RIDER OF THE NIGHT

First published in Germany

under the title of
REITER IN DEUTSCHER NACHT
Tnriirt«

RIDER
OF
THE NIGHT
BY

HANNS HEINZ EWERS

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN

FOR THE FIRST TIME

BY

GEORGE HALASZ

THE JOHN DAY COMPANY

NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1932, BY HANNS HEINZ EWERS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FOR THE JOHN DAY COMPANY, INC., NEW YORK
BY J. J. LITTLE & IVES COMPANY, NEW YORK
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hanns Heinz Ewers was born in Dusseldorf, Germany,

November 3, 1871.
His varied and stormy literary career began in 1901 with
the publication of a volume of rhymed satires entitled A Book
of Fables, written in collaboration with Theodor Etzel. This
attracted considerable attention and led to his association with
Ernst von Wolzogen in the formation of a literary vaudeville
theatre. In 1901 he founded his own vaudeville organization
and, with his troupe of artists, toured Germany, Switzerland,
Austria, and Hungary. This enterprise, for a time successful,
eventually was abandoned because of its prohibitive expense
and the interference of the censor. Later he travelled widely
and at the outbreak of the World War was in South America.
Unable to return to Germany, he came to the United States,
and upon America’s entry into the war, was interned here.
His first novel, The Sorcerer s Apprentice (Der
Zauberlehrling) was published in 1910. It was followed by
three other novels: Alraune (1911), Vampyr (1921), and Der
Geisterseher (1922). Aside from his fiction his writings
include numerous volumes of plays, poems, critical essays,
fairy tales, and books of travel. Of his books the following
have appeared in English translations: Edgar Allan Poe, an
essay (1926); The Sorcerer's Apprentice (1927); The Ant
People (Die Ameisen) (1927); Alraune (1929).
RIDER OF THE NIGHT
 War is father of all things, king of all
things; it makes of some men gods, of some
free men, and of others slaves.
—HERACLITUS
 Upper Silesia, May, 1921
ATE afternoon in May. Two of Hauenburg’s volun-

L teers squatted on the rim of the village well,

looking out over the market place. Across the
square, in front of an old shed, a dozen men in shirt
sleeves stood or sat around, cleaning their rifles and
revolvers. They wore leather shorts, green Alpine hats
and big breastbands, nicely distributed among them:
one had this, another that. There were also gaiters and
leggings, short heavy shoes laced on the outer side, hip
boots, woolen jackets, sweaters and windbreakers, long
trousers, short ones, apparently whatever had come
handy. One wore a felt hat, another a service cap. There
was only one steel helmet, and the next man wore,
pulled far down over his ears, a brand new, gray derby.
A small flag hung from a linden tree: narrow green
stripes, a red eagle on a white field.
“Just look at the way they’re cleaning up,” Horne-
mann laughed. “Who are they?”
Scholz noddel. “Tyroleans. Shock platoon. Belong to
the Oberland Volunteers.” With some difficulty, he
pulled up his windbreaker which had slipped off his
left shoulder. Only his right arm was in his sleeve, his
1
left hand was hooked in his belt. “I wish that nurse were
through, so she could fix me up.”
Lieutenant Paul Hornemann threw a glance toward the
inn. There too a flag fluttered in the breeze: a red cross
with the Oberlanders’ edelweiss. “Pia will be here soon;
be patient, my boy. You remember her, don’t you? She
was up in the Baltic with us. Do you know who sent her
out here to Upper Silesia? Sauerbruch, the Munich
surgeon. A couple of Oberlanders went to him to beg for
hospital equipment. Pia got all excited about it; the whole
University clinic went wild, and Professor Sauerbruch as
well. He sounded the alarm, equipped a complete unit for
field service on his own responsibility, and with his own
money. A magnificent fellow, this Sauerbruch! And the
Iodine Corps—the first the world has ever seen—
attached themselves to the Oberlanders.”
They sat and waited. Hornemann whistled, off key, the
song the Tyroleans across the square were singing,
beating time with his riding whip. When the Tyroleans
stopped, he began to yodel it by himself, “—with him—
in his dear Tyro-a-ol ---- ” But he did not get very far.
“When will Eggeling be back?” Scholz asked.
Hornemann shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. I
told them where we’d be. Left word for him to come over
right away.”
“I hope he’s found out what we want to know,” the
first lieutenant said. “We must run that thing down to the
ground.”
The other one nodded. “It’s a dirty shame. This is the
third time the Poles have picked off one of our sentries.
And each time it happens just after the relief patrol has
left. They must have known about it. Some one must be
informing them—some one who knows
2
 damned well what’s going on. But Eggeling will find out
who it is, you can rely on him.” He hummed,

“When I was still a child

And my heart was pure ------------ ”

Scholz sighed. “I’ve heard that twenty times today. Don’t

you know anything else?”
“No,” Hornemann answered.
“You might at least sing it properly,” Scholz said,
peevishly.
“When you feel like singing, you sing—whether you’re
musical or not. And if it doesn’t come off, what can you do?”
“Keep your mouth shut.”
A woman’s voice called. “Scholz! First lieutenant Gerhard
Scholz.”
The two men hurried over to the inn and climbed the few
stone steps. There stood the nurse, talking to a youngster
whose head was bandaged so that only his nose and mouth
showed, and above, his eyes.
“Don’t get drunk,” the nurse ordered, “do you hear? Lie
down quietly and let your head ring and buzz. Come again
tomorrow.” She bent and pulled his puttees into place.
Another boy raced down the steps, with three pairs of freshly
shined boots in his hands. For a second he hesitated, then
grinned, dropped the boots, and planted a resounding slap on
her stately behind.
“What hams!” he bawled.
The nurse whirled quickly around but the rascal was even
quicker—he was up with the boots and outside.
“Just you wait, my boy,” she laughed, “till I get my hands
on you.”
She was not at all angry. She knew that they were

3
crude in the camp, crude but hearty. And, year after year with
soldiers, one forgets modesty. But that was all. No one knew
of any whom she had ever had in her bed. Every one swore
that she was still a virgin.
That was Pia. Of medium height, slim, but with
something to look at both in front and behind. A smart
girl, thirty years old or more, with brown hair tucked
under her cap, red-cheeked as a milk maid. The wide
mouth knew how to laugh and show its two rows of
magnificent teeth: thirty-two of them and not a single gold
filling. The nose small, upturned, with two merry brown
eyes over it, brown as the iodine which she dispensed in
immense quantities. Iodine, she was convinced, tamed
everybody.
She held out both her hands to them. “Little Paul
Hornemann, you here too? And you, Scholz? When did
we see each other last? In Mitau, eh? In Konstantin Street,
when you were in Captain Siewert’s legion.”
Turning from one to the other, she chattered on, spick
and span in full uniform, with all her decorations: the Red
Cross Medal, the Louise Order, the Ludwig Cross, the
Sidonie Order, the Silesian Eagle, the Baltic Cross.
“Why the full war-paint?” Hornemann asked. “What’s
happening today?”
“The commander’s coming,” she explained. "I haven’t
met him yet and I must introduce myself. His name is
Horadam. Major Horadam.”
“A real major, fancy that! Our outfit’s commanded by a
sub-lieutenant.”
Pia nodded. “I know, Hans Hauenburg. Not yet twenty
and in command of four companies. A smart lad. But he’s
afraid of me, ever since I had him here once. Now he’d
rather ride three hours to the dirtiest

4
 first-aid butcher. Not afraid of three thousand Polacks but
can’t bear three drops of iodine. But that’s enough gossip.
Take off your tunic, Scholz. What’s the matter with you?”
Scholz obeyed. His friend helped him roll up his shirt
sleeve.
The nurse unwrapped the dirty rags which covered his
shoulder and upper arm. The tone of her voice changed; now
it was severe. “I’m ashamed of you, lieutenant; you ought to
know better than that by now.” She pulled him into the room,
near the window. “Tell me, how and when?”
“About two hours ago,” Scholz informed her. “One of
your damned motorcyclists—and my horse shied. He fell on
the pavement—and I under him.”
“A pretty bruise. Blood effusion inside.” She washed the
wound, cut off edges of skin with a pair of shears. Iodine, and
then a bandage. As she rolled down the sleeve, she noticed a
piece of rag around his index finger. “What’s this? Take it
off.”
Scholz had had plenty. “Oh, let that go, nurse. It’s nothing,
just a little cut.”
But Pia knew her men. “No, you don’t! You can give
orders outside, but in the infirmary you’ll obey, if you please.
A filthy handkerchief again! For ten days you blow your nose
into it, wipe sweat with it, polish boots with it—and then you
put it on an open wound. Have you ever heard of tetanus? Do
you think it’s a kind of cheese?”
“But nurse,” Hornemann plaintively interjected, “we
didn’t have anything else. I gave him my last one.”
Pia was not listening to him. Nothing existed for her, save
this finger. She washed it carefully, like a small girl bathing
her doll. “A nasty cut,” she mumbled,

5
“ugly as possible.” She made him sit down and knelt before
him. “Hold his arm,” she commanded Home- mann. She
worked diligently, her whole being intent on the job—oh,
yes, she knew how to do that, best of all the nurses in
Sauerbruch’s clinic.
Gerhard clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. At the
tip of his finger, right at the base of the nail: another patch
of flesh off, and then another. “Oh!” he groaned. “Ouch!
The devil -------------------------- ”
“Sing away, little bird, sing away!” she murmured.
“Just listen—it’s the angels singing a song for you up in
heaven. They feel sorry for you, groaning and crying.”
Scholz kept his mouth shut, clutched his ear with his
right hand, exhaled in long sighs.
Iodine and a bandage. At last she had finished. “Did it
hurt?” she laughed good-humoredly. “You ought to be
used to it by now. How often have you been wounded?”
“Eight times,” he growled, “or nine times. Not counting
such trifles as this. I guess I have no talent for it—I don’t
seem to get used to it.”
She put the bandages away. “Wait a second, I’ll give
you a sling. You mustn’t move your arm.” Her voice was
soft now, full of suppressed compassion, of great
kindness. “How old are you? Twenty-six—twenty-seven?
You look older. Well, seven years in the war, with hos-
pitals in between. But you’re a strong boy, all sinew and
muscle, not an ounce of flesh too much, slim as a pine-
tree. And yet you’re just a poor little fledgling, singing
and dreaming inside. Fly over the fields, birdie, but take
care they don’t clap you into a cage.”
“Don’t worry, Pia,” he returned, “the Poles will never
catch me.”
“The Poles or somebody else,” she murmured. “Who

6
 can tell?” She broke off. “Where are the slings? Of
course, they’re upstairs.” She went to the door and called
out. “Martha, a black sling!”
No answer. She listened, then began again, “Ma---------- ”
Suddenly she stopped. The words came hesitantly, almost
slyly, “You go up yourself, Scholz, and knock on the second
door. Tell Martha to give you a sling.”
The lieutenant nodded; his steps clattered up the stairs.
Hornemann started to follow, but Pia held him back.
“No, you stay here,” she said. They heard Scholz knock on
the door, then his voice, “Sister Martha, will you please give
me a sli --------------------------- ”
Pia closed the door. “He’ll be surprised—and she too. You
know, Paul, who Martha is? You should remember her—she
was in the Baltic. Just think for a second: summer of
’nineteen! The pale girl who rode under the name of Recruit
Lili with Kleist’s column.”
“What—she?” Hornemann asked, drawing out the words.
“The wild Lili? I saw her only once. But I know that Gerhard
had her with him for a while. A hundred stories about her
went the rounds—and some of them were pretty bad.”
“Sit down,” demanded the nurse, “and tell me what you
know about her. Everything Scholz told you.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “He? Not a syllable. I heard
about her only from the others. Mostly gossip and tongue-
wagging—I don’t know how much of it’s true. But to begin
at the beginning: her name isn’t Lili, any more than it’s
Martha. Her father was supposed to be a Baltic baron.
Supposed to be—who knows! When she was sixteen, or
seventeen, the Bolsheviks came, and burned the family
mansion to the ground. Might have been Red Latvians too.
They robbed,

7
burned and hacked to pieces, before her very eyes, her father,
mother, brothers—the whole family at once, as was the
custom in those days. But Lili and her sisters —well, it was a
grand free-for-all festival: yesterday the black Jewesses,
today the blond Baltic girls—every dog wanted to be in on
them. Her sisters died of the business—but a peasant picked
up little Lili from a dunghill days later. They say that one day
she showed up at the quarters of the Von Brandis Volunteers,
in a uniform which she had taken from a dead soldier on the
way. Pistols in her belt, a rifle under her arm. Later she
joined Major Bischoff’s Iron Division, then—well, anyway,
she was with a lot of outfits, wherever something was going
on. There was a rumor that after every encounter she rode
over the battlefield in the dead of night and with her own lily-
white hands put a bullet through the skull of every wounded
enemy she found. They also said that she slept once with this
one and then with another—whoever happened to be her
protector at the moment.”
Pia nodded. “Yes, they say all that, and a lot more. In
camp at Jakobsstadt—she was in Prince Avaloff’s
squadron then—she was living with a White Russian
cornet. He drank his money up and then raffled off Lili. It
was a wild night—thirty heroes and all drunk as swine.
Dirksen won her, the one-legged captain from Count
York’s Volunteers. Then, toward dawn, Scholz got into
the party; he was sober as always. He saw her, talked to
her. The captain, so tight he couldn’t even see, sold her,
and she remained with Scholz. He kept her until the Baltic
adventure came to an end. He was one of the last to cross
the Memel on the way home; he had to leave her behind,
promised to send for her as soon as possible.”

8
 “And he didn’t do it,” said Hornemann.
The nurse shook her head. “No, he didn’t. They brought
her to me at the hospital in Mitau—typhoid. She waited and
waited—but not a word from her lover. When our iodine-
gang was sent home, I took her with me. My God, where else
could she have gone? So to Munich, right into the clinic. She
learned quickly; had a talent for nursing. Ever since then,
we’ve been together.”
The lieutenant whistled. “Well, and is she—has she
been—virtuous since then?”
Pia nodded. “She is and has been. I don’t think she’s ever
forgotten Gerhard Scholz. He’s still in her blood. That’s why
I sent him up to her, and that’s why I’m talking to you now.
You must help me—” She broke off. “For God’s sake, will
you pull your paws from your pocket? What are you looking
for, anyhow?”
Hornemann began to sing, “When I was still a child—” He
emptied his trousers’ pockets into her lap. “Here, Pia, here’s
everything I possess.” He laughed.
She examined the treasure. A dirty note book, three old
screws, a fishing hook, the stump of a pencil, a rusty cigarette
lighter, two cartridge shells and a broken key. “The only
tiling missing’s the match-box with the maybug,” she
laughed. “But it seems to me that you’re looking for a
cigarette.”
“You notice everything,” he returned. “Or rather, half of
everything. I could use something else too: a handkerchief.”
She rose, pulled out a drawer. “Here, my child.”
He blew his nose to his heart’s content. “Thank you very
much. And now proceed. I’ll help gladly, if I can.”
“Paul,” she began, “you know me well. You know very
well that I hate to let anybody go before he isn’t

9
Strong as a buck. Martha has recovered completely, yet
there’s still something the matter with her. I can’t put my
finger on it. Now, if you want to make a sick person healthy,
you must first know his case history. And that I can’t get. I’m
faced by blank walls everywhere. I haven’t the slightest idea
of her past. I don’t even know her name.”
“Ask her,” he suggested.
“I may as well ask the moon,” answered the nurse.
“Everybody in the world has some kind of identification
papers—she didn’t have a scrap. I managed to get a
League of Nations passport for her. Then they asked me,
‘What’s her name?’ ‘Martha,’ I answered. ‘Anything
else?’ ‘Lili,’ I said. ‘Family name?’ ‘Write whatever you
want to.’ The man put his pen down, he wouldn’t do that.
But I had excellent recommendations, from Professor
Sauerbruch, you know, and they wanted to do him a
favor. Finally I suggested that they put down, ‘Unknown.’
‘No, that can’t be done,’ he answered. He reflected for a
few minutes, then had an idea. He wrote something on the
passport and handed it to me proudly. There stood
‘Martha Lili Ignota.’ That’s her name now. Gerhard
Scholz never said a word about her, you say. Have you
ever asked him?”
“No—never.”
“I asked the girl a hundred times. In a roundabout way,
of course, naively and Innocently. Anybody else would
have fallen for it. Not she. She just looked at me and
shook her head. She must come from an excellent family,
must have been carefully brought up. She speaks French,
Russian, English and Italian. Understands Greek, Hebraic,
Latin, and God only knows what else. Do you know that
while she was nursing in

10
 Munich she got herself graduated from a Gymnasium?
Now she wants to study medicine.”
“She has my blessing,” said Paul.
Pia laughed.
. “I'll tell her, I’m sure she’ll be grateful. She’s very musical.
She sings, plays the piano like a concert artist, knows
everything. One day I found a sheet of paper in her room, full
of drawings. Coats of arms. I tell you, she draws
extraordinarily well. I took the sheet and showed it to one of
the doctors in the clinic—he comes from Riga. He
recognized all of them, the lily of the Princes Lieven, Baron
Drachenfels’ dragon, the mailed fist of the Oelsens, the lions
and axes of Meyendorff. Half of the Baltic aristocracy was
there on that sheet of paper. How can she know all that
unless she belongs to them herself? And lastly—she was with
all the volunteer companies in Latvia and Kurland, she was
with York’s yagers, with General Wirgolitsch’s Cossacks,
with the Rossbachers, with Schlageter’s battery, with several
others. There was only one unit she was never with, the
Baltic Landswehr. Whenever that appeared on the scene Lili
disappeared. Why?”
“It’s obvious,” said Hornemann. “Her countrymen, her
neighbors fought in that outfit; she didn’t want to meet
anybody who had known her before. A hell lay between:
between what was then and what had been.”
The nurse nodded. “This is just how it must have been.
And that’s why I believe in the stories that were told about
her—in the tales of rape, murder, arson, the extinction of her
family. That was the all-consuming fire in which the countess
burned to ashes and from which the Phoenix Lili arose with
singed wings. It was then that her limitless hatred was
conceived—that was why she rode around with the
volunteers.

