Prologue

 

It was a pleasant spring day. The sun shone brightly on village and farms; the sheep grazed contentedly on the outlying slopes. Soon the sheep would be herded to the high summer pastures; already some of them had been dabbed with bright colors on their backs, the dye showing specific ownership. At the moment a number of ewes and lambs stood close to the gray stone walls of the houses, feeling most comfortable there.

 

The nearby town was swollen with country people, because it was market day, but many others remained at work in their fields and houses. Someone had to watch the animals, regardless of the day.

 

There was the sound of motors. Men and women paused from their labors, listening nervously. There had been fighting in the region, and it had been coming closer as the Basque line was turned by the better equipped enemy. But defeat was unthinkable. The four insurgent generals--they'd all be hanging, as the song had it.

 

Soon airplanes loomed on the horizon, as they did more frequently these days. The country was at war; young men from the village had enlisted and disappeared into the labyrinth of training and dispositioning, and every family tried to suppress the hideous fear that not all those young men would survive. Normally the younger sons, unable to inherit, went elsewhere to seek their fortune, but now there might be need of them here. This was really a foreign war, but it was forging nearer to this town, like a poisonous snake that writhed and cast about randomly in search of a target.

 

A woman looked up from the letter she had been writing. Her house was near the main bridge across the river. Her attention had been attracted more by the cessation of song in the neighborhood than by the distant motors. These people were always singing. Young shepherds would bawl out melodies without words. Children sang together as they walked home. Young men regaled each other in groups, hurling songs back and forth. In bad times older people sang dirges, and the troubadour was highly regarded. But suddenly all song had ended.

 

She went to the window, looking out at the cluster of houses in the near distance. Some had whitewashed walls, and all had orange tiled roofs. She could just see the spires of the church. Beyond it were the airplanes.

 

No wonder the singing had stopped. Those machines were coming here! Not passing obliquely, but heading directly for the village. Yet of course that was probably coincidence; they would pass over harmlessly. There was after all nothing to interest a war machine.

 

She tried to see what kind of airplanes they were. The Russian ones were all right; they certainly wouldn't stop. But the others--

 

These were German planes; the Nazi emblems were plain. There were the heavy black and white truncated crosses on the under-surfaces of the wings, and the grim tilted swastika on the tail. They were traveling north toward the industrial region. There had been increasing activity there as the Nationalists closed on that prize.

 

Apprehension had caused her to look up the aircraft that had passed before, and now she recognized them at sight, as she recognized a particular species of bird she had labored hard to identify. There were three Italian medium bombers, and a greater number of German bombers, JU 52s, considered obsolescent. But these were nevertheless death-dealing machines, the horror of the civilized world. It was incongruous to see them here over the peaceful countryside.

 

She had thought she had escaped such violence by retreating here to the pastoral hinterlands. She was a pacifist, opposed to any war, but especially to this one that was ravaging her beloved country to no purpose she could approve. When the opportunity came, she had prevaled on her husband to remove his practice from the big city and set up here, albeit it at a financial sacrifice. He had been one of those younger sons who had done considerably better in the outside world than his elder brother who had been in line to inherit this farmstead. But that brother had died relatively young, creating the need for a changed inheritance, and she had begged her husband to accept it.

 

But the senseless destruction of war seemed to be following them. No region was safe any more.

 

What was that? There was a plane she didn't recognize. Smaller than the others, with heavyset, molded wheel casings, making it look almost like a sea-plane. But it wasn't; it was some sort of bomber, for she could see the bomb-assembly between those wheels. It must be an experimental model. The Germans were dismayingly inventive in such dread matters.

 

The woman returned to her letter, since she had identified the aircraft as well as she was able, and there was nothing she could do about them anyway. In moments they would pass overhead and continue on to wreak destruction of the factories to the north. She approved of none of this, but was selfishly relieved that the bombs would fall on other heads than hers.

 

Her missive was addressed to a correspondent in distant America with the unusual name Quality, who was working to master the language she had studied in school by corresponding with a native. Actually, in this region the natives had their own separate language that dated back millennia; most of the villagers spoke it rather than the national tongue. Which was one reason the woman was glad to correspond; it kept refreshing her own language. She liked the isolation, physically, but not intellectually or linguistically, so the letters were valuable.

 

Quality was another pacifist, and seemed like the sort of person whom it would be worthwhile to meet despite her youth. It was easy to write to her about the futility of revolution and war, the senseless savagery. Yet at this moment the war mocked them both; the devastating machines that were its minions were passing almost overhead. Adolf Hitler, the self-styled Führer, was testing his new toys, in violation of international treaties. Yet the community of the world clucked its tongue and did nothing. Who was most culpable, then: the bully, or those who let the bully have his way? Yet here was a moral trap: how could the bully be stopped, except by more violence? It was a difficult point. Pacifism had no easy answer to the problems of international aggression.

 

There was a series of explosions. Oh, no! The bombs were falling here!

 

The woman dashed to the door. Her husband emerged simultaneously from the goatshed, staring at the carnage, his black beret clinging to his head. The Nazis were bombing the town, this town! Debris was flying up, smoke roiling, and fire bursting in the dry bracken that was used for animal bedding. The stone houses were tough, but some direct hits were tumbling the walls, and the slate tiles were flying from the roofs. What hideous devastation even a single bomb could do!

 

"Why are they doing this?" she cried. "There are no soldiers here!"

 

Her father ran in from the field--technically her father-in-law, but she had adopted the fine old man--clasping his gnarled walking stick. This was still his farm, until he died; every aspect of it was his personal responsibility. He yielded chores only grudgingly, beginning with those his late wife had done. He was not fleeing the bombs, he was coming to protect his house.

 

A fighter-plane swooped low on a strafing run. The bullets kicked up little gouts of dust. The man cried out and fell, face down, his beret flying from his head. Even from this distance she could see the blood.

 

Her husband, ordinarily of sedentary bent, caught up a pitchfork and hurled it at the passing plane. The gesture was pathetically futile. The craft took no notice; it was strafing the sheep in the pasture. The animals milled about and fell, bleating in bewilderment.

 

She screamed, somehow feeling the horror of the pointless slaughter of the sheep more than that of the man. She was numb to her father's fate; her emotion could not yet compass it; it wasn't real. But the sheep--their deaths were real, if incomprehensible.

 

Dully she watched the bombs falling on the town. Every house was being hit, systematically. She heard the screams of the people caught in collapsing homes. Her neighbors, her friends. . .

 

Yet more terror came plunging out of the sky. It was the strange, small plane, diving down in a collision course with the ground. It must have gone out of control--but it was falling directly toward her own house!

 

She ran outside. The noise of the descending plane became deafening. A bomb sundered the house, behind her. Stones, plaster, slate and burning wood showered about her. That strike had been intentional! She was a pacifist, yet she felt primitive rage.

 

The plane's motor sputtered even as the bomb scored. The machine tilted, dangerously near the ground. The pilot tried to pull it up, to level it, but could not quite succeed. The plane stalled; then with seeming slowness it dropped to the ground beyond the sheep, bounced, plowed a furrow in the turf, and came to rest almost intact.

 

The woman ran toward it. It would be a miracle if the pilot survived, and a part of her mind marveled that God should allow such miracles to such undeserving people. She knew that airplanes were apt to burst into flames because of surplus fuel. Panting, she caught up to the smoldering craft. The pilot was moving slowly, dazed. She scrambled up on the broken wing and to the open cockpit, amazed that the man hadn't been cut to pieces when that bubble cracked apart. She caught hold of one of his arms and half-hauled, half-urged him out. Like a child he came, a uniformed German, the swastika on his left arm. No--that was bright red blood; her imagination had transformed it into the dread symbol of Nazism.

 

"Why are you helping me?" the pilot asked. He spoke in German, a language she hardly understood, but she grasped his meaning. What else would he be asking? "I was aiming for the bridge, but lost control."

 

And she found herself baffled. This man, this foreign criminal, had bombed her house, destroying it. One of his companions had killed her father and decimated their herd of sheep. She had every reason to hate the Germans! Why did she try to help this monster? It was not that she valued life, even of enemies, though she did; she should have run first to her father-in-law, far more deserving of aid. Why aid the enemy?

 

Then she realized what it was. She had a correspondence with a foreign person, one she respected. The pilot was a foreign person. There was really no similarity between the two; her correspondent was a pacifist woman while this pilot was a killer in the notorious Kondor Legion. In the stress of horror, her emotion had made a wrong connection, identifying the foreign enemy with the foreign friend.

 

Now the surviving villagers were charging toward the downed plane, carrying staves, pitchforks and kitchen knives. Innocent victims had been transformed by the brute alchemy of violence into savage remnants; here was the only possible object of their vengeance.

 

The German pilot, his head evidently clearing, looked at the horde. He glanced down at his arm as if considering whether to run. How fast could he proceed while his strength was being drained by that wound? Where could he go without leaving a telltale red trail? "Donnerwetter!" he muttered.

 

He brought out his wallet and gave it to the woman; perhaps she could notify his next-of-kin. He thumbed it open and showed her where his name was: Hans Bremen. She nodded to show she understood.

 

Then Hans Bremen drew his pistol, put it to his head, and fired. His body crumpled silently. Vengeance had been denied the villagers. The woman stood, somehow unsurprised. War was madness; why would she expect otherwise? Sanity had departed when the first bomb fell on this village.

 

As the villagers arrived, one more airplane came. It dived out of the sky and planted a bomb in their midst. Bodies flew wide, and one of them was that of the woman. The German airman's wallet tumbled through the smoke and was lost in the debris. There would be no notification of the next-of-kin by this route.

 

At last the remaining planes lifted away and departed to the south, leaving the smoldering ruin of the village. This was merely another incident in the year 1937, in the course of the civil war in Spain, in which Germany, Italy and the Soviet Union tested some of their equipment. The headlines of the world never reported this test run against a Basque town, and the dead were lost among the three quarters of a million that were the final toll of this vicious civil war.

 

But this incident foreshadowed, in significant respects, the greater conflagration soon to come. The hundreds who perished needlessly here would be eclipsed by the millions who would die in World War Two. This was in fact an omen, a warning--that was ignored.

 

 

Chapter 1

America

 

The drive between Boston and New York was never much fun, and this rainy June night it was worse than usual. A disproportionate number of oncoming vehicles maintained their beams adamantly on high, not caring about anyone's vision but their own. Lane Dowling began to mutter with irritation, then to swear.

 

"Lane..." the girl murmured.

 

He flicked his glance across to her. Even in the gloom of the car, she was comely, her brow and nose and mouth finely chiseled in silhouette. "Sorry, Quality," he said. She was a Quaker girl, and she really did object to bad language. That was part of her allure, for him; her informed innocence. Quality Smith was far from ignorant--she was an honors student--but her background was extremely straight-laced. If anyone in this world, he thought, was pure in body and spirit, it was Quality. Therefore she was a treasure, like a hoard of gold: after remaining sequestered for years, the beauty and value was undiminished. She was smart, pretty and chaste.

 

Another high-beam cowboy loomed. Lane gritted his teeth. It would be so satisfying to let fly one pungent cussword!

 

"Perhaps I should take a turn," his friend said from the back seat. "I do have an American driving license, and since you are kind enough to convey me--"

 

"Forget it, Ernst," Lane said. "You don't know these roads the way I do."

 

"True," Ernst agreed, chuckling. "Neither do I have your experience flying, as shows in the velocity of your machine. Yet I would not have you tire yourself unduly because of me." The German accent was almost imperceptible, but he still tended to speak formally and not too rapidly in English. "It is a very great favor that you do for me."

 

"If I were in Germany without a car," Lane said, gratified by his friend's expressed appreciation, "and had to make it in a hurry from Berlin to--" He paused, unable to think of a suitable city. The geography of Germany was not as clear to him as that of New York State.

 

"From Berlin to Hamburg," Ernst filled in obligingly. "Yes, friend, I would drive you there." He smiled in the dark, highlights from passing headlights reflected in his even teeth. "But I do not think you have business in the Fatherland at this time."

 

"Not while the Nazi's are there, for sure!" Lane agreed. "How you can go along with the fascists--"

 

"Please," Quality said.

 

"Oh, don't worry, girl. We're not going to fight. Ernst and I are friends, though I can't say the same for our countries." He shrugged, then directed a remark at the back seat. "What the hell do you see in Hitler?"

 

"Please," Ernst said this time. "I am prepared to defend the government of my country, but this distresses the lady." Quality made a murmur of agreement.

 

"Look, Quality," Lane said. "You always get tight about politics, but they're part of today's reality. The thing to do is not to take them seriously. Not between friends. Ernst just happens to be the single solitary Nazi fascist in the world that I can get along with, and we both damn well know--"

 

"Lane!" she protested, a really sharp note in her voice.

 

"Nazi, yes. Fascist, no," Ernst corrected him. "The distinction--"

 

"And if war comes we'll be on opposite sides," Lane continued. "We both know that too. It's like the Civil War, where brother fought against brother--"

 

"The Spanish Civil War?" Ernst asked. "That is not--"

 

"The American Civil War, idiot! Or as the text puts it, the War of the Rebellion. But this is peace, and we are friends--and even war isn't going to change that."

 

"Can't we drop the subject?" Quality pleaded.

 

"No," Lane said, made ornery by the strain of night driving. The drizzly, dirty rain had quickened after a tantalizing intermittence, fouling the windshield and making the road surface treacherous. That was all he needed! "We have to have this out sometime."

 

"Friend it should be let go," Ernst said. "I comprehend her feeling."

 

But now Quality, despite her best intention, was angry. "How can a Nazi comprehend the feeling of a pacifist?"

 

"Approximately," Ernst said with a half-twisted smile. "You abhor me as I would abhor a Jew."

 

"I don't abhor Jews!" she exclaimed indignantly.

 

"Of course not," Ernst agreed, with another unseen smile. "You are extremely tolerant of lesser races."

 

"There are no lesser--"

 

"You do not share our concept of the Master Race."

 

"I certainly don't! How anyone can believe that trash--"

 

"Quality," Lane murmured with a smile of his own, in the same tone she had used on him. "He's teasing you. Ernst doesn't hate Jews. That's just part of what he has to say to keep out of trouble with his government. There's a Jew on our team, and Ernst was assigned to work with him, and taught him how to--"

 

"Ach, swine, you betray me!" Ernst muttered, chuckling. This time he pronounced the W with the sound of a V, in the German manner. Lane had picked up a number of interesting sidelights in the course of his association with Ernst, and remained intrigued by them. Most fun was the fact that the word "folk," to which the Germans attached a special meaning, was spelled with a V and capitalized: Volk. So the German W was pronounced V, and the V was pronounced F. Lane hadn't figured out how the F was pronounced.

 

Quality was stricken. "Oh, I'm doing it! I'm making foolish assumptions, letting my temper run away with me, and using pejorative language." She inhaled deeply, exhaled, then turned to face the German. "Ernst, I apologize--"

 

"Accepted," Ernst said immediately. "We have mutually exclusive views, but there need be no rancor."

 

"Yes," she agreed faintly.

 

"But I believe I do understand. The mention of the war in Spain reminded me. One of my companions in the Hitler Youth, which is an organization that parallels your Boy Scouts but is more thorough, was older than I and went on to become a flyer like Lane. He was not listed as such, for political reasons, but he served in the Kondor Legion--you might spell it with a C--in Spain last year. He flew an experimental aircraft called a dive-bomber, and it crashed. When I learned of his death, I cursed the futility of war."

 

"Spain..." she echoed.

 

"I lived in Spain, in my youth; my father was stationed there for a time. I learned to speak the language there. It is a nice country, almost as pretty as Germany. Now that memory of Iberia is spoiled, for the blood of my friend seeped into that soil. Yet all would have been well, but for the idiocy of war."

 

"Another pacifist!" Lane said in mock wonder. But he found himself touched. He had not known about Ernst's loss of a flying friend. Ernst had always refused to be taken for a ride in a small plane, and now the reason was coming clear.

 

"I, too, lost a friend in Spain," Quality whispered. "I never met her, but I knew her well. A woman who lived in a Basque village."

 

"Ah, the territory of the Basques!" Ernst said. "That was the Republican stronghold where--"

 

"I know that was where!" she cried, her voice shrill again. "That awful Condor Legion bombed her town!"

 

"Ah, no! You do not suppose--?"

 

"They could have met?" she said acidly. "You think he said 'Here, my dear Spanish lady, is ein gift from der Führer,' as he dropped his bomb on her head?"

 

"Gift in German means poison," Ernst said. "But I take your meaning. Yet if he crashed, he might not have bombed anyone. He had no animosity to others; he did not mean to hurt. He merely liked to fly, and the experience of diving out of the sky in seeming suicide, to pull out only a few feet from the ground--"

 

"That I can understand," Lane murmured. "The exhilaration of falling through space, like parachuting--"

 

"It is not for me," Ernst said somewhat abruptly. "His name was--"

 

"No! No names!" Quality cried. "How terrible, if--"

 

"Yes, it is terrible," Ernst agreed soberly. "If I could wave a magic wand and abolish the Spanish war, then and now--for the slaughter continues there to this day--and save the lives of your friend and mine, I would certainly do so."

