I.  Paris

  The clear June sky was laced with a few threatening clouds.  Montmartre

Square, usually crowded and noisy, was almost empty in the early afternoon

and looked like a painting of itself done in early morning, before the

crowds arrived.  The tourist crowd had left, and Parisians who had not yet

fled the approaching German army had other concerns than climbing Montmartre

for their after-lunch coffee.

  The funicular from the boulevard to the Sacre Coeur was no longer

operating.  By the time Bruno and Brenda had climbed the steep stone stairs

they had little breath for conversation.  From the esplanade in front

of the church they could see the almost deserted streets, occasionally

crossed by a car loaded with household objects.

  Once on the Square they sought a cafe with an outdoor terrace.   The red

painted tables and chairs and the yellow umbrellas, bright among the skinny

old locust trees, contrasted with the grayish walls of the buildings dotted

with dark green shutters.  Bruno chose a table and tilted the umbrella toward

the sun, saying "This shouldshelterus from either sun or rain."

  "How shrewd of you," said Brenda, settling contentedly in her chair.

Her accent, British public school but not affectedly so--she was the daughter

of an Oxford linguist--contrasted with Bruno's, heavy with central European

intonations.  A suspicion of mockery in Brenda's remark made him belligerent.

  "Weather strategy is of course easier than life strategy," he said curtly.

Just above average height, with powerful shoulders and dark unruly hair, he

looked more like a soccer player than a mathematician, which he was. Next

to Brenda--tall, ash blonde, with thin pointed features--he might have been

taken for a coach or a bodyguard.  His dark suit, too heavy for the time of

the year,  contrasted with Brenda's casual summer dress.


2

  They had met a few weeks earlier and had found it easy to be with each
              -~

other.  Brenda agreed to help him practice his English at meals and during
their leisurely walks through Paris, in exchange for help in translating a

few articles for her thesis. They liked each other, sparred verbally, and

made love although they were not lovers.  They both had other, older emotional

ties to persons currently absent.  Hers was an inmate of a French camp for

Spanish loyalists. His lover, a fellow student from his university years, had

been caught in the maelstrom of Eastern European politics and had been for

years an inmate in various jails and concentration camps.

The conversation resumed after the beer they had ordered arrived. The subject,

of course, was leaving: leaving Paris, that is, as hundreds

doing on that twelfth day of June 1940. Leaving. or staying
'mind was made up: she would stay.

of thousands were

on.  Brenda's

"I may be able to help him, you know.. And then, some of us ought to stay

and write about it, later on.  I keep a diary."

  "That may hurt you if they found it."

  "They? You think so ? But I write down only facts, no names."

  "Don't you think they could make 'you tell names?"

  "Maybe.  Will it actually come to that? Here? Has anyone ever tried to

make you talk?",

  "No, I never was tested that way.  Anyhow, I never kept diaries, only

mathematics notebooks.  I mailed some off to Princeton last month, for safe-

keeping."

  "Yes.  You wish to save algebra, I prefer to preserve events. Memories."

Brenda made a long pause.  Bruno was scribbling symbols on a paper placemat,

then smearing them off.with frost from his beer glass.  His gestures betrayed


3

the conflict going/on in his mind.

"What would I do if I went to America? Start a new diary?' Brenda went

on. "Or to England,  for that matter?  Drive an ambulance and long for France?

You should leave, though.'

   "I know.  Princeton, Einstein, those are my realities.  What keeps me here?

Even her memory is fading, after all these years. And yet . . . "

   "Yet?"

"Leaving is the reasonable thing, you see , yet staying seems the right thing

to do.  It's hard to explain why. I recall a story, a novel about Rome under


Marcus Aurelius.  A young patrician, at a time of persecution, starts going

to underground Christian meetings just to flirt with a girl.  But going to the

meetings, even without being Christian, builds up in the young man an unsuspected

bond to the group.  So, when the ax falls and the group is arrested, he cannot

bring himself to sacrifice on the pagan altar, and goes to his destruction.  For

nothing."

  "For pride, maybe?"

"Rather for a subtle human commitment."

"What commitment would keep you here? Your woman? or I? We are neither of

us part of your reality.'

"It is hard to say.  Maybe a commitment to Europe, old and threatened."

'Can you afford that luxury, just in order to test yourself?'
                               .
'The reasonable path is also a luxury if it will have to be paid in currency

of guilt."  Bruno paused and readjusted the umbrella before continuing.  "And

then there is something else.  Fear.  Fear of being afraid."