11
 "And it seems to me that what drives her on with such
elemental and relentless force is just this: hatred. You
won’t notice it; she’s quiet and very well-bred. There’s a
rumor that the rumpus will begin in a couple of days;
well, I’ll take great care not to leave a wounded Pole in
her tender hands. And there’s still another thing—buried,
however, as deeply as her hatred—a limitless ambition
that animates every fiber of her body. You won’t notice
that either, she never speaks of it. But it’s there, more
powerful and glowing than I’ve ever seen or heard of
before. And there’s still a third thing. And it’s because of
that I’m telling you all this.”
She rose, pulled aside the torn curtain from the open
window, looked out. The last rays of the sun hung over
the square, kissing the red eagle of the Tyroleans’ flag.
One of the soldiers sitting on a bench under the linden
plucked the strings of a zither which lay on his knees. He
broke into a song; the melody filled the silent market
place.
"I wish I could sing as well as he does,” Hornemann
sighed.
Pia came back, ran her fingers through his brown hair.
"Console yourself, my boy—you have the advantage
when it comes to girls.” She pulled a chair near his, sat
down.
"I knew all along that you would come to Upper
Silesia, you and Scholz,” she began in a low voice, almost
a whisper. "If anyone did, it had to be you two. That was
the reason I brought her with me. I think she’s in love
with him. In that pesthouse at Mitau she saw only him in
her feverish hallucinations. Never her parents, never her
sisters—she never spoke a word of anything she had gone
through in that burning red

12
 year of ’nineteen. All her delirium centered about this one
man. When they brought her to the lazaret, she was
naked—had nothing in the world—they took her uniform
and arms. She had but one thing and she clung to it all
through—held it fast in her clenched fist. Tell me, Paul,
have you also such a charm in your pocket? Such a thing
that’s said to bring luck?”
Hornemann pulled forth a shell splinter.
Pia laughed. “I knew it! You’re all cracked a little! You
think that this piece of steel will bring you luck, eh? Will
make you bullet-proof and sword-proof? You forget that
you’ve been wounded a dozen times since you got it. Throw
it away—or give it to me.”
The lieutenant shoved the splinter back into his pocket.
“One can never tell,” he said vaguely. “Still ”
“Oh, yes,” she cried. “Still! Still, it could have been worse.
Still, it can’t hurt. That’s what all of you say: still! How long
have you been carrying it around?”
He reflected. “Six years. In my pocket. Before that, for a
few weeks in my leg.”
“Right. Since the spring of ’fifteen. It was the same shell
that got you both, you and your friend Gerhard. He also got
one as a souvenir: they cut it out of his ribs. Only—he gave
his away. To my friend Lili. That was the thing she wouldn’t
let go of in the pesthouse. Day and night for weeks, she cried
in dumb terror, afraid that they’d take from her that chip of
steel. That’s how I know the story.”
“There you are, Pia,” said the lieutenant. “You’re so
superior when it comes to things like this—you never forget
that your old man taught mathematics and physics in the
Gymnasium. Now I—I like to hear that

13
Lili, in spite of all her education and intelligence, is still a
little superstitious.”
“No, she isn’t,” she contradicted him. “She never
thought, not for a second, that it would help her. There
was another reason: that chip of iron had been colored by
his blood, had lain in his body, half an inch from his
heart. And that was the one thing she had of him. That’s
why! She’s in love with him. Moreover, she believes in
him. Believes that her hatred is his too, that her ambition
burns in his brain. She believes that he— and she with
him—are chosen. What for? Have you any idea what she
means?”
Hornemann shook his head. “Not the slightest.” He
hesitated, then opened his eyes wide, stared at her.
“Chosen—Scholz?” He laughed. “Funny!”
“What’s funny?” she asked.
“That I’ve never thought of it! I’ve known Scholz for
many years, I’ve sung with him and drunk with him, and
we’ve waded together in knee-deep filth—but I’ve never
thought of this! Not until a second ago! And now it seems
like a conviction.”
“It’s like that with me too, precisely. It’s like the
measles—it infects you. Lili never spoke to me about it,
but she thought of it, that’s certain. She merely en-
visioned it, vaguely, hazily. And what she has dreamed
takes form in me, and now, through me, in you also.
You’re right: it is funny! And now you realize what I
want of you, don’t you? If her instinct is right, if he’s —
with her and through her—chosen to be more than the
little leader of a puny company—if it’s to be that one day
tens of thousands, and millions perhaps, are to follow
him, we two must help him.”
Paul Hornemann kept silent, merely stared at her.
“Pia,” he said at length, “I’m a simple man, I’ve no
14
 imagination. The fact that I’m a volunteer—well, I just
went along. I was in step and it’s difficult to fall out. And
then again, the life out there lures me. I like to fancy that
there isn’t a soul in the whole wide world who’s cooler
and more sober than the nurse who answers to the
beautiful name Pia. And now along comes this person,
Pia, the witch, the iodine aunt, of course you know all
your pet-names, and she asks me, me of all people! to
help her make out of Gerhard Scholz a —out of a man
who, although he possesses a warm heart, is as cold as a
dog’s nose, whom no one has ever seen excited, who has
never in his life uttered more than five sentences in a row
. . He broke off. “Damnation, shut that window! I can’t
hear my own voice!’’
Outside, troops were passing by, singing and yelling. The
nurse looked out, laughed. “They’re your own men, Paul;
Hauenburgers, black flag with the yellow and white bars in
the corner. The things you call songs! Tavern ballads are
nursery rhymes compared to them. I know, I know—these
volunteers don’t belong to the Salvation Army—any more
than I am a wet nurse.’’
She looked after the troops, then turned back. “You don’t
need to say another word, I know that you’ll help. —those
two upstairs. It’s fate.’’
The door opened; Scholz entered.
“What’s that, no sling?” the nurse asked.
He shook his head, “Nurse Martha called out to wait. So I
waited, sat down on the stairs. But I can’t wait forever—I
don’t feel like spending the night here.”
Pia was quite indignant, “You didn’t see her.”
“No. She’s apparently making herself pretty for the great
visit.”
“Damn it, there’s fate for you!” Hornemann laughed.

15
 Pia was at the door in an instant, calling at the top of
her voice, “Martha! Martha! An arm sling! At once!”
The answer, clear and melodious, came in a second,
“I’m coming! I’m coming!”
Steps on the stairs, and then she was in the room. She
wore a nurse’s uniform but no decorations. Her hair under
the cap was blond, with a reddish sheen, the eyes
aquamarine, her complexion the color of peach blossoms,
like all Baltic women. Her forehead was very high, her
cheekbones a shade too prominent and her mouth a little
too wide. Her figure was slim, boyish.
“Here’s the sling,” she said.
“What were you doing for so long?” Pia asked. “Put it
on First lieutenant Scholz—over there.”
Martha gave a start, stared at him for several seconds.
Then, outwardly calm, she came toward him. Scholz
turned and presented her his arm. He recognized her.
“Lili!” he said. “How did you get here?”
An auto horn whined outside. A huge car drove up, the
driver, wearing an English uniform, stopped under the
Red Cross flag. Somebody in the car shouted, “Is Scholz
in there?”
A youth raced up the stairs.
“You’re getting on in the world, eh, Eggeling?”
Hornemann shouted to the newcomer. “Driving up in an
English car! Man! Where did you get the breeches?”
The youth stepped to Scholz, saluted lightly. “The
traitor’s found, sir. I know his name, everything.” Then he
turned to Hornemann. “The breeches? From my friend,
Major Seagrave, of the High International Plebiscite
Commission! And the puttees to boot. I’ve brought
something for you, too—just take a peek at them—
Camels, Lucky Strikes, Three Castles—help
16
 yourself!” He pulled a dozen packages of cigarettes from
his pockets and threw them on the table.
“Report!” Scholz ordered.
“Everything came off beautifully,” the volunteer laughed.
“The major bit at once, the minute he got my letter. He sent
his car for me early this morning. I told you we were great
friends, used to be together on the Isle of Man. When the
Tommies fished me out of the swamps of Ypres and put me
in a field hospital, he lay in the bed next to mine. We were
separated when they sent me to the prison camp of Oswestry,
but a few months later he requested my transfer to Man.
There were only civilians on the island, in concentration
camps, but Seagrave said he needed me in his work. He was
in charge of the camp, had been declared unfit for front
service because of his wound. He isn’t a regular army
soldier, was made a captain in Flanders, must have got his
commission as a major just a short while ago. He’s a
professor, a scholar, like myself.”
“You—a scholar?” Hornemann laughed. “I thought you
had run into the filth of Flanders straight from the school
benches.”
“Right,” Eggeling nodded. “But my uncle was an
archeologist and he pumped lectures into me while I was still
in the Gymnasium. Celtic mythology, that was the ground on
which we met, Seagrave and myself. There were six
thousand in the camp but he couldn’t talk to a blessed soul.
Believe me, I learned a hell of a lot from him.”
Hornemann lighted a cigarette. “Archeology! That’s just
the thing you can use well out here. So that’s why you joined
the volunteers the minute you got out of prison.”
“I had to make up for what I’d lost!” laughed the
youth. “I hadn’t been four days at home when I was in it
again.”
“With the Bahrenfelders, eh?” Hornemann said. “You
picked perfectly! Ypres in ’fourteen and Hamburg in
’nineteen, you couldn’t have got more blood and dirt if
you’d had your own choice. But tell your story now.”
“Don’t press me. You’ll hear more than enough.”
“Take your time and tell the entire story,” remarked
Scholz.
“Thanks, sir,” Eggeling said. “Well, when I heard that
Seagrave was with the International Commission, I knew
he was our man—that here, at least, he’s on our side. His
car took me to Oppeln; he was waiting for me in front of
the hotel, jumped in the car and we drove right on. Do you
know where we went! Over to Poland, to Czestochowa.”
Pia looked up. “What did you do there? Prayed? Why,
that’s a pilgrimage.”
“Yes, that’s where the Black Virgin is—a world fa-
mous spot. And to her we went. You can imagine how the
Polacks licked the feet of the Englishmen; they certainly
know how to make themselves the Commission’s pets.
What they did behind our backs, I don’t know—but they
must have laughed at us for gaping for hours at their
wonder-working Virgin. But to get to the point, there was
one thing about which we were in accord: the sculpture
isn’t a Byzantine product. I claim that it’s a representation
of Isis like all the other Black Virgins; an Egyptian
goddess who conquered the world with the Romans. But
just imagine—Seagrave says it’s a picture of Ceridwen!”
“A horrifying thought!” Hornemann joked. “What is it
anyway, a Ceridwen?”
Eggeling was in full swing. “A death goddess, of

18
course, like Isis. That’s why she’s black. That is to say, she’s
black when she appears as a death goddess. A heathen
goddess, Gaelic, Irish, Celtic; the druids sang hymns to her.
Have you ever heard anything of the Holy Grail? Well, the
Grail, as a matter of fact, is nothing but Ceridwen’s wash
bowl and she’s the wife of ----------------------------------- ”
“No, really?” Hornemann mumbled. ”1 wish I had your
troubles.”
But the young Hamburger did not hear him. He rushed on.
“Of course, it’s clear as day that none of the heathen
goddesses are dead—they’re all alive, even today, but they’re
wearing masks: sometimes they’re saints, at other times,
Virgins. Ceres and Juno, Freya and Venus and Astarte. But
the Black Virgin of Czestochowa is neither of these, any
more than she’s Ceridwen. She’s of cypress wood—and
could that have come from Ireland? No, she’s an Egyptian
beauty, and her name is Isis. You can take poison on that!”
“I trust the major realized it too!” Hornemann mocked.
“Not at all! But now you’ll see how shrewd I am. At first,
we argued, then—I let myself be convinced. He’s proud as a
peacock when it comes to science. He was happy, he’ll be in
good humor for at least three weeks. And on the way back I
asked him point-blank about the traitor—and he told me
everything we wanted to know.”
“Well?” Scholz asked.
Eggeling became serious, “Our suspicions are well
founded: there’s a bastard among us who betrays us for cash.
He delivers this information to Monsieur Ponsot, the French
Consul General at Oppeln. And this neutral gentleman passes
everything on to the Poles. No wonder that they know
everything that goes on here so well.”

19
 “His name?” Scholz asked.
Eggeling handed him a slip of paper. Scholz read it.
“Peters!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”
“Seagrave wrote down the name himself,” insisted
Eggeling. “There can’t be any mistake; the major would
never claim anything without proof. He saw the signed
receipts in the French Consul’s office.”
Scholz crumpled the slip into a wad. “On the other
hand—how else would the Englishman know the name?”
He reflected. “We know that the scoundrel must be in your
company, Hornemann—and Peters is in your company.”
He rose and strode up and down in the room. “Damn it,
you can never tell where you are! I never would have
thought it of him—not Peters. He came to me four weeks
ago, from the last grade of the Gymnasium, the son of a
poor minister. They had been driven out of the parsonage
by the Poles. I didn’t want to take him, told him we
needed veterans, that we had no time to train recruits. But
he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He insisted that he
could fight, that he must help in the defense of the
fatherland.”
“He's a decent chap,” Hornemann testified, “willing,
well-liked. And he doesn’t know fear.”
“And all this time he’s been trafficking with the
enemy,” murmured Scholz. “Obviously, he came to us
only to sell us out.”
Hornemann took the slip of paper, read it, “Karl
Friedrich Peters, Volunteer Corps Hans Hauenburg,
Company Scholz, Platoon Hornemann. There’s no mistake
here—nothing could be more precise.” He tore die slip
into bits.
No one in the room moved, no one said a word. Then
Martha turned to the young scholar and asked him in
20
 a low voice, “Will you please repeat the name of that
goddess?”
“Which one?” asked Eggeling. “The Egyptian? Isis. The
Celtic, Ceridwen.”
“And what sort of goddesses are they?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Oh—regular goddesses. But in
this particular case, when they’re black as the Virgin over in
Poland, when they demand sacrifice and penance, they’re
goddesses of death, like the Nordic Hel, like the Greek
Persephone.”
“Thank you,” the nurse smiled. She repeated it in a
whisper, “The Black Virgin of Czestochowa, the Polish
Virgin, demands penance and sacrifice. She’s a goddess of
death.”
No one in the room wanted to hear these words— yet all
heard them. Pia turned to her, “Keep quiet! It’s none of your
business.”
Hornemann addressed Scholz, “What’ll you do, Gerhard?”
“Repulsive business—hideous,” mumbled Scholz.
“Do you want to place it before the commander?” asked
Eggeling. “I understand he’ll be back by tomorrow night.”
“Maybe he will—maybe only the day after tomorrow,”
nodded Scholz. “And then he’ll laugh in my face. God knows,
he has plenty of worries; do you think it’s child’s play to feed
a battalion of volunteers?” He pressed his lips closely together,
ran his fingers through his hair.
“Let your left arm hang loosely,” Pia scolded. “Must I tie
it?”
Scholz did not hear her. “We must decide now—this
minute!” he said. “If only it weren’t this boy—this Karl
Friedrich Peters! I’ve met his father, the old min

21
ister. Six daughters he has—and this is his only son, the
youngest, the light of his eyes. And he let him go without a
word.”
“Do you still doubt it?” Hornemann asked.
Scholz shook his head. “No, of course I don't.”
There was a knock on the door and immediately
afterwards an officer entered. “Nurse,” he said to Pia, “you
must come with me to Gogolin at once. I’ll take you with
me on my horse. One of my men has—but I’ll tell you
about it on the way.” He recognized Scholz, shook his
hand. “Arm wounded? Hope it isn’t serious?”
“Nothing of importance.”
The officer turned to the others. “Forgive me for
bursting in like this. My name is Lannwitz.”
“Peter von Lannwitz?” shouted Hornemann. “How do
you do? My name is Hornemann. How’s your collection?”
“Blooming and growing,” the officer laughed. “Have
you heard of it already? Well, I’ve got a French one, an
English one and an Italian—the entire High Commission’s
represented in it. And, of course, a Polish one— four
altogether.”
“Four what?” asked Eggeling.
Lannwitz laughed, “Four warrants of arrest, naive
youth! And yesterday I received information from Berlin
that the German government had also issued one of these
missives against me. Willy-nilly, of course, they’re forced
to do it; the horse must obey when the driver of Versailles
cracks his whip. Everybody just yearns to get me, they’re
ready to pay good money for my head. But they’ll never
catch me—I collect warrants as others collect love letters.
And as long as the fools print some one else’s photo on
them, they aren’t dangerous anyway.” He broke off,
looked around. “What’s the mat-

22
 ter with you, children? You let me tell funny stories and
won’t even laugh? Are lice biting you?”
Hornemann flipped his cigarette in the air and caught it
again between his lips. “Right you are, Lannwitz. A stinking
louse has got under our skin. We’ve just received information
that one of our men is selling information about us to the
Poles.”
Lannwitz became serious. “And what are you going to do?
Now, in our unit ------------------ ”
“In ours too,” Hornemann nodded. “There’s nothing else
left for us to do. Everybody knows what the punishment is for
treason.” He turned to Scholz. “We must decide. If you want
to hear my opinion—it’s away with him.”
“Are you sure he’s the one?” Lannwitz asked. “If so,
there’s only one possibility. Nobody’s for us, nobody’s behind
us—we must help ourselves. If you let rascals like him run
around it’ll cost you the lives of dozens of fine fellows. And
even more perhaps: the very land for which we fight.”
“And which is his homeland,” Eggeling cried, “his home
which he sells.”
“We might, perhaps,” mumbled Scholz, “we might ”
“What might we do?” demanded Hornemann.
“Send him away,” answered the first lieutenant. “To
Breslau, to his parents. Under the escort of a few trusted men.
And give him a good rub-down on the way—as a souvenir.”
“Magnificent!” mocked Lannwitz. “That’s just what we
were doing in the war. For four long years we handled the
traitors and deserters with velvet gloves— and carefully
refrained from standing them up before a wall. And the
bastards knew why that was, knew

23
 that it was for fear of the mob at home. And they snickered
and sniggered and laughed at the dupes who went out to die
for the fatherland.”
“As if he’d stay home with his parents!” Hornemann
cried. “In three days the scum would be back again—
volunteer with the Vikings or the Kossbachers—he would
certainly find a berth with one of the outfits. And then he’ll
start it all over again.”
“The Poles pay well,” remarked Eggeling.
Paul Hornemann brought his fist down on the table.
“He’s already brought three men down under Polish
bullets—how many more shall it be?”
Scholz did not move. They were all quiet. For a long
minute—and then for another.
Then came Martha’s voice, clear and low. Yet it was
strong and convincing, almost like a command. “Why do
you hesitate? Do your duty.” Her eyes sought Scholz’s,
found them and held them.
Pia clutched her roughly by the arm. “I’ve told you to
keep quiet. This is no business for women!”
“Come now, Pia,” Lannwitz laughed, “where have you
hidden yourself all these years? Don’t you know that the
women vote in Germany?”
“Very well,” answered the nurse. “If you want to vote,
hand out ballots: yes or no.”
Hornemann urged on, “It’s getting late, Gerhard.”
Scholz drummed with his fingers on the table. At length
he spoke, in a low voice, “He’s in your platoon —you must
do it. Take two reliable men, of the old ones, of course.
Sergeant Kramer and Bergemann—no, not him, Wilcke,
rather, he’s an Upper Silesian, he knows the neighborhood
well. Drive far out, beyond the boundaries of the plebiscite
territory, so that the High Commission shouldn’t spit into
our soup.”
24
 He stared ahead of him. No one said a word. Hornemann
searched in his pockets, brought out one thing after another,
examined each carefully, then shoved them back again.
“I don’t envy you the job,” Eggeling whispered.
Hornemann looked at him uncomprehendingly, “What did
you say?” Then he stepped to Scholz, “Your orders, sir.”
The first lieutenant answered, “What orders can I give
you?”
Hornemann insisted, “You’re in charge of the company.
You’re responsible. So—orders?”
The word came decisively, “Orders.”
Hornemann lifted his hand to his cap, went toward the door.
There he stopped, pulled his riding whip from his puttee, cut
the air with it. He turned, “Do you want a report tomorrow
morning, sir?”
Scholz shook his head, “I know I can rely on you.”
Hornemann still hesitated. A stiff, twisted smile appeared on
his lips. Then he burst into a laugh and swung the whip so hard
that it whistled. Saluted once more mechanically, turned on his
heel, and with three steps he was outside. Only his voice was
heard,

“When I was still a child

And my heart was pure ------------- ”

25
 Upper Silesia, June, 1921
HE child’s fit for service again,” growled the

T Hound of the Baskervilles.

