the west, did not attack. Warsaw fell on September 28.
The next day, Paulus sent another message through the American consul: No word. No trace. Your presence in an enemy country is a danger to your wife and child. Go to America at once .
— 13 —
On the voyage across the Atlantic, Hubbard stopped speaking even to Paul. Paul sat in silence with him in the cabin and walked silently by his side as he circled the deck,
making as many as a hundred circuits in the early morning before the other passengers were up. He had the eerie thought that, huge as Hubbard was, some even larger being, insane with anger, was
struggling to burst through his skin in a shower of blood.
Paul was absolutely certain that his mother was dead, perfectly sure that she had been tortured before she died. He remembered the look in the Dandy’s eyes as he stared at her breasts as
he climbed down Mahican ’s ladder. The Gestapo man at the frontier, looking at Zaentz’s drawing, had had the same look. All his life, Paul had heard about his mother’s
beauty; he knew what beauty meant to men like the Dandy. For the first time in his life, he hid his feelings from Hubbard. He realized that he was, in some way that he could not control, obeying
his mother’s orders not to let others see his emotions. He dreamed about Lori constantly. In his dreams she drowned, she fell from great heights, she sailed like a kite among clouds. Each
time she died, he tried to say good-bye, and each time, she laid a finger on his lips. He woke up sobbing. Hubbard, who never slept, heard him, but he never spoke to him across the dark cabin.
In New York, Elliott Hubbard met them on the pier.
“What word from Paulus?” Hubbard asked, his first spoken words in more than a week.
“Nothing,” Elliott said. “I would have cabled the ship if he had sent any word at all. Wouldn’t Lori have gone straight to Paulus?”
“Yes,” Hubbard said.
Elliott took them to the house on Ninety-third Street that he had bought on his marriage. Alice had given birth to a son called Horace. “No surprises,” she said, dismissing the
experience. “He’s all Hubbard. How did you escape, Paul? Your mother must have amazing genes.” This was her only reference to Lori.
Alice chattered incessantly, describing the strange friends Elliott had brought to the Harbor that summer. “This was our summer for bizarre Englishmen,” she said. “They were
all rabidly anti-German. Good thing you weren’t there, Paul, as you’re half German; they would have run you through.” Hubbard listened to her, unsmiling, unspeaking.
In the library after dinner, Elliott poured brandy from a decanter and handed a glass to Hubbard. Hubbard took the glass, then put it down, untouched.
“Hubbard,” Elliott said, “what are you going to do?”
Hubbard responded in a strong voice, as if the answer to Elliott’s question was so obvious that it hadn’t needed asking.
“I’m going to find my wife,” Hubbard said.
“Where do you think she is?”
“In prison.”
“You think it’s possible to find her?”
“I don’t know.”
“And if you find her, do you think it’s possible to get her out of a country at war—especially if that country is Germany?”
“It’ll be very difficult.”
Hubbard was speaking in a toneless voice. There was no more expression on his face than in his voice.
Elliott picked up Hubbard’s brandy glass and gave it to him again. “Drink that,” he said. Obediently, Hubbard did so. Elliott took the glass out of his hand. “Now,”
Elliott said, “how do you plan to get into Germany?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why do you think? So that I can help you.”
“Sail, walk, parachute,” Hubbard said. “Once I get inside the country I’ll be all right. Nobody can tell from my speech that I’m not a German.”
“You’ll have no papers. You’re six feet four inches tall. Do you think the Germans won’t know you’re there?”
Hubbard did
The next day, Paulus sent another message through the American consul: No word. No trace. Your presence in an enemy country is a danger to your wife and child. Go to America at once .
— 13 —
On the voyage across the Atlantic, Hubbard stopped speaking even to Paul. Paul sat in silence with him in the cabin and walked silently by his side as he circled the deck,
making as many as a hundred circuits in the early morning before the other passengers were up. He had the eerie thought that, huge as Hubbard was, some even larger being, insane with anger, was
struggling to burst through his skin in a shower of blood.
Paul was absolutely certain that his mother was dead, perfectly sure that she had been tortured before she died. He remembered the look in the Dandy’s eyes as he stared at her breasts as
he climbed down Mahican ’s ladder. The Gestapo man at the frontier, looking at Zaentz’s drawing, had had the same look. All his life, Paul had heard about his mother’s
beauty; he knew what beauty meant to men like the Dandy. For the first time in his life, he hid his feelings from Hubbard. He realized that he was, in some way that he could not control, obeying
his mother’s orders not to let others see his emotions. He dreamed about Lori constantly. In his dreams she drowned, she fell from great heights, she sailed like a kite among clouds. Each
time she died, he tried to say good-bye, and each time, she laid a finger on his lips. He woke up sobbing. Hubbard, who never slept, heard him, but he never spoke to him across the dark cabin.
In New York, Elliott Hubbard met them on the pier.
“What word from Paulus?” Hubbard asked, his first spoken words in more than a week.
“Nothing,” Elliott said. “I would have cabled the ship if he had sent any word at all. Wouldn’t Lori have gone straight to Paulus?”
“Yes,” Hubbard said.
Elliott took them to the house on Ninety-third Street that he had bought on his marriage. Alice had given birth to a son called Horace. “No surprises,” she said, dismissing the
experience. “He’s all Hubbard. How did you escape, Paul? Your mother must have amazing genes.” This was her only reference to Lori.
Alice chattered incessantly, describing the strange friends Elliott had brought to the Harbor that summer. “This was our summer for bizarre Englishmen,” she said. “They were
all rabidly anti-German. Good thing you weren’t there, Paul, as you’re half German; they would have run you through.” Hubbard listened to her, unsmiling, unspeaking.
In the library after dinner, Elliott poured brandy from a decanter and handed a glass to Hubbard. Hubbard took the glass, then put it down, untouched.
“Hubbard,” Elliott said, “what are you going to do?”
Hubbard responded in a strong voice, as if the answer to Elliott’s question was so obvious that it hadn’t needed asking.
“I’m going to find my wife,” Hubbard said.
“Where do you think she is?”
“In prison.”
“You think it’s possible to find her?”
“I don’t know.”
“And if you find her, do you think it’s possible to get her out of a country at war—especially if that country is Germany?”
“It’ll be very difficult.”
Hubbard was speaking in a toneless voice. There was no more expression on his face than in his voice.
Elliott picked up Hubbard’s brandy glass and gave it to him again. “Drink that,” he said. Obediently, Hubbard did so. Elliott took the glass out of his hand. “Now,”
Elliott said, “how do you plan to get into Germany?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Why do you think? So that I can help you.”
“Sail, walk, parachute,” Hubbard said. “Once I get inside the country I’ll be all right. Nobody can tell from my speech that I’m not a German.”
“You’ll have no papers. You’re six feet four inches tall. Do you think the Germans won’t know you’re there?”
Hubbard did
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