To Live Another Day

By JR Rogers

It is June 1940 when, ahead of the Germans marching into Paris, Rudolf and Aleece Bamberger, a young German-French Jewish couple flee to Africa to wait out the war where they become embroiled in intrigue and espionage.
Safe at last—or so it seems at first—the Bamberger’s are diverted to Lourenço Marques because of a U-boat threat rather than to Cape Town their original destination. Aleece, a French citizen, finds work at the British consulate while Rudolf, her German husband, but an emigrant to France before the war drifts helplessly into the hands of the Abwehr spymaster, Ludwig Janke. The Nazi’s tentacles run deep through the tranquil colonial capital and his fearsome espionage operation soon ensnares Rudolf and threatens him into cooperating.
With spy-thriller plotting, To Live Another Day vividly re-creates the skullduggery of Axis and Allied intelligence operatives including the Germans, the Italians, MI6, the OSS, and other services operating from this vast neutral harbor situated at the forefront of Indian Ocean shipping lanes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Rogers
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463233306

JR Rogers

J.R. Rogers is a literary historical thriller novelist. He has written eight novels of espionage, intrigue & romance. His latest is To Live Another Day. He also writes short stories a number of which have been published in various soft cover and/or online publications. He lives in southern California.

Book preview

HISTORICAL CONTEXT

Mozambique is considered one of the oldest known (continuously inhabited) areas on the planet; fossil remains of humans and pre-human hominids have been found dating back over two million years. Its extensive coastline fronting the Mozambique Channel separates mainland Africa from the island of Madagascar. The country is today bordered to the north by Malawi and Tanzania, to the west by Zimbabwe and to the south by South Africa and the Kingdom of Eswatini.

Lourenço Marques, named after the 16th century Portuguese navigator and explorer, or by its onetime English name, Delagoa Bay, was the capital of Portuguese Mozambique from 1898 to 1975 and one of six African colonies of the Portuguese Empire where Portuguese was the official language. Shortly after gaining its independence from Portugal in 1975 the capital’s name was changed to Maputo in 1976.

By 1940 and with the outbreak of World War Two the town, with a population of about 45,000, a good harbor and a neutral port had become a strategic intelligence listening-post where, overnight, a hotbed of operatives and spies had come to thrive. This foreign presence was largely driven by the Germans.

Because the Union of South Africa had severed ties with the Third Reich at the outset of the war, Germany needed a default base of operations for their operations intent on influencing and disrupting South Africans from supporting the Allied cause, rather than the Axis one. They expanded their Lourenço Marques consulate by staffing it with operatives dedicated to that and other efforts, notably reporting on Allied shipping transiting the vast port, information that could be passed to Berlin and on to U-boats in the Indian Ocean. The German staff alone—twenty or more during the war years—far exceeded the number of officials deployed by any other nation.

Just as industrious were the Axis Italian ship spotters who concentrated on the movement of Allied shipping through the vast Lourenço Marques harbor—often working hand-in-hand with the Germans—transmitting intelligence to the Kriegsmarine in Berlin through means of their clandestine shortwave radios located on their ocean liners.

As a consequence the town was overrun with consular and Intelligence officers from Axis and Allied powers and their informants. Everyone was suspect and ripe for recruitment in exchange for information.

Foreign officials stationed in Mozambique by their respective countries, included those from Great Britain, the United States—which included a small Office of Strategic Services (OSS) contingent in both Lourenço Marques and Beira, along with several officers of the U.S. Navy’s Office of Naval Intelligence—Germany, Italy, Portugal and the Union of South Africa, gaining the charming seaside town a reputation in war-torn Europe as the most alluring city in Africa.

Historically important, it should also be noted that in 1942 Lourenço Marques began to offer its harbor as a safe haven for Allied, and Axis repatriation ships whereby prisoners of war, diplomats, women, and children were exchanged between the warring nations. This activity only incentivized the Axis powers to pay close attention to the identities of transiting diplomats.

[T]he whole character of secret Intelligence ... is that nothing should ever be done simply if there are devious ways of doing it.

— Malcolm Muggeridge, Chronicles of Wasted

Time, Vol. 2, The Infernal Grove.