 

"The war continues." Now Quality faced straight forward, her face set. "No wish of yours or mine can change it. But I confess you have some basis to understand my feeling."

 

"I'm glad that's settled," Lane said. He was driving more slowly now, for the rain had continued to intensify, and the edge of the road was getting flooded. "I thought for a moment we were going to re-enact the war here in this car. Let's let the sword be a plowshare, and a gift not be poison. I want you two to get along."

 

"Why?" Ernst inquired after a pause. "The lady has reason to avoid me, and this I understand. Had her friend been a pilot bombing my friend's town, I would feel the same."

 

"No, it's not that," Quality said. "We are not our brothers' keepers in quite that sense. But as long as you support the brutal Nazi regime--"

 

"The American regime is far from gentle," Ernst said. "One has but to look at history, at the way your country caused Panama to revolt from Columbia, and sent her gunship to balk the Columbian troops, so that a separate deal could be made on the Canal Zone America wanted--"

 

"Touche!" Lane exclaimed.

 

"And my country's dealings with Mexico, no more savory," Quality said. "I support none of this. Yet--"

 

"There is evil enough to go around," Lane cut in, surprised at both Ernst's and Quality's conversance with the skeletons in America's closet. No gunship had appeared in his own history text. "We know that. And each person must support his country, his system, even if it isn't perfect. No one respects a traitor. You two should be able to tolerate each other's governments for a day."

 

Now it was Quality who asked "Why?"

 

"Because I want Ernst to be the Best Man when you and I get married."

 

Quality gasped. Ernst made a gutteral snort of derision.

 

"No, I'm serious," Lane insisted. "You're the best man I know, Ernst."

 

After a moment the German recovered enough to protest. "Nevertheless, in the circumstances--"

 

The car jerked and slowed. The left front wheel had hit a pothole concealed by filling water. For a moment the vehicle veered toward the opposing traffic.

 

Quality made a little shriek. Ernst grunted and jumped forward. Then Lane wrestled the wheels back to the right. The scare was over.

 

"What?" Quality asked, startled. For Ernst's muscular left forearm was across her front, pressing her back into the seat.

 

"Apology," the German muttered, drawing quickly away.

 

"That proves it," Lane said, pulling the car into a lighted roadside area. "You want to know what he was doing, Quality? I'll tell you what he was doing. He was throwing his arm around you to prevent you going head-first through the windshield if I cracked us up. Because he has the mass and muscle and reaction-speed you don't, and he knows how to hang on during a fall. He couldn't help me, because I was driving, and anyway I'm pretty tough myself. But you're something else."

 

Quality considered. "I fear I misjudged thee, Ernst," she said faintly.

 

"Because politics don't matter in the crunch," Lane continued. "There was no time for thought, only reaction. As in wrestling or self defense. Ernst did what was needed to be done, instantly, without even thinking. He could have saved your life, Quality, if I had messed up."

 

"Yes," she agreed. "I apologize to thee again, Ernst."

 

"A natural misunderstanding--" the German demurred, embarrassed.

 

"So as I said: Ernst is the best man I know," Lane said. "All the rest is dross." He turned to his friend. "When she says `thee' she really means it. It's called the plain talk; she uses it at home." He turned back to Quality. "About his being--"

 

"I withdraw my objection," she said contritely. "Thee knows best. He shall be Best Man when we wed."

 

"Now let's go find something to eat," Lane said briskly. He did not try to kiss her, though he wanted to, because Quality did not do such things in public.

 

But the rain was still coming down. They waited in silence a few more minutes for it to diminish. Lane glanced at his face in the rear-view mirror; there was just light enough, here, because of the neon illumination of signs. He fished out his comb to straighten his tousled hair and restore the natural curl. He was what he called a bleach-blond, like Ernst: his hair was brown, quite dark when wet, but dryness and the sun made it shades lighter. On those occasions in the past when he had worn it longer, the ends turned quite fair. His mother always thought of him as blond; he had at one time taken that as evidence that she was color-blind. Now he knew better; she merely remembered him as a tow-head baby.

 

He leaned forward to peer at his left cheek. The scars hardly showed, but he remained conscious of them. Others had assured him that he was handsome, and that the scars might be regarded as a beauty mark. Certainly Quality wasn't bothered; she judged by other things than appearance. But he would be happier with clear skin. Maybe surgery, some day, though the notion of going under the knife did not appeal.

 

"If you are quite through--" Quality said, nudging him gently. She teased him sometimes about his vanity. She never seemed to touch up her own face, yet she always looked prim. Perhaps it came with inner goodness.

 

The rain had finally eased. They got out of the car, emerging into a drizzle becoming too fine to heed; only the irregular puddles impeded progress. They walked toward a garishly illuminated establishment a block distant.

 

"That will not do," Quality said as they drew close enough to make out the neon lettering.

 

"Oh--beer, ale" Lane said. "You don't drink." He said that for Ernst's benefit. Germany was famous for beer, and Lane did not want there to seem to be any obscure affront.

 

"Sensible people do not," Ernst said tactfully. "Perhaps there is a more suitable place beyond."

 

They resumed walking. At that point the door to the bar burst open and four men staggered out in an ambience of alcohol. The first almost collided with Quality. "Look at that!" he exclaimed, his beer-breath surrounding her.

 

Quality averted her gaze, and Lane took her by the elbow and guided her around the stranger. At this moment she reminded him of a Christian Temperance lady, and it bothered him to have her sensitivities bruised by these oafs.

 

"Hey!" the man cried, lurching about, reaching for Quality. The reek of his breath intensified. But Ernst's forearm intercepted him.

 

"Please let us pass in peace," Ernst said, gently setting the man back.

 

But the drunkard swung his fist instead. Ernst blocked the blow and shoved the man back again, so that he collided with his fellows. "Please let us pass," he repeated without emphasis.

 

The man should have taken warning, because Ernst's physical competence was readily apparent. But he had the belligerence of befuddlement. "What are you, a Communist?" he demanded.

 

"I am a Nazi." Ernst turned stiffly to follow Lane and Quality. If there was one thing a Nazi hated, it was Communism, Lane knew. Ernst hardly showed it, but he had been deeply insulted.

 

"A Nazi!" Now all four men were pressing forward aggressively, discovering the opportunity to convert their drunken ire into patriotism. It was all right to beat up a Nazi!

 

"That wasn't diplomatic, friend," Lane said, turning quickly around.

 

"No fighting!" Quality protested. But it was too late. The four drunks were wading in.

 

"Stand clear, girl," Lane said. "This is a job for us warmongers." She skipped back hastily.

 

Lane and Ernst made contact with the first two men almost simultaneously. Suddenly the two drunks were hoisted in the air, whirled about, and half-shoved, half-hurled into the remaining two. All four collapsed in a heap.

 

"Compliments of the two leading members of the collegiate wrestling team," Lane said, dusting himself off and clapping his friend on the shoulder. It was hard to conceal his satisfaction, but Quality's stern gaze assisted him.

 

The fight was gone from the drunks. Lane and Ernst turned around again and rejoined Quality.

 

"That would not have been a fair match even had they not been intoxicated," she reproved them. But her sympathy for brawling drunks was quite limited, and she knew the four men had not been hurt. It occurred to Lane that even a pacifist like her could appreciate certain advantages in associating with nonpacifists like him. What would she have done if she had encountered the drunks alone? But he knew the answer: she would never have gone near a bar alone.

 

They found a suitable place to eat. They relaxed and became college students again. They were all the same age and had many common enthusiasms, and the summer was just beginning.

 

By the time they returned to the car, the drunks were gone. The rain had dwindled to nothing, leaving a rather pretty nocturnal clarity.

 

Lane's thoughts drifted from the tedious drive. That scar on his face, glimpsed in the mirror--that had a history that returned at odd moments, especially when he was depressed or tired. He was tired now. The night road reminded him of the streets of his home region, not so very far from here. His father was a mason and a Mason--in the employment and social senses--in the Troy/Albany section of New York State. Mr. Dowling had been there most of his life and was well established. Lane had been granted material comforts from infancy, never going hungry or poorly clothed, always having the best of education and entertainment. Odd how far that missed the truth of his upbringing!

 

He glanced at his companions, as if fearful that his thoughts were being overheard. Both were nodding. Quality had let her head fall back against the cushion, so that her smooth neck was exposed; it was not an ideal pose, but she remained pretty, her delicately rounded chin projecting, her petite bosom heaving gently. Ernst, in back, had slumped against the window, one arm elevated to cushion his head; his neck too was exposed, showing the muscles and cords. He had a wrestlers neck, of course; he could not be choked by any ordinary person, because his neck was too strong. He was the very best companion to have, when encountering pugnacious drunks--and excellent also in intellectual conversation. The German believed in the so-called Aryan ideal, the perfect white Christian--though at times Lane doubted whether it was even Christianity the Nazies ultimately sought--physically and mentally pure by their definitions. Ernst was that ideal, as smart and strong and handsome as a man could be without being obvious.

 

Ernst and Quality: two unique people, his closest associates. It had been Lane's minor grief that they did not get along with each other, since each was so important to him. Yet he was well able to understand their fundamental separation. A Nazi and a pacifist? There was no way such people could enjoy each other's company! They did have certain areas of common ground, in that each could speak Spanish, but they never spoke it to each other. Ernst was the son of a minor or middling embassy official--the kind who did all the work and never got the credit--who had been assigned in Madrid for two or three years, so of course Ernst had picked it up. Since Ernst never let a talent go once he had it, he surely spoke Spanish fluently now. Quality had started Spanish as an elective course in high-school and continued it in college. She had taken French too, with what fluency Lane didn't know because he spoke no language other than English. He was good at airplanes, not tongues. But probably she was good at both French and Spanish, because she had a natural aptitude for that sort of thing. Perhaps it derived from her empathy with people; she could communicate with anyone, one way or another.

 

Lane pictured himself in a small airplane, with Quality beside him, passenger rather than co-pilot. They were flying high up above the clouds, and she was thrilled. She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

 

Someone spoke in Spanish. Lane could not understand the words, but he recognized the general nature of the language. It was Ernst, in a seat behind. Quality answered in the same language.

 

"Hey, speak English!" Lane protested.

 

But they ignored him, and continued their dialogue, to his annoyance. What were they saying, that was so important, that had to be hidden from him?

 

Well, he would show them! He swerved the plane to the left--

 

A horn blared, startling him. Lane blinked; headlights were flashing in his rearview mirror, alternately blinding him and leaving his vision darkened. Quality was stifling a scream. What was happening? Was the driver behind him crazy?

 

He pulled to the right, slowing, to let the impatient one by. "I'd like to ram you, you idiot!" he muttered.

 

"Peace, friend," Ernst said. "We were sleeping. He gave us warning."

 

"You were sleeping," Lane retorted. "I was driving." But as he spoke, he realized that he had had to pull too far to the right. His left wheel had been across the center line. He had in fact been dreaming, and his swerve to the left could have wrecked them. "Cancel that. I was drifting off." His anger was shading into retroactive consternation; this was dangerous!

 

"Perhaps we should stop and rest," Quality said. Her voice was strained. "Thee is naturally tired."

 

"Can't," Lane replied. "We have to get Ernst to New York immediately."

 

"We do not know that it is an emergency," Ernst protested. "Only that my father is concerned."

 

"If he's like you, his concern is anyone else's emergency," Lane said.

 

Ernst did not demur. "Yet it is not wise to drive tired. Perhaps I should after all--"

 

"No, I'm okay." Indeed, he was now absolutely awake. He was aware that he seemed unreasonable, and probably was unreasonable, but he could not help himself; to turn over the wheel now would be a sign of weakness. Of course if Quality were to make an issue, he would have to back down. But she could not drive herself; her conservative Quaker family had not yet seen the need for her to indulge in such activity. Maybe they thought that might have made her too independent. "I'll be all right."

 

"Certainly." Ernst nevertheless looked alert. It was evident that he intended to see that there was no more nodding while driving.

 

Quality cast about for a positive solution. "We were wrong to leave it all to Lane. We must maintain a dialogue."

 

"I do not seek to impose my words on you," Ernst said.

 

She turned her head to face back toward him. "I have made my peace with thee, as well as I am able. It is not thy fault that I abhor elements of thy situation. I do not seek to be uncivil."

 

"Nor I. But on what subjects may we maintain an dialogue that is neither dull nor objectionable?"

 

"Play the game of Truth," Lane said, chuckling. "We take turns asking each other questions, and the answers must be absolutely truthful, or there is a penalty."

 

"I always speak the truth," Quality said. "Those of my faith do not practice a double standard."

 

She meant that literally, Lane knew. Strict Quakers refused even to take an oath, because that implied that they might be untruthful at other times. So they did not swear, they affirmed. They did not swear in the colloquial sense, either, as Quality had already reminded him on this trip. There, again, was the essence of her appeal for him: her honor, her sheer consistency in life. She had been so aptly named that it was a marvel; she was quality.

 

Nevertheless, he could challenge her. "But there are questions you avoid. In this game you can not avoid them."

 

She nodded, reconsidering. It was Ernst who spoke. "The Nazi and the pacifist speaking truth! This game is dangerous."

 

Quality glanced back at him, then at Lane. Probably she was trying to decide between the risks of candor and those of a sleepy driver. Candor won. "I will play it."

 

"Then so will I," Ernst said. "Until it becomes unkind; then I will default."

 

"I'll lead off," Lane said. "And I'll state one other rule: we have to take turns answering. To ensure that, the one who answers a question will be the one to ask the next question. We don't have to go resolutely clockwise, in fact we don't want any order fixed, but if someone gets left out more that a couple of turns, he'll have to answer until he catches up." He paused, and no one objected. "First question: Quality, exactly what do you have against Nazism?"

 

"This is not fair of thee!" she protested.

 

"No, answer, then ask me to respond," Ernst suggested.

 

She considered. "Very well. I regard Adolph Hitler as what Lane would call a posturing pipsqueak, an accident of history who has floated to the top of the German political caldron like the froth on sewer water. The man is an unscrupulous demagogue and hideous racist, and his chief lieutenants are little more than thugs. The movement he espouses is similarly ugly. I have difficulty understanding how any person of conscience can support Nazism." She took a breath. "Now I ask thee, Ernst, for thy response."

 

Lane made a silent whistle. She had surprised him by really socking it to the German! She might be a pacifist, but she had fighting spirit.

 

"There are many answers I might give," Ernst said slowly. "I might point out that other lands have their demagogues and their racists, and that nowhere is virtue necessarily rewarded in politics. I might mention Franklin Roosevelt of America, and the mistress he keeps despite being married. But we have touched on the faults of America before; they are no worse than the faults of other nations, including my own. I will say that while I do not support everything in which the Nazi party may be involved, and that there are those who owe their positions to factors other than merit, I strongly disagree about the Führer being either inconsequential or evil. I met him, two years ago, and I believe he is a great man, the kind of leader Germany requires in desperate times. He lifted us out of our slough of despond and made us powerful again. His programs have greatly helped the youth of our nation, and I am one who has benefited. I am here at this moment because Hitler arranged it, indirectly. He sees to the welfare of the brightest of our nation. I can not do less than applaud that." He passed his hand inside his shirt and drew out a small object on a chain about his next. It was a silver swastika. "This is why I value this symbol of Nazism, and wear it always. It represents my devotion to the Nazi ideal."

 

"But the racism--" she protested, staring at the swastika with a certain morbid fascination.

 

"Nuh-uh," Lane cut in. "No back talk. Wait your next turn."

 

"She merely reminds me of an aspect I had neglected," Ernst said. "The Nazis are not racists. We merely seek to promote the greatest welfare of our kind. We believe in encouraging the fittest, and in discouraging those who are detrimental to our society. Hitler discovered that the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, mentally unfit, Communists and some others were not contributing to the welfare of the whole. Therefore he prefers to have them go to those lands where they may be welcome. We consider this to be good management."

 

Quality seemed unconvinced, but did not protest again.

 

Ernst turned to Lane. "And how do you justify keeping company with a pacifist, when you are not?"

 

How, indeed! Lane watched the road ahead, trying to marshal his thoughts. It was not enough merely to swear (affirm) that he loved Quality, or that she was perhaps the prettiest coed on the campus. He needed an objective basis. So he broadened the base, addressing not this one aspect, pacifism, but her religious background which fostered it.

 

"I am turned off by ordinary people, which accounts for my acquaintances with both of you," he said carefully. "Quality is a loyal member of her religion. She is a Quaker, which is the common name for the Religious Society of Friends. They got their nickname because in the early days they were supposed to have quaked in the presence of God. They object to many of the follies of man, such as violence, intoxication, cigarettes, foul language, gambling and overt sexuality. They are gentle people, concerned with good works, but that does not mean they are foolish. Many Quakers are well-to-do, for good business is part of their religion. Good honest business, for a Friend never cheats. There's a joke that perhaps has some truth: a Quaker is the only person who can buy from a Jew, sell to a Scotsman, and make a profit."