“Good,” said Scholz. “Tell him to come down
to the wood with his horses; I’ll by lying somewhere
near the edge, in the sun. Anybody else wants to see me
can find me there.”
“Very well, sir,” the sergeant said. “Have you by
any chance got a cigar, sir?”
Scholz pulled out his cigar case. “You’re lucky,
Kramer; I’ve got six. Take three.” He watched the
sergeant while he took his three and lighted one of
them. Oh, yes, the Hound of the Baskervilles, which
had been shown in the movies a half year before, looked
exactly like him. No wonder the company had given
him this beautiful name. Only a few dark holes where
once a nose had been; no mouth, only a huge muzzle
which extended, on the left, almost to his ear. His lips
and cheeks could not be distinguished; what he had
were the chops of a wild beast.
Scholz waved to him and started down the highway.
He knew that the Hound had a robust wife somewhere
in Pomerania, and three children, too—at least two
26
of them were his. When he had returned from the war, looking
as he did now, his wife had fainted away at the sight of him.
Whereupon he had gone to war again; fortunately, the
government had been recruiting volunteers for the Baltic. Yet,
in spite of her nausea of him, he sent her every penny he
could spare and carried her picture in his pocket. This old
cuirassier trained and drove his men as he had his mounts; on
short rein, with the bit cutting into their flesh. When he
appeared on the street, with his long ape-like arms, looking
for all the world like an apparition from hell, school children
fled. He was a blood hound who defended his masters to the
last, who did everything his superiors ordered him to do. But
he was a good beast, a faithful one, and he could play, with
infinite patience, with the littler children, the infants who had
not yet learned to fear him.
The sun was hot, although it was barely eight o’clock.
Scholz felt refreshed and clean: he had had a bath in the little
stream, the first in weeks. And then the letter Hornemann had
brought him, from Pia. Only two lines, “M. wants to talk to
you; I’ll send her over to you today.” That was why he walked
down to the woods. They could talk there, undisturbed. The
child would stand guard.
He had not seen her since the night Pia had fixed up his
arm. That had been five days before the Battle of Annaberg.
Four weeks. And yet: then, it had barely begun—and now,
perhaps, it was all over.

He came to Upper Silesia in nineteen-twenty, after the

Baltic adventure, after the Spartacide fights in the Ruhrland.
There were a few of them then—a small group. Their aim was
to foil the all-too-clear plans of

27
the Poles and the Frenchmen. The country was no longer
Upper Silesia: Territoire Plebiscite de la Haute- Silesie it was
called. They could stick stamps with this pretty name printed
on them on their letters. He, himself, wrote rarely, only to his
sister. But Paul Hornemann made a better use of them, he
remained faithful to all his fiancées, wrote each of them from
every town. But he spat on every stamp before he glued it on.
He expected no answer, never gave the name of the sender —
they must remain very anonymous in the Haute- Silesie. The
Inter-allied Commission, with headquarters at Oppeln, ruled
the country, and General Le Rond, the chairman of the
commission, knew how to mix the cards for his Polish friend,
Korfanty.
They were anonymous, yet were known: Hauenburg,
Schlageter, Heydebreck, Franz Mayr, and the others.
Hornemann, and he, Scholz. They had connections
everywhere, learned of the plans of the Poles the minute
they had left the typewriters. They freed prisoners, helped
fugitives across the border, stole Polish arms, gave them to
defense organizations. The important thing however was
that these few dozen men were there at all, these
daredevils who were not afraid of Satan himself. They
popped up everywhere, in the big cities as well as in the
smallest hamlets, and stiffened the backbone of all who
felt and thought German. Then came March 20th, in 1921.
In spite of Polish terror, in spite of French intrigue, the
Territoire Plebiscite voted, two-thirds for Germany.
Their work had not been in vain.
But now the Pole discarded his mask. The French
equipped patriotic Polish groups with arms and allowed
regular army units to cross the border. In a few days, the
country was in the enemy’s hand up to the Oder.

28
Only the big cities stood out: German islands in a Polish
flood.
The country cried out. And for the moment the gentlemen
of the High Commission, the Englishmen and the Italians,
cried with it. The representatives of the foreign press relayed
to the world the call for help of the tormented people. Defense
organizations rallied. Then came the volunteers.
Sub-lieutenant Hauenburg recruited in Neisse. He occupied
a huge warehouse containing German arms which had been
destroyed at the command of the enemy. The volunteers
searched for still usable parts and put them together. Leo
Schlageter retrieved an antiquated mountain gun, cleaned it
with kerosene, polished it with oil. Miners from Waldenburg
comprised his company; they swore by Red Moscow, but by
Schlageter too, by Schlageter who led them against the hated
Pole.
They had their first encounter with the enemy at the Oder
bridge, near Krappitz, and they threw back the Poles. That
happened on the sixth of May. A day later, the enemy
attacked tire railroad station at Gogolin; they chased them into
the woods. The Poles outnumbered them, they had everything
at their disposal: machine guns, field artillery, armored trains.
But the Hauenburgers did not give in; they held Gogolin,
charged Strebinow. There they took from the enemy their
much-needed arms. Then came Oberland with his Bavarians
and Westphalians: students, workmen, peasant lads. They
gave them relief.
Two, three days of peace. It was then that he rode over to
Pia, then that he met Lili again.
And then it began all over. The volunteers took

29
Dombrowka, took Sakrau, pressed forward toward
Niewke.
That which had occurred until now had been merely the
prologue. The real dance was just beginning. The Supreme
Command, the generals and the general staff, applied the
brakes. Of course, they, in turn, were checked by Berlin.
The leaders of the volunteers were called in to conference,
orders were issued to spike guns. At most: repel Polish
attacks. The volunteers thereupon turned their behinds on
the generals and Berlin and took their destiny in their own
hands. The connections “backward” broke off, the reports
to the eternally checking general staff were purposely
false. Captain Römer von Oberland worked out a new
strategic plan, re-grouped the troops. They knew approx-
imately how strong the enemy was; faithful Silesians,
forced into Polish service, escaped every day. What did it
matter whether they fought one against seven or one
against fifteen?!
And then Scholz climbed Annaberg, he and the others.
It was there that “the child” received his baptism by fire,
this fifteen-year-old schoolboy, Fritzchen Hemmerling.
He had a dented steel-helmet—Sergeant Kramer had
given it to him—and an old pistol. The pistol burst after
the first shot, so he ran up the mountainside without any
arms, swinging a stick of wood. He climbed, leapt,
jumped, stumbled, rose again—he had not the slightest
idea of how to duck, how to take cover. They called to
him, but the daredevil paid no attention. Scholz saw him,
with others far out in front, attack the Poles with his stick,
like a madman. The enemy were startled, then fired—it
was a miracle that no bullet hit the child. One of them
swung his rifle and brought the butt down on the child’s
head.

30
The helmet rolled to the ground and the boy collapsed like a
stunned calf. The enemy retreated, but the volunteers could
not get to him: two machine guns controlled the terrain.
Then rose, from his place next to Gerhard, the Hound of
the Baskervilles. He rose and ran to the child. The firing
ceased—did the Poles think that an ogre had come to the
rescue? The sergeant picked up the boy in his gorilla arms
and carried him back, protecting him with his wide back. The
machine guns barked again; now they aimed too far, then too
near—they did no harm. In the last lap, the Hound crawled
forward on all fours—no, on all threes: in his left hand and
between his teeth he held the unconscious boy. He came
back without a wound, put down his load, examined the
child’s head, washed the blood off the wound— nothing
serious had happened, the old steel helmet had done its duty.
No, he wasn’t a bloodhound, he wasn’t a bulldog, he was a
Saint Bernard.
The Annaberg belonged to the volunteers—to all of the
thousand men. Their victory had liberated thirty villages.

Scholz left the highway and crossed a meadow to the

wood. At its edge, he lay down. At first in the sun, then he
crawled into the shade. He looked back several times, toward
the road—wasn’t there a nurse’s uniform visible on the
horizon? But he could not see anybody.
He felt uneasy, uncertain. He had promised Lili to write to
her, to send for her—and he had not written, not once. God,
what could he have done with her? When the Baltic
adventure had come to an end, he led his troops, in close
formation, to East Prussia—he was one of the last to do so.
The Third Marine Brigade

31
 took them in. Captain von Lowenfeld knew that Scholz
had an iron grip on his men. Then he came to Upper
Silesia, helped to defend the border against Polish attacks,
at the beginning of 1920. In the spring of that year, he went
to the Ruhr. The devil with ’em! Here he, a German, had to
fight against other Germans. Against Red Germans—but
hadn’t he also fought for the Reds? For Noske, Ebert,
Severing? Police-work it was—repulsive
Back to Silesia, then—and now he became a conspirator.
Underground work, nerve-wracking. He had not been
home, in his father’s house, since the beginning of the war.
He had no time, not even during the fights in the Ruhrland,
although it was but a stone’s throw from Ratingen to
Düsseldorf. And under such circumstances should he have
worried about a woman? Of course, he had thought of her,
often—But he had not written, postponed writing from
month to month.
When he met her again, he knew that it was just as it
always had been—that this woman and only this woman
During all these weeks he had hoped to see her
somewhere. Pia he had seen often, but never Lili. Anna-
berg had already been left behind—the volunteers were
driving the enemy toward the border. Salesche,
Slawentzitz, and then Kandrzin—the entire industrial
district was becoming German once more. The last of the
Poles had been chased beyond the boundary line when,
quite openly, the French intervened. Korfanty offered to
parley, suddenly he became friendly—and General Le
Rond advanced his troops and planted them in a wide circle
around, his protégé.
A hell of a mix-up, thought Scholz. In the East, beyond
the border, Polish regiments stood, waiting to

32
 march into Upper Silesia, ready to go at the merest wink
from Paris. Before them, in thick columns, were Kor-
fanty’s legionaries, courageous as all Poles, fired by a
glowing love of their country. And between them, in
desperate fright, were the German cities. Then came the
neutral French troops, in two lines—a thin one, smilingly
facing the Poles, and a strong one, facing the Germans with
cocked rifles. Then the German volunteers, cursing and
swearing in mad wrath that they could not advance despite
their victories. A narrow chain of Italian Alpine yagers led
through them, dividing the German troops from their
reserves. And finally, on the boundary line of the Territoire
Plebiscite, German Reichswehr troops, whose job it was to
watch that no more volunteers joined the fighters. For
Berlin had enough of the volunteers, trusted and believed
in the magnanimous Allies, once more put Germany’s faith
in uncorruptible and unbribeable world opinion, in justice.
Had not the people of Upper Silesia spoken clearly enough
when they had voted to remain German by an
overwhelming majority? Why, the Treaty of Versailles had
stipulated that, in this case, Haute-Silesie should once more
become German Oberschlesien. They must only wait, have
faith, trust honesty! And, of course, they must meet the
French half-way, fulfill all requests, and chase this
troublesome horde of rebels from the land. Everything
would come out all right in the end.
So they waited—lay near the edge of the wood—and
waited.

An Oberlander came down the highway, crossed the

meadow, stopped before him. A tall lad, his left cheek covered
with scars. “I beg your pardon, sir, for disturbing you,” he
began.

33
 “Don’t be a fool,” Scholz said. “Sit down, Lieutenant
Hinrichsen. It does you honor to have exchanged the
student’s cap once more for the service cap, to have
volunteered as a mere private.”
The Oberländer sat down and mumbled a “thank you.”
He bit his lip, but could not utter a sound.
“Troubles?” Scholz asked, encouragingly. “Open up. If I
can help, I’ll be glad to do it.”
Another “thank you” was all the answer he got. Gerhard
stared at his sharply cut features, his clear eyes which
seemed to hide some deep sorrow. He knew him well, had
been with him in the convalescent home at Lidge. And he
also knew his life tragedy, as every one did who had ever
had anything to do with him.
Hinrichsen, like Hornemann, was always in love. Only
Paul did not take his affairs seriously; he had never been
really, sincerely in love. Besides, his passion was girls.
But for Hinrichsen, for this big, handsome Detlev
Hinrichsen, there were no girls in the world. He carried a
warm, glowing heart, in his chest, eternally tormented by a
limitless yearning. He was always in love, with a stripling
with a milk-white face, with recruits and brand-new ensigns.
Of course, they did not care for him. They ridiculed him—
ofttimes they spat at him. Rarely if ever would he find
anybody to whom he could attach himself, and when he did
these attachments never lasted: the tie was cut before it
could have been made fast. Cut by the mockery of his
comrades, by superiors —quite often by bullets. Hinrichsen
was as unlucky as Hornemann was lucky, and he was
always lonely. Basically of a tender, gentle nature, he
exposed himself to every danger, participated in the maddest
adventures. And it was strange that though always seeking
death
34
 he had never even been wounded. The scars he displayed
were mostly souvenirs of harmless fraternity duels; one or
two the remains of attempts at suicide. Poor fellow, thought
Scholz.
He put his hand on Hinrichsen’s shoulder. “Out with it,
Hinrichsen. Out with it. Who is it this time?”
The Oberländer took a deep breath. “One of your men.” He
stopped again; he was visibly fighting to overcome his
constraint.
“My company?” Scholz asked. The other nodded.
Gerhard reflected. Who could it have been? Not the child?
No, he had nothing beside his dented helmet that suggested a
soldier. And there must be a uniform, in order to attract
Hinrichsen. “Go ahead, tell me. Has one of my men complained
to your captain? Is there a scoundrel somewhere who wants to
blackmail you? Or, is he wounded—or killed?”
Hinrichsen collected himself, found words at last. “No, no—
he—he has disappeared. His name is Peters.”
Scholz gave a start, “Peters? Karl Friedrich Peters?” The
Oberländer nodded, “Yes.”
They were silent. Gerhard spoke at length, “Yes, Peters—
Peters’s been gone for quite a time, when we were in Dobrau—”
He said this calmly, not a muscle moved in his tanned face.
“Where did you meet him? The Oberlanders had just about
arrived then.”
“I met him as we marched into Dobrau,” Hinrichsen
answered. “Quite by accident. It was—it was—at first sight—
you know—There was nothing going on—so I drove over every
night—on my motorcycle—every night I wasn’t on duty.”
Something occurred to Scholz. “Around seven, eh? So you
were the man who made my horse shy. In less than a second I
was under him.”

35
 “Awfully sorry,” mumbled Hinrichsen. “Beg your
pardon, belatedly. I didn’t notice it.”
“I can well imagine, you were in too much of a hurry!”
laughed Scholz. His laughter was forced, false. “I’m afraid
I can’t give you much information. We haven’t seen
Peters since. Apparently, he grew tired of the business.
Must be home with his parents.”
Hinrichsen dropped his head. “He isn’t at home. I have
word from his mother. She doesn’t know anything of
him—hasn’t heard from him—for days ----------”
Scholz bit his lip, “Not home? Perhaps he’s ashamed —
being a slacker ------ ”
“He isn’t a slacker—and never was,” persevered Hin-
richsen. He took another deep breath, then continued,
“Tell me frankly what’s become of him.” His voice
trembled.
Scholz answered sharply, “I don’t know.”
The Oberländer shook his head, “I was there, that night,
when Sergeant Kramer called for him. That was the last
time I saw him. I made inquiries: on duty behind the front,
they told me. I asked the sergeant for information—asked
him twice, four times—he wouldn’t answer. He just
growled, told me to go to hell. I didn’t give in, continued
my search—came over to your unit as often as I had time.
Today I know more.”
“What do you know?” Scholz asked. “And from
whom?”
“From several of your men,” retorted Hinrichsen, “and
from one especially. From Wilcke. They drove in a car to
the front. Wilcke was at the wheel, Lieutenant Hornemann
next to him, in the back, Peters and the Hound of the
Baskervilles. The sergeant I mean—beg pardon ”

36
 “Never mind, everybody calls him that. Only don’t call him
that to his face. Did you talk to Hornemann?”
“Yes, this morning. He said that they had driven out to get
some machine guns. While they were talking over the guns,
Peters had disappeared. But this doesn’t seem to check. I spoke
to Wilcke last night—he didn’t know anything of machine
guns—told quite a different story. According to him, the four of
them drove into the night for hours, in the direction of Brieg.
They stopped at the edge of a wood and Wilcke was told to wait
in the car. He waited for two hours, and when the others didn’t
show up, he came back. Toward noon, Hornemann and the
sergeant also returned—without Peters.”
“Quite correct,” Scholz said. “I can’t see any inconsistency in
the two stories. Hornemann missed the car in the dark, looked
for it for a long time, finally found another one which he
persuaded to take him and the guns.”
But the Oberländer was tenacious, “Your company didn’t
have even half a gun before you took some from the Poles at
Annaberg.”
Scholz admitted no defeat. “They were for the Company
Wandesleben—” He broke off. He felt the flimsiness of this
explanation. Hinrichsen must have known that the Company
Wandesleben had always had enough machine guns—and his
company not a single one. He wondered whether this wasn’t the
time to make a clean breast of it.
“Listen,” he began. No—it couldn’t be done. This man here
wasn’t thinking with his head but with his heart; as long as he
had the picture of the pretty youth still before his eyes he was
like one possessed. He might, he probably would, do something
foolish, as he had done so often before. What had happened was
a thing

37
 of the past, it must stay buried, the sooner it was forgotten
the better. In the fraction of a second he considered all this.
Yes, he would write to Peters’ father, tell him that his son
had been killed in the charge at Sprentzschütz—that
“Listen, Hinrichsen,” he repeated, “I’ll investigate the
matter. It seems to me that I saw the boy once more, just
before the battle of Sprentzschütz, I believe. For the present,
try to calm yourself; after all, it isn’t the first time that
you’ve lost somebody dear to you. My God, you know as
well as I do what war is.”
Yes, it would be best this way. At the moment, Hin-
richsen was still filled with the memory of the boy— of that
scoundrel who wasn’t even worth a spit upon the patch of
earth under which he lay buried. And soon some one else
would come, some one else who would possess him as
much as this one had—and then he would forget.
The sound of angry voices came to them from the
highway. Scholz looked up. A soldier stood there, pouring
out a torrent of invectives upon the child, who returned
them the best he could. Gerhard leapt to his feet. “What’s
that?” he shouted. “Come here right away, both of you!” He
shook Hinrichsen’s hand. “Forgive me—can’t seem to be
able to rest for even fifteen minutes. Hope to see you soon,
Hinrichsen—by God, I wish you’d grab for yourself a little
of the sun that’s shining so merrily over the fields.”
The Oberländer took his leave with bowed head and
heavy step.
The two reported, the child and his adversary, a real
soldier, in correct uniform, lacking nothing. Scholz
recognized him. “Look at you—Schmitz!” he cried.

