QB VII by Leon Uris

how poor I was when I got to Warsaw? For my first two years my room was a large closet, and my bed was of rags. I had to lock myself in the bathroom in order to have a place to study. I waited and waited to gain admittance to the university but there was no room because the Jews lied about themselves to find ways around the quota system. You think a quota system is wrong. If there hadn’t been one they would have bought every seat in every classroom. They are cunning beyond imagination. The Jewish professors and teachers tried to control every facet of university life. Always pushing their way in. I joined the Nationalist Students Movement, proudly, because it was a way to combat them. And afterwards, it was always a Jewish doctor getting the prime positions. Well, my father drank himself to death and my mother worked her way to an early grave paying off the Jewish money-lender. All the way to the end, I stood for my Polish nationalism and because of it I have been driven to hell.”
    The boy looked at his mentor. Terry was disgusted with himself. He could see Adam Kelno tenderly calming a frightened Ulu child and reassuring the mother. Dear Lord, it wasn’t possible for Dr. Kelno to use medicine wrongly.
    The Holocaust lay on the desk. A thick gray-covered volume with the lettering of the title and the author’s name in red portraying devouring flames.
    “No doubt the author is a Jew,” Adam said.
    “Yes.”
    “Well, no matter. I’ve been mentioned in other books by them.”
    “But this is different. It has hardly been published and already a half a dozen people have asked me about it. It’s only a matter of time until some journalist digs it up. With you knighted it will make a hell of a story.”
    Angela appeared in a dowdy bathrobe.
    “What am I to do,” he said, “flee to some jungle again?”
    “No. Stand and fight. Stop the sale of this book and show the world that the author is a liar.”
    “You’re young and very innocent, Terry.”
    “Along with my father you’re everything to me, Dr. Kelno. Did you spend fifteen years in Sarawak just for the privilege of carrying this mark to your grave?”
    “Do you have any idea of what this involves?”
    “I must ask you, Doctor, is there any truth to this at all?”
    “How dare you!” Angela cried. “How dare you say that!”
    “I don’t believe it either. Can I help you fight it?”
    “Are you quite ready for the scandal and the barrage of professional liars they’ll parade into the courts? Are you quite certain the honorable thing to do is not to hold our silence with dignity?” Angela said.
    Terrence shook his head and walked from the room to hold back the tears.
    Much beer and gin were consumed by Terry’s mates and many bawdy songs were sung and many of the world’s consuming issues were argued with a righteous wrath reserved for the young.
    Terry had a key to Dr. Kelno’s clinic a few blocks from the house, and after hours his chums dispensed of other frustrations by love-making with numerous young ladies on the examination table and the overnight cots amid the smell of medical disinfectants. A minor discomfort.
    Christmas came and turkeys and geese were devoured and each guest opened a modest but well-chosen and humorous gift Dr. Kelno opened a number of worthless but sentimental offerings from his patients.
    It all seemed Christmasy enough and the visitors were unable to detect the underlying tension. They returned to Oxford filled with the cheer.
    Terry and Adam said good-by with reserve. The train pulled out Angela slipped her arm through her husband’s as they left the Victorian loftiness of Paddington Station.
    A week passed, then two and three. The listlessness of the student was matched by the listlessness and short temper of Adam Kelno.
    It was the longest period of time the two had ever been out of communication.
    And he was filled with the memory of the dugout struggling up the Lemanak with Stephan at the tiller and Terry on the