 

There was a bark of laughter from Ernst, but Quality frowned. Perhaps she objected to the seeming derogation of Jews and Scotsmen. "At any rate, I understand that in Germany today, Quakers are the only people willing to do business with both Jews and Scotsmen," Lane added quickly. "As you can see, Quality is attractive both physically and intellectually, but it is her ethical core which sets her apart. She is such a good person that I could forgive many faults in her, yet do not have to, for she has none. The fault is mine, for not being more like her. How could I not love her?"

 

Ernst nodded. "How could you not," he murmured.

 

There was a silence. Quality was blushing, but could not protest, because he had indeed told the truth. He could not resist teasing her. "Do you deny it, woman?"

 

"No," she said. "Now thee has asked, and I have answered. These is no set length to answers. It is my turn again. Lane, why does thee seek unusual people? That is, why is thee, as thee puts it, turned off by ordinary people?"

 

He realized that she had turned a table on him, by taking his joke question seriously. He was stuck with another honest answer.

 

"That may take some time," he said. "I'm not sure you would want to listen to--"

 

"We are listening," Ernst said.

 

So he had to do it. "It dates from my childhood, right here in the state of New York. I was a wan, spindly child, lacking proper size and vitality. Naturally ordinary children picked on me. The average person seems to remember childhood as a happy time, because his memory selects for the good and the bad things fade, but I can't forget my early inability to compete. It was clear that I was both different and inferior. Everyone knew it except the adults, who didn't count.

 

"Then an unusual person came on the scene. He was Jed, an Australian, with his special accent setting him apart. Of course the kids started in on him, because he was new and different. Anything different was fair game, and children have no limitations of conscience. But Jed was normal in one crucial respect: he could fight. When someone got obnoxious, Jed called him out in his polite, accented way and gave him his choice: fists or wrasslin'. At first it seemed like a joke, for Jed was neither large nor muscular. But he turned out to be a well coordinated whirlwind, with a high pain threshold and considerable endurance and native cunning. Very soon it became gauche to mock Jed's accent. In fact it got so that when a boy was provoked to the point of no return about an issue, such as the shape of his nose or the pronunciation of his middle name, his voice would assume a certain Australian tinge of accent: warning of the kind of trouble that was brewing. Newcomers to the community seen learned the signal.

 

"Jed was victoriously different. He began looking out for others who were different. When I got in trouble, he tended to show up, his accent becoming more pronounced, as it did when he was ready to Call Out. So nobody picked on me when he was near--and after a while they stopped picking on me when he wasn't near, too. He never said why he picked a given fight, but the bullies caught on.

 

"I only knew him a year, before his family moved away. but since that time I've been attracted to those who are different. Especially those who are different and superior. Ordinary people are clannish and insensitive, but when I find those few who aren't--" He shrugged. "Now you know. Both of you remind me in a subtle way of Jed. And here we are in the outskirts of new York City. So here's my question for you, Ernst: how do I reach your place?"

 

"It is an apartment complex used by foreign nationals," Ernst said. "I will direct you."

 

So he did, and they wound through the night city until they reached it.

 

"We'll see you to your door," Lane told Ernst. "None of my business, I know, but if I can find out what made your folks call you home so suddenly--"

 

"You are entitled to know," Ernst agreed. "I hope there has been no misfortune in the Fatherland. All my relatives are there, and some are old." And, he did not add, his immediate family had not seen those relatives in two years, while Herr Best served his term as liaison for certain Germanic interests in the New York area. This residence had enabled Ernst to attend a good Northeastern college, where he had encountered Lane as a fellow wrestler.

 

Lane and Quality waited in the lobby while Ernst went up to meet his father. Lane took her hand unobtrusively, and this familiarity she consented to so long as they were alone. Such stolen contacts with her were more precious to him than considerably more emphatic gestures would have been from other girls, because everything Qulaity did was sincere. Only a close friend held her hand; only her fiance kissed her.

 

Soon Ernst was back, his face serious. "We have been recalled to Germany," he said regretfully. "We depart within the fortnight. I must help pack and terminate our affairs in this country."

 

"To Germany!" Land exclaimed. "So soon!"

 

"I regret I shall not after all be able to serve at your wedding."

 

"Maybe it's temporary," Lane said. "Maybe you'll be back next semester--"

 

Ernst shook his head. "In the present international climate, this must be final. I fear we shall not be meeting again--as friends."

 

"Oh, Ernst--I hate this! I only really came to know you this past year, when we started winning meets together. The team needs you--"

 

"You must continue the winning tradition for us both, friend. I fear my wrestling days are over. Perhaps I can continue my education at a University in the Fatherland, though normally I should be liable at this time for military service. But either way, we must part."

 

Lane's protests had been largely rhetorical, though sincere. He knew the way of these things. He had never seen Jed again after separation; probably he would never see Ernst again. All he could do was accept the situation bravely. They shook hands. "Whatever happens, we'll always be friends," he said passionately.

 

"Always friends," Ernst agreed. "Politics are nothing." He turned to Quality. "Lady, I differ with you, but respect your mode. Will you shake hands with me?"

 

Silently she offered her hand, granting him this token of respect. It was evident that she was on balance relieved to see him so conveniently out of the picture, but she knew him to be a worthy individual on his own terms.

 

Lane gave his friend a final friendly, half-savage punch on the shoulder, striking at the vagaries of fortune, then escorted Quality out of the building.

 

"But we'll stay in touch by mail," he called back at the door. "Send me your address, wherever you are."

 

"I shall," Ernst agreed, and sadly turned away.

 

 

Chapter 2

Germany

 

It was a hot summer afternoon when Herr Best and family approached his brother's city of Wiesbaden. The journey had been tedious, with delays for ship passage and train passage and assorted clearances and briefings, and Ernst was thoroughly tired of traveling. Now he admired the scenery with increasing nostalgia as the train drew closer to the familiar area. This was the Rhineland, perhaps the most beautiful region of Germany. The rivers wound through the hills and mountains, girt by lovely old castles, the remnants of medieval greatness. These were among the few things that were not tidy, orderly, and cleaned up in Germany, but it would have been a shame to modernize the ruins which had endured for centuries. The area was thickly wooded, with vegetation threatening to overrun the edifices; Ernst's mind's eye filled in what he could not see from the tracks. Yes, Germany remained in certain enchanting respects primal; no one would take it for a modern industrial nation, from this vantage.

 

Then the suburban outskirts of Wiesbaden appeared, dominated by agriculture, fruit plantations, vineyards and mansions. A hundred and seventy thousand people lived here--a small number compared to the half million of Frankfurt, nearby. But Wiesbaden was still far from village status.

 

This had been home for Ernst during the first years of his life. Then his father had gotten the good position that took the family all around the world, and Ernst had been here only irregularly. His Uncle Karl had taken over the estate, though he was only a shopkeeper. Theoretically he maintained it for his brother; in practice it seemed to have become Karl's. But if Herr Best--to Ernst, his father would always be Herr Best, the important figure of the family--if he remained in Germany this time, that would change. Ernst hoped that would be the case. He was tired of getting uprooted.

 

Uncle Karl met them at the station and chauffeured them to the estate in the big 1936 convertable Mercedes Limousine. New cars, Ernst realized, were hard to come by these days; too much of the country's industrial capacity was going to war machines. In fact the possession of a new car might almost be considered unpatriotic, since the materials and effort squandered in its manufacture might better have been contributed to the nation's effort of improvement. But Herr Best was not an ordinary citizen, and this car would last for decades; it had been built with German pride.

 

"This time you must stay," Uncle Karl said genially to Herr Best. "It is no longer safe in foreign lands."

 

"But there is money to be made there, and there are services to be rendered there, for the good of the Fatherland," Herr Best replied with the cheerful resignation of his nature. They were speaking in German, of course; it still seemed slightly strange to Ernst, after two solid years of English. Uncle Karl knew English, but normally declined to speak it. However, Ernst knew that German, like a long disused shoe of good quality, would soon become fully natural to him again.

 

"Money to be made here too!" Uncle Karl exclaimed. "Since Hitler came to power, the economy is booming. My shop caters to the affluent factory workers, and business is good, very good." He turned his face to Ernst. "Do you miss the Hitler Youth, lad? There's an excellent outfit."

 

"I miss Germany," Ernst said. Which was true--but at the moment, the memory of his friends in America was more poignant. He had been a little afraid to make new friends after the loss of Hans Bremen, especially among flyers. But Lane Dowling, who in certain respects resembled Hans, had not been one to be denied. It was as though such people forged ahead as rapidly in social contacts as they did in the airplanes they so loved, and the targets of their attention could not be unmoved. He sincerely hoped Lane would not crash also. But Uncle Karl would never understand that sentiment, so it wasn't worth discussing.

 

Karl went on to other subjects, ensuring that there would be no gap in conversation. Karl was not much for silences, in contrast to Herr Best's more introspective side of the family. Perhaps it was a survival trait for shopkeepers to be loquacious, and for diplomats to be silent. "Have you kept up with current events?" he inquired meaningfully.

 

"You are referring to Austria?" Herr Best replied.

 

"Wasn't that something! This man Hitler is a marvel! Remember the terrible, degrading terms forced on Germany after the war? The bruising reparations, the occupation of Frankfurt? Right here, those misbegotten French troops passed, pillaging--"

 

"That is the nature of armies," Herr Best agreed grimly. "The French occupied the Saar until the end of 1930, as I recall."

 

"As you recall!" Karl snorted. "As if you weren't cursing the French the whole time, since the Saarland is hardly a stone's throw from here. German territory, stolen by the French!"

 

"But we do have it back now," Herr Best rejoined mildly. He had a more cosmopolitan outlook, having traveled far more widely and been exposed to many foreign viewpoints. Ernst, remembering the differences in attitudes about the Jews, could understand. What made sense in France or America did not necessarily make sense in Germany--and vice versa.

 

"And the occupation of the Ruhr," Uncle Karl continued, warming up to a favorite subject. "All because they claim we defaulted on reparations payments. How could Germany repay such huge amounts when she had six million workers out of work, with their families hungry--and that meant twenty-five million living people hungry--and no freedom, no equality, no territory because the French had annexed it all? The Versailles treaty was a monster; they promised us Wilson's Fourteen Points, but they betrayed us--and then they violated even that poor document! They had no honor at all!"

 

"True," Herr Best agreed, remembering. "Victors need no honor." He had not spoken openly of this at home, but Ernst had picked it up. Germany had been foully treated and could no longer trust the promises of enemies. Especially those who were not Aryans. What was honor to lesser races? Better to fight to the last man! Better still to make sure that Germany never lost another war.

 

"Those cursed payments had already destroyed the Reichsmark," Kurt continued. "The damned bloodsuckers destroyed our currency, then invaded our territory because our currency was no good!"

 

"Please," Ernst's mother murmured, reminding Ernst uncomfortably of the way the Quaker girl cautioned his friend Lane. Indeed, Uncle Karl's neck had grown red and his voice tight, as it did when he suffered an overload of emotion. Yet this was a righteous ire shared by many, perhaps the majority of Germans. In America, Ernst knew, people were hardly conscious of the ravages that depression and the Reparations brought to Germany. Like a starving, whipped cur, his country would have turned against its tormentors at last--but there had been no way, for Germany had also been disarmed. The Americans had never experienced this degree of humiliation, so regarded it lightly. They had suffered only a gentle backwash of the world Depression, rather than its frontal savagery. But at least America had not been closely involved in this, so the anger of the Fatherland was not directed there. France was the major culprit, and to a lesser extent England.

 

Uncle Karl calmed himself, turning to a more positive subject. "But Adolf Hitler changed all that. He stabilized the currency, reduced unemployment, brought law and order and restoreed pride to us. He made the Volk respectable again. He made the French return the Saarland. He rearmed us, and there was nothing the French or the British could do. He made Austria part of Germany, as it should have been long ago. Austria wanted to unite with us, but the Allies prevented it from pure spite. They wanted us to suffer! And now, soon, Czechoslovakia--"

 

"Czechoslovakia?" Herr Best inquired, as if he didn't catch the drift. Ernst smiled privately; his father kept alow profile, politically, but he knew precisely what was going on. He had probably known about the Czech situation long before it had come to Uncle Karl's attention.

 

"There are millions of good Germans settled in the Czech Sudeten," Karl assured him. "They are mistreated there, under foreign rule. There have been riots. They must be permitted to rejoin the Fatherland, and Germany itself must have Lebensraum, room to live. It is only right."

 

And there was a potent term, Ernst thought. Lebensraum was part of Hitler's Blut und Boden vocabulary: blood and soil. It suggested that the members of fittest race had to establish a link of blood to the soil they worked, and extend their territory to the regions governed by weaker races in order to gain more soil for the superior blood. The strong needed room to live.

 

"Indeed so," Herr Best agreed. But he was understandably sober. "We do not operate in a political vacuum, internationally. If such unification should provoke war--"

 

"Then it will be a righteous war! Besides, Germany is strong, now. No more will the French intrude on our soil with impunity."

 

Ernst was listening, but his eye was wandering over the familiar yet newly strange scenery beyond the road. He noted the new buildings and reduced vegetation. He had traveled through here when in the Hitler Youth.

 

"And what is your opinion, Ernst?" Karl inquired suddenly.

 

"I prefer not to express opinions on matters which are beyond my competence," Ernst said carefully.

 

"Then express one on a matter within your competence," his uncle said. "Demonstrate the manner your mind is maturing." It was a challenge. Karl had never said so directly, but had always managed to convey the impression that Herr Best was a relative nonentity, and his son another.

 

Ernst glanced at his father, who looked away. It was time for Ernst to perform for his fiery uncle, and take the consequences. If his sojourn in America had corrupted him, Karl would make him pay.

 

He remembered the game of Truth he had played with his American friend Lane and Lane's Quaker fiancee. This was like another episode of that. He could make of it what he chose.

 

"This region reminds me of my experience in the Hitler Youth," he said. "I traveled this road then. I joined at age fifteen, when the program was rapidly expanding, and I enjoyed it and believe I did well. Today boys may join at ten, serving four years in the Jungvolk, the junior division, then four more in the senior division, Hitler Jugend, which we called HJ. I was too early, so lacked those first four years; I simply crossed over from one of the other youth programs."

 

"Which makes you exactly like every other boy in Germany," Karl said. The implication was that Ernst had no mind of his own. But to deny it would be a trap. How could he differ from the patriotic support of his country?

 

Seeing the trap was tantamount to avoiding it. But he wanted to do more than that; he wanted to set his uncle back a step, to teach him some respect--without ever expressing any disrespect. There was the true challenge. So he allowed himself to walk further into the trap, seemingly.

 

"Perhaps so," he agreed. "There was no social pressure put on me to join; I simply liked the uniform and the programs and the camaraderie and the approval of my family. My father, working in the government, was a Nazi Party member, and of higher social status than that of the families in my neighborhood, which sometimes made for awkwardness. But in the HJ there were boys from all classes, and there were no social distinctions. In that framework, I could have any friends I wanted, including some my family might otherwise frown upon." He glanced again at his father, who continued to fix his gaze elsewhere. "All of us were united in HJ in patriotism, and excitement. We camped out, we ate well, we marched in parades, we rode horses, paddled inflated rafts across wild rivers--well, flowing streams--rowed boats, motorcycled, climbed mountains, threw dummy hand grenades, flew gliders, and indulged in many sports. We boxed, participating in tournaments, winning prizes, developing ourselves physically. We sang, both patriotically and just for fun. We loved every bit of it."

 

"Completely ordinary," Karl said. "No individual character at all."

 

"Completely," Ernst agreed. "Except in the approved manner. We had an enhanced sense of responsibility and dedication. For the Hitler Youth in my day was run by youths rather than by adults. Here, boys were no longer subserviant to teachers; we were not confined to prisonlike buildings. Boys were supreme! There was an exuberance about that which was almost intoxicating. This was an escape from narrowness, and it was associated with something vital and important. This was the uplifting spirit. Here were--the Volk."

 

"The Volk!" Karl echoed, agreeing. He had used the word himself.

 

"What spirit is associated with that term!" Ernst continued. "It stands for the racially and spiritually pure and fit, the young strength and hope of the nation. In the world War we Germans lost partly because we had been deceived and betrayed by the Allies and Jews and Communists, and partly because we had not been strong. Not strong enough to withstand the kicks of the whole world. But this time our youth is being brought to its full potential, to be absolutely superior to all others. Other nations may let their youth lie fallow, to grow up into weaklings. I have seen it in America: few are strong. One in a hundred, a thousand." He thought of Lane Dowling, indeed one in a thousand. "Most Americans never approach their potential, lacking any program to bring them up to it. But here in Germany we know that a physically healthy human being with courage is more valuable than any weakling, regardless how intelligent that weakling may think himself. The Volk are strong, and I am proud to be one of them."

 

Karl eyed him appraisingly. He could not argue with this thesis without seeming false to the Fatherland, and he could not object to Ernst's attitude on the grounds of conformity. Ernst was conforming in the most patriotic possible manner. Herr Best was still gazing away, but smiling. He knew that Ernst had backed Karl off. That was a significant family event.

 

Then Karl changed the subject, which was his way of conceding the issue. "And what of the girls?"

 

"I did not go to America to socialize, I went to learn the best of what they had to offer." But now he thought of Lane's fiancee, Quality Smith. On the surface a typically decadent college creature. But she was not. She was another in a thousand, intriguing in surprising ways.

