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He saw his whole past lying like an open book before some Kriminalkommissar, and it was a

very bad past indeed from the Nazi point of view; every bit as bad as that which had brought

Freddi Robin some fourteen months of torture.

Whatever it was, it was coming now. Steps in the corridor, and they stopped in front of his

door; the door was opened, and there were two S.S. men. New ones—they had an unlimited

supply, and all with the same set faces, all with the same code of Blut und Eisen. Black shirts,

black trousers, shiny black boots, and in their belts an automatic and a hard rubber truncheon

—an unlimited supply of these, also, it appeared.

They took him by the arms and led him down the corridor. Their whole manner, the whole

atmosphere, told him that his time had come. No use to resist; at least not physically; they

would drag him, and would make his punishment worse. He was conscious of a sudden surge

of anger; he loathed these subhuman creatures, and still more he loathed the hellish system

which had made them. He would walk straight, in spite of his trembling knees; he would hold

himself erect, and not give them the satisfaction of seeing him weaken. He dug his nails into

the palms of his hands, he gritted his teeth, and walked to whatever was beyond that door at

the end of the corridor.

VII

The sounds had died away as Lanny came nearer, and when the door was opened he heard

only low moans. Two men were in the act of leading a beaten man through a doorway at the

far side of the room. In the semi-darkness he saw only the dim forms, and saw one thrown into

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

the bench. His failure to obey annoyed them and they threw him down on his belly, with his

bare back and buttocks and thighs looming rather grotesque, his flabby white arms hanging

down to the floor. The four shirtless Nazis took their places, two on each side, and the officer

in command raised his hand in signal.

The thin steel rods whistled as they came down through the air; they made four clean cuts

across the naked body, followed by four quick spurts of blood. The old man started up with a

frightful scream of pain. They grabbed him and threw him down, and the officer cried: "Lie

still, Juden-Schwein! For that you get ten more blows!"

The poor victim lay shuddering and moaning, and Lanny, tense and sick with horror, waited

for the next strokes. He imagined the mental anguish of the victim because they did not fall at

once. The officer waited, and finally demanded: "You like that?"

"Nein, nein! Um Himmel's Willen!"

"Then tell us who took that gold out!"

"I have said a thousand times—if I knew, I would tell you. What more can I say? Have

mercy on me! I am a helpless old man!"

The leader raised his hand again, and the four rods whistled and fell as one. The man

shuddered; each time the anguish shook him, he shrieked like a madman. He knew nothing

about it, he would tell anything he knew, it had been done by somebody who had told him

nothing. His tones grew more piercing; then gradually they began to die, they became a

confused babble, the raving of a man in delirium. His words tripped over one another, his sobs

choked his cries.

Of the four beaters, the one who was working on the victim's shoulders apparently held the

post of honor, and it was his duty to keep count. Each time he struck he called aloud, and

when he said "Zehn" they all stopped. Forty strokes had been ordered, and the leader signed to

the civilian in spectacles, who proved to be a doctor; the high scientific function of this disciple

of Hippocrates was to make sure how much the victim could stand. He put a stethoscope to the

raw flesh of the old Jew's back, and listened. Then he nodded and said: "Noch eins."

The leader was in the act of moving his finger to give the signal when there came an

interruption to the proceedings; a voice speaking loud and clear: "You dirty dogs!" It rushed

on: "Ihr dreckigen Schweinehunde, Ihr seid eine Schandfleck der Menschheit!"

For a moment everybody in the room seemed to be paralyzed. It was utterly unprecedented,

unprovided for in any military regulations. But not for long. The officer shouted: " 'Rrraus mit

ihm!" and the two statues besides Lanny came suddenly to life and led him away. But not until

he had repeated loudly and clearly: "I say that you dishonor the form of men!"

IX

Back in his cell, Lanny thought: "Now I've cooked my goose!" He thought: "They'll invent

something special for me." He discovered that his frenzy, his inspiration, whatever it was, had

passed quickly; in darkness and silence he realized that he had done some thing very foolish,

something that could do no good to the poor old banker and could do great harm to himself.

But there was no undoing it, and no good lamenting, no good letting his bones turn to pulp

again. He had to get back that mood of rage and determination, and learn to hold it, no matter

what might come. It was a psychological exercise, a highly difficult one. Sometimes he thought he

was succeeding, but then he would hear with his mind's ears the whistle of those terrible steel

rods, and he would find that a disgraceful trembling seized him.

Waiting was the worst of all; he actually thought he would feel relief when his cell door was

opened. But when he heard the steps coming, he found that he was frightened again, and had to

start work all over. He must not let them think that they could cow an American. He clenched

his hands tightly, set his teeth, and looked out into the corridor. There in the dim light was the

S.S. man to whom he had been handcuffed for a whole night—and behind that man, looking over

his shoulder, the deeply concerned face of Ober-leutnant Furtwaengler!

"Well, well, Herr Budd!" said the young staff officer. "What have they been doing to you?"

Lanny had to change his mood with lightning speed. He was busily hating all the Nazis; but

he didn't hate this naive and worshipful young social climber. "Herr Oberleutnant!" he

exclaimed, with relief that was like a prayer.

"Come out," said the other, and looked his friend over as if to see if he showed any signs of

damage. "What have they done to you?"

"They have made me rather uncomfortable," replied the prisoner, resuming the Anglo-Saxon

manner.

"It is most unfortunate!" exclaimed the officer. "Seine Exzellenz will be distressed."

"So was I," admitted the prisoner.

"Why did you not let us know?"

"I did my best to let somebody know; but I was not successful."

"This is a disgraceful incident!" exclaimed the other, turning to the S.S. man. "Some one will

be severely disciplined."

" ZUBefehl, Herr Oberleutnant!" replied the man. It conveyed the impression: "Tell me to

shoot myself and I am ready."

"Really, Herr Budd, I don't know how to apologize."

"Your presence is apology enough, Herr Oberleutnant. You are, as we say in America, a sight

for sore eyes."

"I am sorry indeed if your eyes are sore," declared the staff officer, gravely.

It was like waking up suddenly from a nightmare, and discovering that all those dreadful things

had never happened. Lanny followed his friend up the narrow stone stairway, and discovered

that there were no more formalities required for his release than had been required for his

arrest. Doubtless the officer's uniform bore insignia which gave him authority. He said: "I assume

responsibility for this gentleman," and the S.S. man repeated: "At command, Herr Oberleutnant."

They went out to the official car which was waiting. Rain was falling, but never had a day

seemed more lovely. Lanny had to shut his eyes from the light, but he managed to get inside

unassisted. Sinking back in the soft seat he had to struggle to make up his mind which was real

—these cushions or that dungeon! Surely both couldn't exist in the same city, in the same

world!

29

Too Deep for Tears

I

LANNY was living in a kaleidoscope; one of those tubes you look into and observe a pattern,

and then you give it a slight jar, and the pattern is gone, and there is an utterly different one.

He was prepared for anything, literally anything. But when he heard his friend give the order:

"Seine Exzellenz's residence," he came to with a start, and became what he had been all his

life, a member of the beau monde, to whom the proprieties were instinctive and inescapable.

"Surely," he protested, "you're not taking me to Seine Exzellenz in this condition! Look at my

clothes! And my beard!" Lanny ran his hand over it, wondering again if it was gray.

"Where are your clothes, Herr Budd?"

"When last heard from they were in a hotel in Munich."

"A most preposterous affair! I will telephone for them this morning."

"And my money?" added the other. "That was taken from me in Stadelheim. But if you will

drive me to the Adlon, I am sure they will cash my check."

The orders were changed, and the young staff officer entered with amusement into the