38
“Where do you come from? But tell me first why you yelled at
the boy—what did he do to you?”
“He wouldn’t let me come to you, the snottynose. Me who
cleaned your boots when he was still wetting his panties.”
Scholz laughed. “Well, you did clean them often enough—
but they never got clean.”
“As if it mattered—in war,” grunted Schmitz. “I just wanted
to tell you that I was here—and the ninny wouldn’t let me pass.
The blockhead—he’d better wash his mouth before he talks to
me.”
“That’s enough, Theodor,” Scholz ordered.
“The-o-dor?” drawled reproachfully Schmitz. “You call me
that only when you’re angry, sir.”
Scholz was amused, “Very well, then. Keep your mouth
shut, Dores!”
The soldier grinned. “Dores”—the old relationship was
reestablished. His anger evaporated. “I knew for some time that
you were here, but had no time to look you up. I’m with the
Rossbachers—but if you talk to the commander, he’ll let me
join your company.”
“Now that everything’s over?” asked Scholz.
“Over?” cried Schmitz. “Then I’ll stay with you all the
more.”
“I’ll stay with you too, sir,” spoke up Hemmerling. “I know
something about horses.”
“Horses!” sighed Scholz. “Do you think, child, that I can
keep horses in civilian life? By the way, you brought three
horses with you—you know very well where you borrowed
them. You’ll take them back to the owner, and that black mare
too, the one we took from that Polish major. As interest. Then
he’ll forgive you for the loan.”
Schmitz stared wide-eyed at the child, shook his head

39
in sincere amazement, “Three horses—three horses! You look
like a baby, like a muddleheaded nincompoop —but there must
be something in you! Three horses!’’
Gerhard cut him short. “As for the horses—I can’t use
them. Neither can I use you two. You, Fritz, will go back
to school ------------ ”
The child rose. “Never again!”
“You will go back to school,” Scholz said, “if I’ve got
to drag you there by the ears. We need men these days
who’ve learned something useful—and not only in the
school of war. And that’s that! I’ll speak to you later,
Dores. And now, be off with you.”
Schmitz brought forth a package from his pocket. “I’ve
got something pretty here for you, sir.” He began to
unpack it.
Gerhard interrupted him. “Borrowed—eh? I know your
presents. Give it to the child—he hasn’t eaten anything
decent for weeks. And console him that he’s going back to
school.”
Schmitz took the child by the arm and walked away.
Scholz watched him open his parcel. For a second he felt
like calling him back; whatever it was, it was good. Dores
had never failed on that count.
He had known him well in France, Schmitz IX, of the
Sixty-fifth, called the Regiment Schmitz. That regiment
from Cologne was full of Schmitzes; they were numbered,
and the count began all over in every company. Dores was
ninth in Company 3. Five other Schmitzes followed him,
although only die living ones were counted, and only those
who were with their unit at the moment. He came from a
suburb of Düsseldorf, and so he regarded Scholz as from
his home town and had attached himself to Scholz with the
unconcern and nonchalance characteristic of the
inhabitants
40
 of the Lower Rhineland. As a matter of fact, Gerhard
Scholz was not exactly his neighbor. He came from a
family of clerks. His father, grandfather, greatgrandfather
had been clerks. They had lived once here, then there. He
did not even know where they had originally hailed
from. His mother had been a German-Lorrainer, from
Metz; there he had spent the first years of his life. Then
they moved to Saarbrücken, to Elbing, at last to
Düsseldorf—wherever the Rhine-Lorraine Metals
Company, in whose employ his father was, sent them.
Old Scholz rose with the company, at last he owned a
little house and a neat little garden around it.
There were five children: four boys and a girl. The oldest
of the boys was an officer in the army, the second a scholar.
There was no money left for the third, Gerhard. He would get
a job with the Rhine-Lorraine, they decided—but he’d better
serve his conscript year first, right after his graduation from
the Gymnasium. He joined the mounted yagers—the cost of
the horse was defrayed by an aunt—and immediately matricu-
lated at the University of Strasbourg, for the colonel of the
young regiment liked students. Thus he completed three
semesters and acquired a fraternity cap— for all this might
come in quite handy in his career later, thought Papa Scholz.
In the summer of 1914 he was through with everything—and
it was not even necessary to doff the green tunic. He was just
twenty.
Two years later, all four of the brothers were at the front.
The youngest, barely seventeen, was the first to go; he was
killed at Verdun, after scarcely six weeks of front service.
Then followed Emil, Gymnasium professor, Ph.D., and
aviator.
Gerhard met him for a few hours in October, 1917, at the
Casino of Rethel. Emil was on his way back to the

41
front from his leave. He looked rather comical and not at all
like a lieutenant in the Flying Corps; he wore a pair of gold-
rimmed spectacles and a long, reddish- blond beard, rather
moth-eaten. Emil told the story of his leave; things had
happened that were quite at odds with the schoolteacher s
moral point of view.
He had taken Karl, his best friend, home with him. But
Comrade Karl was less moral, he was more of a Don Juan,
like Hornemann. He fell instantly in love with Sister
Käthe and she with him. They became engaged. So far,
everything was correct. But then, one morning, Karl did
not come down to breakfast. Brother Emil waited and
waited then went to look for him. He found his bed in the
guest room untouched. But things in the next room
seemed less in order: confused and confusing pell-mell of
blankets and pillows revealed itself to Emil’s chaste eyes.
In reply to his horrified exclamations, first a female leg,
then a male arm, and finally two tousled blond heads
disentangled themselves, and he beheld the sinners staring
at him, the intruder, with sleepy, unknowing eyes. Emil
called them to account, gave vent to his righteous
indignation in strong words. The two sinners let him talk
and kept ashamedly silent. Only when Emil began to
preach of grossly outraged hospitality, of the villainous
exploitation of the inexperience of a child, did Karl find a
few weak words for his defense. After all, he said, Emil
himself was responsible for it—why had he brought him
here, why had he exposed him to temptations? Then
Käthe collected herself and burst out. Emil gained the
impression that she had never very much cared for him.
First of all, she said, she was no longer a child—she
would be soon through with school. She was over sixteen,
no one had a right to dictate to her, he, Emil,

4«
 least of all. Furthermore, they were engaged, and there
was war. Should she have, perhaps, hurled a heartless
“no” into the face of this man—this man she had prom-
ised to marry, with the full consent and knowledge of her
parents and brothers, this man who staked his life every
day for his people and fatherland? And besides, it had
just happened, and neither of them had thought of
anything wrong. Consequently, they would not have a
guilty conscience. On the other hand, his, Emil’s, be-
havior was neither brotherly nor gentlemanly; it was
petty and pedantic, unworthy of an army flier, indeed,
downright mean, especially his shouting. And, to boot,
on a Sunday morning! Was it his intention to make his
father and mother unhappy, to force them to drive their
only daughter away, to broadcast her shame to the whole
wide world? When the man who was his friend and her
fiancé was about to return to the front? She finished her
tirade and began to howl like a chained dog. It was a long
time before she became calm again.
Emil weakened; he was not accustomed to women’s tears.
He begged her not to behave like that—because of their
parents. But she would not listen to him, only wept the
louder. He was responsible for everything!
He then begged Karl to use his influence over her,
prepared breakfast for both of them, took it to their room.
Although Käthe declared that she could not press a bite
down her throat, she ate quite heartily, after a little
persuasion. He sat down on their bed. At length they could
talk intelligently again; soon she smiled behind her tears,
later she even laughed. Emil suggested that they marry at
once. Both accepted the idea and were ready to go
immediately.
Unfortunately, it was a Sunday—and his lease was up
Monday morning.
43
 Emil was worried. What if something happened to Karl?
What if—after all, there was no sense in beating about the
bush, you had to look things squarely in the face—so,
what if—Käthe—would have a child? A horrible thought!
They would have to manage a special leave for Karl —
so that he could marry her. Emil wondered whether
Gerhard knew someone higher up who could intervene in
the matter.
But Gerhard did not need to see anybody. Three days
later both were dead, Emil as well as Karl. They were
together in a plane shot down by the French. They lay,
miles behind the French lines, a heap of bones and flesh.
Gerhard wondered whether Emil, during those eternity-
long seconds while the plane had dived toward the earth,
had been still tormented by his sister’s fate? Whether he
would have gone calmer to his death had he known that
Käthe was not with child after all?
Gerhard laughed when this thought occurred to him.
Calmer—calmer—when you were falling from a height of
three thousand feet!
His parents learned of the death of their oldest son,
Captain Wilhelm Scholz, from a newspaper report half a
year later. He had been captured by the Arabs in
Mesopotamia. The details of his slaughter, as told by
escaped prisoners, were so gruesome that old Scholz did
his best to hide them from his wife. Of course, before long
she knew everything.
Then came the false news that he, the last of the sons,
had also been killed. Toward the end of the war, he was
commanding a battalion on the Italian front; shortly before
the collapse, he was wounded and taken a prisoner. It was
a light wound—the track of a ricochet

44
 —and it was a fortunate wound: it protected him from
immediate transportation to the interior. He soon found an
opportunity, together with a few Carinthians, to escape into
the Julian Alps. He met the Freiherr von Pranghk, helped
him to defend the Drave against the Serbs, to save that
speck of earth around Bleiburg for the German cause. That
was no longer organized warfare—it was self-defense,
volunteer work—for the first time. At the end of 1918.
He wrote home, but his letters were lost. They thought
him dead. Yet, it was not this news that finally gave his
mother eternal rest. The war had devoured her four sons: she
survived it. What killed her was ridiculously little when
compared to this tragedy. Lorraine had become foreign land,
and together with the land, the mines of the company. Old
Scholz lost his job overnight—and a week later, lost his wife.
His mother. He was nearer to her than to any of his
brothers or his sister, nearer than to his father whom he saw
only when he had returned from work at night, tired and
weary. She taught her children the only thing she knew:
French, and she spoke only in that tongue with them.
It was not with her French, however, that she gained the
children’s hearts. It was with her singing every night, after
supper. She accompanied herself and sang most of the time
sotto voce, gently and tenderly, but with an excellent
pronunciation, clearly enunciating every word. And she sang
only German songs, never a French one. She sang them by
the dozen, one after another: Schubert, Schumann, Löwe,
Brahms, Wolf.
Five such masters of song, thought Gerhard Scholz.
Where in all the world was there another nation from whose
heart flowed such overwhelming riches, and all

45
within a tiny century? Should not the world love everything
German for the sake of these songs alone? But no! Only
hatred—bitter hatred all around.
She sang Reger, too, and Richard Strauss. And the
children listened, absorbed everything, learned subcon-
sciously words and melodies. They were not grateful for
it; they regarded the singing, having been accustomed to it
from the cradle, as something natural. To them, the word
“mother” meant something that sang.
Three brothers dead, and the mother.
Käthe was in command now. Old Scholz just tottered
around, looking for a job and finding none. Käthe found a
position immediately after finishing commercial school,
with a new import and export company which traded in
everything: coal, foodstuffs, typewriters, toys and, of
course, old arms. They sold the house in Ratingen, moved
into the town and rented a comfortable flat near the
Hofgarten.
She took care of the expenses. Gerhard would have
liked to contribute—but how? He laughed when he
thought of it. All volunteers were paid equally, there was
no difference between officer and private. The men,
though, certainly lived better; they always managed to get
something to eat and to drink, they called this procedure
“provisioning”; the peasants and burghers called it
“stealing.”
Gerhard glanced toward the two who were still eating.
He grew hungry just looking at them. His breakfast this
morning—well! In another minute, Dores would pull out
another surprise from one of his numerous pockets,—
present it to his new friend as a souvenir. Why Dores
wandered around the world in quest of adventure,
remained a mystery to Gerhard. He had his home. His
parents owned a neat little farm and a
 butcher shop. He was welcome any day of the year. And
then there was his cousin, Stina, his fiancée for years. An
able woman, ample-bosomed and strong, the proprietress
of an inn. All this waited for him. “They can wait a while
longer,” said Dores, “they won’t run away. But first I’ve
got to take a peek at the world.”
For seven years he had been taking peeks at the world
which, to him, had always remained the same—whether the
men he saw spoke French, Flemish or Polish. He couldn’t
understand a word anyhow. But he took care that they
understood him.
Past ten o’clock and she had not come yet!
He wondered how he should address her. Martha— no, he
could not do that. Lili? A year and a half had passed since—
a long time for both of them. Hornemann had told him what
had happened to her during this time. A student of medicine,
nurse in Germany’s most famed university clinic—no, she
had changed. But he was still the same as he had been in the
Baltic: a weatherbeaten guerrilla, riding through the
highways with his battered host. He feft oppressed and
restrained, timid almost—what should he say to her? In the
old days, they had complemented each other perfectly: free
lance and camp whore, full of lice and filth—any roadside
ditch had been good enough for them.
Today?
Wouldn’t it be better to avoid her, to ride back to his
comrades? The child might tell her ---------------
Suddenly an idea struck him and he smiled: he had bathed
this morning, had put on a clean shirt Lannwitz had given
him, had socks on and not clouts. He breathed more freely.
Then it occurred to him that this was childish: was he a
different man just because he

47
wore a clean shirt and a pair of clean socks and had
swabbed himself thoroughly with a piece of black soap?
He laughed. Yes, that was it. His diffidence had dis-
appeared. Let her come—she belonged to him.
Lili she was and would be forever. Amusing, that name
on her passport, “Ignota.” He knew her well, better than
anybody in the world, although he had never asked her
name. Lili—that was enough.
He did not know himself how it had occurred to him to
buy her from that drunken captain. When the captain had
offered her to him, stammering and swaying— three
minutes after he had accidentally dropped in on that dreary
group of drunkards—Gerhard had asked her, “Do you
want me to buy you?” She had stared at him for a long
minute, with wide, clear eyes, and had whispered at last,
“Yes, do buy me.” He threw whatever money he had in his
pockets, uncounted, on the table, took her by the hand, led
her away.
He had known of her what all had known. Yet he had
not asked her anything, Although there had been a
question he had been aching to put to her: what had she
been thinking during the second while her mouth' and eyes
had formulated the answer, “Yes, do buy me”? A peculiar
shyness had tied his tongue, had overwhelmed him. But
the question had returned to him time and again; every
time he thought of her he played with the idea of it.
Gradually he arrived at an answer in which he believed.
And he decided, “Some day I’ll ask her.” And then she
would answer, “Yes, that’s how it was—precisely so.”
Thus: that night was the bottommost rung on the ladder
of her humiliation. She could not have possibly 48
sunk lower. During the months preceding it, during the
months that had seen her ancestors’ house go up in flames
and her parents and brothers go down in death, during the
months she had ridden with soldiers, paying whatever price
demanded for her protection, there had been but one thing
sustaining her: her hatred, her insane desire to retaliate for
what had been done to her and to her beloved ones.
Then it was over. No more battles, no more nocturnal
rides. One host after another withdrew beyond the border;
and the glow, the shimmering lustre that had enveloped her,
vanished—the maze of mystery was gone. It had happened
overnight: she herself never knew how. One minute it had
seemed to her that she had been carried around in the palms
of men, the next, that she was being trampled upon by heavy
boots. And then the cornet of the Wirgolitch Cossacks
raffled her off to guzzlers.
Von Dircksen, the winner, did not want her; he preferred
a glass of champagne. Then he, Gerhard, who was sober,
came into the room. The captain offered her to him as one
would a cow to a butcher; but this man did not answer him,
turned first to her. “Do you want me to buy you?” He asked
her, for her consent!
She was swilling with sots, was as drunk as they were.
And now a man stood before her who was sober. A man who
was like those she had known once upon a time, like those
who lived far away, outside, in the world where people knew
nothing of murder and war, fire and blood. And in that
fraction of a second she remembered who she was, what she
was.
The man whom the others called Scholz—plain Scholz,
like so many burghers in the suburbs of Riga—

49
belonged to those drunkards, spoke their language. Yet he
was different.
He drank with them and was sober. He repeated the
captain’s question, “Do you want to buy her?” and asked
her, “Do you want me to buy you?” The very words—and
yet they meant something else.
And then she understood what they meant. Her answer,
like a sleepwalker’s, came from her subconscious, yet was
conscious. “Yes, do buy me.”
But, then to her, her “Do buy me” was more than a
symbol. She regarded it as a fate to which she surrendered
herself, without restraint, without restriction, for once and
for all.
His question and her answer might be—who knew! —a
sacred pact, called to life again from the past. Wasn’t a
priest’s blessing or a clerk’s signature on a scrap of paper
essentially the same after all? Wasn’t the ancient practice
still in use by millions of human beings, in China,
Mongolia and other lands, wasn’t it even starker and
stronger? She had become his property, was his, belonged
to him for all time.
Thus she understood it. She went even further: if she
was his, his possession, which he held by sacred barter,
then he too would have to be possessed by what was now
his own. Faust, the scholar, called a book his own,
Lieutenant Bonaparte, a sword—and nothing else. Had
they possessed these things more than they had been
possessed by them? Hadn’t they remained, to the end of
their days, slaves of the book and the sword: of the thirst
for knowledge and power?
Thus it would be, precisely thus. She would think: “He
has bought me, I am my master’s maid. And yet I am the
one who leads him whither I want to, I alone am the one
who possesses him.”
50
 Once—only once, had he received a letter from her. A
few lines merely, scratched with a pencil upon a scrap of
paper, without an envelope. He had gone to make a
reconnaissance up the river Aa and she had sent after him
information just received from headquarters. She had written
in French, so that the messenger should not understand it.
She had signed it, “Ta maitresse L.”
He carried the scrap on his body for a long time, until the
writing had worn away, until it was illegible. That word had
excited him, had taken possession of him: “ta maitresse.” It
meant: your creature,your concubine. But didn’t it mean also
your lady, your mistress?
Gerhard Scholz stared ahead of him. What had made him
indulge in day dreams, today as well as so often lately? It
was not his habit, no, it wasn’t. This brooding, this playing
with ideas—no, he had not inherited it from his mother, and
certainly not from his father. Then—he must have caught it
from her.