 

"Wait until you see the Mädchen," Karl said smugly. "Remember that spindly neighbor's girl Krista?"

 

Krista. Ernst concentrated, remembering. She had been fourteen, perhaps fifteen, in the BDM, Bund Deustcher Mädchen, the League of German Girls within the Hitler Youth. He had seen a lot of her because her house was adjacent and her main entertainment had been to tag along after him. Her family had not kept close enough watch on her. She had stringy yellow hair, freckles, a turned-up nose and awkward limbs.

 

But Krista, despite her inadequacies, had believed in the Aryan ideal. She had been convinced that proper living and proper effort would transform her, too, into a superior creature. She had had faith, determination, and precious little else.

 

"I remember," Ernst said.

 

Uncle Karl grinned. "You have an experience coming. She is most eager to see you again."

 

"All in good time," Ernst murmured, aware that he was the object of some sort of joke. Had Krista become an amazon? That was hard to imagine.

 

At last they drew up to the house. This was a fine big mansion, stone-fronted, surrounded by neatly trimmed lawns and hedges. Ernst had lived here four years, between Herr Best's Spanish and American assignments. Two of those years his father had been away on duty in Japan; the family had felt it better for Ernst to remain in civilized Germany during this important segment of his education. Thus he had had four full years in the Fatherland, and he remained grateful. It was not that he had disliked his time in Spain or America--those had in fact been rewarding years, and he had been sorry to part with his friends in those places--but he had friends here too, and continuity was important.

 

But now he had no time for reflection. They were swept up in the rush of moving in. Several of the old servants remained, and all had to be individually greeted by each member of the returning family. Ernst more or less turned off his mind and engaged in the necessary ritual.

 

***

 

Ernst had hoped to renew his aquaintence with his friends, particularly his peers of the Hitler Youth, but he was disappointed. Most of them were gone. The fittest had joined the Wehrmacht, the army; others had gone into Party service. The rest had found employment in the booming economy. There was virtually no one to talk to. What a change two years had made!

 

Then Krista showed up, as Uncle Karl had warned she would. Ernst did not at first recognize her. She had been gangling at fifteen; now she was voluptuous at seventeen, with hair that glistened like that of a harvest goddess, and startlingly blue eyes. Her freckles had abated, and her nose had assumed asthetic proportions, enhancing her facial features. In fact, she was little short of stunning.

 

They sat in the receiving room, decorously, and talked, for Herr Best tolerated no impropriety between the sexes. In this he was in exact accord with the stricture of the Hitler Youth. Ernst, having seen the way it was in America, now found the German system constrictive. But in due course he would be on his own; then he would see. Here, he obeyed the rules of the house. He watched while the maid delivered innocuous refreshments and retreated.

 

Ernst had expected conversation to be strained, for he had not really wanted to encounter the girl so soon. But Krista was charged with news and excitement, and she carried the dialogue forward at the pace of a bubbling brook.

 

"Oh, Ernst, you are as handsome as ever! How was it in America? Have you forgotten how to speak German? How do you like me now?" And she inhaled, turning her profile to advantage. How well she knew what she had become, a strikingly beautiful young woman. Ernst was reminded of Lane, again, who had by his own confession been a weakling in youth, but transformed into a very fine figure of a man. Krista had certainly transformed! Maybe there was more to positive living than Ernst had supposed; more likely Krista had been fated to blossom at this time regardles of her beliefs or actions.

 

"I miss the Hitler Youth," Ernst said, avoiding her challenge for a compliment. She had become a forward girl, and that was not ideal.

 

"I'm in the BDM," she said quickly. "I'm a group leader, same as you were. We may demonstrate in Nuremburg next month."

 

"The Nuremburg rally," he said, remembering. "How well I recall that!"

 

"Yes, you were there," she agreed brightly. "Tell me how it was."

 

She was playing up to him deliberately, pretending a greater interest than she felt, in order to flatter him. Ernst was aware of this, and was accordingly flattered. His prior image of her was fading under the onslaught of present reality. She was one radiantly attractive girl, and the force of her prettiness was almost tangible. But he was wary of such attention. Why should this newly-bloomed creature be so fascinated with him, after two years separation? He preferred to ascertain her true motive before accepting her interest ar face value. So he temporized. "How do you feel about the Youth? I mean, of course everyone attends until age eighteen, but do you really like it?"

 

"Of course I like it!" she exclaimed defensively.

 

What else would she say? To criticize the Führer's youth program would be unpatriotic. Yet sometimes expressed patriotism could mask a fundamental dissatisfaction with the system. Ernst had always understood that; his father's employment had made him canny about the ways of covert and overt belief. Part of the reason he had succeeded so well with his youth group was his comprehension of the motives of individuals. He had acted quietly to get the incorrigibles and incompetents transferred to other units, and had concentrated on the wavering cases that had most promise. In due course he had brought them to full belief and acceptance, so that they worked wholeheartedly for the benefit of the group. Ernst's troop had become one of the most disciploned and responsive, a model, and the rewards had been gratifying. They had made public demonstrations, and in the end had been selected to march at Nuremburg: an honor that brought lasting pride to every member.

 

Now he applied his subtle skill to Krista. "I liked it too. But the horses were better than Mein Kampf."

 

"The horses!" she agreed joyfully. Of course a healthy girl liked to ride. But there was also the tacit confession that she had not been interested in the Führer's autobiography. The truth was, few youths were. Ernst himself had read it and found it fascinating--but that was because he had special interest. He was the only one he knew who had honestly gotten through it. The other boys, if they read at all, had much preferred the heroic sagas of Karl May, and Krista surely was no exception. Her body had changed remarkably in two years, but her mind had remained more constant. Copies of Mein Kampf were abundant--it was perhaps the mosty widely distributed book in Germany--and they remained clean and neat because they received almost no attention. This girl was probably a minimal reader; she read only what she had to, to set an example and qualify for a position of leadership.

 

"And the ghost stories were better than the propoganda," he added.

 

"They still are," she agreed. Then she picked up the significance and affected shock. "Propaganda?"

 

"Do not be naive," he cautioned her. "Propoganda is not a bad word. All countries use it. In America the people are conditioned to believe in the saintliness of Roosevelt and the sanctity of the rights of all citizens, even the negroids and the Jews."

 

"The Jews!"

 

"And what is wrong with the Jews?" he asked, smiling.

 

She was so confused she splattered. "How can you--"

 

Ernst laughed. "All I am doing is telling you how it is in decadent America. They have almost no concept of racial purity, of Volk. They take pride in being a melting pot of races."

 

"What do they know," she said, relieved. "You shouldn't tease me so."

 

"Pretty girls are meant to be teased." Actually he had been trying to draw her out, to provoke her, to verify what she was now made of, so that he could come to a conclusion whether she was worthwhile to know. Ernst certainly appreciated the physical appeal, but that was superficial, like the shine on a car. More important were the fundamental attributes of personality and intellect. In addition, he was interested in exploring the currently prevailing attitude on race, for he suspected racism had been intensifying here while he had been exposed to the far more liberal attitudes of the Americans. He could make a fool of himself in Germany if he misjudged the political climate; he preferred to play it safe.

 

Krista, meanwhile, was blushing, pleased at the compliment. She had worked so hard for such a harvest! But she could not refer to it directly, so she continued the other subject. "So you did not associate with Jews, there?"

 

"I met some. I was on a college wrestling team, and one of my matches was against a Jew." Actually, a teammate had been Jewish, but Ernst deemed it inexpedient to advertise that here. "I must confess he was a strong man; he looked almost Nordic, and he fought fair. I would not have known his origin, had he not told me."

 

"And you touched him?"

 

Ernst laughed again. "It is difficult to win a wrestling match without touching your opponent! Jews are after all people, even as we are. It can be hard to blame them for the unfortunate accident of their birth. This one's grandfather was a Jew; he himself did not follow their abominable religion." Even here he was skating on thin ice, for he was not at all sure there was anything inherently abominable about the Jewish religious ritual. Was it really so different, fundamentally, from the ceremonies of Roman Catholicism? Obviously the Jews and Catholics thought so, but Ernst himself was disinterested in the various forms of religion. He believed in God, but was uncertain which forms of worship God actually favored.

 

"A Jew is a Jew, to the sixth generation," she said grimly. Tainted blood was extremely potent; a tiny drop of it could ruin an otherwise excellent Aryan.

 

"True. Yet in America it is different. Their discrimination is very subtle. Their Jews can intermarry freely with others. Some hold responsible positions; some are honored in politics or industry. To many Americans, what they term racism is a worse offense than being Jewish."

 

"You must be glad to be home!" she exclaimed.

 

"Yes, of course--but not for that reason. If I were to live in America all of the time, I would probably come to feel as they do, to accept Jews as part of the society. Jews are people too, after all."

 

"Are you testing me?" she demanded, growing worried and angry.

 

He was, but not in the way she thought. He was verifying her horizons, which seemed not to have expanded as adequately as had her body. "Perhaps I am merely verifying my own beliefs," he said carefully. "I did not object to Jews at first. It was only after I read Mein Kampf that I realized their nature. How they infiltrate quietly into society, like worms in fresh apples. How they pretend allegiance, but actually conspire to hurt decent folk and dominate the world. Even now I concede that some Jews could be good people. But they are indelibly tainted by their blood and their heritage. A tame python might be a worthwhile pet, but it remains a python, and must pay the penalty of its kind."

 

"What penalty?" she asked.

 

"Well, the python caused Eve to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, so that she and Adam were exiled from the Garden of Eden. For that the python is accursed among animals--"

 

"I meant the Jews," she said.

 

"The Jews? Maybe they should all emigrate to America. I do not wish them any harm. I merely want my homeland pure. A Jew-free Germany." He shrugged. He was expressing a safe attitude, rather than his own. "But this is no subject for parlor conversation! You were telling me how it is in the Youth."

 

"As if you didn't know!" She frowned. "You think I can't tell you anything new? I'll show you! Have you heard about Rommel?"

 

"I know of no Youth by that name."

 

"Lieutenant-Colonel Rommel, stupid--the war hero. Last year he joined the Hitler Youth."

 

"The war hero? Holder of the highest decoration, the Pour le Merite? Certainly I know of him! But the war was twenty years ago; isn't he a little old for--"

 

"As instructor, as advisor!" she said, laughing. "They decided to put in a real soldier, to give some practical military training. He was doing it too, organizing for sound education and character building. But our dear leader Schirach, who is no soldier, got jealous. He wants to run the Youth all by himself. Rommel told him right out that if he wanted to be the leader of a para-military force, he should first become a soldier himself. Oooo, Schirach didn't like that! So he kicked Rommel out. They called it reassignment, of course, to cover up the truth. How's that for news?"

 

"It's a scandal!" Ernst exclaimed. "A man like Rommel--I wish my troop had had his instruction!"

 

"So the Youth is not perfect," she said smugly. "There is politics there too. You thought I was too stupid to know, didn't you?"

 

"Well, a girl as pretty as you doesn't need to be smart." There was an art to temporizing.

 

Krista struggled with that statement, but finally decided it was a compliment. "Now will you tell me about Nuremburg?"

 

"Nuremburg is a famous city in the mountain's of southern Germany, in Bavaria, some two hundred and forty kilometers east-southeast of here--"

 

She hit him lightly with her small fist. "Will you stop that? You know I meant when you went there, four years ago."

 

"Oh, that. Four years is a long time to remember." Actually he owed it to her; the news she had imparted about Rommel was certainly of interest to him. What a lost opportunity for the Youth! If Ernst had to enlist in the army, he'd jump at the chance to serve under Rommel.

 

Of course Krista hoped to go to Nuremburg herself, for the annual festivities, and she wanted the reassurance of his prior experience. He should be happy to tell her all about it; seldom would he have a more enthusiastic audience. Yet somehow he found himself holding back. Why?

 

He figured it out in a moment. It was because a substantial part of Krista's interest had to be in him, rather than in the subject. That was flattering, but it was time to begin distancing himself from her, if he didn't want to be pushed into more of a commitment than he desired. It was obvious that both his family and hers thought that the two of them would be an excellent match, and so they had been put together and left alone. Krista already wanted him, and she was now the kind of girl any man would want. Propinquity was bound to have effect.

 

But Ernst did not want to be managed. Perhaps he had indeed been corrupted to that extent by his stay in America. He wanted to choose for himself, especially in love. Also, he had become more discriminating. He now recognized in Krista certain limitations, a narrowness of outlook, that subtly repelled him. She was beautiful, but she was not the shadow of the woman that Lane's fiancee Quality was. He did not want to be bound to her.

 

But how could he avoid it? It seemed that everyone, including Krista herself, was determined to do it. He could not simply decline; there would be repercussions and unpleasantness.

 

Then he thought of a way. He would answer her, but in a way that should discourage her from pursuing him. If he could cause her to lose her interest in him, not because of any suspicion about his patriotism but for unspecified reason, he would soon be free of her without blame.

 

He moved closer to her and put his arm around her shoulders. "I will be happy to tell you all about it. The very memory thrills me."

 

She turned into him, surprised and pleased by his action. He hoped that this was a superficial reaction. "You can imagine the excitement of preparation, the constant drilling, the competition with other units, the hope and fear of success, and of the enormous satisfaction of having your troop chosen to go to the Nuremberg Rally."

 

"Yes," she breathed.

 

He moved his hand down from her shoulder to her hip. "As you know, the city is almost three hundred kilometers by road from Wiesbaden, because the road follows the meandering river and the contours of the land, stretching out the distance. It was a longer journey than many of us had made before, which was part of the excitement."

 

"Yes!"

 

His hand moved slowly along her thigh. "It was a glorified camping excursion; we sang patriotic songs on the way. But in time boredom set in, for we were sixteen, with brief attention spans. The songs degenerated. Finally we got to the notorious ribald Es Zittern die morschen Knochen, 'The rotten bones are trembling,' only certain portions were changed so that it became 'the rotten bones are trembling in the ass.'"

 

Krista tittered. She gave no sign of objecting to the manner his hand was traveling. But she would have to, soon.

 

"At that point I was compelled to call off the singing," he continued. "There could have been serious repercussions if anyone in authority had overheard."

 

"I have heard of that song," Krista said. "I don't know the words, of course."

 

"Of course," he agreed with a chuckle. He gave her thigh a squeeze through the cloth of her skirt. Still she did not object. Could she be unaware?

 

"Then we encountered a contingent traveling south from Leipzig, and one of my boys yelled 'Beefsteak!' and almost started a pitched battle between groups. For it is known that in the larger cities a good many Communist youth groups had converted to the Hitler Youth under pressure, and many Communists had joined the Nazi storm troopers. Thus we referred to them dirisively as 'beefsteak Nazis': brown on the outside, red on the inside. It takes more than a brown shirt to make a good Nazi."

 

"Beefsteak!" Krista exclaimed, giggling. "That's good! You should have fought them."

 

His hand continued past her knee and made the turn. He found the hem of her skirt and touched her bare leg. "But what kind of a marching exhibition would my troop have put on, if it had gotten beaten up beefstakes?" Ernst inquired. "They outnumbered us, and some were pretty large steaks." But in truth he was rather proud of the episode. He hated Communism.

 

"True," she said with similar regret.

 

"The Rally was phenomenal. It lasted almost a week, with different programs scheduled each day. There were so many people there that they filled the streets and courtyards. All day there were marches and parades, with banners and standards, the magnificent black swastika symbol of the Volk set in a white circle against a bright red background. There was singing and cheering in unison, a mighty chorus from thousands of throats. Bands played stirring military music; drums beat out the thrumming cadences. Emotion built up. It was terrific."

 

"Yes," she whispered.

 

His hand was now sliding back up her leg, taking the skirt with it. Still no protest. Where was her limit?

 

"Then the Führer spoke, thundering out his enthusiasm for Germany, for the great ideals of this great nation, for the thousand year empire of the Third Reich. The crowd responded passionately, and I was one with it. 'Ein Reich! Ein Volk! Ein Führer!' over and over, louder and louder. The Nation, the People, the Leader--what inspiration! The emotion of the occasion charged the air; it was as if the very soul of the Volk issued forth from these massed bodies. Individual response no longer existed; there was only the passion of the moment."

 

"Oh," she said, her eyes shining. How could she be oblivious to the progress of his hand? He was now passing the knee again, inside her skirt. He had expected her to balk before this, to start drawing away, to be repulsed by the discovery that he was only interested in forbidden touching. That he was, in short, a typical young man. She was supposed to be turned off by this revelation, and to lose her fascination with him.

 

"At night there was a torchlight procession. The drumbeat grew deafening, compelling every foot, even among those who only watched. I had never experienced a more moving demonstration. The beat and image pulsed in my brain long after the marches passed. I could hardly sleep."

 

"Yes."

 

"Then came the Party Day of Unity, and the Youth Rally. This was the biggest moment of all. My troop was one of those privileged few to march in the sight of the Führer. And Adolf Hitler spoke directly to the Youth, praising the boys for their past achievements and for their attainment of the important goal of discipline. Only discipline and obedience, he said, would make us fit to issue orders later in life."

 

"Yes," Krista repeated. Then, as his hand crossed the top of her bared thigh and headed inside: "Someone might see."