Lourenço Marques ‘city of refuge’ for all things undesirable.

—Andrew MacDonald, Colonial Trespassers in

the Making of South Africa's International Borders

1900 to c. 1950.

CHARACTERS

In Paris

Bamberger, Aleece. Wife of Rudolf Bamberger. Arithmetic teacher, École Pascale

Bamberger, Rudolf. Chemist, Parfumerie Félicie

Félicie. Namesake owner of Parfumerie Félicie

Lomont, Frédérique Fred. Shipping agent and friend of Rudolph’s

Prendergast, Martin. Vice president, New York Trust Company. Upstairs neighbor of the Bamberger’s

Prendergast, Renée. Amateur oil painter and student observer Écoles des Beaux Arts. Wife of Martin Prendergast.

In Lisbon

Campos. Night manager, Pensão Santa Rita

Herschel. Clerk, American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JOINT)

Maria. Official, Portuguese Immigration

Silva, Maurice. Administrator, National Navigation Company (CNN)

Aboard the Porto Amélia

Frias, Diogo. Captain

In Lourenço Marques

Acosta, Abílio. Director, Campos Rodrigues Astronomical Observatory

Almeida, Gabriela Melo. Portuguese girlfriend of Ludwig Janke and later of Gerhard Drechsler

Aoki, Yoshio. Kaigun-daii Lieutenant OF-2, Imperial Japanese Navy. Naval attachéImperial Japanese Consulate. (Reports to Chief of the Naval General Staff, Tokyo)

Armistead, C.K. British consul general

Barron, Bryton. U.S. Consul General

Carella, Nina. Recruiter of white South African women

Carmichael, Benny. Movie location scout based in London for Epic Studios, Hollywood, California

Charles, Dorothy. Manager Cinema Scala Bioscope

Costa, Luis, Manager Polana Hotel

Delahey, Ozzie Osborne. Spotter OSS Ship Observer Unit (SOU)

Dencks, Alexander. Dutch South African former D.E.T.A airline pilot

Drechsler, Gerhard. German escapee from British internment camp in Crown Colony of Southern Rhodesia

Eberhardt, Helmut. Abwehr courier. Code-name MAURICIO

Flach, Karl. Jewish refugee from Germany employed by U.S. Naval Mission

Gianini. Radio and telegraph operator, S.S. Gerusalemme

Gottlob. Kriegsmarine Leutnant zur See, U-141

Granville, Gran Holden. OSS (Strategic Intelligence branch). Principal officer and chief agent. Under cover of U.S. War Shipping Department. Reports to Africa Section, Washington. Pseudonym RUDYERD BENNET

Green, Peter. Former British South African police officer

Hakao, Hideo. South African representative of Dōmei News Agency, Tokyo

Heger, Max. Spanish operator of bordello

Heinz, Otto. Kriegsmarine Kapitanleutnant, U-141

Heye, Ludwig. Norddeutscher Lloyd shipping line representative. Also Etappendiest agent

Hummelsheim, Walter. German consul general

Janke, Ludwig. Abwehr officer and head of station (Reports to Section III-Abwehr, Tirpitzufer HQ, Berlin). Under cover as deputy of the German consul general. Code-name SITTIG

Kleist, Alfred. Abwehr officer. Under commercial cover as representative of Bayer & Co. Code-name DIETZ. Married to Portuguese sister of Gabriela Almeida

Klemens, Manfred. Abwehr liaison officer to Japanese Imperial Navy attaché

Levi, Anna. Dançarina at the Dancing Aquarium

Long, Arthur, Union of South Africa consul general

Lourenço, Agostinho, Captain. Portuguese Surveillance and State Defense Police (PVDE)

Macpherson, Duncan. Scottish businessman and neighbor of the Bamberger’s

Mann, Alfredo. Italian Stefani Press Agency representative

Maturi, Pietro. Italian Intelligence officer, Servizio Informazioni Militare (SIM)

Morton, Edward. British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) clerk typist

Osborne, Mary. British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) secretary

