down his cheeks and he had difficulty in talking. After all, he was the brother-in-law of a