 

She had finally balked! He had been getting worried.

 

Then she stood, adjusted her skirt, and sat sideways on his lap, her skirt falling down outside. "But now they can't," she murmured, and leaned in to kiss him.

 

Ernst stiffened his jaw to prevent it from dropping. She was not objecting. What was he supposed to do now?

 

She had to be bluffing. She was too conformist to break with convention. She was trying to make him back off. Where would he be, if she succeeded? So it was a contest between them, and he had to win it if he wanted to be free of her.

 

She was right about one thing: no one could see his hand under her skirt now. The contest would be invisible. Where would she stop? He would find out. He moved in and touched the slick satiny surface of her buttock.

 

But meanwhile he talked, because it was the sound of their voices that reassured family members elsewhere in the house. Silence would occasion an investigation. "I remember the very words Hitler spoke. 'We want to be a peace-loving people, but at the same time courageous,' he concluded ringingly. 'That is why you must be peaceful and courageous too. Our people must be honor-loving; you must learn the concept of honor from earliest childhood.' For all of us in the audience had learned the consequence of dishonor, as practiced by the Allies after the War. The Volk would set a new and perfect standard for all the world to behold and try to emulate. 'You must be proud,' the great man continued. 'Proud to be the youthful members of the greatest nation in the world. But you must also practice obedience. You must learn to overcome hardship and privations. There must be no class distinctions among our people; never let such notions take root among you.' And, with a florish, he finished: 'All that we expect of the Germany of the future, we expect of you. We shall pass on, but Germany will live in you.'"

 

"Oh, yes!" Krista agreed. Ernst wasn't sure whether she meant agreement with Hitler's words, or with the progress of his hand, which was now far beyond the bounds of propriety.

 

He carried on. "The applause interrupted the great man frequently during his speech. Now the cheering was deafening. The Hitler Youth anthem played, and the Führer shook hands with the most favored Youths. Among those was mine. I was afraid the very bones of my fingers would shake apart as I shivered with excitement. I remember thinking The rotten bones are trembling, and being horribly embarrassed at the very notion. I didn't matter, but I would have hated to soil Hitler's hand with rotten bones. But his grip was firm, and mine seemed so too. 'Fine job!' the Führer murmured, giving me a brief, meaningful glance. Then he went on, leaving me half stunned. The great man had spoken personally to me, and looked me right in the eye!"

 

"Oh, that must have been Heaven!" Krista agreed enviously, the muscles of her legs tightening against his hand. "To shake his hand!"

 

It had been, indeed. Yet this present moment had a certain devious similarity, for her body was also having an electrifying effect on his hand. He was beginning to hope that she wouldn't balk.

 

"It was," he agreed. I was half-dazed in off-moments for days thereafter. That was when I read Mein Kampf and learned about the Jews." He didn't say that he had since had cause to doubt that all Jews were of that nature.

 

"More," she said.

 

Yet again he was surprised. Did she mean more about his life, though the high point of it had passed with that meeting with Hitler, or more of what he was doing under her skirt? Or both? He was about to have to concede defeat, because there was not much farther he could afford to go without hopelessly compromising himself as much as her.

 

"There is not much, and I think you know it already. I graduated from the Youth at age eighteen, and was ready for my national service. But then my father was transferred to America. That was a separate experience, and one I value."

 

"And now you are back, and I am so glad to have you back," she said. "As I have been trying to show you."

 

She had indeed. "Now I am twenty, and am subject to military service," he said. "Later I can complete my education at a University, perhaps at Frankfurt." Actually the Fuhrer despised those who studied as weaklings, unfit for the Volk, unless they specialized in something technical or agriculture. While Ernst would never criticize Hitler, he hoped that his own interest in higher education would not be considered too large a blemish on his character. "I will seek a term in the regular army or the SS. Unless my father is able to exert influence and get me into a university immediately. It is not that I am unpatriotic, but that I think I can best serve the Fatherland by completing my education first. So it seems likely that I will not be here at home long."

 

"Is this a polite riddance?" she asked.

 

"I thought it might be," he said, taken aback again by her candor.

 

Krista turned her head to face him, and spoke with intensity. "I have gone as far as you dare, right here in your straight-laced uncle's foyer. I have matched you in this game of touching, Ernst. I know you thought nothing of me before, and I knew I did not have much time to make an impression on you. But I have changed in everything but this: I still love you. I think I can be good for you, if you will let me. But I will let you go without a murmur, and not bother you again, if you can tell me right now that you will never, under any circumstances, love me back. Speak those words, Ernst, and you will be rid of me forever." She gazed into his eyes, challenging him directly. Her thighs squeezed his hand.

 

Ernst returned her gaze and opened his mouth. She had offered him exactly what he wanted. But he found that he could not speak the words. She was beautiful. She was ardent. His hand was captive between her legs, and his eyes were captive to hers. "You have not matched me, Krista, you have beaten me," he confessed. "I am interested in you, now, and can not say I will never love you."

 

"Then will I be your Mädchen?"

 

He shrugged, not because of indifference, but because he had no way to deny her. "If you wish. For now."

 

She leaned over and kissed him. "Then I am yours. For now."

 

He remained surprised at this development, but oddly satisfied. His family would be pleased at the success of their ploy, but that was the least of it.

 

Then there was the tread of someone approaching the foyer. They sprang apart as if there had been an explosion between them, and were abruptly decorous.

 

 

Chapter 3

Spain

 

"I've got to do it," Lane said.

 

"But thee knows I can not support thee in this," Quality protested. "To go needlessly to war--"

 

"Would you prefer to have Hitler take over all of Europe and then threaten America?"

 

"I have no liking for the Nazis, as I have said. But there must be a better way than war. Even should it come, thee has better things to do than to get involved in the quarrels of others. Thee has another year to go to obtain thy degree. With that, thee could do far more good in the world than thee could ever do by pointless fighting."

 

"Not if Hitler overruns the world while I'm studying!"

 

She paced the floor of the lounge. "We do not know that Hitler truly seeks world conquest, or that he could be successful if he tried. But if war should occur, there are others already under arms. Thee has no need to seek combat."

 

"How does that saying go?" Lane asked rhetorically. "All that is necessary for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing."

 

"But thee can do something! Thee can complete thy education, and then work with greater effectiveness for peace in the world."

 

He gazed somberly at her. "You can't concede that maybe prevention is better than cure?"

 

"It is bad education that leads to much mischief. I prefer to deal with the underlying problems of society before they lead to war. Fighting is not prevention; it is a sign that the wrongness has proceeded too far. I would have preferred to have treated other nations in such manner that they never experienced the frustration that caused them to turn to their worst elements for salvation. Perhaps even now there can be amelioration and healing."

 

"I think it is 'way too late for that. Hitler is a cancer that will kill the body of Europe. Now he must be cut out, painful as the process may prove to be."

 

She looked at him, shaking her head, trying to keep the tears from her eyes. "Then I fear we must agree to disagree, Lane. I can not support thee in this."

 

He went to her. "I love you, Quality. But this is a matter of principle."

 

"And I love thee, Lane. But it is principle for me too."

 

"I know it is. I always liked your pacifism. But I just see this business a different way. Maybe--maybe we should separate for a while, in principle, each doing what we feel is necessary, and when this ugly business is done there won't be that difference between us any more, and we can marry. I want you to keep my ring."

 

"Maybe that is best," she said. "I will keep thy ring."

 

Then they kissed, and spoke no more of war. But both knew that a fundamental break had occurred.

 

***

 

They finished their terms, and then drove to Canada, because there Lane could train as a pilot and later transfer to the Royal Air Force in England. He was determined to qualify, because he knew that that was where the action would be. England was right on the edge of Europe, and would soon feel the consequence of Germany's militarism. Its air force would be the first in a position to strike back at the Nazis. Though France put on a brave front and had its Maginot Line, Lane had little faith in that. The Germans could go around it or blast a hole through it. The Great Wall had not stopped the Mongols from invading and conquering China, and walled cities had not survived gunpowder. Air power was the strength of the future, and he was determined to be part of it. Quality understood all this because others had spoken of it; despite her agreement of silence with Lane, she listened to whatever she knew related to his interests. She couldn't help it. But the information only strengthened the rift between them. How much better it would have been for the Mongols simply to have lived in peace with the Chinese, and the energy expended in building the Great Wall used for the mutual improvement of life.

 

Lane was accepted into the program. Quality bade him a tearful farewell outside the induction station, exactly like any other girlfriend, but they both knew that their separation was deeper than physical. They would be apart, yes, and he might get killed in action, but whether apart or together, alive or dead, their difference of principle remained as a gulf between them. Would that disappear when the war did? She wasn't sure.

 

Now it was time for her to return home. She had a bus to catch, but did not hurry. Somehow she was loath to return home alone, as if this made her culpable. She was strangely out of sorts. Why did she feel so guilty, when she had done what she could within the bounds of propriety to dissuade Lane? There was nothing she could do to mitigate the situation of the world.

 

She purchased a newspaper, knowing this to be merely another excuse for delay. There she saw a picture of a bombed out city, with children crying in the street. It reminded her of Guernica, in Spain, where her correspondent had died.

 

Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She could make a difference! She made her way to the nearest Friend's Meetinghouse and found the caretaker. "I must go to Spain," she said. "To help the children."

 

***

 

It was arranged. She took passage on a steamer to England, where she joined the Friends' Service Council. They tried, gently, to dissuade her from her intent, because the situation in Spain was what they termed "uncertain," but she was firm, and they did need volunteers, and she spoke both French and Spanish. She was qualified.

 

First they taught her to drive, because she would have to do it where she went. It was a crash course, almost literally, before she got the hang of it. They had her do it in a car, a small truck, and a large truck, because she had to be able to drive whatever was available.

 

The British vehicles had the driver on the right side, and drove on the left side of the road. "But on the Continent it will reverse," they warned her. "Don't get confused."

 

"I'm already confused," she replied. But in due course she got the gearshift and clutch coordinated, and learned the international hand signals and general road signs, and was appropriately nervous about the level of petrol in the gas tank.

 

She wrote to Lane, c/o his Canadian unit: "I have learned how to drive! I love thee."

 

She learned that mail could take from two weeks to two months to reach England from Spain. Both the Republicans and the Nationalists practiced censorship of letters. Workers sometimes had to go to France to send important confidential documents. Diplomatic pouches of the American and both Spanish governments were used to expedite some mail. Important letters were sent to several offices, with requests to forward it, in order to ensure delivery of at least one.

 

Quality had to undergo an embarrassingly thorough medical examination. She was inoculated against typhoid and vaccinated for smallpox. She was ready.

 

It was not feasible to proceed directly from England to Spain, which was in the throes of its civil war. Indeed, had she tried to go there from America, she would have been refused, for international travelers were being required to sign a statement that they would not go to Spain. She had not been aware of that at the time, but in any event had started her trip from Canada, where the restriction did not exist. So now she traveled to France, where French Friends welcomed her. Already there were refugee camps just north of the Pyrenees where the Basques were fleeing the savagery of the Nationalist thrust against their homeland.

 

Quality visited one of the camps, helping to deliver food and supplies. She was appalled to discover that she could not understand the people at all; they spoke neither French nor Spanish. Somehow she had not realized that Basque was a different language. In fact, the Basques were a different people, looking much the same as others but separated by their culture. It seemed that their stock had been early inhabitants of the region, once far more widely spread, largely displaced by migrations and conquest. Now they were being displaced again, this time by bombs and bullets.

 

Spain had been a republic for several years, but there had been strife between divergent factions and general poverty, leading to unrest of increasing scale and intensity. It was exactly the type of social neglect that led to unfortunate consequences, as she saw it. In 1936 the military establishment had rebelled, supported by the Catholic Church and about a third of the people. Called the Nationalists, they had commenced a war of conquest against the Republicans who represented the formal government. It seemed unlikely that their effort would have been successful, except that they found powerful covert allies in Italy and Germany, the Fascists and the Nazis, who saw in this local war an opportunity to test their new weapons. So the Nationalists had the benefit of the most deadly modern technology, and they were gaining ground. They had taken the northern Basque region, and much of central and southern Spain, but not the great central capital city of Madrid. Now the battle line was across the north, with the western part of the nation Nationalist and the Eastern part Republican.

 

So here she was, a Quaker lady, going to war. But not as a combatant. Her quarrel was not with men, but with neglect, poverty and hunger.

 

She could not get authorization from the Nationalists to enter their territory, so she went to Barcelona, in the Republican region of the northeast. This city was not under siege, but signs of the war were everywhere. A melody was playing constantly, as if it were a hit tune, but when she listened she discovered it was of another nature. It was "The Four Insurgent Generals," and told how they had betrayed the country, concluding "They'll all be hanging, They'll all be hanging!" Quality neither endorsed violence nor chose sides, but soon she found herself humming the refrain.

 

Each relief station had its warehouse and its supplies, and its ragged fleet of drivers to carry the food out to where it was needed. There were volunteer missions at every village, called shelters or canteens, where most of the feeding actually occurred. The emphasis was on infants, children, and expectant and nursing mothers, because they were the least able to fend for themselves. Many of the refugees were orphaned children.

 

Quality had thought there would be a period of breaking in, as there had been in England, before she would be allowed to go out into the field. She was mistaken; she went out with a driver on the first day after she arrived. She rode in a small truck whose sides were plainly marked with the five pointed Quaker star and the words SERVICIO INTERNACIONAL DE LOS AMIGOS CUAQUEROS--and whose motor, suspension and tires seemed none too sure. But that was what was available.

 

The driver was a Spanish man who, it turned out, had no special commitment to peace or feeding children; he had his own family to support, and this was a job that paid him a living wage. So he did his job, and did it well, but he was cynical about the net effect of the relief effort.

 

The assignment was not far away. Quality judged that they would be able to deliver their load and be back at the warehouse by noon. But the man merely shrugged. It seemed that such trips were expected to take a day, regardless.

 

Today's destination was a village about thirty miles behind the front. The fighting was not close, the driver said; all the same, one had to take care. Then, approaching a bridge, he came to a stop. Quality couldn't see any reason for it; this was out in the country, and no one else was in sight.

 

They got out and walked up to the bridge. The far half of it was gone. There was no barrier, no warning signs; it was just out. Had they tried to cross it at speed, they would have sailed into the river.

 

The driver didn't say anything. He had made his point. Quality's knees felt weak. Had she been traveling alone_._._.

 

Later she realized that the driver had probably known that the bridge was out. But he had educated her in a way she would never forget--and which might save her life some day.

 

Quality found some debris and set it on the road to represent at least a partial obstruction to future traffic. Then they turned the truck around and looked for a detour. A few kilometers downstream they found a serviceable bridge, and continued their route, perhaps not really behind schedule.

 

The next time they came to a bridge, Quality was glad to get out and check. This one was intact. So they had lost time--but the caution was necessary. Too much hurry could wreck them.

 

Then the motor started grinding. The driver pulled to a stop. He checked under the hood. He shook his head. "I can not fix it. I must get a mechanic. There will be a phone in the nearest village." He hesitated.

 

"I can watch the truck," Quality said. "I assure you, I will not steal anything." She smiled, to show it was a joke.

 

But the driver did not smile. "It is not safe for a truck with food to be left alone. Also a young woman."

 

Quality realized that he was serious, and that he was probably correct. This was not contemporary America, this was a war-torn nation. "Perhaps I could go to make the call?"

 

He shook his head. "Even less safe. I will hurry. It should be all right."

 

"Yes, of course."

 

He set out on foot, walking rapidly. Quality sat in the truck, abruptly nervous. She almost wished that the driver hadn't warned her, but of course it would have been foolish not to be aware of the danger.

 

She was in luck. No one approached the truck. In due course the driver returned. "It will be several hours," he reported. "We must wait." He did not seem easy.

 

"There is another problem?" Quality inquired.

 

"Now it is known that we must remain here, with food. There are many hungry people. They will come."

 

And they would not necessarily be reasonable. If denied, they might turn to violence. Even had Quality not been a pacifist, that would be a problem. How could they protect the truck and themselves until the mechanic came?

 

Then she had an idea. "If we feed some, and enlist their support, we will use some food but may save the truck," she suggested.

 

"But it is supposed to be done by the local authorities. There are not facilities, here on the road."

 

"Then we must enlist the local authorities," she said. "And make do as we can."

 

He considered, and she was afraid he would reject the notion. Then he smiled. "You are resourceful. I will go back and tell them." He got out and walked back toward the unseen village.

 

Quality didn't wait. She thought it best to make an immediate selection of the supplies to be expended, so as to keep the rest out of sight. She let down the tailgate and shoved things to it. She soon grew sweaty handling the boxes, and her good clothing became stained. It could not be helped. She was learning, again.

 

In due course the driver and a local volunteer arrived, by foot. The other was an old woman.

 

They waited, resting, for the woman was evidently frail from hunger. Also, the driver murmured, to be sure that proper procedure was being followed. Hurry was unseemly. He was educating Quality to what she would have to be alert to when she was on her own. "There is never enough food to feed everyone in need," he explained. "We feed some infirm adults, and aged persons--if there is enough. There usually isn't. We must turn the men away. We require them to drink the milk at the station, to be sure the right ones have it. So the canteens are referred to as Gota de Leche, or Drop of Milk. When things are really tight, we have to do height/weight measurements to determine the most malnourished children, and feed them first."