  The afternoon had warmed up.  Some tables had filled up, mostly with young

people idle in the paralyzed city.  A red-haired fellow, probably a high-school

student, was listlessly playing on an accordian.  Bruno ordered more beer.  The


4

waiter mumbled something about thunder.  Although the sky was now perfectly

clear, a distant rumble could actually be heard.  Brenda, who had driven an

ambulance in Spain, was first to recognize it.

  "Field artillery.  They must be this side of Chantilly. Twenty or thirty

kilometers away. Will this help?"

"Help?"

"Help you make up your mind."

Bruno had stood up, a bit jittery, and was searching the sky as if looking

for storm clouds that could account for the rumble of thunder. Brenda laughed,

teasingly but not unkindly.

  "You see now why you cannot stay?  To stay would mean being passive, waiting

around, letting the storm drench you.  The initiative--the opposition, as you'

'chess players call it--would be theirs.  You are not made for that.' You jump

up, you question the thunder.  You need to act.  But in a dream, in a nightmare

one cannot always act.  I am willing to wait.  But I don't believe you can."

  "Can one run away from fear and from one's roots and still keep one's

self respect?"

Brenda's reply was spoken very deliberately.  'Physical fear is the only

respectable fear.  It Berves the preservation instinct.  The other fear is only

a concern for one's self image.  A sentimental twist, not worth twopence in

real life currency.  Your currency of guilt is completely valueless.'

  "So, you think that what keeps me hereis just an edge of my ego caught in

a revolving door."  He looked at Brenda whose hair was catching the warm

reflection of the sun from a window frame.  "If I loved you, would I stay?"

  "If I loved you, I would go where you are going," Brenda replied.

  "Am I going?"

  "Of course you are.  Never mind your unwillingness to admit it. Yours is

a perfectly respectable little drama, a conflict between what you have been and


5

what you are becoming.  The urge to become has already won."
                      I

They had left the cafd and were descending the Rue Lepic.  0n the cobble-

stones the sound of their steps merged with the distant sound of gunfire. In

the early sunset the city was gray and gold.  From the hilltop the windows

reflected the sun rays onto the lead roofs farther down the slope.

As they approached the mktro station Bruno stopped and watched Brenda walk
                               

the last few steps: how self-possessed she was, how different from himself, and-

yet how much a part of something he longed to be.  He rejoined her and took

her hand, which responded with a reassuring grip.  In the station entrance


Brenda said:

  "You better hurry.  I think I'll walk down toward the Opera. Let's say

goodbye here."  Her kiss was sisterly but warm.

"We shall meet again, soon," Bruno said uncqnvincingly.

"Of course , you sentimental ass.  Come to tea.  After it's over."


II.  Lisbon

After the dreary trip across Spain, when physical discomfort and political

anger had made Bruno blind to the majestic, burned-out landscape, Lisbon was

a refreshing oasis.  In the cool dark streets of the old city the incense-

breathing churches seemed to exorcise the pagan whiteness of the modern town.

The influx of refugees from all over Europe added a note of sinfulness

by exposing  an amount of bare flesh never before seen in Portugal.

Bruno found Lisbon exciting.  The absence of war-- in central France his

train had been strifed twice by German planes-- and the presence of the busy

port, with ships leaving for New York every few days--encouraged

thoughts of a peaceful future.  He had secured a passage on a good ship, with

only a few weeks' wait.  Now that the means were near, his eagerness to leave

Europe increased.  And yet the eagerness concealed an ambivalence, a troubled

sense of guilt.  In'fleeing'Europe, was he betraying something in himself?

From time to time he heard rumors of British vessels gathering volunteers in

northern ports of Portugal.  He chose not to explore such rumors, but he slept

badly and at night dreamt of Paris and of his home town.  In his dreams,

Brenda and his mother seemed to be asking him to come back.

One. day in Lisbon's main square he ran into a Canadian scientist whose

acquaintance he had made in Paris.  When Bruno greeted.him,the Canadian

seemed taken aback; but af.ter a brief exchange he relaxed and smiled.  He had

evidently decided that he could trust Bruno.

  "Please, do not mention seeing me in Lisbon. Mine is a somewhat delicate

mission."

"Don't tell me any more if you don't want to."

"No, you might as well know.  In a sense you are part of it yourself."

"I? What do you mean?"


-2-

"I am trying to arrange for European scientists to escape from the

Occupied countries."

"Escape?  Where to?"

  "To England, to Canada, to the United States.  Vherever they can be


useful.   To us.  And especially, where they cannot be used by them.  Scientists,

especially mathematicians like you have a very useful role to play in this war."