She was there—he realized it even before he wakened.

He felt his head resting in the soft lap of a woman. He heard
her breathing in the deep silence. He enjoyed the awakening,
opened his eyes very slowly.
“How long have I slept?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. ‘‘You’ve been lying in my
lap for an hour. You’re still talking in your sleep, you
know.”
He raised his head. ‘‘What did I say?” But she gently
pressed him down. ‘‘Don’t get up. What did you say? You
sang. Several times the same line, in a whisper. I had to read
it from your lips, ‘I feel as though I had died.’ Brahms, of
course. Although you look very much alive.”
He nodded. He felt light and at peace with the world.

51
 No questions and no reproaches, no explanations. They were
together. It was as it had been. And the sun shone.
“No kiss?” he asked.
She laughed. Then broke into song,
“ ‘Now we shall breakfast!’ Do you know this line? Of
course not, you know only songs. You’ve probably never
heard an opera in your life. Give me that basket!”
“I certainly have! Two, to be exact.” He rose and looked
around. God only knew how it had got there— but there
stood a basket in the grass, neatly covered with a blue and
white cloth.
She unpacked it. “Let’s see what Pia has given us. Take
that cloth—that’s our table. Two plates, look— and here’s a
knife. Cut the bread, please. White bread, see? Heydebrecks
sent it, for you. Butter, ham, eggs— and lo and behold, a
bottle of wine. Where in God’s name did she get that?”
She offered him a glass, sang again, “ ‘Now we shall
breakfast!’ I see I’ll have to educate you, Gerhard. It’s from
Rosenkavalier, the marshal’s wife sings it to her page when
he wakes from his happy dream. Even as you and I. The
only difference is that they breakfast— after the feast. We,
on the other hand, shall begin the feast with the breakfast.
Fill it up!”
Scholz looked at her. He had not seen her yet, only her
eyes. She was not in a nurse’s uniform, she wore a summer
dress of soft silk. Next to her, in the grass, lay flowers—
daisies, bellflowers, campions—their stalks woven together.
“One-quarter of a wreath,” she laughed. “I plucked all I
could reach—and I didn’t want to wake you, sleepyhead.”
He pressed close to her, “No kiss for me?”

52
 “What do you think I did after I was through picking flowers? You’ve
enough kisses already, now wait.”
“And you, Lili?”
She dropped her head. “I?” she asked quietly, almost like a sigh. “I’ve
waited so long—so long ------------------------------- ”
Her hands trembled. She put down the basket.
“Shall I beg for them?” she said, hoarsely.
They spoke no more.
The breakfast became a vesper meal. Nothing was left in Pia’s basket.
They chatted, of Pia, of the Oberlanders, of Poles and Frenchmen, of
Silesia and of what would happen next.
“We’ve achieved one thing,” said Gerhard. “They’ll leave us what
we’ve got in our hands. But they’ll throw the rich industrial district to the
Poles. In spite of our victories, in spite of the plebiscite. Because France
and Italy want it.”
“Italy too?” asked Lili.
“You didn’t know it? The sparrows chirp it from the rooftops that Italy
does what Minister Sforza wants. And he’s had his boundary line in mind
for a long time. The Poles know how to do this sort of business; they
dangled a pretty bait before the minister’s nose and he bit. There’s a
woman!”
“Who?”
“I forgot her name. An aristocrat, from Warsaw. She can wind Sforza
round her little finger; he’s as soft as butter in her hands. She works with
kisses for her country, and she works better than all the Korfanty
legionaries with their machine guns. Poland lost Anna- berg in battle—she
won back Kattowitz in bed.”

53
 “Oh!” she started. “Oh!” Her eyes were wide, fixed,
glossy.
“What’s the matter?” he cried.
“What’s the matter?” she repeated. “Have you no
women?”
“Oh, yes, we have,” he nodded. “They’ve helped us a lot
this past year. But, to do that calls for a different type.”
Her voice was hard. “And you, knowing all this, leave
me in Munich—studying medicine—nursing! My God, oh,
my God!”
He grabbed her by the arm. “Does this mean—does this
mean that you ----------- ”
She nodded eagerly. “You’ve given your life and blood
for your country for years. Everything you have, everything
you possess, everything you are. And you want to deny me?
You can’t divide things as neatly as all that! Up to here—
but no further—you can’t do that—some one else might—
you can’t! Tell me, if you’d seen everything as clearly as
you do now—would you have sent me?”
“Yes,” came the answer, in a whisper. A half-smile,
exultant, bitter and painful at the same time, flickered on
her lips. He did not see it.
She sighed. “Everything Polish—everything in this
beautiful country—But: must it be? What if Berlin does say
‘no’? What if they do convoke the treaty which the enemy
itself drafted? What if they do insist on Versailles and the
plebiscite? You’re still here.”
He shook his head. “We’re expecting the order to
disband every hour. Surely, Berlin will cry ‘no’ when the
new command arrives from Paris, giving the industrial
district to Poland, but the ‘no’ will soon turn into a ‘nes’
and the ‘nes’ into a clear ‘yes’.”

54
 “And isn’t there a man somewhere?” she cried. “A man?”
“There are enough men around, some of them clever too, who know
what they want. But they work for their parties, or, at best, for the
interests of their classes: for agriculture, commerce, labor. They think of
everything and forget the country and her people.”
“You need a leader!” she said.
He laughed. “You don’t say! If only he would come! And it wouldn’t
make any difference to me what his name was: Müller or Hohenzollern,
Wittelsbach or Lehman—so long as he’s a man!”
“Who could it be?” she wondered. “Ludendorff—or Hindenburg?”
He shook his head. “Hindenburg? He’s a soldier, will always do what
he considers his duty; he’ll be as faithful to the Republic as he was to the
Kaiser. Ludendorff—yes, he did all the work, he alone was commander of
the army. But today, he’d be a catastrophe. He loses his nerve at the most
critical moment; twice he’s done it already: on the 18th of October and in
the March- days of the Kapp uprising.
“And that’s the matter with the other generals; none of them dares to
shoulder the responsibility alone. They can suppress insurrections, they
can lead troops, but they can’t lead the State. No, the old soldiers are out,
from majors up. Who on the other side? Noske? Once I thought he had the
nerve—but since then he has turned into a burgher who is interested only
in his pipe, food and drink. The German wagon is stuck in heavy mire—
there are plenty of horses to pull it to the right and to the left, forward and
backward, but nobody in the driver’s seat to crack the whip.”
They were quiet. She pulled his head into her lap 55
 and asked, “And how is it with you? Isn’t there anybody
in die volunteer units, from majors down? Captain or
lieutenant?’’
“I know diem well,” he said slowly. “They’re mag-
nificent lads, know their business, the business of sol-
diering—but what else do they know? They can recruit
regiments, lead their men, diey can make their boys swear
by diem and not by God, they can drive the devil himself
from hell—but they are the leaders of units and not of a
people. Österreicher, Lannwitz, Heydebreck, Aulock—
^daredevils, fire-eaters, their men would die for them—but
leaders of a nation? Some swear by Schlageter, but he
plays a lone hand. Others by Captain Ehrhardt. His brigade
idolizes him, but he doesn’t himself know what he wants.
One day he wants to annihilate the Reds, the next, to save
Germany, he thinks of becoming the Red leader. Who else
is there? Our commander—Hauenburg? He’s the boldest,
the most reckless of them all. I’ve been in the war seven
years and never seen the like of him. He’s a born free
lance; if Europe goes die way she’s heading now he’ll
become a condottierre, a fighter on his own hook, fighting
for fighting’s sake, for Pope or Kaiser, for the Duke of
Padua or the Republic of Venice. Rossbach? Nobody takes
better care of his men than he does, but to him it’s all a
play: if there’s a Colleone in Hauenburg, he’s Charles XII.
His drive to Riga was worthy of the Swedish king in every
respect. And yet nobody takes him seriously; if ever
there’ll be peace, real peace, Rossbach will become a stage
director. And not a bad one at that.”
“Nobody else?” she asked.
He shook his head. “If there is anybody, I don’t know
his name.”

56
 “Why not Scholz?” she asked. “Gerhard Scholz?” A laugh—but her
hand closed his mouth. “Be quiet! I don’t want any answer. Some one
must take the reins —a German rider!”

57
 Mayence-Düsseldorf, November,
1922, to January, 1923.

G ERHARD SCHOLZ waited impatiently at the rail-

. road station of Mayence; it drizzled and he was
cold in his thin raincoat. He walked to and fro,
to and fro. Every time he reached the waiting room he
looked at the clock which hung, silent, on the wall, its
glass face broken. No one thought of repairing it—
what for? It was a symbol of this station, of the city,
of the whole Rhineland. If they were free, the clock
would be going.
The station was filthy and run down, the railroad
employees, forced to serve the Rhineland Commission,
were sulky and disagreeable. French sentries, infinitely
bored, loitered about.
The train Scholz was waiting for was late—as were
all trains. Half an hour, three-quarters of an hour, who
cared? The non-commissioned officer in charge of the
railroad guard eyed him suspiciously. He even asked
him what he was doing there. But Gerhard only shook
his head as if he did not understand him. He wondered
whether it would not be more advisable to wait outside
the station. But the square was pitifully illuminated
and he might miss Eggeling.
58
 At last the train arrived. Gerhard hid himself in the background. He
recognized Eggeling at once; he looked as spruce and neat as though he
had just been taken from a box. Eggeling immediately walked up to the
sergeant and addressed him in English, very patronizingly. The
Frenchman did not understand a word of it, thought him an English officer
and was afraid to ask for his passport. Scholz followed him but laid his
hand on his shoulder only after they had reached the square. They hurried
through misty streets. Gerhard was quiet.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Eggeling.
“I’m cold,” answered Gerhard. “I waited for that damned train for more
than an hour.”
Eggeling shrugged his shoulders. “Why don’t we take a taxi?” But
Scholz did not answer.
They crossed the city to the Rhine. Gerhard led him to an old house
and opened the door. They climbed several flights of grimy stairs,
hollowed by many feet, and entered a small room. Scholz lighted a candle.
A bed, a sofa, closet, one chair and three trunks were in the room, nothing
else.
“Wash yourself,” said Gerhard. “But hurry up, we’ve a lot to talk
about.”
Eggeling examined the washbowl. “I’d prefer a bath,” he suggested.
Scholz nodded. “I take it that you’d prefer a hotel room, too. But the
French are in the hotels. We’re glad that we’ve this hole. You’ll sleep in
the bed, Hornemann and I will toss coins for the sofa. I hope he’ll get the
floor.”
Eggeling took off his coat and shirt and began to wash. “Bedbugs?” he
asked.
“Don’t think so. We held a grand hunt only yesterday. But don’t
worry—it’s only for tonight. Tomorrow

59
you’ll go to Cologne.” He threw him a towel and emptied the bowl.
“Ready? Then come.”
They hurried through old streets, past the Cathedral,
until they reached a small restaurant. Workers sat at the
tables, drinking wine; in the rear, partly hidden by the bar,
a table stood empty.
“Is this the best Mayence has to offer?” Eggeling asked.
“Sit down,” ordered Gerhard. “Here we’re safe. I don’t
know whether we’re watched; Hornemann swears that we
are. Anyhow, it’s wiser to be cautious— that’s why I
preferred to walk.”
They sat down and gave their orders. “It’s only ten
o’clock, there’s plenty of time. The others won’t be here
before eleven.”
“What others?”
Scholz poured the wine. “Drink! The others—Paul
Hornemann and a lady. You know her—Upper Silesia —
Martha, the nurse.” They clinked their glasses. “We
expected you eight days ago.”
“I’d have come at once—but there was something to
attend to.” He pulled out his wallet and handed his friend a
calling card. “If you please!”
Scholz read: “ ‘Herbert B. Eggeling, Ph.D.’ Doctor of
philosophy? Great! Congratulations! That was quick work.
When?”
“Day before yesterday. You’re right—it was quick
work. Had to be. My old man’s bankrupt, his money’s
gone. I need a job—badly. Do you know of anything?”
“Sure,” mocked Scholz, “I’m the best employment
agent for doctors of philosophy there is. But seriously: I’ll
send you to a man who may be able to use you. I don’t
know him, but he’s an old friend of yours. He’s with the
Inter-allied Rhineland Commission. Seagrave.”

60
 “Major Seagrave? Is he in Cologne? He certainly knows how to do it.
He was as poor as a churchmouse, starved like hell to work himself
through the university. Has no family—he told me often how tough it
was, how he was worried about what he’d do after the war. Now he’s a
millionaire with his salary in pounds, will stay in Germany with the
occupying forces—for ten years, or more. He’ll become a colonel or even
a general, and then he’ll resign and hook a good job. Here’s to Sir Roger
Seagrave, director of the British Museum.’’
“Why not Lord Seagrave?’’ asked Scholz. “It’s smooth sailing. He’ll
publish a couple of books about his Celtic goddess—what was her
name?—and her traces on the Rhine. He’ll have them printed in
Germany—it costs nothing these days—and they’ll surely pave the way.
He needs nothing but a man to do the dirty work for him—and that man is
you.’’
Eggeling pushed away his soup plate. “Idiotic! Druid- ism never got as
far as the Rhine—never even reached the Meuse!”
“Too bad,” said Scholz. “You’ll have to think of something else; after
all, you’re the scholar and not I. But one thing is certain: you’re to work
with the major.”
“Why?” asked Eggeling. “My field is quite different from his, I’m ”
Scholz cut him short. “It doesn’t make any difference what your field
is. But you must be with him, for a few months, every day. You must get
his confidence—to learn from him what we want to know. Of course, you
haven’t the slightest idea what it’s like on the Rhine!”
“Only what I read in the papers,” said Eggeling.
Scholz laughed mirthlessly, pulled a map out of his pocket, spread it on
the table. “Look here, and you’ll

61
 know the situation in five minutes. Do you see this red line? This is
Germany’s new boundary in the West. And it isn’t the childish fears of
foolish pessimists either! We have it from the Bureau Mixte, from the
house of the famous Dr. Dorten himself, future president of the Rhine
Republic. It’s drawn by the Generals Degoutte, Mangin and de Metz,
together with the leaders of the Separatists. Paris will say amen to it the
moment the country is occupied.”
“It’s impossible!” Eggeling said, shocked. “But there’s
peace!”
“Peace?” asked Scholz, sarcastically. “It’s obvious that
you’re a newcomer. Peace—nobody here knows what kind
of an animal that is. I tell you, in six, at the most, in eight
weeks, there’ll be a French army in the Ruhrland.”
“But on what basis? By what right?”
Gerhard laughed. “Imbecile, who the hell cares for right
these days? Paris is might! They’ll claim that Germany
hasn’t met her unconditional reparations payments, that
her deliveries in kind are two hundred bricks and thirty
telegraph poles short. The country will be occupied,
believe me. And that minute, the Separatistic rabble will
begin to howl: ‘Away from Prussia!’ Their pockets will be
well-lined with French gold, and the Rhine Republic will
be proclaimed. That’s the scheme for the next year.”
But they know of the Separatists’ plans, they know of
every movement, he, Gerhard Scholz, and his men: Hans
Hauenburg, Schlageter and the others. Berlin? The
government did not want to know of them, swore still by
right and by the treaties. They forgot Upper Silesia, stolen
by the Poles, Memel, which the Lithuanians put away in
their pocket. Every word from Paris

62
was weighty and important, but Scholz and his friends were troublemakers,
bent on fishing in troubled waters. No, no, no hope from Berlin; they
were alone once more, alone against the enemy and against Berlin to
boot.
The worst of it was the financial situation. In order to get rid of internal
debts, Germany had let the mark drop to nothing. No wonder, then, that
the French could buy, for a handful of francs, starving men by hundreds,
men who were ready to sell their souls for a loaf of bread. It was
incredible how little it cost France to prepare the ground; in four years less
than one-tenth of what Germany paid her in tributes day after day.
Gerhard slid his fingers over the map, as though he would caress the
Rhineland.
All this would be torn from the body of Germany if the great scheme
succeeded. The coming year would decide it, and they wouldn’t create a
single "Rhine Republic”! Rather: five little countries, five patches, five
bites, in order to devour them more easily. The puny presidents were all
picked, Matthes, Deckers, Smeets and Heinz-Orbis—and above them the
Federal President, Dr. Adam Dorten. At first, they would be called Free
States of the Rhine within the frame of the Reich—that would be the
decoy, the bait to catch the people. Later, they would become independent
republics, autonomous buffer states; after a while, vassal states, dependent
on Paris. And ultimately French provinces!
Gerhard folded the map, put it in his pocket. "The French will march
in, mark my words, and not a soul will prevent them. The field is tilled for
the Separatists’ bloody harvest; a hundred thousand faithful Germans have
already been driven out. In a year their number