 

Quality's horror was growing as she learned the realities of the situation. She had somehow fancied that bringing food to the needy would be a positive thing. Now she saw the ugly side of it. Grim decisions had to be made, and the good she was doing had to be cynically rationed. Indeed, there were men and women appearing, and the driver was waving them away, so that they kept their distance. "They know there will be trouble, if they take the children's food," he said gruffly. "The woman is the wife of the leading man of the village; she has power, and knows what she is doing."

 

"But they are hungry too," Quality said.

 

"There is not enough for all." That was the terrible reality.

 

A car arrived with some necessary equipment. Its driver was a young man who looked ferocious. The woman saw Quality's concern. "My son," she said proudly. "He will keep order." Quality nodded, relieved.

 

The woman began opening the boxes and taking out bags of powdered milk. She mixed it with water in a large kettle and stirred patiently to get it fully dissolved. "A few lucky towns have emulsifying machinery," the driver said. "We use a lot of sweetened condensed milk, because it's nourishing and easy to mix, but it costs more. We take whatever we can get."

 

Then, seeing no other legitimate volunteers, the driver helped, and Quality did too, as she came to understand the process. A volunteer who had not been duly cleared might steal the food; it was better to work directly with the woman and her son. One box contained chocolate, and another cheese. Then she found one with loaves of hard dark bread. She took a knife from the truck and carved slices.

 

Children appeared. They were of all ages, from perhaps fifteen to toddlers. Some were unmarked but lethargic; others had sores and crude bandages. Some were missing fingers, hands, or even arms. They were subdued.

 

They brought cups. Now the serving began: a cupful of mixed milk for each child, and a piece of bread. Quality wished she had butter or jam for the bread, but there was none. The children did not complain. They simply took the food and ate it.

 

When all had been served, what was left in the opened boxes was given to those who seemed most in need for seconds. Some was given to adults, but cautiously, according to the guidelines. Quality slipped bread to a woman who said she was pregnant, who took it without comment and disappeared. That was the way it had to be.

 

And this was just a random stop, because of the breakdown of the truck. Could all of Spain be like this? Quality was very much afraid that it was.

 

As they finished, a few of the children were acting more like children. They were running around and making noise, and some were laughing as they played impromptu games. All they had needed was some food.

 

The mechanic arrived. He got busy in and under the truck, doing what he could. Quality was to learn that the mechanics were geniuses of their trade. They were never held up for lack of parts; somehow they always made do, devising whatever would work.

 

Quality and the driver carried several additional boxes to the car, for later distribution. This might be considered a final bribe for the privilege of being allowed to depart freely--or as an act of additional compassion. Distinctions were blurring. The local children would be fed next day by the volunteers, and on the following days, while the food lasted. But what of the next week, when the truck would still be going to different villages, and these children would not have a meal?

 

"You will be checking to see that the food is distributed properly," the driver said. "You will have to enforce it. Hungry people can not afford honesty."

 

"But these ones here," she asked. "This is not a regular stop. What of them?"

 

"They have been fed today," he said. She knew that that was all that could be said.

 

When the truck was fixed, they drove on to the regular station. But it felt as if the day's work had already been done.

 

Quality was thoroughly tired by the time she got back to Barcelona. So she relaxed in her own fashion: she wrote a long letter to Lane, telling him all about it.

 

***

 

The Republicans were losing. Day by day the battle line changed, coming closer to Barcelona. The sound of the big guns and bombs grew louder, and the stream of refugees passing through the city increased.

 

But the relief work continued. When Quality drove out to a village near the territory of the Nationalists, there was a check point on the road. She had to stop and explain what she was doing. They were about to demand that the car be opened for inspection, suspecting contraband, but an officer put a halt to that. "Those are Quakers. They don't fight. They don't lie. The children need the food. If they bring food from other nations for our children, we will not stop them. We will send a man along to help."

 

"I do have some food in the car," Quality said. Because the village she was going to had not been supplied in some time, and the next truck was delayed. "Also some cloth and thread. We have workshops for refugees; the women and girls make clothing, and the boys make sandals from rope."

 

The car was allowed to proceed, but a Republican soldier rode his motorcycle along behind it. Quality realized that the officer was not entirely trusting; if her mission turned out to be anything other than what she had said, she would be in trouble.

 

But of course it was legitimate. She delivered the meager supplies she had been able to fit in the car, and helped feed the children. The soldier nodded and departed. In due course Quality returned to the city. The check point had moved during the day, and there were different soldiers, but they had been given the word. "Do you have any contraband?" the officer demanded.

 

"Contraband?"

 

"Drugs. Weapons. Subversive literature. Dirty pictures."

 

She laughed. "No, only milk, bread, cloth and bandages on the way out, and empty on the way back." She waited in case they decided to inspect the car, but the man simply waved her on.

 

After that her car was not challenged in either direction, and no soldier followed it. The word of the Quakers was good.

 

Personnel changed, equipment failed, and Quality had to start driving a truck. The Republican government supplied some trucks for the relief efforts, but the service was inadequate. The Quakers had to rely on their own trucks, but they did not have enough vehicles to fulfill their needs. Experience made clear that light trucks did not carry enough or stand up well enough to the constant driving on wretched roads. The best trucks were three tons or more, equipped with four rear driving wheels and double springs. But they used a lot of petrol, which was in short supply. Even so, in the course of a year they managed to distribute several tens of thousands of tons of assorted foods.

 

Quality's deliveries consisted variously of the three basic relief foods, milk, bread and chocolate, supplemented by preserved meat, peanut butter, cheese, egg powder, dried fish, and dried vegetables: beans, peas and lentils. Cod liver oil was also distributed as supplies allowed. From Switzerland came Farina Lactal, a mixture of cereal flours, powdered milk, sugar and malt extracts which made a nutritious porridge when mixed with water and cooked. The Friends made every effort to buy food from outside Spain, because that added to the supply instead of merely shifting it within the country, and to avoid giving foreign currency to either Spanish government. It was too likely to be used to buy weapons.

 

The battle line continued to change. It was evident that only months remained before Barcelona itself would be under siege and would fall. The Nationalists were too strong, and their borrowed weapons were too effective. The refugees were now a pitiful horde.

 

Then a wounded, bandaged man waved down the car as it returned to the city in the afternoon on a routine trip without food. "I must reach to my home," he said. "My family needs me. Give me a ride."

 

"But must pass a check point," Quality protested. "You cannot go there."

 

"The war is lost. I must go home. I have given up my weapon. Just take me through, and let me go, and I will be with my family."

 

So this was a deserter. Quality didn't like this, but found herself unable to deny the man. "If they stop the car, and inspect it, you will be in trouble," she warned him. So would she. Neither side took kindly to deserters.

 

"They will not stop a Quaker car," he replied.

 

That was probably true. Most days now the soldiers at the check points simply waved the trucks and cars on by. So she let him climb into the back and hide under blankets. Ill at ease, she drove on. Probably there would be no inspection.

 

But as it happened, this time she was challenged. "Are you carrying any contraband?" the soldier asked.

 

"No," Quality said, before she thought. Then it occurred to her that the man would surely be considered contraband; she had been thinking of the usual objects. But if she told them about the man, he might be taken and killed.

 

The soldier was already waving her on. She was moving forward before she got her thoughts organized. But then she was horrified. She had told a lie! She had never intended to do that.

 

Yet if she had told them, and the man had been taken and killed, after trusting her, what then?

 

She mulled it over as she drove, but the conclusion was inescapable: she had lied more or less by oversight and confusion, but she would have lied outright, rather than sacrifice a life.

 

She came to the section of the countryside the man had mentioned, and stopped. The passenger door opened and he jumped out. "Gracias!" he called, waving as he moved away.

 

Quality sat for a moment, and shed a tear. The man had cost her her honor, without ever knowing it.

 

***

 

The Nationalists advanced inexorably, and the Republican retreat became a rout. Now they were fleeing not to Barcelona, but from it, for any of them caught here would be massacred. The war was ugly, and atrocities were being committed on both sides. The Nationalists bombed innocent regions, simply because they were not Nationalist; the Republicans dug the bodies of priests and nuns from their graves and put them on grotesque public display, because of the Church's support for the other side. The Republican coalition was widely divergent, including even anarchists: those who believed in no government at all, though some of them held government positions. It also included Communists, who did support it well with men and with arms from Russia, but who also sought to make of it a Communist state. "First we must win the war; then we can settle between ourselves," one leader said, but there was endless quarreling between the factions. They were not winning the war.

 

The International Brigade, composed of volunteer soldiers from more than fifty other countries, had fought valiantly, but had been overpowered. It retreated through Barcelona, and on north to the French border, the Nationalists in hot pursuit. There was no talk now of the four insurgent generals hanging; the generals had won. General Franco had assumed the leadership of the Nationalists, and it was apparent that he would be the new ruler of the country.

 

News was not always easy to obtain, or reliable. Often it was too old to be of use. They needed to know where the line was, and where the fighting was, to avoid it. They would hear the explosions of bombs, but it might be two weeks before they saw a newspaper report of any action in that region. There was also a difference between units, of either side; some were best avoided, lest they steal the food. Quality had learned to dress unattractively, even mannishly, so as to represent no obvious target. When there was danger, and he could be spared, a man would ride with her and be near, discouraging problems. Even so, it was increasingly nervous business.

 

In July 1938 the Republicans launched a massive counterattack west from the Barcelona area. They had amassed almost a hundred thousand troops and improved equipment. They surged across the line, which had become relatively stable, and reconquered land in the interior. But they could not maintain their momentum, and the offensive ground to a halt in August. For three months the line stabilized again, neither side advancing. But the Quaker trucks no longer approached it; the war in this section had become uglier.

 

She received a letter from Lane, who had completed his training in Canada and was now in England. It brightened her week, though she was sorry he had not come to England in time to see her there.

 

In September the Republican government agreed to have wheat from the U.S. Government's Federal Surplus Commodities Corporation distributed under Quaker control. The Nationalist government had already agreed to this. The International Commission for the Assistance of Child Refugees in Spain was formed to administer contributions from governments, headed by a commissioner, but the actual distribution was carried out by existing organizations in the field. The Red Cross distributed it to the American Friends Service Committee, requiring affidavits to the effect that it was to be used only for the relief of the civilian population. The American Friends shared it with the British Friends. The wheat started arriving near the end of the year. The shipments were not as large as hoped, but were significant. They were, in their fashion, a godsend.

 

"Perhaps thee could bring some supplies in thy plane," she wrote to Lane. But the humor didn't work; there was precious little humor in war, to her mind.

 

One morning in November Quality drove a truck out toward a distant village near the Ebro River, southwest of Barcelona. There had been the sounds of artillery and bombing, but that had been almost continuous for months. She discovered that it had been the site of an artillary bombardment that the Friends had not known about. There was rubble across the streets, buildings had collapsed, and fires were blazing many places. A pall of smoke hung overall. It looked like a scene from Dante's Inferno. Or like her vision of Guernica. She had of course seen many bombed-out villages, but this was horribly fresh.

 

As she picked her way through the debris, she came up to the bodies. There was one in the middle of the road. She stopped and got out, thinking to help the man, but as she approached she saw that he was dead. He had to be, because half of his head was missing.

 

At first she couldn't believe it. But when she turned her face away, stunned, she saw an arm. No body, just the arm. Beyond it were other objects that had to be human because they were covered with blood.

 

Quality vomited before she even realized she was being sick. The stuff just spewed out of her and splashed on the drying blood on the road. Oddly, that made her feel better. Except that it was an unfortunate waste of food.

 

She wiped her mouth, then walked around the man, took hold of his feet, and hauled him off the road. Then she returned to the truck and resumed driving. She felt the diminution of her innocence. War was hell on innocence, as she was to write to Lane.

 

In the center of the village the people were trying to care for the survivors. The job seemed almost hopeless. Many of them were dying where they lay, and there was nothing to be done for them except to make them comfortable while their blood leaked out. There was no electric power in the village, and no running water, and whatever medical supplies were available were so phenomenally inadequate as to be a mockery. The village authorities were performing triage: determining whom to try to treat and whom to ignore because the injuries were slight or death was inevitable. It was the borderline cases that were the problem.

 

But through this hell came the children, hungry as they always were. Numbly, Quality helped serve them, and they were appreciative. When she had done what she could, and the main portion of the supplies were put away in the canteen she drove away, taking along three who could probably be saved by more competent bandaging and care in Barcelona. There was nothing else to do.

 

The battle line had been stable; now it collapsed. Yet the children had to be served, so the trucks went out on ever more limited rounds. Even so, it was dangerous. Quality heard the sound of airplanes, and ahead the bombs exploded. She pulled over to the side, hoping to wait out the raid, but she was in the wrong place. The planes came right over her, and the bombs landed on either side. She hunched down inside the truck as the detonations shook it. She was terrified. She knew that only chance separated her from eternity.

 

How had she gotten into such a situation? She, who deplored war and all the artifacts of war! Here she was, literally, in the middle of it. Yet she could not retrace her life and discern where she had gone wrong. She had done what she believed was best throughout, and she knew she had helped many children to survive. If God saw fit to punish her for that, it was nothing she understood.

 

Then the planes passed. It had seemed an eternity, but it had been perhaps only a minute. She had been spared, in body. Only her faith had been shaken.

 

She started the truck and put it in gear. She moved slowly forward, watching for bomb craters. This was after all a routine day.

 

But it was evident that the battle line was getting too close. The trucks were no longer allowed to go out.

 

Quality was now trapped in Barcelona. She had not intended to leave anyway, because there was too much need for her here, but the choice had been usurped by the advancing forces. She wanted to huddle deep in the building, fearing that the shells would crash amidst the city and the power would fail, but she made herself get out and help where she could. It was no longer food she dispensed, but medicine and first aid, sadly inadequate. Refugees were everywhere, dragging themselves on through the city, sleeping huddled on the street, some of them dying there from their injuries and exposure.

 

In January 1939 Barcelona surrendered without a fight. The Nationalists marched in and put on a victory parade, and all the people had to come out and cheer. Because any who did not would be deemed to be enemies.

 

Then it was worse. The Nationalists combed through the city, routing out all enemies real or suspected, and shot them. The women and children they left alone, if they did not try to interfere. An officer recognized Quality, or perhaps her Quaker emblem, and showed her the wounded Nationalist men being trucked in who needed attention. She was officially neutral, though her private sympathy had been with the Republicans. It was her business to help whoever needed it, and so she did what she could for these men too.

 

Perhaps it was just as well, for her loyalty to the new order was not questioned, and she was treated well. When she sought to load her truck with what supplies remained and drive to a village where children were in need--which was any and every village!--they did not prevent her. For her it was business as usual. "But it is a tearful business," she wrote to Lane. "The need is so much greater than the ability."

 

Thus it was that she made the transition. In the following days and weeks the shipments of food continued to come, and the Friends Service continued to distribute it to the children. Now it was done under Nationalist auspices. There was not enough for the need, but it was far better than nothing. Quality was doing what she had come to do: helping people in a peaceful way. Yet her heart was not easy. She had never imagined that there could be so much grief in the world, so pointlessly wreaked. It was as if she were putting little bits of salve on a man who was burning to death. Sometimes that was literally the case.

 

But soon this became academic. The new bureaucracy caught up with this minor aspect of things, and the Quakers were no longer allowed to distribute food directly. They had to turn their supplies over to the state relief organization, Asistencia Social. The state had to be responsible for everything. The canteens and shelters faded away. Quality was allowed to give parcels individually, and did what she could, but it was sadly inadequate.

 

Where was her idealism now? She had no suitable answer.

 

 

Chapter 4

Tötenkopf

 

There was no appropriate opening at a University at this time, as Ernst had expected; he had returned to Germany too late for a normal admission, and there were many applicants. He might have been eligible for a transfer from the American college, but his abrupt departure had rendered his credits there incomplete, and in any event they would have been regarded as inferior. So he would join military service, and he was satisfied to do this.

 

He did Krista the courtesy of discussing it with her. It was not that she had any better information than he did, or that there was any reason for her to have any control over his life. But he was seeing her now, and he wanted to work it out in his own mind, and she was happy to discuss anything with him. Her opinions were readily formed and fairly predictable; any exceptional thinking would have to be done elsewhere. But her actions were not at all predictable, and could be quite intriguing.

 

They walked through a park, having ridden their bicycles there and parked them at the edge. This was midsummer, and it was hot. They did not hold hands or otherwise touch. In America couples were frequently observed in physical contact, even kissing in public, but this was not that decadent land and the two of them were not creatures of the lower class. Both his family and hers were properly conservative. Public displays were not expected, and intimate contacts were properly reserved for marriage and privacy. Ernst had been taking a risk when he put his hand on her in the foyer, and she had been taking more of a risk by allowing it. Now their game of daring was over, and no contact since had been that extreme.