After a few more words the Canadian went away, leaving Elruno thoughtful and

excited.  The Canadian had spoken as if all was not lost, as if in fact the

war were just beginning.  The sense of hopeless defeat Bruno had felt was

somewhat assuaged, and at the same time his voyage to America did not feel

so much like an escape.  A-less selfish element had entered the picture.

***

Through a letter of introduction that someone had given him in Marseilles,

Bruno had made contact with a Lisbon couple.  They invited him to dinner for

an evening of the last week before his departure.

When Bruno rang the bell of the apartment his host let him into a somewhat

overelegant partlor.  Simple modern. furniture contrasted with a profusion of

gorgeous oriental rugs spread on floors, on walls and couches.  Sensing Bruno's.

surprise, the host smiled: "Rugs are my business.  I sell them.and I also love

them."  He was a tall lean middle-aged man, possibly Armenian, with.a rather

sad face.  He had been a major rug dealer in Austria and had moved a fraction

of his business to Lisbon.  "Ultima thule.  My wife does not like Lisbon but

feels safe among beautiful rugs."

The word "safe" struck Bruno as odd.  So did his hostess, who joined them

a few.minutes later.  In her late thirties, tall, not beautiful but with

striking copper-colored hair and a tragic profile that reminded Bruno of a

Kollwitz print.  Her speech had a soft, lingering Austrian accent that gave

each sentence the sadness of a good-bye.  Her name was Clara.


-3-

Both hosts took turns in serving dinner from a warming cart.

"We have adopted the American style," explained the host.  "Clara
               ,"

prefers the privacy of souper-a-deux.  Or a-trois;like tonight. Where

you are going, house help is even more of a rarity than here, I understand."

Clara spoke little.  More interested in Bruno's past than in his plans

for the future, she asked about his family, his studies, his friends.

  "I am a writer myself" she said, "a.translator and reviewer of poetry. I

need to know more about people like you, adventurers going the way of Columbus.
Are you leaving Europe for good?  Or will you come back some day?"

  "I don't know," replied Bruno.  "Who can tell what will happen to the

world, and to each one'of us, in the turmoil of this war?  One must live from

day to day--in fact, from continent to continent."

  In her presence Bruno felt shy.  The intensity with which she explored his

feelings seemed a bit indecent.  He preferred her husband's conversation, witty

and concrete.

When dinner was over Clara wheeled the cart to the kitchen. Her husband

was bringing out liqueurs and looking for some addresses and maps he had

promised his guest.

Bruno went into the kitchen to help Clara.  Together they unloaded the

cart; then Bruno removed his coat, grabbed soap and dishrag, and went to

work with the expertise gained in many Parisian kitchens.  Clara stood by

doing other chores.

Over th.e noise of running water Bruno heard a low moan. As he turned he

found himself drawn, almost sucked into a long kiss,

                               %B     searching and yet desperately

maternal.  A moan of his own escaped him as the incongruous, preposterous kiss

prolonged itself, without any embrace.  His ludicrously wet hands still held

the dishrag, hers a dishtowel almost like a shield. They soon recovered, both

trembling.  She said only: "Remember me."  Then in silence they finished their


-4-

chores and return to the parlor.

  The rest of the evening was surprisingly successful.  Clara was silent

at first, but later engaged Bruno in an argument on the role of poetry in

history, a subject that brought out the passionate side of her intellect.

"Only poetry can provide the emotional continuity that Europe will need

in order to recover its soul.  We shall need another Goethe to make us feel

human again."

The conversation continued, with a demanding tension, to which the earlier

kitchen scene had made Bruno more sensitive. When he returned to his hotel

Bruno was tense and exhausted.

His boat was leaving on Saturday.  On Friday he found at breakfast a note:

"It is a glorious day; don't waste it indoors.  Go for a hike, then come to
dinner to say good-bye. Bring me flowers.  Clara."

  As he rang the bell the flowers, a few yellow roses, felt uncomfortable--

a prop in a romantic play.  Clara and her husband were having cocktails. The

conversation started almost where it had left off two days ago, dense and

urgent.  Dinner was more elaborate this time, deliciously French with a superb

Austrian dessert and a sparkling white wine. Clara poured it herself, standing.

She was dressed in a striking black and red gown. As she bent over Bruno, she

kissed him on the mouth, softly and briefly.  Then she straightened herself,

laughing, gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek, and went back to her place.

