themselves with goose grease and sew themselves up in their underwear for the winter. I won’t have it.”
They left Rügen that night and, after two hours of packing in Berlin, boarded the Paris express with two bags apiece. Hubbard rolled Zaentz’s drawing of Lori into a
tube and carried it in his hand. It was important not to look overburdened, like refugees.
After that, everything happened very quickly. At the frontier, an officer of the Gestapo entered their compartment. Like the Dandy, he was absorbed in the stamps in the Christophers’
passports. He read out their names.
“Two American citizens, one German citizen, father, mother, and son,” he said.
“That is correct.”
“You will come with me.”
As they followed, the man from the Gestapo strode over the station platform, the mills of the Saarland filled the evening sky with flame and smoke. The night air smelled like scorched wool.
“They have lower standards of dress down here,’ Lori said, nodding at the wrinkles in the back of the Gestapo man’s ill-fitting jacket.
There was only one chair in the policeman’s office. He sat in it and studied the passports for several moments.
“You’re going into France. Why?” he asked at last.
“For a holiday.”
“What sort of holiday? You will walk, swim, what?”
“Some of everything, no doubt.”
Hubbard did the talking. He held Lori’s arm firmly, to keep her quiet.
“Also sailing?”
The Gestapo man’s head snapped back as he spoke these words, as if he expected to detect a look of guilt on Hubbard’s face. Hubbard gave him his genial smile.
An assistant came in, carrying the tube containing Zaentz’s drawing of Lori. The Gestapo man opened it.
“That is personal property,” Lori said.
“Yes?”
With great sarcasm, the Gestapo man tapped the end of the tube on the desk and removed the drawing. He unrolled it and held it at arm’s length.
“Why are you attempting to smuggle this out of Germany?” he asked.
“One does not smuggle a work of art,” Lori said.
“A work of art? ”
His contemptuous eyes ran up and down Lori’s body, comparing her to the pregnant smiling girl in the drawing.
He opened the two American passports and stamped them; then he wrote at length on the stamped pages, signed with a flourish, and placed another, smaller stamp beneath his signature. He handed
the two American passports to Hubbard.
“Kindly read the entries I have made.”
Hubbard found the pages and read what the Gestapo man had written there.
“This says that my son and I are expelled from Germany. For what reason?”
“It is not necessary to state the reason.”
Lori stirred. Hubbard could feel the anger in her. Paulus was right—she was stupid about danger. There was great danger here. He tightened his grip on her arm.
“When may we reenter Germany?”
The Gestapo man did not respond; his business with Hubbard was over. He must have rung a concealed bell. Four uniformed men, ordinary frontier police, had already come into the room. It was a
hot night; the odor of sweat-stained wool was very strong.
“You will leave now,” the Gestapo man said. “These men will escort you to the train.”
Lori held out her hand. “My passport, please.”
The Gestapo man did not look at Lori. Her passport lay on the desk, between his hands.
“This woman will remain in Germany,” he said. “You have one minute to make your good-byes.”
“What do you mean, remain in Germany? ” Hubbard said.
“You’re wasting your one minute,” the Gestapo man said.
“Go, Hubbard,” Lori said.
“I demand to speak to the American consul,” Hubbard said.
“The American authorities will be informed of your expulsion. Now you must leave Germany.”
“Without my wife?”
“Your wife is a German citizen. She may not leave Germany at this time.”
“Go,” Lori said.
“No,” Hubbard said in English. “Paul, kiss your mother. Get on the train. As soon as you cross the
They left Rügen that night and, after two hours of packing in Berlin, boarded the Paris express with two bags apiece. Hubbard rolled Zaentz’s drawing of Lori into a
tube and carried it in his hand. It was important not to look overburdened, like refugees.
After that, everything happened very quickly. At the frontier, an officer of the Gestapo entered their compartment. Like the Dandy, he was absorbed in the stamps in the Christophers’
passports. He read out their names.
“Two American citizens, one German citizen, father, mother, and son,” he said.
“That is correct.”
“You will come with me.”
As they followed, the man from the Gestapo strode over the station platform, the mills of the Saarland filled the evening sky with flame and smoke. The night air smelled like scorched wool.
“They have lower standards of dress down here,’ Lori said, nodding at the wrinkles in the back of the Gestapo man’s ill-fitting jacket.
There was only one chair in the policeman’s office. He sat in it and studied the passports for several moments.
“You’re going into France. Why?” he asked at last.
“For a holiday.”
“What sort of holiday? You will walk, swim, what?”
“Some of everything, no doubt.”
Hubbard did the talking. He held Lori’s arm firmly, to keep her quiet.
“Also sailing?”
The Gestapo man’s head snapped back as he spoke these words, as if he expected to detect a look of guilt on Hubbard’s face. Hubbard gave him his genial smile.
An assistant came in, carrying the tube containing Zaentz’s drawing of Lori. The Gestapo man opened it.
“That is personal property,” Lori said.
“Yes?”
With great sarcasm, the Gestapo man tapped the end of the tube on the desk and removed the drawing. He unrolled it and held it at arm’s length.
“Why are you attempting to smuggle this out of Germany?” he asked.
“One does not smuggle a work of art,” Lori said.
“A work of art? ”
His contemptuous eyes ran up and down Lori’s body, comparing her to the pregnant smiling girl in the drawing.
He opened the two American passports and stamped them; then he wrote at length on the stamped pages, signed with a flourish, and placed another, smaller stamp beneath his signature. He handed
the two American passports to Hubbard.
“Kindly read the entries I have made.”
Hubbard found the pages and read what the Gestapo man had written there.
“This says that my son and I are expelled from Germany. For what reason?”
“It is not necessary to state the reason.”
Lori stirred. Hubbard could feel the anger in her. Paulus was right—she was stupid about danger. There was great danger here. He tightened his grip on her arm.
“When may we reenter Germany?”
The Gestapo man did not respond; his business with Hubbard was over. He must have rung a concealed bell. Four uniformed men, ordinary frontier police, had already come into the room. It was a
hot night; the odor of sweat-stained wool was very strong.
“You will leave now,” the Gestapo man said. “These men will escort you to the train.”
Lori held out her hand. “My passport, please.”
The Gestapo man did not look at Lori. Her passport lay on the desk, between his hands.
“This woman will remain in Germany,” he said. “You have one minute to make your good-byes.”
“What do you mean, remain in Germany? ” Hubbard said.
“You’re wasting your one minute,” the Gestapo man said.
“Go, Hubbard,” Lori said.
“I demand to speak to the American consul,” Hubbard said.
“The American authorities will be informed of your expulsion. Now you must leave Germany.”
“Without my wife?”
“Your wife is a German citizen. She may not leave Germany at this time.”
“Go,” Lori said.
“No,” Hubbard said in English. “Paul, kiss your mother. Get on the train. As soon as you cross the
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