 

Krista was lovely in her light blouse and print skirt. He remained amazed at the transformation in her. It was not just that she had filled out spectacularly; she was hardly the only girl to do that. It was not that her face had cleared and become alluring in a way hardly hinted at before, though that certainly helped. Perhaps it was because of her change in hair style. Her fair hair now framed her face on its way to her shoulders, flattering it, almost molding it, and hiding its weaker aspects. But mostly it seemed to be her attitude. She had been eager and open; now she was more assertive and suggestive. That did wonders for her personality.

 

"So it must be the Wehrmacht or the SS," he said. "Which is better?"

 

"The Schutzstaffel," she said immediately "The SS, as it is called, the Order of the Death's Head. Its classy black uniform is wonderful, and it carries a tantalizing aura of mystery, power and terror. It is the organization that most specifically safeguards the welfare of our brave new Reich, and the very best people are members. But not the SS VT, the Verfügungstruppe, the troops. That's the lowest form of it. I don't think that's any better than the regular army. I don't want you marching through mud and getting your ears shot off."

 

He was impressed by her knowledge of the subject. He had not heard of that VT branch of the SS; it must have come into existence relatively recently. "I must admit that the notion of physical combat and random extinction on the battlefield does not appeal to me either," he said wryly. "I know that war will not be the civilized situation of a college wrestling match, wherein combatants shake hands at the finish. I prefer to serve in some capacity that utilizes my mind more than my muscles. Yet my choices are limited. If I join the elite SS, the lowly SS VT may be what they put me in. In that case, I might be better off in the Wehrmacht, the regular army, where I should qualify for officer's training."

 

"You could be an officer in the SS," she pointed out.

 

"With my incomplete education? Without NPEA or national service? I fear they would laugh me right out of the SS if I applied."

 

"But you have qualifications," she insisted. "Your father is a Party member with good connections. He could get you a commission."

 

That was possible, Ernst realized. But he wasn't satisfied. "I prefer to earn my own place, if I can."

 

"That's not the way it works," she argued. "You have to have connections. No one gets anywhere by merit alone. Do you think you were given command of your Youth group because of your ability or enthusiasm? Your father pulled a string. as mine did for me."

 

He sighed. It was true. Merit alone was not enough, because there were many meritorious young men and women. "Still, this is not an aspect of the system I like."

 

They entered a shelter. For the moment they were out of sight of anyone else, and unlikely to be disturbed by surprise. "You have to use what you have," she said, drawing him inside and into a corner. She pressed herself against him. "I did not like having to wheedle my father into making your father invite me to your house, but I did. I did not like letting you paw me, in order to get your attention, but I did. Because it was the only way. You don't have to like what you have to do to get your commission, but it's the only way. So do it."

 

"I am intrigued by your logic, but not convinced."

 

She took his hand and pressed it against her blouse, and the firm breast beneath. "What must I do to convince you?"

 

She had succeeded in startling him again, but he did not try to draw his hand away. That was a very fine and intriguing surface he felt. Her device might be crude, but it was effective. "You already have my attention, Krista; you don't have to let me paw you any more." Was she conscious of his irony? This time she was in effect pawing herself. Her objection was verbal, not literal.

 

"This time I want you to do what is right. I'm sure you don't want me to sully myself in the effort." She pressed his hand in more securely. The delight of that soft, intimate, suggestive contact leaped from his hand to his heart, making it beat as hard as if he were running. It was hard to maintain his equilibrium.

 

Was she making a promise, if he agreed to her way? It was persuasive, since he had already concluded that her course was the one he would have to follow. "Then I shall have to agree with you," he said. "But if this is your manner of persuasion, I hope to find many more differences to reconcile."

 

She smiled. "Perhaps, in good time." Then she gently drew his hand away and kissed him.

 

She had of course been trying to make a further impression on him, so that he would not be interested in other feminine company. She was succeeding. He knew better than to let himself fall in love with her, but she did excite and fascinate him, as she intended.

 

***

 

So it was that Ernst assembled the papers and made application for an officer's commission in the SS. Herr Best put in a quiet word where it counted, and in due course the word came: Ernst had been granted a provisional status of Untersturmführer, second lieutenant, in the SS, if he completed training successfully.

 

Of course it wasn't as simple as that. He still had two years of military service to do before receiving any such promotion. He would have to start in the SS VT, though he hoped not to remain there. But did mean that his course was marked, and that it was a good one.

 

In July he reported to the local SS station for training. Krista gave him a most passionate embrace and kiss, straining the limits of propriety, for it was in the sight of their families as they saw him to the building. But no one was in a position to protest, for Ernst was a good Nazi young man doing his duty, and Krista was a good Nazi young woman encouraging him in that, and their families were pleased that the two of them were keeping company. Anyway, their opportunities for further physical contact would be quite limited for the next few months.

 

He was issued a fine black SS uniform without patches; he was thus without rank or association. His belt buckle had an eagle, a swastika, and the SS motto "My honor is loyalty."

 

He was given a bunk in the dormitory, and instructed in the protocol of the facility. He had no problem with it; it was similar to his experience in the Hitler Youth.

 

Indeed, though he entered training well along in the annual cycle, he received a provisional SS pass, and was able to comport himself well. This was because not only had he had excellent prior experience, the instructors knew that an exception had been made for him because of a Party connection. They suspected that he was marked for some special service, and they wanted him to remember them with favor if his path crossed theirs at some later time. They knew that Reinhard Heydrich, the "blond beast" who commanded the SS, had once been cashiered as a naval officer, and now was possibly the most feared man in Germany. Surely the rotten bones of certain naval officers were trembling now! So, just in case Ernst Best was going any similar direction, they took care.

 

There was camping and marching and discipline, and Ernst enjoyed it. He was not a squad leader, having come in too late, but he was competent and dependable, and the squad he was in did well. He had to scramble to complete the qualifications for his sports badge, being short of time. It wasn't possible simply to take the examinations; he had to be personally trained by the certified instructors. Still, he managed to do well enough, because of his prior experience.

 

Grenade throwing was new to him, however, because these were live. That made all the difference! One of the others armed his grenade and dropped it; the instructor immediately picked it up and hurled it into the field. That was why those in training were not allowed to proceed alone. Ernst himself performed without error, but still felt uneasy. These things were dangerous! They were called "egg" grenades, because of their shape; there was a cap to be unscrewed, which gave access to a string; when the string was pulled, detonation occurred after five seconds. The ones they used had blue caps; they were warned that if they ever saw one with a red cap, to leave it alone, because it would have a one second fuse. That was the kind left behind for the enemy to find.

 

He also learned the SS catechism:

 

Why do we believe in Germany and the Führer?

 

Because we believe in God, we believe in Germany which He created in His world, and in the Führer, Adolf Hitler, whom He has sent us.

 

Whom must we primarily serve?

 

Our people and the Führer, Adolf Hitler.

 

Why do you obey?

 

From inner conviction, from belief in Germany, in the Führer, in the Movement and in the SS, and from loyalty.

 

It was easy for Ernst, because he needed no catechism to bolster his belief and loyalty. The ritual was beautiful and true.

 

The only thing that bothered him was religion. Ernst belonged to the Church, and his family had always belonged. He was not a devoted member, and there were things about religion he questioned, but he preferred that membership be a matter of personal decision rather than dictated by the state. Yet the candidates were pressured to renounce the Christian messages of tolerance and reconciliation as an effeminate, un-German, and even "Jewish" doctrine.

 

Each day on the drill field the command was given: "Anyone who has not yet left the Church take one step forward." The first day half the candidates stepped forward, Ernst among them. They were harangued for their backwardness and given disciplinary duties.

 

The next day when the call was made, only a quarter of the candidates took that step. Ernst remained among them.

 

So it continued from day to day, until only a handful remained. Ernst knew it would be easier not to take the step, because he really did not care that much about the Church. But he still did not like being forced to renounce it.

 

Then one day the other five candidates were put on adverse duty, but Ernst was excused. He went to the commander and inquired. "You are marked for better things," the officer told him. "The others are hopeless."

 

Ernst realized that the string his father had pulled was having further effect. If the authorities bore down on him too hard, or tried to drive him out, there could be unpleasant consequences for them. So they were excepting him.

 

But he refused to accept this. "If the others have done wrong, I have done the same," Ernst said firmly. "I must be punished in the same manner they are."

 

The man gazed at him for a long moment. "It is not your prerogative to establish company policy," he said. "Dismissed."

 

Ernst had to go, because he could not disobey a direct order. But instead of reporting back to his unit for regular activities, he went to the punishment detail. No one questioned this; it did not occur to the sergeant in charge that anyone would seek punishment he had not been assigned.

 

The word must have spread, however, because next morning there was no call-out. The remaining church members were allowed to proceed with the regular program.

 

Later, the sergeant who had been in charge of the punishment detail came to the barracks and paused at Ernst's bunk. "You have courage," he remarked, and moved on. But Ernst caught the momentary, tiny twitch of his lips. The man was pleased.

 

No one else said anything to him. But the subtle respect with which Ernst was treated increased. He had won the day, in a certain fashion.

 

On November 7 Ernst and the other candidates from all across Germany went south to Munich for the swearing in ceremony. But something strange and significant happened while they were traveling.

 

"Did you hear?" another candidate on the train demanded breathlessly. "Ernst von Rath has been shot by a Jew!"

 

Ernst thought at first that he was being teased, because of the first name. He had no idea who the victim was. But in the course of the following day, as they reached Munich and found their barracks, it came clear: he was the third secretary of the German Embassy in Paris. He was not a nationally known figure, but Goebbels, the minister of Propaganda, was spreading the word throughout Germany. A prominant leader had been treacherously murdered by the foul Jews!

 

Ernst was neutral concerning the Jews. He knew that Hitler did not like them, and Hitler's logic in Mein Kampf was persuasive. But Ernst had seen in America that Jews could be much like any other people. So it seemed best to move them out of Germany and have no further quarrel. But if they were now murdering government officials, that made the matter more serious. So he paid attention, and learned the background of this episode.

 

It seemed that one Herschel Grynspan was a Jew whose parents had been forceably relocated to the Polish border, in accordance with the program to move Jews elsewhere. Rather than accept the situation, it was suggested, he had assassinated the official who had made the decision. Of course Grynspan would be dealt with. Ernst knew that these things happened. But von Rath was in critical condition, and it was doubtful whether he would live. That was unfortunate for him.

 

But why was Goebbels making so much of this? It was as if the Jews had bombed Berlin and killed the Führer! Anger was building up throughout Germany. What was Goebbels up to?

However, Ernst had more important things to focus on. He had to be perfect for the ceremony on the ninth. It was the anniversary of the Munich "Beer Hall Putsch" of 1923, when Adolf Hitler and his Nazis invaded a political meeting in their attempt to seize the Bavarian government. But the people did not support the Nazis then, and the troops of the government opened fire as the Nazis marched into the heart of Munich, killing sixteen. Hitler and other leaders were tried and imprisoned. But though their effort was a failure, it attracted a great deal of attention to the movement, and thereafter it grew. So in the longer view, it really had not been a failure, but a necessary step.

 

 

Ernst was among those who watched the solemn ceremony as the remaining survivors of the Munich Putsch silently re-enacted their march through the city. Fifteen years had passed, but the solemn memory had grown rather than fading. Today the sixteen martyrs were interred in state in the collonaded Temple of Honor beside the ill-famed beer hall. The survivors marched by it, followed by a phalanx of those who had received the "Blood Order" award. Ernst felt a tear at his eye as the procession silently passed. This was a fitting recognition of those who had risked or given their lives on behalf of Nazism in the troubled early years.

 

Adolf Hitler himself was in Munich with the "Old Guard" leaders for the traditional dinner celebration in the town hall after the ceremanial re-enactment of the Munich Putsch. But in the afternoon the news came that Ernst von Rath was dead. It was reported that the Führer left the hall, visibly upset, without giving his address. Goebbels had to fill in. He gave a rousing speech urging the Old Guard fighters to start spontaneous demonstrations throughout Germany.

 

That evening was the official swearing in, at the Beer Hall itself. But as they marched there, they heard shouting and saw crowds roving through the streets. There was the smell of smoke. What was happening?

 

The commander halted the troop. "There are riots in the city," he announced. "Loyal citizens are destroying the property of the Jews." He scowled. "I have no sympathy for Jews, of course, but I dislike allowing mobs to rule. Our troops are forbidden to take any notice, either to participate or to resist the activity. Therefore we shall march on past without observing anything."

 

The march resumed. They went right past a store whose broad glass front had been smashed in, and whose contents had been strewn half across the street. "Looters!" the commander muttered with deep disgust, but the march did not pause.

 

By the time they reached the Beer Hall, the directive to restore order had gone out. The police were finally in the process of protecting Jewish property and businesses, and arresting looters. But of course it was too late; the damage of what was to become known as Crystal Night had been done.

 

The ceremony itself was deeply moving. It was by torchlight in front of the hall, and on each of the sixteen smoking obelisks was the name of one of the martyrs of National Socialism. A voice intoned each one of those names, and was answered by the chant of a thousand voices: "Here!"

 

Ernst felt the tears in his eyes again. Surely those heroes were indeed here in spirit, and had not died in vain!

 

            I swear to thee Adolf Hitler

            As Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich

            Loyalty and Bravery

            I vow to thee and to the superiors whom thou shalt appoint

            Obedience unto death

            So help me God

 

Ernst received his collar patches and permanent SS pass. Now he was ready to complete his term in the SS VT, before becoming a "full candidate" and taking the final oath to obey the law restricting marriage that the Reichführer SS had issued. He was granted leave, and went home to renew acquaintance with his family and Krista.

 

***

 

"You are so handsome in your dress uniform!" Krista exclaimed in the company of their families. "Let me take you out on the streets of Wiesbaden and show you off to all my friends."

 

But when she got him away from home, she took him instead to the park, which was deserted at this hour. In the shelter they had paused at before, she embraced him and kissed him passionately. "You really are stunning," she breathed. "We have so little time together."

 

He smiled. "Most of our association has been apart, anyway."

 

She drew her blouse from her waistband. "But much can be accomplished briefly."

 

What was she up to this time? "There is something to be accomplished?"

 

She took his hand and put it against her breast, under the loose blouse. The touch was electrifying. "There is something I want from you, Ernst."

 

"I fear it is something I will not want to give, or you would not be taking this approach."

 

She let his hand go and reached behind her back. Something loosened. Then she took his hand again and moved it to bare flesh. She had undone her halter! "I want to marry you," she said.

 

Yet again she had startled him. "Marriage! I'm not ready for that!"

 

"When you are allowed. I know you must complete your training. But when you do--"

 

"Krista, I love the feel of your flesh. But that is not reason to marry. The commitment--"

 

"I will give you the feel of all my flesh," she said evenly. "All that you want. Immediately. Here. If you will agree."

 

He was suspicious of this, despite the amazing effect of her breast in his hand. "Why?"

 

"Because I love you, as I always have."

 

He gave her a little squeeze, not so much for the pleasure of it but as a negation. "Your love is qualified. I ask again: why marriage?"

 

"As the wife of an officer, I will have status. I will not have to endure more training or to take some dull job to support myself. I will not have to remain in this dull town."

 

"You could marry some other officer."

 

"Oh come on, Ernst!" she snapped. "I gave you a practical reason because you asked for it. You're the only man I want. I'm afraid you will go away and meet someone else, who won't be as good for you." She took his hand again and moved it down to her waistband.

 

"So you will make a down payment on me now, to secure me for later marriage," he said. It did make a certain sense. It was not that he might meet another woman, but that she might not meet another man who suited her fancy.

 

"Anything you want, if you will commit," she agreed. She used her free hand to draw the waistband out, and started his hand down under it.

 

"But I might get shipped far away for years," he protested. "Perhaps killed. Where would you be then?"

 

"Then at least I will have had your love for this moment."

 

He stopped his hand. "No."

 

"I will do it," she argued. "You do not have to take my word. Everything is yours. Only promise."

 

"I will not promise. I am not ready to commit to marriage."

 

"Let me persuade you!" She tugged at his hand.

 

"How do you know I wouldn't lie to you, as men do, to obtain your body without marriage?"

 

She laughed. "The day you tell a lie, Ernst, the sky will crash about our heads."

 

He laughed too, but not much. "I hope never to test it. But too much is unknown. If I were ready and able to marry now, I would consider your proposal. But I am not, so I will not. Perhaps some later day I will. I do like you, Krista, and the thought of possessing your body threatens to drive me mad. But this is not the time."

 

She hesitated, then made a decision. "Then I will give it to you without your commitment. It is not right to tease you. Only keep me in mind, when--"

 

"No. That would be a tacit commitment."

 

"Then without any understanding at all," she said. "Please, Ernst--"

 

"You don't want to do this," he told her. "You want only my commitment, express or implied, and you know it will be there if I do this. If I marry you, then I will expect the delight of your body, and I do long for that delight. But I can not do this now. I will instead give you all the commitment possible for me now: I will keep you first in mind for marriage."

 

"I accept that." She caught his hand once again.

 

"No more hands," he said. "I give you this commitment without touching your body."

 

"Without?" Her eyes were big.

 

"Without. Now put yourself back together."

 

She proceeded to do that, seeming relieved. "I do love you, Ernst, more than ever now."