63
will be doubled. Civil service men mostly, they’re the
ones suspected of resistance. Then there are fines, the jails
are overcrowded—they use all methods to soften the
Rhineland, to make it pliable. And once the Separatist
bandits are safely in the saddle, the people, miserably
abandoned by the Reich, leaderless, armless, and
moneyless, will beseech Paris, on their knees, to annex
them, anything to get rid of those scoundrels. France, the
magnanimous, will lend a willing ear to their plight, will
open her heart and announce to the world that she can no
longer bear to see the wretched despair of this tortured
people. The hooligans will be sent chasing their tails, will
be disowned—and the German Rhine will be alien!”
‘‘Nice prospect!” whistled Eggeling.
“We aren’t that far yet, though,” continued Scholz.
‘‘Not yet! To be sure, the French stallion takes obstacle
after obstacle like a beast from hell, but there’s still one he
doesn’t know. It will be standing before him all of a
sudden, risen from the earth overnight—possibly the horse
will shy then, perhaps no rider in the world will be able to
make him jump it. We are here to build this wall—you,
too, Herbert Eggeling!”
The Hamburger leaned back in his chair. “Don’t
misunderstand me, Gerhard, but it seems to me you’re too
willing, too rash to dispose of people. You haven’t even
asked me whether I want to.”
Scholz riveted his eyes on him. “You hadn’t heard from
us for more than a year and a quarter. Then you got my
letter and you came. What is there to ask? Would you be
here if you didn’t want to?”
Eggeling gave him his hand. “Very well. Besides, I
can’t live on air ----- ”
Scholz interrupted him, “I would be best of course 64
if you could land a job with Major Seagrave. At worst, however, you’ll
get enough from us to live on.”
He rose and went to meet Lili and Hornemann as they entered.
“God, what foul weather,” cursed Hornemann. He shook the sleet off
his coat and hung it on a nail. Then he helped Lili out of her raincoat and
overshoes. She wore a skirt and blouse. He had on an old dinner jacket.
Gerhard looked at them. “So you did go to the festival?”
“Of course,” she said. “All the women wore the latest fashion in
evening gowns but they discovered me too. As an artist, of course. Give
us something to eat first. Paul wouldn’t take a bite at the general’s mag-
nificent buffet.”
Hornemann shook hands with Eggeling. “Evening, old man. It’s good
to see you here. We’d almost given you up.”
“Sit down, children,” said Scholz. “Let me introduce you. Doctor
Eggeling, no longer a student—Miss Lili Ignota, no longer Martha, the
nurse.”
Eggeling bowed. “Pleased to see you again. I’m the Hauenburger who
----------------------------- ”
“I know,” Lili interrupted him. “You’re the man who discovered an
Egyptian Isis in the black virgin of Czestochowa. Welcome to the Rhine.”
They shook hands. She opened her sketchbook. “Well, gentlemen, here’s
the hero of the evening, M. Maurice Barres. He delivered a lecture—he
talked well and not at all stupidly —confess it, Paul, you didn’t
understand half of what he said! He maintained ”
“Keep quiet,” cried Hornemann. “I understood more than I cared to,
and I’m not in the mood to hear it all over in German.”

65
 “You should have heard how the audience applauded
him—and not only the Frenchmen. The Germans tool” Lili
shoved the sketchbook to Gerhard. “Look, there he is. And
this was our host, General Mangin. And here’s your friend,
the doctor himself—Dr. Dorten, Prussian officer and
state’s attorney -------------------------------- ”
“Gerhard,” Hornemann interrupted her, “she wants to
sell these drawings to the French! You can’t let her do it!”
“Wants to! I have sold them! During the intermission,
the editor of the Revue Rhenane came over to me—he
bought these and pointed out several other important
personalities whose pictures he wanted to print. Here they
are: Herr von Metzen, formerly director of the Krupp
Works, now traitor by profession, Herr ”
“Tear them up,” shouted Paul. “It makes me sick even
to listen to those names! And the way you smiled at them
-------------- ”
“Well, and what about you?” she retorted. “Didn’t you
smile at that black-eyed typist in Dorten’s Bureau Mixte,
and at that pretty governess with the general’s children?”
Paul was indignant. “That’s different. We must know
what goes on over there—God damn it, I got the plans of
the Rhineland division from that governess, and I’d been
sick and tired of her noodle for weeks! And Dor- ten’s
typist grows more expensive daily—now she wants a new
handbag!”
“Be sensible, Paul,” said Gerhard, closing the sketch-
book. “Why shouldn’t these pictures be published in the
Revue Rhenane? It seems to me a fine way to preserve this
rogues’ gallery for eternity. The more of

66
them the better. Let the whole world see how the rabble looks that sells
out Germany.”

It was a clear January day; no breeze stirred and the sun shone warmly.
The Malkasten Gardens of Düsseldorf were quiet at this time of the day,
two o’clock in the afternoon. Pheasants hurried down the narrow paths,
squirrels chased each other among the bare twigs.
Lili said not a word, nor did Gerhard Scholz. Only his father talked,
slowly, in a low tone, without expecting an answer. Always the same: he
had met some men again, there was nothing definite yet, nothing had been
settled, but they had made promises to him—as soon as the French were
out of the city. Time and again Gerhard fell back a few steps, time and
again his father waited for him to catch up with them. At last Lili took the
old man by the arm and explained that she alone would go on with him,
Gerhard had to attend to some business. He threw a grateful glance at her
and hurried across the bridge.
Amazing how his father irritated him. He had been home fourteen days
and the old man had not talked of anything else. He looked for work,
work, it did not matter where, or what kind of work; he thought, talked
only of work, though he was past seventy and had a comfortable home in
which he lacked nothing. Käthe
He passed by the building in Jägerhofstrasse in which the French
commander had his headquarters; a tricolor hung from the flagpole and
French soldiers guarded the entrance. A block up the street, at the corner,
stood the Administration Building; more tricolors and sky-blue uniforms.
And between the two, 67
almost in the center, die house where his father and sister
lived, where he and Lili were staying.
He crossed the park to the Rhine; die bridge was
occupied by Belgian soldiers. He turned and walked down
Lindenallee. At die Academy stood several dozen tanks
and light artillery pieces, with barbed wire defenses around
diem. Soldiers everywhere; at least thirty thousand of them
in and around the city. And all ready to march—toward the
east, into the Ruhrland.
He entered the old city, passed down narrow streets and
alleys, looking at his watch every other step. No, it wasn’t
time—Käthe could not possibly be back before five. He
came to Karlsplatz: minethrowers, armored cars, troops—
God, must they be everywhere? He hurried past and sat
down on a bench in the park. It was friendly tliere; only
children around him, children playing. He pulled a
telegram from his pocket, re-read it, then tore it into tiny
fragments. One never could tell—although the words
sounded harmless enough: “Accident. Auto needed by one
o’clock Karthause.” It had reached hTm during the
morning.
It concerned Lannwitz. He had been in Coblenz for
weeks, had done excellent work, had surreptitiously
gathered a band of young men together—Technical
Emergency Force they were called. And then the French
heard of his activities, and at the order of the French
Commander-in-Chief the Americans issued a warrant
against him, arrested him and locked him in the old fort,
Karthause. They treated him well, but they were about to
evacuate the territory and would then surrender their
prisoner to the French—and God help him then! He must
be freed. It could be done, certainly; Lannwitz would not
be the first that Scholz’s men had got out of a prison.

68
 Then came the telegram. Accident—that meant that the auto had gone
to hell. And where could they get another at short notice, when every
single car in the whole Rhineland had been requisitioned and registered?
Then Käthe volunteered. She would somehow get to the Karthause by one
o’clock. On her way back, stopping for a second at Cologne, she could
bring a report from Eggeling, too. Lannwitz would be put up by Dores
Schmitz who had at last married his Stina. There he would be safe for a
while.
Gerhard watched the children around him. They played peacefully,
quietly—and yet he was suddenly seized by a strange sensation of
uneasiness, almost of terror. What was it, he reflected. Then the revelation
came to him: yes, that was it, how these children looked! Only one of
them was plump, a girl, but her plumpness was unhealthy, she was
swollen rather than well-fed; her face was sallow, her eyes tired. But the
others, boys as well as girls! They were all undersized, undernourished,
rickety and consumptive—war and blockade, turnips, turnips and turnips
again, and not a drop of milk!
Gerhard bit his lip. What was it that Clemenceau had said? Twenty
million Germans too many! Well, they would take care of that, the French
messieurs!
The smart little Voisin drove up. Gerhard did not like it: a French car.
He cared even less for the little blue, white and red flag stuck into the
radiator cap. But of course the auto was a present from her boss, and the
tricolor had done good service today.
Käthe sat at the wheel, Lannwitz next to her. “Where to now?” she
asked. “Where’s your friend Schmitz?’’
Gerhard shook his head. “Can’t be done. I have word from him, he has
soldiers quartered with him. Alsa- 69
tians who understand German. It’s too dangerous.
Lannwitz,” he turned to his friend, “I don’t know at the
moment where I’ll put you.”
“The captain will come to us,” decided Käthe. “There
he’s safe. He can have Lili’s room and she’ll sleep with
you.”
Peter von Lannwitz was pleased. The suggestion was
very welcome. “Thank you!” he cried as he climbed out of
the car.
Käthe took the wheel. “Very well, I’ll drive home now.
By the time you get there everything will be fixed. He
hasn’t a thing, Gerhard, you’ll have to furnish him with
whatever he needs. Oh, yes, we met Dr. Eggeling in
Cologne—Captain Lannwitz will report to you.” She
nodded curtly and drove away.
The captain looked after her. “Damnation!” he said.
“She’s a brick, your sister is!”
“Do you think so?” Gerhard said. He was of the same
opinion—yet there was something the matter with Käthe,
he thought.
The two men walked through streets enveloped in
twilight. Lannwitz reported. Everything would have gone
smoothly had an escape been necessary, but he had been
freed an hour before. On his morning walk, two American
officers had started a conversation with him. When the
sergeant had taken him back to his cell, he had addressed
him in German—Pennsylvania Dutch, of which, of course,
he had hardly understood a word. Before leaving him, the
N. C. O. had conspicuously played around with the lock—
and after his departure Lannwitz discovered that the door
had been left open. On his bunk he had found a neat little
package containing the things which had been taken from
his pockets on his arrest. So he had started to walk out of

70
 the fort, slowly and cautiously at first. The Americans had
all turned their backs on him and some of them had
laughed. At the gate, a lieutenant had been inspecting the
guard; he had passed him not four paces away. His
comrades had met him in front of the fort, quite amazed
and put out that they could not have executed their well-
planned scheme. Obviously, the Yankees had let him go in
order to avoid handing him over to the French. And then
Käthe had arrived.
“Were you held up anywhere?” Gerhard asked.
“Often enough. But that scrap of paper your sister showed them did
wonders.”
Scholz nodded. He knew that paper. It was a Laissez- Passer, pour
Mlle, Catherine Scholz et les personnes qui l’accompagnent, signed by
General Degoutte himself. A very useful bit of paper; and Käthe had
promised to get three or four more for him and his friends. If she only
succeeded! God alone knew how she would do it.
They reached the house. The maid gave them a note. “The room is
ready. Supper prepared. Father is at the Industry Club, Lili and I are at the
Opera. We’ll expect you at the Jungmühle around eleven.”
“What’s that? Jungmühle?” asked Lannwitz.
“I don’t know,” answered Gerhard. “We’ll find it somehow.”
At the table, the captain told him what Eggeling had learned. He was
sure that the British would not participate in the occupation of the Ruhr,
that London considered it a violation of existing treaties. But England
would raise no obstacles beyond a formal protest to Paris. Nor would the
Italians send any troops except a few hundred engineers, just to keep an
eye on the French. The English commander at Cologne thought

71
it not impossible that the advance would begin in about three days.
“Let them march,” Gerhard said. “They’ll find a hell
there.”
After supper, they went in search of the Jungmühle. It
was a night club, with bar, jazz-band and cabaret
performers. Scholz picked a table near the exit. They had
just sat down when the ladies arrived, in evening clothes.
Gerhard was extremely tight-lipped. When the captain
rose and asked Käthe for a dance, Lili turned to him.
“Wake up! What’s the matter?”
He glanced around the cabaret. “Why did she ask us to
come here? Every child can see the officer in Lannwitz—
probably in me too. 'We’ll be conspicuous.”
“Käthe knows what she wants,” Lili assured him. “She
must have a reason for it. Look how well they dance—it’s
a pleasure to watch them.”
Gerhard glanced at them. He knew little of clothes but
even he could detect that Kathe’s gown had not been
created in the Düsseldorf of these times. “Paris?” he asked.
Lili nodded. “Of course. It fits her perfectly.”
They danced as though they had danced together for
years. Käthe held her head high; her steel-blue eyes
sparkled under the rich, auburn hair. Her lips, slightly
parted, wore an arch and gay smile. She enjoyed the dance,
like her partner; she let him lead her, followed every
movement with ease.
Lili laughed. “Peter Lannwitz has caught fire! And I
guess, Käthe too.”
They came back to the table. The captain’s clear eyes
shone. But the girl’s face was again hidden by a silent

72
 mask—the change took place in a second; her look was
stinging, her smile frozen.
Has she caught fire, wondered Gerhard. Fire? He sighed. The
realization that he knew nothing of this girl who was his sister disturbed
him.
A noisy party entered, laughing. Four or five men in evening clothes.
They crossed the floor and climbed upon the high stools at the bar. Käthe
noticed them immediately and a cloud passed over her face. ‘They’re
early,” she remarked.
“Who?” asked Gerhard.
She indicated them with her eyes. “The gentlemen— with whom I have
a date. French officers. The blond one is a Belgian. And that big, fat man
with pearl studs —he’s Lamberts, my boss.”
She rose. “I have to go to them. Don’t wait for me— go home and go
to bed. I’ll come as soon as possible.”
Gerhard grew excited but controlled himself in time. “What does this
mean, Käthe?” he whispered.
She looked at him calmly and smiled. “Don’t you need those
passports? Do you think I pick them up on the street?”
She joined them. The officers leapt from the stools, greeted her,
surrounded her. Lamberts, somewhat pompously, kissed her hand.
The pianist pounded and sang in a slightly inebriated voice, “A maiden
from the Rhine—with wine from the Rhine ”
Five verses. Lamberts cackled with him and the officers joined in the
chorus, “A maiden from the Rhine”
But they did not drink Rhine wine. In the glasses which the barmaid
filled and refilled, Ayala foamed and sparkled.

73
 Lamberts shoved back his glass. “It’s too cold again,” he
barked. “Can’t you remember that it mustn’t be ice-cold?
That ruins it. It must be only cellar temperature.” Let the
whole town know that Lamberts of Hanau, Lamberts and
Company, was above his barbaric fellow townsmen!
Gerhard Scholz stared at the bar, his fingers, the knuckles
white, gripping the edge of the table. Lili laid her hand on
his arm. “Come, let’s go.”
They said nothing on their way home. Only in the house
did Lili turn to the captain. “I’ll make a cup of coffee—will
you help me, Peter?” They went into the kitchen. Lili
chatted away, tried her best to dispel the depressing
atmosphere which, radiating from Gerhard, enveloped them.
When they returned to the living room, they found Gerhard
at the table, writing. He motioned to them not to speak to
him. At last he rose, handed the sheet to Lili. “Will you
attend to these things for me?” he asked.
She glanced at it. “Hauenburg—Buchrucker—Schla-
geter—Hornemann—early in the morning,” she murmured.
She poured coffee for him, put a lump of sugar in it.
The cloud seemed to have passed. Gerhard spoke of his
work, explained to Lannwitz what he would have to do. He
would not be back for a week; he had to go to Berlin and to
Munich. Lannwitz’s job would be to maintain contact,
together with Lili, with the comrades who were already in
the Ruhrland. Hornemann was to go to Mayence—to the
Palatinate -----------------------------------------------
Lannwitz listened, made remarks, suggested plans. They
discussed one scheme after another, polished them, refined
them.
“Three o’clock,” cried Lili. “Don’t you want to go to

74
 bed?” She stepped to the window and opened it wide,
letting fresh air stream into the smoke-laden room.
A taxi stopped before the house. Lili saw Käthe Scholz get out of it.
“Your sister’s back,” she said.
A shadow settled on Gerhard’s features. He went out, opened the door
to the hall, but returned almost at once. They could hear Kathe’s steps on
the stairs. Then she entered the room.
"Still up?” she asked. She threw her fur over the back of a chair. Her
hair was disheveled, her gown stained. A couple of hooks on her gown
were open.
Gerhard stared at her rigidly. Involuntarily, she stretched out her hand
for her fur, to cover herself. But—she let it drop again. It was too late.
"Yes, that’s the way things happen,” she said dully.
No one answered. She continued slowly, "I know what you’re
thinking.” She hesitated for a second. "I’ll get the passports, I’ll have to
call for them at two tomorrow.” She burst into a fit of shrill laughter.
"Don’t you think I would much rather have stayed with you —with you
two and with you, captain?” She stepped to Lannwitz, put both her hands
on his shoulders. Then she took his head between her palms and kissed
him quickly on the mouth.
She swayed. Lannwitz steadied her, held her in his arms. She tore
herself out of his embrace and suddenly tears began to pour down her
cheeks, sobs shook her body. Lili embraced her, caressed her. "Come,
let’s go to bed.” She took the fur and led the reeling girl from the room.
Gerhard dropped heavily into a chair. Lannwitz stood motionless. Then
he whistled and began to pace the room. Suddenly he stopped before his
friend and shouted at him, "I don’t understand a bit of this, not

75
a bit. But I can tell you this much, Scholz. I believe in her.
And you—you’re doing her an injustice!”