  The evening went faster than the previous one.  There was no dishwashing,

nor was the parting themestressed.  Both husband and wife seemed determined

to concentrate on togetherness rather than separation.  When, quite late, Bruno

rose to leave, his host offered to see him to his hotel.  In the hall Clara

held Bruno's face to hers, kissed his mouth, his eyes, his forehead, gently

but with a desperate urgency. And she whispered: "Please, please, remember me,

remember us.  Remember Europe.  Even if we have hurt you, don't reject us.  Please."


-5-

And she put her arms around him like a mother taking leave of her son.

  For a while the two men walked together in silence. At last the host

began: "My friend, Clara is in exile. Her life is Europe, its past, its

culture,  She fears that Europe may become the land of the dead, a land from

which the spirit has fled.  She would like to salvage the links that keep

that spirit alive.  She would like to mark you-- mark you with a commitment to

the past, whatever freedom you may achieve."  He paused to look at a dark church

across the street, decorated by fantastic baroque turrets and convolutions of

marble.  Then he resumed: "Clara thinks of herself as a lighthouse on the last

shore, beckoning to the. departing."

"But why does she not leave?" Bruno asked. "Why don't you take her to

America?"

The other shook'his head.  "Our roots are here.  When you are older you

will understand.  Roots are something you don't inherit; you set them as you

grow.  We have become Europeans by freeing ourselves of local loyalties. Now

our freedom chains us.to this last fragment of Europe."

  They took leave of each other in front of another church, also old but one

that had obviously been redone in modern style: more pleasing to the eye than

the other, older church but with less of the sense of mystery.  Bruno, who

had always considered loyalty to abstractions--religion, fatherland, nation--.

as nothing but prejudice, felt as if the seed of a new loyalty had now been

planted in him.  It was a bit frightening but somehow made him feel more


grown-up.

  Next day he embarked.


III. New York

On his fourth'day in America, Bruno went to Columbia University to

look up a mathematician, Professor Siegmullen.  The experience of the

past few days had been confusing;  it had left him light-headed and
                                            of
emotionally divided.  The glorious display of lights and/skyscrapers and

bridges, the contrast with the blacked-out, war-time Europe he had left

behind, had made him feel excited yet diffident. At times he resented

this attractive brave new world and feared being coopted by it.  He felt

guilty of his own incipient betrayal of Europe, as one feels guilty of

leaving an old mistress.  For the crowds he saw in the stores and streets

the war was not a reality-- and he longed both to forget that reality and to

face it again.  The conflict was unsettling.  Stability would have to come

from work.

The corridor at Columbia University was dark and forbidding.   Bruno

walked from door to door with trepidation.  Finally, he found one of the

glass-paneled doors slightly ajar. With relief,

Bruno saw the name painted on the glass:  H. Siegmullen, the

famous mathematician he was hoping to see.

Uncertain whether to knock or enter, Bruno chose the least appropriate

course:  he called timidly through the open crack:  "Professor Siegmullen?"

A huge bulk of a man with a mass of graying red hair, his eyes bulging behind
                his
steel-framed lenses, / bulb ous nose duplicated in a bulbous pipe, opened the

door fully and bellowed, loud but not unkindly:  "Wer are you? Come in.

Close the door.  I hate open doors."

"Forgive the intrusion," said Bruno, entering the room--completely lined

with bookshelves holding manuscripts and books in remarkably good order--a typical

mathematician's office. 'My name is Bruno N.  I was a< student of Professor

Katar.  I arrived from France a few days ago.  I was hoping you would have a

few minutes to talk to me.  Possibly help me obtain a library card."


-2-

  Siegmullen, who had sat down at his desk, suddenly gave a gurgling,

bellowing sound, which for some reason made Bruno think of an excited

water buffalo.  "Did you say Bruno N.?  Are you the fellow with the

schrechlich theorem?  Two of my students--Dummkopfe!-- have been working

for six months on that horror of yours. Made no progress at all.  I've

even been thinking of giving it a trial myself.  I used to be a number

theorist, like you, before I got into this applied nonsense."

  Bruno was completely taken aback by Siegmullen's remarks.  He had

submitted the paper in question to a French journal almost a year ago

without the benefit of comments from his teacher.  He had not even known

that his article had appeared.  For a moment he wondered if this big fierce-

looking fellow giving him such an unexpected reception, was mistaking him

for someone else or, worse, was making fun of him. A thought, mean yet nourished

by his past experiences , passed through his mind: "He is German and I am a

Jew."