 

"I find you fascinating, but--"

 

She quickly put her finger against his lips. "That much is enough."

 

They resumed their walk. Ernst hoped never to tempted this strongly again. Krista's offer had been almost enough to destroy his better judgment.

 

Why was she so determined to have this commitment? She had had a crush on him when she was fifteen, but that should have passed. She certainly had discovered what effect her new body had on men; she had demonstrated uncanny competence in soliciting his desire. She could have another man if she wanted. At this stage Ernst did not see himself as the best of prospects. Yet she had fastened on him instantly and persistently. Perhaps that was part of his reason for demurring; he distrusted what he did not understand, and he did not fathom her motive. Surely she did like him, and did want to marry him, and would deliver on any promise relating to it that she made. But that could not be the whole story.

 

He did not think she would lie to him if he asked her the right question. But she was capable of avoiding that question. He would have to figure out what it was. Then he could decide.

 

***

 

Ernst was afraid that he would be assigned to the SS Regiment "Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler" in Berlin. That unit had a bad reputation. It had been commanded by Sepp Dietrich, but had been so inefficiently run that it was completely lacking in military discipline. The inspector of the SS VT, Major General Hauser, was a former Wehrmacht General, a traditional Prussian soldier who supported proper training and competence. But he had found it hard to implement his policies in the face of Dietrich's resistance. It was common gossip among the troops that Berlin was fit only for misfits.

 

But to Ernst's great relief he was assigned to the "Deutschland" regiment in Munich. This was commanded by Major Felix Steiner, one of the more remarkable officers in the SS. He had been a member of a Storm battalion in the World War: one of the elite units pulled from the front lines to break the deadly cycle of trench warfare. He was convinced that the future belonged tospecial groups which could strike with lightning-like rapidity and force, fragmenting the opposition, and then destroy the dislocated fragments. He had resigned from the Wehrmacht in the face of opposition to his theories and come to the SS, which had been starved for good officers. He had instituted his theories of training and command there with what was beginning to look like remarkable success. Ernst knew just enough of the Major's policies to be excited.

 

Steiner had done away with barracks drill, concentrating instead on athletics. He was turning his soldiers into cross-country experts of the hunter-athlete type. He had reduced the distinctions between enlisted men and officers, fostering camaraderie between them in the face of hardship. Unit Spirit was highly emphasized. Men and officers competed together. Doors were left open in the barracks. All future officers had to serve two years in the ranks, as Ernst himself was doing. Certainly they would not forget the concerns of the ordinary soldiers!

 

Ernst threw himself into the training with a will. He soon found himself in effective charge of a battle group, which was the basic unit of Steiner's force. Such groups were supposed to be well versed in military teamwork, but still capable of functioning as regiments. The theory seemed good to Ernst, but it was apparent that the unit--indeed, all of the SS VT--suffered from a lack of officers. In the past recruitment had been severely limited, because of the competitive influence of the Wehrmacht, and most of its recruits had come from rural areas. The same was true of its officers at every level. The units compensated for this with fanatical devotion and unity, but the lack was still felt. Thus anyone with good potential quickly rose to responsibility, and Ernst quickly became important.

 

Instead of the Wehrmacht's regulation rifles, they trained with more mobile and effective weapons, such as submachine guns, hand grenades and explosives. They dressed in camouflage instead of regulation field service uniforms. And they learned how to deploy rapidly. They were able to cover three kilometers in full gear in twenty minutes. That made the eyes of conventional units pop!

 

There was other things Ernst liked about Major Steiner, though he could not say so. The man gave Heinrich Himmler no respect, refused to marry, and refused to leave the Church. Ernst knew that Himmler was second only to Hitler in importance, but he was not a tenth the man Hitler was. Himmler was a pompous functionary, barely competent, and Ernst hoped never to encounter him directly. As for marriage--it was indeed expected of officers, but they had to choose approved brides, which greatly limited the romantic aspect. Ernst had been freshly reminded of this by Krista's proposal. Sometimes marriage just wasn't right for a man, and it was good to see a key officer asserting himself in this manner. Finally the matter of the Church: there were no harassing call-outs here. How could there be, when the Major openly espoused his Church membership?

 

So Ernst really liked this unit, and did all he could to make it a success.

 

Then Major Steiner summoned Ernst to his presence. "I have what I hope is not bad news for you, candidate," he said grimly. "You have been directed to appear before Reinhard Heydrich himself. The papers for your reassignment are now being processed."

 

"But I have done nothing!" Ernst protested, horrified.

 

"You have done everything to be the best SS soldier in my command," Steiner responded. "This I have told the Commander. I have begged him to allow you to complete your training with me. He will not relent. Perhaps he has a special assignment for you. I am not allowed to inquire."

 

"A special assignment," Ernst echoed. But what he felt was dread.

 

Steiner stood and proffered his hand. Silently, they shook hands.

 

***

 

Reinhard Heydrich was an impressive figure, tall and fit. His nose was long, his forehead high, his mouth was wide, his lips full, and his eyes were small and restless, yet possessed of uncanny power when they fell on a person. His voice was high and his speech staccato, almost nervous. He seemed hardly ever to complete a sentence, yet his meaning was quite clear. Ernst was awed by him.

 

"You were in America," Heydrich said, gesturing in a vaguely westward direction. His hands were long and slender, almost spiderlike in their thinness, but his eyes were predatory. Ernst's feeling of dread intensified. "You have friends there?"

 

So that was it! His year overseas had made him suspect. "Yes." Ernst would not have tried to lie, even if he had thought he could get away with it. This man would not be asking questions to which he did not already know the answers.

 

"Who?"

 

"Only one, sir, actually. An American who was open minded about foreigners. His name was Lane Dowling."

 

"No women?"

 

Ernst allowed himself a limited smile. "None there, sir. The American had a girlfriend whom I got to know, but my own girl is German."

 

"Name them."

 

"The American's girl was named Quality Smith. Mine is Krista--"

 

"What kind of name is that? Quality?"

 

"She is a Quaker. A small religious sect, of pacifist inclination. I believe that some of their names reflect such concerns."

 

Heydrich seemed to ponder a moment, as if finding this information significant. "How do you feel about the Jews?" he inquired abruptly.

 

So this related to the Jews! Ernst's American contact with them must have returned to haunt him. "Sir, I am a loyal German and Nazi."

 

Heydrich smiled. "You are evasive. Answer in detail."

 

He was stuck for it. "I have no special feeling about the Jews. I knew some in America, and they appeared to be like ordinary people. I did not inquire more closely."

 

"You do not hate Jews?" Heydrich asked sharply.

 

"I neither love nor hate them, sir."

 

"Then how can you be a good Nazi?" Heydrich barked.

 

Shaken, Ernst fell back on his most private faith. "My believe in Nazism is independent of the existence of Jews. I believe in the Nazi principles of racial purity, anti-Communism, subservience of the individual to the needs of the state, and personal devotion to the Führer. As a troop leader in the Hitler Youth I met the great man himself, and he spoke to me and shook my hand. I watched Triumph of the Will, the greatest motion picture of all time, the perfect expression of the Nazi way. Since then, in times of private stress or doubt, I have used the swastika as my object of meditation, and it has given me spiritual renewal. It is to my mind an icon of God and a symbol of the Volk, the true spirit of the German people. It helped me cope with the strange customs of the Americans." He drew out the silver swastika he always wore.

 

"You refused to renounce the Church. You still believe in a Christian God." It was an accusation.

 

"I believe that God expresses His will through Hitler and the Nazi party. I see no need to renounce the Church, which also supports God and therefore the things of God, including the Nazi party."

 

"So you are saying you would not renounce the Church because that would have implied a partial renunciation of Hitler?"

 

"To a degree, sir. But I also felt that a true Nazi will not allow himself to be browbeaten by inconsequentials. I and the other Candidates were serving loyally; our Church membership or lack of it had no bearing on that."

 

"You would have capitulated, if it had not been for the others," Heydrich said. "You were trying to spare them."

 

The man had uncanny insight. "It is true."

 

"Your woman. Why is she so eager?"

 

Was there nothing this man did not know? "I am in doubt."

 

"Could she have Jewish ancestry?"

 

Ernst was startled. That had never occurred to him, but it could indeed explain Krista's attitude. If there were a suspicion of Jewishness, to be hidden behind the status of being an officer's wife--but no. It did not make sense. Because any woman an officer married would be subject to the most intense scrutiny, her family tree explored for six generations back. The prospect of marriage would increase the risk of discovery, not decrease it. "I doubt it, sir."

 

"But you are not sure. So you declined to marry her, until it is known."

 

"I declined to commit to marry her because I am not at the stage at which marriage is an option for me."

 

"But if she were a Jew--"

 

Ernst caught on. "She is not."

 

"How so suddenly sure?"

 

"Because you would not be teasing me, cat and mouse, if you did not know. You have traced her lineage and exonerated her. But I will answer: I would not condemn her were she a Jew, but I would not marry her."

 

"If the machine gun were in your hands, and Jews before you, would you fire?"

 

"I would if so ordered. But that would be a task not at all to my liking."

 

"There does seem to be a softness in you concerning Jews. What would you have us do with them?"

 

"I would have us facilitate their departure from Germany. I see no reason to harm them."

 

"What of the Gypsies?"

 

"They are harmless, but they too should leave."

 

Heydrich's eyes bore piercingly at him. "The fourth generation, on her mother's side. The suspicion of Gypsism, unconfirmed."

 

Again Ernt was startled. "Krista?"

 

"Would you marry a Gypsy?"

 

So that was what made Krista so anxious! She feared that she might have some Gypsy ancestry, and that it would make her unsuitable for a good marriage. So she wanted to seal the marriage first. "The suspicion might be unfounded."

 

"It might. There seems to be no way to tell, given the quality of the old records. It could be a false alarm. In any event, there is no need for anyone to know. You can marry her if you choose."

 

Ernst realized that the man's ploy was not finished. "What do you want of me?"

 

Heydrich smiled, and this time it seemed genuine. "Merely your loyalty."

 

"I am loyal to the Führer and to the--"

 

"Of course. And to me. For the sake of that lovely girl."

 

Now Ernst remembered something else that had been whispered about Heydrich. He liked to get evil information on his subordinates--perhaps on his superiors too--with which to blackmail them, so that they could not do any evil to Heydrich. That way the man could trust his people to serve his interest. He had gone to the trouble to find Ernst's vulnerability--which Ernst himself had not known about, before this interview.

 

"You have an assignment for me," Ernst said, realizing that this was why he had been summoned here. He felt relief rather than dread, now.

 

"You are quick to comprehend. That is one reason I selected you."

 

Ernst nodded. It was amazing that it was not his ability or dedication that had qualified him for Heydrich's attention, but his hidden vulnerability. Yet this was a far better outcome than he had feared.

 

"You speak Spanish."

 

"German, English, Spanish," Ernst agreed. "I am not truly expert in--"

 

"It will do. What do you know of Admiral Canaris?"

 

Yet another surprise. What could any mission of his have to do with that eminent person? "He is head of the Abwehr, the military intelligence service. I am sure he is qualified and competent."

 

"Certainly. But is he completely loyal to the cause?"

 

"I would not presume to question the loyalty of an admiral!"

 

"Nor would I," Heydrich responded easily. "But it seems that it does fall on me to verify it. For that I need a skilled, trustworthy, and unknown agent. One who speaks Spanish. One who is ultimately loyal to me."

 

"But the Admiral--" Ernst protested, aghast.

 

Heydrich leaned forward, and his eyes were mesmeric in their intensity. "I know the Admiral, and respect him personally. I was once under his command, on a training vessel in the Navy."

 

Ernst was suffering dawning horror. "And you were expelled from the Navy--"

 

Heydrich laughed. "I left the navy, but through no doing of Admiral Canaris's. He was a good and fair commander, and he taught me much. Perhaps I am now in Intelligence because of him. We are friends. But there is a question which must be resolved. Were there any betrayal by any person is a position as critical as his, the security of the Reich itself could be seriously compromised. We can not allow any chance of that. We must be certain."

 

"But I have no notion--I could not--"

 

"Canaris is a nice man," Heydrich continued relentlessly. "He tends to be easygoing and gentle, and he has too great an affinity for peace to be entirely trustworthy in the eyes of some." His eyes flicked upward, and Ernst felt a chill, realizing that the man was obliquely referring to his own superiors, Himmler or Hitler himself. This was truly critical! "But he is too important to be challenged without ironclad evidence against him. So we must seek that evidence, to convict him or to clear him beyond doubt."

 

Now those hawklike eyes bore on Ernst again. "You will be my agent in this matter. I hope you are able to exonerate my friend." But those eyes were as cold as those of the death's head itself. The man wanted the truth, whatever it was, and he would act on it.

 

And Ernst would have to get that truth.

 

 

Chapter 5

England

 

Lane felt unbearably lonely after leaving Quality. He wished there had been some other way. But he had known her attitude about violence and war from the outset, so in that sense he had brought it on himself. It was as if he had now separated from his better self.

 

His flight testing was in Ottawa. First he had to pass an extremely thorough physical examination. He had never enjoyed such things, but knew he would do well, because he was in excellent health. He was correct.

 

They brought him to an American-built plane, a bright yellow Harvard. This was heavier and faster than anything he had flown before; its top speed was 210 miles per hour, and it had wing flaps.

 

The instructor saw him gazing at it. "Think you can handle it, mate?"

 

"Oh, yes," Lane said quickly. "But not letter perfect."

 

"That's why I'm along. I'll take her up, then you'll try it. If you get confused, don't bluff; tell me. We want to come down safely too, you know."

 

Lane suspected that the man thought he would be incompetent. He hoped to refute that. But he could indeed make mistakes. He would much rather suffer embarrassment than a crash!

 

The plane was equipped with duel controls, so that the trainer could take over at any moment. He took off, leveled it, and turned to Lane. "Take her, mate."

 

Lane took it. He had been watching carefully, getting the feel of the craft. It was bigger, but not essentially different from the light sports planes he had flown. The underlying principles were the same. In a moment he had the feel of it, as it his nerves were extending out to the wing-tips and tail assembly.

 

"Bank her left," the trainer said.

 

Lane did so. Now the feel was different; the response was somewhat alien. But he was catching on to it. It was like shifting gears on a new car: it was apt to be jerky until the left foot got the precise feel of the clutch, but then it was smooth. Unless the gearbox was balky, as some were. Minimum experimentation could get it straight.

 

"Barrel roll."

 

Lane went into the slow roll; this was familiar to him, and it helped him gain further understanding of the machine.

 

"Chandelle."

 

This was a shift to the side and a climbing turn. It was a maneuver used to get out from under an attacking fighter plane, and with luck reverse the advantage.

 

"Can you loop the loop?" the trainer asked after routine maneuvers were done.

 

Lane laughed. "Maybe you could, in this plane. I wouldn't try, and I'd rather be on the ground before you do."

 

"Lost your nerve, mate?"

 

"You bet. I don't know much about this airplane, but I just don't think its built for that kind of stress. I'm not suicidal. Give me a plane I know can do it without sheering a wing, and I'll try it. I love to do tricks, if I'm sure of the limits."

 

"Stand by, then." The man took the controls, sent the plane into a small dive, then brought it up into the steep climb of the loop. Lane saw where he had misjudged it: this was a faster plane than he was familiar with, and it could go farther up without stalling. It could indeed do the loop.

 

The trainer brought it over the top and back down, completing the circle. "Your turn, mate."

 

Good enough. Now Lane had confidence in the craft, and he had noted the velocities and attack angles as the loop was performed. He emulated these as well as he could, and managed a somewhat less stable loop.

 

The man nodded. "You'll do, mate. Take her down."

 

Lane realized that he had already passed his flying test. Nobody wanted a fool as a pilot, but in battle there had to be nerve and competence, not argument. He had balked at the loop for the right reason, and come through when satisfied that the plane was up to it. He oriented carefully on the landing strip and started down.

 

"The flaps, mate."

 

Oh. "I've never had flaps before. Maybe you'd better--"

 

"I'll talk you through it."

 

But Lane knew the man would never have let him try the landing, if he had not been almost certain he could do it. This was a significant vote of confidence.

 

His landing was a trifle wobbly, because of the unfamiliar drag of the flaps, but he followed directions implicitly and made it without event. Only as the wheels touched the pavement did he become conscious of his underlying feeling. It was exhilaration.

 

Next he reported to the Air Ministry Headquarters in Ottawa for a series of personal interviews. He had to submit several letters of reference from officials in his home town. He had come prepared, and had them with him. The background check took several days.

 

"You made friends with a Nazi?" the interviewer asked him sharply.

 

Oops. "Ernst Best, a German exchange student. His father worked for the German Embassy here, so he took two years of college. It happened to be where I was going. I befriended him. We always did disagree on politics."

 

"Suppose you come up against him in another plane?"

 

"No way. He's not interested in flying. He does gliding, but otherwise he's landbound."

 

"What was your interest in a Nazi?"

 

"None. I didn't care about his politics. Every person is a creature of his own society. In Russia they are Communists, in Germany they are Nazis. They'd be traitors if they weren't. I don't much like either brand of politics. But when one is taken out of his culture, he's different, and my sympathy is for those who are different."

 

"Why?"