The bells of St. Rochus rang seven. Gerhard was still

tossing in his bed, unable to sleep. Ten times he had turned
out the light, ten times he had turned it on again. He had
tried to read, he had tried walking— would he never fall
asleep? The door opened and Lili came into the room.
“Still awake?” she asked. “Kathe’s asleep at last.”
“Did she talk?” he asked.
Lili nodded. “Yes, she did. She opened up her heart, let
me take a good look inside.” She broke off, shivered. “It’s
cold here.” He noticed then that she wore only a thin
nightgown. “I’ll shut the window,” he said.
She pressed him back into bed. “I’ll do it myself. The
maid is already up and I asked her to bring us tea —I knew
you wouldn’t rest before you knew everything.”
She closed the window. The maid came in with the tea
and Lili took it from her, put the tray on the bed. Then she
brought a few pillows from the sofa and propped them up.
They sat next to each other, in the bed. He drank the hot
tea.
“Well?” he asked.
“We-ell?” she drawled. “I think it did her good, this talk.
She knows, of course, that I’ll tell you every word of it, and
this, I believe, gives her a sort of satisfaction, almost
pleasure. You haven’t talked about it either— you need a
strong impulse to make you talk, you and your sister. ... It is
just as I ------------------------------------ ”
“Tell me about it, tell me!” he said impatiently.
She caressed his hand with gentle finger-tips and con- 76
tinued to fondle it. Like a sweet hypnosis, it held him in a spell; he
listened quietly, no word passed his lips. Once—for a fleeting second
only—he closed his eyes, as though he had wanted to shut out the picture
which he saw all too clearly.
Yes, it came slowly, step by step. Käthe worked, typed, did what she
was told to do, and a whole lot more— there was much to do in the House
of Hanau, Lamberts and Company. "Then Mr. Lamberts’ attention was
called to her and he made her his private secretary. For there was no one
like her, who could speak and write French as well as her mother tongue.
Soon she was indispensable. Himself a man who knew no limits and no
fatigue, either in amusements or, and even more so, in work, Lamberts
demanded the incredible of her, and she did not disappoint him. She
worked with him late into the night and yet was punctually on the job the
next morning. He took her out occasionally, drove her around in his car,
gave her small presents. But he regarded her always as a lady, never
touched her, never wanted anything of her. For that, he had his ballet-rats
from the Opera, little dancers from the Apollo, and barmaids.
This relationship lasted for two years.
Then it happened, after all. They had driven to Brussels from Aix-la-
Chapelle, had started early in the morning on a hot summer day. Mr.
Lamberts had long conferences in the hotel and she was constantly with
him. Great deliveries: tens of thousands of bicycles, sewing machines,
typewriters, motor trucks, motorcycles, agricultural implements, farm
machinery—the Germany of the paper mark underbid all markets. They
had arrived around noon, conferred with customers all afternoon, all
evening, all night long. Daylight shone

77
 in through the windows when the clients left. But Lamberts did not stop.
Now he began to dictate the contracts to her, polished them, revised them,
added new clauses, then ordered her to retype them, to take an auto and to
drive to the clients, to get their signatures. He himself immediately began
new conferences with men already waiting for him in the lobby. She at-
tended to everything and returned to the hotel around one o’clock.
Lamberts was still in the lobby, talking, discussing. When he noticed her
he shouted to her to go upstairs, he would be up in a few minutes. She
went to her room; her clothes had been on her body for thirty hours.
Hurriedly she washed her hands and face, changed and went to Lamberts’
suite. He was not there. She heard him swishing and splashing in the ad-
joining bathroom. She waited. In a minute he came out, in pyjamas, asked
for the contracts, examined the signatures, dictated a new contract. She
typed, typed, dropped her head; she was dizzy with fatigue. He noticed
this and ran his big hand over her hair and neck. She started, then
continued to type. It seemed to her that his words dispersed in the air—
she threw herself after them, caught them, pinioned them to the paper.
One after another—sentences—pages.
At last she had finished. She rose but her knees collapsed, her
eyes closed themselves of their own accord. He caught her,
carried her to the bed. For a second she was unconscious, then
she saw him run to the table, pick up a bottle, fill a glass, return
to her. She took the proffered glass and emptied it; it was heavy,
full-flavored port wine. She felt her strength returning, her blood
racing through her veins. He stood before her, looking very
frightened, helpless and comical in his multicol-

78
ored, tasteless pyjamas—the shirt was open in front and she saw his
powerful chest, hairy, ugly ------------------------
“I’m all right,” she said. “You can continue.”
He shook his head, stared at her as though she were something strange,
something out of the ordinary, something he had never seen before.
Suddenly fear seized her. “I’ll go,” she mumbled.
But he would not let her. He took her in his arms, kissed her
It was late in the afternoon when she woke; her head rang. At first she
did not know what had happened, she was still too sleepy. Then the
memory of it rose before her. She got out of the bed, quietly, went to the
bathroom. It had happened.
That day, he bought her the smart little Voisin car, bought her the mink
coat and the pearl necklace.
Thus it had come about, thus it remained—had to remain.
Her parents’ little fortune had been in war-loans; not worth the paper
on which they were printed. And the money she had got from selling the
house was only on paper: inflation. She had given all of it to her father a
long time before; he had gambled with it on the Stock Exchange, bought
and sold, rejoiced when the papers reported incredible new heights, and
did not realize that they were practically worthless once they were
revalued in pounds or dollars. Not for three months could she have run the
household on that money.
Once, only once, had Lamberts asked her to become his wife;
frightened, she had refused him. He desired her only rarely, only when
overwork stretched his nerves to the breaking point. But ruthlessly he de-
manded her work; he had as little regard for her as

79
for himself. He snatched at money, ravenously and with every means at
his disposal; had a finger in every pie. He had begun to make money in a
very small way during the last years of the War, after he had at last
succeeded in getting home from the commissariat where he had been
shirking. Now he was worth millions in gold.
Käthe had known for a long time what the firm’s business
consisted of. They bought and sold, they called profiteering
“trade,” and what was downright deception "subtlety.” They
ruined one client after another, seized factory after factory;
always within the law, always on die solid basis of existing
contracts. Of course, their adversaries were no better than they,
and did their best to fight them back by means equally
underhanded. But Lamberts cheated most his friends the
Belgians and die French, to whom he sold the worst
merchandise for the greatest profit. He knew them all, all who
played a role on the Rhine, the political commissioners as well
as the army officers. He was friendly with every one of them,
invited them to his game preserve and let them shoot pheasants,
deer and boar, played cards with them and lost willingly and
smilingly, raced with them over the countryside, drank with
them and gave banquets in their honor, scattered dollars
lavishly, supplied them with women and champagne, went out
with a fat wallet and returned with an empty one—he knew well
why he did it.
And she, Käthe Scholz, helped him. Ace of trumps, he called
her once, the only time she saw him drunk.
Lili hesitated when she spoke of this. No, she did not think
that Käthe—and the foreign officers ----------------------
Of course she did what Lamberts asked her to do— billed
and cooed—but only for the firm, for Hanau,

80
 Lamberts and Company. She turned the heads of many
Frenchmen, accepted presents from them; she could not very
well refuse them. Perhaps a few kisses. But nothing more, no,
no, nothing more.
Lili re-filled his cup, crushed the sugar. She watched him from the
corner of her eye: did he believe her?
“Your sister suffers, she’s tormented.”
She was often together with Lamberts and his pack of friends. The
whole town knew it—only her father did not. They called her the
Frenchmen’s sweetheart.
Lili said this in an even, nonchalant voice. Then her tone changed, it
grew suddenly warm and compassionate. “But all this is a thing of the
past. Everything remains as it was, yet it’s changed. Käthe let herself be
carried away by this musty storm, lived from day to day, overfatigued
from work, whipped on by excitement and adventure. And always for the
firm only, to cram the boss’s coffers with gold. But on the day you came
home, Gerhard, she woke up. Then she realized it.”
She took the tray and put it on a table next to the bed. She pressed his
hands. “You came not knowing anything of all this. You thought she felt
as you did— wasn’t she a German girl and your sister? You were so sure
of her that you told her of all your plans immediately. You drafted her for
your troops, like Lannwitz and Eggeling, Pia and Hornemann, and all the
others, hundreds, thousands of them. When I came, a few days after you,
all this had already been accomplished: you commanded, and she did
what you ordered her to do. She has realized that she belongs to you, that
she is your sister and nothing else. She has realized what these years
mean, what these years will and must accomplish, and that she can help
you and your affairs

81
in the place where she is more than anywhere else, more than anybody
else, in the country. Fate—that’s what it is—can’t you see?”
He was still silent. His lips were tightly pressed together.
“You must see it!” she cried. “What is this Lamberts in the
world for? What are his connections with everything that’s
French for, what are her friends for? For you, for you alone.
Fate has willed it this way.”
She took a deep breath. “To clear your way—that’s what she
is destined for! You know very well what she has already done
for us; yesterday she brought Lannwitz here. In the evening,
she got the passports for you which you need so badly. What
she pays for all this— that’s her business and nobody else’s.
Not even yours, Gerhard—nobody must be her judge. She
suffers enough, you oughtn’t to torture her even more.”
She leapt from the bed, kissed him hastily. “Get up, there
won’t be any more sleep tonight anyway.” She went to the
door, took the knob, then turned and said in a low voice, “I sat
by her bed for four hours. I let her talk, let her cry in my
arms—for four hours. Then I prepared a bath for her, dried her,
put her to bed again. I kissed her, sang for her, until she fell
asleep. She’s beautiful, your sister—very beautiful.”
Now he looked up. “More beautiful than you ----------- ?”
he whispered.
She laughed quietly, and went out of the room.

82
 IV

Ruhr and Rhine, Spring, 1923,

T HE morning was murky, misty. Hornemann,

Lannwitz and ten Brinken, a young student with
hair as blond as straw, sat on the stairs in the
hall of the Municipal Almshouse of Herne.
“So it’s going to be tonight, eh?” muttered Home-
mann. “And we’ve got to wait ten hours. What the hell
for, anyway?”
“Shut up,” answered the captain. “Ask Scholz.”
“Is that canal really so important?” asked the student.
Lannwitz laughed. “Naive child! Wondering whether
the Dortmund-Ems Canal is important or not! Let ’em
try to send coal to Paris when it’s closed.”
“Then we should have done it fourteen days ago,”
remarked the student.
Hornemann hastened to put him in his place. “Don't
be an ass! Unless the right boat is sunk in die right
place, the whole thing doesn’t mean a thing. But now
she’s on the spot, waiting for us—and we’re twiddling
our thumbs. I’d like to go right away.”
The captain pulled a pipe from his pocket and filled
it. “You blockhead! You’ll go when and where Scholz
83
orders you. If everybody worked on his own hook, we’d be in
a hell of mess.”
“A hell of a business!” cursed Hornemann. “If it weren’t for
Gerhard Scholz, I’d have gone on strike months ago. It’s
getting filthier and filthier year after year. I thought of it just
the other day. In Flanders it was bad, but there was something
to it. We swore and spat when somebody spoke of ‘heroes,’
that’s true—but somehow we regarded ourselves as such deep
down in our hearts. Russia, that was child’s play; Italy, a
kindergarten; Rumania, a paradise. The Baltic, Upper Silesia
—mist and fog, but you felt that you were alive. Then the Ruhr
in 1920, when the Reds made it hot for us, and we for them—
well, that was hell’s antechamber. But this, this is hell itself.”
Peter von Lannwitz shoved his pipe from right to left. “Go
on, swear, if it gives you pleasure,” he mumbled.
Hornemann was in full swing. “Well, am I not right? We
live like pariahs, sleep in holes and ditches; when we’re lucky,
in an almshouse. The spit freezes in your mouth, it’s so
goddamn cold. We starve till our hides crack—I’d have gladly
roasted the rat that ran over my face last night if only I could
have caught him. We’re stiff with dirt and vermin. Lice are the
only animals in this climate that can put on a little fat.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the captain.
“Like dogs,” growled Hornemann, “only you don’t notice it,
you rhinoceros. We daren’t go out except in the dark because
everybody is after us—Frenchmen, Belgians, and their black
cousins. Then the gendarmes and die policemen, that’s the
most ridiculous of all. The government of the Reich
encourages us, sometimes even sends us money—but the
Prussian thief-catchers

84
 are at our heels and lock us up. We should have eyes all over,
to get away from them. Anyhow, they wear uniforms, and we
can spot them. But how can we recognize these bastards, the
spies? They’re German like ourselves—paid by the enemy to
sell us out. I tell your, Lannwitz, even the people hate us. It
was a baker who complained to me yesterday, ‘If only these
Nationalists were out of here!’ ”
‘‘Can you blame them?” asked Lannwitz.
Hornemann spat. “No, I can’t! That’s just it! Whenever we do
something, it’s the city that’s got to pay for it—the civil servants are
arrested and beaten up, the treasuries looted, all the inhabitants fined and
punished. I tell you, Peter, Berlin has done another foolish thing. This
whole passive resistance business is just a great big bluff.”
Lannwitz shrugged his shoulders. “We have to do our duty.”
Hornemann looked at him with blood in his eye. “What’s the use of
doing our duty—and a hell of a lot more? There’s just a handful of us!
Forty thousand troops have marched into the Ruhrland—and we’re
barely a hundred! When the French had a revolution and the enemy
overflowed their country, the whole nation rose and swept them out. I
tell you, we must first create order at home.”
“A colossal idea!” mocked the captain. “Tell it to Scholz.”
“He’s known it for a long time,” said Hornemann. He was quiet for a
few seconds. Then, “Peter, my child, you old camel, will you do me a
favor?”
“What is it?”
“My palms itch. Will you let me box your ears?” “I’d rather not,”
answered Lannwitz. He knocked

85
 out his pipe on the stone landing, looked for tobacco in his
pockets, found none, and put his pipe away. He turned to the
student. “Tell me, my boy, who brought you here?”
“Lieutenant Hinrichsen,” the student answered.
Hornemann looked at him from the corners of his eyes,
somewhat suspiciously, “Did he recruit you?”
“Not exactly recruit,” answered the student. “We heard,
Roderwald and I, that ---------------- ”
Lannwitz cut him short: “I thought your name was
Roderwald.”
“He’s a fraternity brother. My name’s ten Brinken.” He
bowed, politely. “Hans ten Brinken, student of law at the
University of Bonn.”
“They must have confused you two,” ascertained
Hornemann. “So Roderwald’s the lad whom the French have
clapped into the Werden prison with Prince Lippe?”
“I wish he were free,” said the student.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get ’em out. Scholz himself is taking
care of it. Go on.”
“We heard of you,” continued ten Brinken, “of you and your
work. But we didn’t know anybody, had no connections. Then
we heard that Lieutenant Hinrichsen—who was studying for his
examinations—had been in Kurland and in Upper Silesia. We
sought him out. He left everything, dropped the exams, came
with us. introduced us to Lieutenant Scholz.”
A couple of tramps strolled out of the asylum, asku the road
to Eickel and started off. Then came a stocky little man in a
blue suit. He looked almost well- to-do. Hornemann addressed
him, “Hey, Wilcke, have you got some tobacco for the
captain?”
Wilcke reached in his pocket, handed Lannwitz his 86
tobacco pouch and Hornemann his cigar case. But Paul declined it.
“You can go upstairs,” Wilcke said, “I’ve cleaned up. I’m going to look
after the car. I’ll wait for you at seven sharp, as per orders.” He took leave
of them and walked down the stairs.
Hornemann looked after Wilcke. “I don’t know why —I can’t stand
him.”
The captain nodded. “He’s never hungry, wears a suit the like of which
we haven’t owned for ten years, his pockets are always full of cigars, and
he has money too. What is he?”
“I don’t know,” answered Paul. “Perhaps a locksmith. He stood the test
in Upper Silesia. Scholz thinks highly of him.”
They went back into the house. “Lie down for a while, my boy,”
advised the captain. “Try and steal a few winks. You’ll need your strength
tonight.”
At seven o’clock in the evening they met Wilcke. He drove them out of
town, to the Dortmund-Ems Canal. There they stopped, took a long plank
from the car, sent Wilcke back and walked along the bank until they
espied a steamer lying at anchor. They scanned the far shore, barely
perceptible in the darkness. They waited for an hour, and for another hour.
Searchlights began to play upon them, the beams sweeping along the
canal, lighting up distant points. They kept moving, walking now
together, now separately, so that they might be mistaken for harmless
persons.
A small rowboat left the far shore. Three men were in it. They rowed
across the canal, made fast and climbed the steep slope. At their head was
the long, 87
gaunt Hinrichsen; he marched with such long strides that the
others could not keep up with him. He introduced them,
“Becker, student—Kuhlmann, engineer, he’s made the plans.
Both from Schlageter’s unit, both experts—they’re the ones
who sank the coal barge in the Rhine-Herne Canal last
January.”
They shook hands. “Everything in order?” asked
Lannwitz.
Hinrichsen nodded. “Yes. But can’t you see that that damn
searchlight’s trained on us?”
“Well, we’ll have to work in its glare then,” Lannwitz
decided.
A man on the steamer apparently became suspicious for he
leaned out far over the railing and shouted something to
them. They paid no attention to him. “How many are
aboard?” asked Paul.
“Only one,” answered Hinrichsen. “The others are over in
Holthausen, drinking like swine, the captain leading them. A
couple of Bavarians from Oberland’s unit are holding them
down. The boys know their business, know how to pump
them full of wine until they confuse starboard with port.”
“Then let’s go,” laughed Lannwitz. “By God, I’d never
have thought that an old Uhlan like myself would some day
attack a ship. How long do you think it will last?”
“Fifteen minutes,” answered Kuhlmann. “But if they keep
up the festive illumination and we’re lucky, ten.”
Hinrichsen motioned to ten Brinken. They leapt into the
boat and rowed around the steamer. The seaman immediately
ran across to the other side—they heard shouts and curses.
Hornemann and Lannwitz dragged up the plank and shoved it
aboard; Becker, Kuhlmann and the captain worked
themselves over. Paul re-

88
mained on the bank, watching both shores. "Good eyesight has its
disadvantages,” he thought. ‘‘I can only look on while the others have their
fun.”
Lannwitz, revolver in hand, brought the sailor ashore.
The other two had disappeared into the hold. The J
rowboat glided down the canal, propelled forward by Hinrichsen’s mighty
strokes. The beam of the searchlight caught her once—then she was lost in
the night.
"They’re safe,” muttered Hornemann.
They stared at the ship; not a sound came from her.
Everything was still.
"It takes a long time,” said the captain. “Got a watch?”
Hornemann laughed. “It hangs, next to yours, in the municipal
pawnshop of Herne. Hangs and dreams of me.”
Silence. “How long, do you think, will it take the French to tell us good
night?” asked Lannwitz.
“The searchlight is in Vette, or whatever they call that mudhole. The
road’s bad, mostly dirt, and probably they haven’t any trucks in readiness.
But one thing’s certain: if I were in command over there, I’d have been [
here an hour ago.” He turned to the sailor. “How about lending us your
braces?”
The sailor knew what he meant. He pulled up his sweater and
unbuttoned the braces.
Hornemann pricked up his ears. Steps clattered on deck; a second later,
both men hurried back to the shore. Lannwitz looked at them in
disappointment. “What’s this? Nothing done?”
Kuhlmann laughed, “Do you think that we want to blow ourselves to
hell with her? Wait, it’ll crack in a minute.”
“Will she blow to pieces?” asked Paul.

