frontier, send telegrams to the American consuls in Saarbrücken and
Berlin, to Paulus, and to Elliott. Here.”
Hubbard handed Paul his wallet, full of Reichsmarks worth four to the dollar. In Germany, the currency was normal again.
Lori kissed Paul. “Remember everything,” she said. “Go.”
Paul hesitated. In English his mother said, “Don’t say good-bye. Don’t obey them in anything.”
“Now,” Hubbard said to the Gestapo man, “I demand to see your superior officer.”
The Gestapo man’s hands were flat on the desk. He lifted his right index finger, the smallest possible gesture. One of the policemen hit Hubbard on the right kidney with his baton. Another
looped a chain around Hubbard’s thumb and twisted. A third seized him by the arm and twisted it to his shoulder blades. The last policeman stood, legs spread, baton held across his thighs,
and nodded to Paul.
Lori’s eyes were on him. She spoke English again. “Control your face,” she said. “They mustn’t make you feel anything.”
The policemen walked Hubbard, doubled over in pain, and Paul, who stood upright, out of the room.
Paul turned, to look for a last time at Lori. Nothing showed on her face, not even love for him and Hubbard. She shook her head, forbidding him again to say good-bye, forbidding him to let these
thugs see that they had touched his emotions.
“Mutti,” he said, unable to help himself.
“No good-byes,” Lori said. But at the last second she, too, weakened, and spoke his name.
The fourth policeman struck Paul on the elbow with his baton. When he neither moved nor flinched, he hit him on the other elbow, and because he was blinded by pain, Paul did not see his mother
again.
In later years, when he tried to remember every detail of this moment, he was always surprised that everything had been so ordinary. Apart from the blows, there was practically nothing to
remember except that his mother, knowing that she would never see him again, knowing that she was almost surely going to her death, had not been afraid. She had never been afraid.
— 12 —
On Friday, September 1, 1939, the day that Paul and Hubbard Christopher left Germany, the Wehrmacht invaded Poland. Two days later, France declared war on Germany.
Communications between the two countries ceased.
They went to Strasbourg, because there was an American consulate there. There were troops everywhere, dark-jawed, unkempt, unsmiling. Unlike the pink-faced German soldiery, who never seemed
happier than when they were in ranks, the French did not sing as they marched. Nothing Paul had heard at school about French military glory, or at Berwick on the same subject, had prepared him for
these files of sallow, resentful men tramping through the streets of Strasbourg toward the Rhine.
Fourteen days passed before a message arrived from Paulus. In all that time, Hubbard did not speak a word except during his daily visits to the post office and the consulate. At last the consul
handed Hubbard Paulus’s telegram, transmitted from the American embassy in Berlin: No word from Lori since your departure. Am making inquiries through army channels , unfruitfully so
far. Imprisonment possible. Under no circumstances enter Germany yourself. Remaining in France will intensify suspicion. Strongly advise return to the United States in neutral ship. All messages
hereafter will be sent in care of your cousin.
A regiment of infantry marched past the consulate as Hubbard read Paulus’s message, and the sound of thudding feet came through the open window.
“This whole episode may not last very long,” the consul said. “France is stronger than Germany. Remember the Maginot Line. They have the Jerries outnumbered five to one
on the western front, and of course Britain is in it too.” He smiled at Hubbard. “The Polish Army is supposed to be very brave,” he said.
But the French, with more than one hundred divisions facing only twenty-three German divisions in
Berlin, to Paulus, and to Elliott. Here.”
Hubbard handed Paul his wallet, full of Reichsmarks worth four to the dollar. In Germany, the currency was normal again.
Lori kissed Paul. “Remember everything,” she said. “Go.”
Paul hesitated. In English his mother said, “Don’t say good-bye. Don’t obey them in anything.”
“Now,” Hubbard said to the Gestapo man, “I demand to see your superior officer.”
The Gestapo man’s hands were flat on the desk. He lifted his right index finger, the smallest possible gesture. One of the policemen hit Hubbard on the right kidney with his baton. Another
looped a chain around Hubbard’s thumb and twisted. A third seized him by the arm and twisted it to his shoulder blades. The last policeman stood, legs spread, baton held across his thighs,
and nodded to Paul.
Lori’s eyes were on him. She spoke English again. “Control your face,” she said. “They mustn’t make you feel anything.”
The policemen walked Hubbard, doubled over in pain, and Paul, who stood upright, out of the room.
Paul turned, to look for a last time at Lori. Nothing showed on her face, not even love for him and Hubbard. She shook her head, forbidding him again to say good-bye, forbidding him to let these
thugs see that they had touched his emotions.
“Mutti,” he said, unable to help himself.
“No good-byes,” Lori said. But at the last second she, too, weakened, and spoke his name.
The fourth policeman struck Paul on the elbow with his baton. When he neither moved nor flinched, he hit him on the other elbow, and because he was blinded by pain, Paul did not see his mother
again.
In later years, when he tried to remember every detail of this moment, he was always surprised that everything had been so ordinary. Apart from the blows, there was practically nothing to
remember except that his mother, knowing that she would never see him again, knowing that she was almost surely going to her death, had not been afraid. She had never been afraid.
— 12 —
On Friday, September 1, 1939, the day that Paul and Hubbard Christopher left Germany, the Wehrmacht invaded Poland. Two days later, France declared war on Germany.
Communications between the two countries ceased.
They went to Strasbourg, because there was an American consulate there. There were troops everywhere, dark-jawed, unkempt, unsmiling. Unlike the pink-faced German soldiery, who never seemed
happier than when they were in ranks, the French did not sing as they marched. Nothing Paul had heard at school about French military glory, or at Berwick on the same subject, had prepared him for
these files of sallow, resentful men tramping through the streets of Strasbourg toward the Rhine.
Fourteen days passed before a message arrived from Paulus. In all that time, Hubbard did not speak a word except during his daily visits to the post office and the consulate. At last the consul
handed Hubbard Paulus’s telegram, transmitted from the American embassy in Berlin: No word from Lori since your departure. Am making inquiries through army channels , unfruitfully so
far. Imprisonment possible. Under no circumstances enter Germany yourself. Remaining in France will intensify suspicion. Strongly advise return to the United States in neutral ship. All messages
hereafter will be sent in care of your cousin.
A regiment of infantry marched past the consulate as Hubbard read Paulus’s message, and the sound of thudding feet came through the open window.
“This whole episode may not last very long,” the consul said. “France is stronger than Germany. Remember the Maginot Line. They have the Jerries outnumbered five to one
on the western front, and of course Britain is in it too.” He smiled at Hubbard. “The Polish Army is supposed to be very brave,” he said.
But the French, with more than one hundred divisions facing only twenty-three German divisions in
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