  His host's next comment reassured him.  "You have made a very important

finding," said Siegmullen.  "Let's go over it together." And he plunged into

the subject of Bruno's article with mutterings of mathematical delight.   The

two of them were soon arguing, scribbling and throwing away one sheet of yellow

paper after another.  "You see, Herr Doktor?"  Siegmullen kept repeating.  "Z,

gut. "  Bruno realized with pleasure and surprise that this famous mathematician

was treating him as an equal.  The experience was new,  alien to the hierarchical

tradition of European universities.

  Siegmullen was obviously out of that tradition.  At one point, he remarked:

"You have travelled a lot, haven't you?  Before I came here in 1933 I had never

even been in Italy or in England."  Bruno could hardly suppress a smile at

this naive remark.  "After the fall of France there is hardly any place in


-3-

Europe for Jews, especially Eastern European ones.  At any rate, I always

expected to come here some day."

  "At least you managed to get away.  There is still a chance to work, here.

And much less prejudice. But now to business. You must come to work with

us and teach us the new highfaluting stuff in number theory.  If you want

they'll make you a research associate, whatever that means.  But no money.   You

must get money yourself, foundation money or something. The university has

nothing for pure mathematics.  But I can help."

  All of a sudden,he rose from his desk chair and went to a door that opened

into the next office.  "You must meet my research associate.  Es ist very
                                                                     --

good.  It has done all the best work from here.  It speaks only German but

can solve all sorts of problems."  He knocked, and opening the door yelled

at the top of his voice:  "Miller, Miller, come here. We have a visitor,

a famous man, a new member of the Department!"
While Bruno was wondering who this person referred to as "it" might be,

a young woman came in, an attractive brunette with her hair tied in a solemnly

flat bun on top of her head.  "Good morning and welcome," she said cordially

to Bruno after the introductions were made.  Contrary to Siegmullen's statement,

she spoke fluent English with a slight German accent.  "We were talking about

you a few days ago, reading your paper and wondering who and where you were.

Glad you made it here."

There was some more technical talk.  Then, when Bruno was preparing to

take his leave, Miller asked, "Are you properly housed and where?" Bruno gave

her the address of his cheap rooming house.  For a moment he wondered what

Miller's question meant. A date, maybe?  On a day like this full of surprises

anything might happen.

  Early next morning Bruno was awakened by a knock on his door.  The phone

call--his first in America--was from a chemist, a friend of Miller's, offering


-4-

hospitality in his apartment.  Bruno accepted gratefully, being eager to

make new friends and to save his few remaining dollars.  The chemist asked

him to come over immediately before he left for work.  In less than an hour

Bruno was in his new home. And a real home it was--a comfortable, well

furnished apartment lined with books. His host, a deep voiced, burly-looking

fellow called Heinrich, was a refugee from Prague. While they breakfasted,

Bruno told him of the whirlwind in which he seemed to be living since the

day before--Siegmullen, the theorem, the unexpected chance to start work, Miller,

and the sudden welcome in this home.  "At the moment,  I feel as if some

benign spirit has taken hold of me.  The coincidence of my meeting Dr. Miller,

her knowing of your apartment, and thinking of it for me seems almost too

unlikely to be natural."

   Heinrich smiled.  "Do you think you have reached the land of Cocagne,

where all wishes come true?  Just wait.  You will get your share of trouble

here, though perhaps not the same kind as on the other side. But now, before

I go to work, let's see if there is anything else you need. Miller, whom

incidentally I will soon marry, thinks you are quite capable of taking care
'of yourself.  But as an old-time American-- after almost two years here--I

may be able to help.  What are your plans?"

   "Professor Siegmullen told me I should try to find foundation money if

I want to work with him.  At the moment I don't know how yet.  I thought of

asking    my Princeton friend   for      advice:  whom to contact, and maybe I'll

also look for a part-time teaching job."

    "OK.  Help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen.   If I come home

late, I'll see you in the morning. Adieu.'

The pace of events had made Bruno tired; he needed a few hours of rest.

He picked up off the shelf a worn book that arose his curiosity because the

spine was altogether missing.  It was Freud's Interpretation of Dreams, in
                                                                    -


-5

German.  A book on dreams fitted well the dream-like events of the last

day.  How should he  interpret Siegmullen?  or Miller?  or Heinrich?

Parental images?  He was absent-mindedly leafing throughtie book when the

phone rang.  It was his host.