89
 Kuhlmann shook his head. “No—she’ll neatly settle on the
bottom; the canal’s only a dozen feet deep. But nobody’ll pass
her.”
“If it suits you, gentlemen, we’d better move on, or something
might fall on our heads,” suggested Becker.
Lannwitz poked the sailor. “Get up, my friend, help us a little.
Shove that plank into the water.”
The sailor rose, took the plank and pushed it into the canal. His
trousers slipped down hopelessly. They laughed and turned to go.
“Do you know what troops are quartered over there?” Hornemann
asked the sailor, pointing to the searchlight.
“Alpine yagers,” growled the sailor.
“Alpine yagers! Lannwitz, man—did you hear? The famous
blue devils. Well, they certainly did their share in the war. But
they don’t like this damned peace. They’re the fellows who
looted Buer last week and shot down two of their own officers.
They’ll certainly think it over twice before they get out of bed just
because we’re having some fun with an old scow. We can go
home without worry.’* He hurled the braces to the sailor. “Here,
my boy. You can have your pants up for the good news.”

As Mr. Lamberts, in the company of a captain of artillery,

stepped out of General Laignelot’s headquarters, he found his
secretary chatting with a smartly dressed young man.
“May I introduce you, gentlemen?” asked Käthe Scholz. “Mr.
Lamberts, Dr. Eggeling. Dr. Eggeling is an art-historian, I met
him in Cologne. He’s with Major Seagrave, of the English
Commission. He had some business to attend to here and asked
me whether we’d

90
take him along, at least to Düsseldorf. The trains aren’t running again.”
Lamberts extended his huge paw, “Glad to meet you, doctor. Can you
drive"?’" Eggeling nodded. ‘‘Then take the wheel, please, and let my
secretary sit in the back. Do you know the road? If you don’t, never mind,
Miss Scholz will give you instructions. We’ll stop in Bottrop, I’ve some
business there.” He turned to the officer. “Step in, mon cher capitaine. My
secretary, you know her, don’t you? You’ll enjoy her company more than
my boring talk, I think. You can talk to her as though you were at home in
Paris.”
Eggeling started. He tried to catch the conversation behind him but, his
eavesdropping proving futile, he gave it up. Now and then Käthe knocked
on the glass and gave him directions. They stopped in front of the Bottrop
command. Lamberts went in, but the French captain remained seated next
to Käthe. Eggeling got out and walked up and down the sidewalk, to
stretch his legs.
Hardly any traffic in the streets, the shops all closed; the sooty city
seemed deserted. Carts passed by, laden with coal, escorted by French
soldiers. Then came two baby carriages—one pushed by a young boy, the
other by an old woman; soldiers, with hand grenades in their belts and
rifles in their hands, marched beside them. Across the street, at the comer,
a corporal with four men stopped before a grocery store. Eggeling heard
voices inside; but the door was opened only after the soldiers had broken
in the plate-glass window. The soldiers entered; he heard shouts and cries.
The sky- blues returned, carrying large tin containers. They poured the
contents into the gutter. A whitish, opaque liquid flowed over the
cobblestones—milk! “Sour,”

91
wondered Eggeling, “or impure? Since when have the French
been worrying about our health?”
Mr. Lamberts returned. “Now to Düsseldorf, doctor,” he
shouted and got in.
It was late by the time they arrived in Düsseldorf'. The
French officer got out in front of a huge, ugly building; a
detachment of spahis and two municipal policemen stood
guard at the door.
“We’ll take Mr. Lamberts home and then I’ll drive you to
the station,” said Käthe.
“By no means!” shouted Lamberts. “I can’t let your friend
play chauffeur for hours and then send him home hungry! To
the Park Hotel.”
When Eggeling came out of the lavatory into the restaurant,
the waiter led him to a private room. The other two were
already seated. The flowergirl stood before Lamberts; he
selected a few long-stemmed orchids and ordered them to be
placed on the table in a tall vase. Käthe seized Eggeling’s arm.
“Listen, doctor,” she whispered, “Schlageter ”
Lamberts turned and pointed to the flowers. “Well, how do
you like them? They’re from Holland, fresh every day.”
“They’re gorgeous,” nodded Eggeling. He looked at Käthe,
muttered, “What is it?”
She silenced him with a glance.
The waiter placed Beluga caviar on the table.
“Vodka with the caviar, doctor?” asked Lamberts. “Or do
you want to start with champagne right away?”
Eggeling asked for vodka. “I warn you,” he said, “that I’ll
forget my upbringing, seeing caviar before me.”
“Help yourself,” cried Lamberts with a sweeping gesture of
his hands, “the more the better! It’s the only way to forget
these terrible times!” He turned to the

92
 waiters: “Now, vanish, and don’t come back until I ring.
Then serve, and disappear again. Understand?’’ The waiters
withdrew.
He lifted his glass. “Prosit, doctor!’’ He gulped down the vodka.
“What!—Is this what you call an immodest helping? It’s charged against
expenses—and Hanau, Lamberts and Company can pay! Look, this is how
it’s done!’’ He grabbed the tortoise shell spoon and piled a heap of caviar
on his plate. “Driving makes you hungry—and talking too. I’ve ordered
turtle soup, boiled lobster, and—but you’ll see for yourself! This is the
only place in town where you can get anything decent to eat—and only
because all the high French officers and commissioners live here. Fill up
your belly, doctor, it’s your patriotic duty; they can’t destroy what you’ve
once got in your stomach.” He grinned and crammed his mouth full; the
toast crunched between his teeth.
Lamberts talked without a pause. During soup, he told them that he
had concluded a really big deal today. During lobster, he asked what
Eggeling was doing —and whether he couldn’t buy some exceptionally
beautiful pieces for him? He himself didn’t have the time, and anyhow, it
was always wiser to accept die advice of an expert. The best thing would
be for Eggeling to come out to his estate some day—Lamberts’ Rest, near
Kaiserswerth—and see whether there was anything missing. He had
enough rugs, but he could use a few antique Brabantine gobelins. And
paintings too, of the Cologne school, some old masters, of the life of the
Virgin. Yes, and this was most important, furniture by that old master
cabinetmaker from Neuwied—eighteenth century, you know—now, what
the devil was his name? Röntgen? Yes, that’s it, Röntgen. Inlaid desks

93
and secretaries with all kinds of secret drawers and hidden
springs—he liked them. He could certainly get them cheap
these days. And he didn’t mind at all if the doctor made a tidy
profit for himself—his motto was: live and let live—thirty-
three and one-third per centl During chicken—Lamberts called
it poularde de Styrie a l’Imperatrice—his disposition suddenly
changed. He put down his fork and knife, wiped his mouth,
and burst out, “General Laignelot’s a filthy swine—he’s a
bloodhound!’’ He told them details of this gentleman’s reign
of terror. Even General Degoutte, the commander-in-chief, had
considered Laignelot’s acts a little excessive, and had
demanded the general’s, as well as his officers’, words of
honor that reports of the outrages had been exaggerated.
Lamberts laughed: of course Degoutte had got all the words of
honor in no time—but 1 He asked Eggeling whether he’d seen
the French soldiers in Bottrop pouring milk into the gutter.
Well, all milk was supposed to have been delivered to the
French for their own use—German children needed no milk!
And the coal—that was the miners’ share-coal; every miner
received a certain allotment each month. This also had been
requisitioned; what the hell did the miners need coal for when
they didn’t want to work for the French? Let the rabble freeze,
let them eat their potatoes raw! God damn it, it’s a filthy
shame—a swinish --------------------
He began to cough, his face grew purple. Quickly he drank
down a glass of wine. It calmed him; and he finished his
poularde in peace and obvious enjoyment.
Käthe sighed and threw a stealthy glance at her wristwatch.
Eggeling noticed it—what was the matter with her?
Schlageter—what had happened to him? He saw how
nervously she toyed with the silver and her im-

94
patience seized him too. If only a bite would go down the wrong way,
and Lamberts would have to go out for a few minutes
Lamberts’ good humor returned with the Crepes Suzette. As the
waiter brought in the pretty little alcohol stove and the maitre d’hotel set
himself personally to give the dessert the finishing touches, he declared
that the patissier himself must serve the rechaud. He came, very festive
in his white uniform and high starched cap, rubbed lumps of sugar
against orange peel, poured cognac over them. Mr. Lamberts followed
every move with great attention. “Crepes Suzette” he said reverently,
“Crepes Suzette --------------------- ”
Then he took out his wallet, gave to the poissonnier, the rotissier, the
saladier, the entremetier, the saucier, the gardemanger, and the
sommelier each a dollar, and two each for the chef and the patissier. He
seemed to enjoy rattling off the beautiful titles without a stammer.
Peaches and melons—Mr. Lamberts did not care, for whether they
were in season or not. What cheeses would the doctor desire? Stilton, or
old Dutch? He himself preferred Camembert.
Käthe had not said three words during the entire meal, and Eggeling
scarcely more than ten sentences. As they rose, Lamberts signed his
name to the check without so much as glancing at it. He thanked them
for their pleasant company. And the thing—this buying for him—was
settled, wasn’t it, doctor?
Käthe Scholz cut him short, “First we must see that he gets home. I
suggest that he take the car. He has to come back here tomorrow
afternoon anyway, he can drive it back then.”
Lamberts nodded vigorously. “Excellent! I’d like to

95
catch a breath of fresh air before turning in, so I’ll take you home, Miss
Scholz, and take a taxi back.”
They went to die checkroom. Lamberts hurried forward.
Käthe caught Eggeling by the arm, held him back. “My God, at
last a second for ourselves!” she whispered. “Listen!
Schlageter’s arrested, and his entire unit—seven men. The
captain who was with us in the car told me. They’ll take them to
the Düsseldorf prison tonight. To the Ulmstrasse. Gerhard’s in
Munich, wire him immediately, send messengers if necessary.
You hurry to Hauenburg, he’s in Elberfeld, he must try
everything he can. Tell him ------ ”
Lamberts had returned with her coat. They went out and took
leave of one another on the street.

Herbert Eggeling drove into the night. His ears rang, his head
whirred. Schlageter, Hans Sadowsky, Zimmermann—who else?
Names danced in his brain, he could disentangle them only with
difficulty: Crepes Suzette, poularde, lobster, caviar.
Schlageter? God! He was Scholz’s right hand. Arrested—and
seven men with him—and Gerhard was in Munich! He must
find Hauenburg before morning! He knew his way about
prisons, had himself broken jail three times, had taken Gerhard
from Polish captors, had, just a few days ago, freed five men
from the Werden jail.
He raced through the night. Sixty-five miles, seventy,
seventy-five.
Suddenly he gave a start, reached in his pocket: his passport!
It was there, signed by General Degoutte.
Then it began all over again: Sadowsky, Bisping,
Schlageter—Camembert, peaches, Crepes Suzette. He saw coal
in baby carriages, milk in the gutter, French

96
 soldiers in sky-blue uniforms, Crepes Suzette. He slowed
down—no, he couldn’t make a mistake tonight. He couldn’t
have an accident. If only he wouldn’t keep thinking of it!

“But who is it? Who?” asked Lannwitz.

Gerhard shrugged his shoulders. “If I only knew! One thing only is
sure, we have traitors among us. They seem to know everything—all the
details. I saw Schlageter’s attorney this morning; he told me that not one
of the seven men had said so much as a word. They were questioned with
rubber hose and revolver butts until they collapsed. Then the French
kicked and jumped on them until they got up. Yet they denied
everything, not one of them uttered a name. But their Mausers were
placed in evidence at their trial and the judges knew what to do. The
sentences: twenty years in prison, and for Leo Schlageter, death.
Witnesses? Only the secret agents conducting the questioning.”
They looked out across the Rhine. Beyond the river, in the meadows,
the blood-red sun was about to sink. “Gerhard,” asked the captain, “do
you think that all this will be free once more?”
Gerhard shrugged. “Yes—no—I don’t know. I only know that we
must fight for it, no matter what happens. At the moment, however, it’s
only Schlageter— nothing else matters.”
Lannwitz continued his train of thought, “I asked that, Gerhard,
because—because when we’ve achieved it, I want to marry your sister.”
Scholz blazed: “You can say that! You and my sister?! They’re
standing up Schlageter against a wall and you think of marriage.” He
threw the words at Lannwitz with open anger. Then he calmed. “Forgive
me, Peter

97
—die two things have really nothing to do with each other. Have you
talked to her about it?”
Lannwitz shook his head. “No, I haven’t. But I think that
we’re suited to each other. The more I see of her the fonder I
grow of her --------------------- ”
“And she?” asked Gerhard. “How about her?”
“But, Gerhard,” Lannwitz cried, “you remember that first
night when she kissed me!”
Scholz stared at him, “And since ------ ?”
“Nothing since. Whenever we meet there are more important
things to attend to. But sometimes her look ”
Gerhard laughed. “Of course—her look and your look and
--------------- ” He broke off. “Do whatever you think
is best. But there’s time for all that. Do you know Hauenburg’s
plans to free Schlageter?”
“I met him in Elberfeld day before yesterday,” answered
Lannwitz. “He had confidence in his plans. But he was so
suspicious of everything, so full of tales of traitors, that he
refused to tell the plan even to me.”
“He wired me that he needed Pia. I brought her along. It was
a hard job to get a leave for her. She’s with Lili. Schmitz will
take her tomorrow morning to Hauenburg.”
A sharp whistle cut the silence—shrill like the sound of
French trumpets. Lannwitz gave a start. “What’s that?”
Gerhard laughed. “Don’t worry, Peter. It’s Dores, whistling
Le Regiment de Sambre et Meuse. It’s the safest signal in the
Rhineland—for Germans.”
Dores Schmitz crawled out of a bush and ran to meet them.
“Good evening, lieutenant, here I am again. Evening, captain.
I’ve brought you something pretty.” He drew a sheet of paper
from his pocket, cautiously

98
unfolded it. “It’s the Belgian warrant for your arrest.
I got it yesterday in Duisburg.”
“Number seven,” said Lannwitz. “Lucky number.” He unfolded it.
“It’s a nice souvenir, I wish I had the others also.”
“If you’d spoken to me in time, I might have got them for you,”
remarked Schmitz.
Scholz stared at the picture in the center of the poster. “But—but this
is Pauli And an excellent likeness too. Where in hell did they get this
photo? If they catch him—whether they call him Lannwitz or
Hornemann, he’ll share Schlageter’s fate. He must get away at once —
immediately.”
“I’ll see him in Essen tomorrow morning,” said the captain.
“He must get out of the Ruhrland,” cried Gerhard, “by the next train.”
“Where to?”
“To Spandau,” commanded Scholz. “Our boys of the Black
Reichswehr are in the citadel.”
Pia drove to Elberfeld early in the morning and by noon, she was back
with the news of Hauenburg’s arrest. Prussian officials had taken him
from his bed and locked him up in the police jail at Barmen.
Scholz bit his lip: if Hauenburg was arrested Schlageter was lost. He
took Kathe’s car and drove to Elberfeld. But he could not see anybody
on a Sunday. He tried the next day, twice, three times; he was refused
each time: the official in charge was out of town.
Gerhard asked for a detailed description of him, waited for him on the
street, from the crack of dawn, followed him into the building, into his
room.
“This is an outrage,” cried the official.

99
 But Gerhard would not budge an inch. He demanded an
explanation and the official obliged him. True, there was
nothing concrete against Hauenburg. They had taken him into
custody for his own safety: orders from Berlin. It was possible
that he had laid plans which might put the government in an
inconvenient situation.
Gerhard kept his temper. Didn’t the police of Elberfeld and
Barmen know—after all, these cities were outside the occupied
territory—that Hauenburg was in the service of the federal
government, was, in fact, chief of the secret special police?
“Possibly,” answered the official. But he didn’t know any
tiling positive about this. Furthermore, he was a Prussian
official and accepted orders only from the Prussian Minister of
the Interior. It was his duty to execute orders. He took a cigar
and lighted it carefully.
“That means,” shouted Gerhard, “that you don’t care for the
country as a whole! Well, my dear sir, we don’t need to play
hide and seek with each other. You know damned well what’s
up. My friend Hauenburg has made preparations to save
Schlageter and his friends from the claws of the French at the
last minute, before they’re on the way to Cayenne and Devil’s
Island. He alone has the threads in his hands. We don’t know
anything. You know that the Federal Attorney General—in
spite of Prussia’s insistence—will set him free. But it’ll be too
late then! You know as well as I do that they risked their lives
for Germany—including Prussia. Considering these
circumstances, won’t you at least let me speak to him? Then I
can ------------------------------------------------ ”
“I am extremely sorry,” the official cut him short, “but I
have strict orders not to let anybody see him.”
“I’ll bring a lawyer,” shouted Scholz at the top of his

100
 voice. “He’s arrested without any cause or reason. You
can’t deny him the right to confer with his attorney.’’
The official blew a great cloud of blue smoke. “It’s useless to go to all
that trouble. Until further orders your friend can’t see anybody, not even
his lawyer. Believe me, I know my duty, and I’ll do it.”
“You know your duty to Berlin, I concede that! But can’t you realize
that there’s an even higher duty— your duty to Germany?”
“I see no reason why I should discuss this question any further. And
now I must ask you to excuse me—I haven’t shaved yet.” He took brush,
soap and razor from a drawer of his desk.
Gerhard Scholz rose slowly, walked out of the office. He did not shut
the door with a bang, but closed it gently. He did not even spit upon it.
Two policemen stood at the gate. They turned away at sight of him.
He stopped for a second, then continued on his way. “I’ll choke,” he
mumbled.
He took a deep breath. If only that gentleman up there, while looking
into his glass, would see himself, if only for the fraction of a second, as he
really was, would he not swing the razor and slit his throat? He shook his
head; no, he didn’t have to worry about that. He would smile contentedly;
the glass would reflect the features of a man who had done his duty. And
one day they would call him to Berlin—there were nice, fat jobs there. . . .
They freed Prince Lippe from the Werden prison, and five others,
including young Roderwald. But the boy had been out of luck: a bullet had
hit him in the back. It had gone through the lungs. A hospital was out of
the question: the French would find him instantly. So his friends, Hans ten
Brinken and Lieuten-

101