   "Listen.  I just talked to a colleague who knows a Foundation that helps

university people from Europe.  He has made an appointment for you with the

president-- eleven o'clock tomorrow.  If you are interested keep that time

free.  I'll see you later.  Goodbye.  By the way, the name is Marner Foundation,

222 Park Avenue. Goodbye."

  Bruno went back to Freud, this time reading more attentively.   He was

almost hoping to find some hidden meaning beneath the surface sequence of


events-- or rather, beneath the rush of kindness that seemed to be engulfing

him.

  That evening Heinrich did not appear, nor next morning.  He left a notefor Bruno,

however,  telling him that Friday, the next day, was housekeeper day.   She

would come in the morning and     help Bruno if he needed anything.   In fact


she did    come at eight--a middle-aged Jewish lady, comfortably stout,

talkative in a precise German that had the didactic intonation of a school-

teacher's speech.  A teacher was what Frau Schein had been in Germany and

what she hoped to be again after she learned enough English.  Bruno listened

to her life story while she fed him his first real breakfast in a long time.

  "Let's take a look at you," Frau Schein decided after Bruno had finished

his second helping of everything.  "DO you think you can go look for a job

in these trousers, wrinkled and full of spots?'  They were Bruno's only

pants.  "Give them here.  I'll take them to the corner store and they will

have them clean in one hour. What about your raincoat? It's pouring outside."

  "I haven't got one.  I left Paris by bicycle and could take only a few


-6-

things with me." ,,,'Bruno was faintly apologetic.  Frau Schein gave him the

reproachful look of a teacher reprimanding a first-grader who has come to

school without his handkerchief.  "Now give me those trousers and they'll

clean them while I shop.  You may sit in your underpants or go back to

bed till I come back."

  Before going,  she made a few calls in German.  The results, which started

to materialize soon after her return, were remarkable.  First came a little

girl, about 10 years old, shyly carrying a raincoat, almost exactly the

right size for Bruno, with a note, "Please return it when you wish.   Good

luck with your job." A few minutes later, an old man in a black coat and an

embroidered yarmulke brought an envelope addressed to Bruno.   It contained

a coupon for fifty-percent discount on "Trousers and other Clothing Items."

  Just as Bruno was preparing to leave a third visitor arrived, a short

lady, obviously a friend of Frau Schein, who brought an umbrella--a retractable

affair such as Bruno had never seen before.  This was a loan just for the

day.  Frau Schein explained, "How could I be sure the raincoat would fit you?"
  Bruno was laughing as he left the house.  The rain had stopped, the sun was

giving Manhattan a holiday sheen.  Crossing Central Park,  where some leaves were

already red and gold, Bruno received the glory of the city as gratefully as all

the other gifts that had been showered on him that day.  The stately buildings of

Fifth Avenue did not feel as intimidating as they had a couple of days earlier.

  The Marner Foundation's office was on the 15th floor of a discreetly substantial

Park Avenue building.  The office door was opened by a valet, a handsome young

fellow wearing tightly fitting clothes. The secretary, sitting languidly at a

desk loaded with knick-knacks, was also a good-looking young man. "Mr. Schatz will

see you shortly," he told Bruno.  "Have a chair and please do not smoke. Mr. Schatz

cannot stand smoking."  Though Bruno did not smoke, he was grateful for the kindly

warning.  "The boss has a number of such prejudices.  But he is a very, very kind

fellow, as you will see."


-7-

  Schatz proved to be a tall, thin man in his seventies.  He spoke with

a slightly affected accent, and had a Legion d'Honneur ribbon at  his lapel.

A faint but noticeable aura of perfume emanated from his person.

  The interview was obviously a success.  Schatz made Bruno sit in a chair

across from his desk, but himself remained standing near his guest.  During

the conversation--he seemed to know a lot about scientists and about science

as well--Schatz kept one hand or the other on Bruno's shoulder, pressing on

him with strong fingers as if to keep him from getting up.  Finally he moved

away, sat down at his desk, and promised he would put Bruno's request before

his board.  "Given Professor Siegmullen's recommendation--which had reached

me yesterday-- there is little doubt the decision would be favorable."  Then,

placing his arm around Bruno's shoulders in an affectionate way, almost an

embrace, Schatz led him to the door and dismissed him.

  That evening Bruno had dinner with Heinrich and Miller.  He had brought

home a bottle of French wine to celebrate his almost assured success.

  "Mr. Schatz seems kind and knowledgeable," he said recounting the morning's

visit.  "But there is something strange about him and even about the Foundation

altogether."

  "Of course," said Heinrich laughing. "I should have told you beforehand.

Schatz lived in Paris for many years before the war.  They say he was a close

friend of And& Gide."