Painswick, Malcolm. British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) officer. Under commercial cover as representative of Grieve & Erwin Insurance Brokers, Cairo

Piatigorsky, Anatoly. Russian chief accountant for coconut processing plantationin Inhambane province

Preston, Herbert. British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) head of station. Under cover as vice consul HM Foreign Office. Reports to London Controlling Section

Teixeira, Luís, Sergeant. Portuguese Surveillance and State Defense Police (PVDE)

Trombetta, Frabrisio. Italian consul general. (Reports to Foreign Office, Rome)

Trout, Albert. OSS (SI) officer. Under cover as English instructor Protestant Swiss Mission boarding school

Vander Schyff, Jeanette. Barmaid at Mondego Bar

Wolff, Gerhardt. Johannesburg-based deep cover Abwehr agent

PART ONE

Paris

ONE

Paris, June 1940

The showroom of the Parfumerie Félicie was on rue de la Paix, in the fashionable heart of Paris, but the offices, the laboratory, and the bottling operation, were in gritty Asnieres, a northwestern suburb.

Rudolf Bamberger, 31, a German perfume chemist short and thin with a face that hinted at his Ashkenazic forbearers, and often etched in worry, was leaving behind for the last time the gray three-story stone house with its sprawling attic and mansard roof in which he had labored for the last four years.

He wondered, as he shifted the Citroen’s gears, whether the concern would survive the war and, if it did, whether his co-workers would manage to keep their jobs, the invading horde that was the German army marching on Paris and only weeks away. There was Regis, the older brilliant, but excitable little perfumier from Grasse—the nose at the fragrance house; Suzanne, the quiet Sorbonne chemistry student who, after her morning classes, worked in the afternoons transcribing the latest formulas and procuring the different essences Regis demanded: rose, hyacinth, cyclamen, jasmine, lilac, lily of the valley, lime, vanilla, cedar, sand, musk, and the many others. And also under the attic roof, Madame Félicie herself, the namesake proprietor who inhabited a large room with a porthole window that overlooked the meandering, somber-looking Seine and, in the distance, the stark Eiffel Tower rising high above the city.

There were others on the floors below, some busy in the basement operating the antique bottling machinery, while on the floors above women kept records of moneys spent and gained, devised alluring, often evocative names for the latest essence before choosing a delicate glass or crystal flacon to be placed inside of the parfumerie’s distinctive little rose-colored cardboard boxes detailed with feminine ornamentations, the packaging displaying the name: Parfumerie Félicie—Paris.

But it was in the attic where the magic was made. And here Madame Félicie wanted at all times to be close at hand on those occasions when Regis might announce he had formulated a new elixir with exciting possibilities. Rushing past a startled Giselle, her secretary, he would barge into Madame’s office, demand her wrist and proceed to squeeze the rubber cap on the glass eyedropper filled with an amber liquid and deposit a few drops. "Voila, Madame," he would say, with a sounding triumphant flourish.

Rubbing her wrists together, Madame would wave her arms about in a dramatic fashion back and forth to vaporize the aroma and, after a few agonizing moments during which she sniffed and inhaled, a critical expression on her face would render her opinion that was always final.

Rudolf had made arrangements to take a leave of absence—perhaps for the duration of the war. He was the only Jew in the firm and Madame had understood at once. He had been loyal and talented though, she admitted, because the business was young, underpaid. Don’t stay, she beseeched him. "Go, you must go. Leave Paris. With the Germans almost here it will be too dangerous if you don’t."

And he learned his position was secure if he chose to return. As a gesture of goodwill Madame wanted him to have a flacon of the house’s most expensive perfume for his wife, Aleece. I added a small bonus to your final paycheck, she said, trying to elevate his spirits for now he was choked with emotion. It’s not much— She flung her arms out, drew him to her and embraced him, her hands patting him on his shoulder blades before whispering. Take care of yourselves.

That afternoon, he thought about an unsettling future at war as he drove up the short block that fronted the house, the Citroen rumbling over the uneven cobblestones before stopping at the familiar intersection. He glanced a final time at the storefront of the local wine shop he had never stepped inside but had always planned to, and now probably never would, before turning the wheel over to join the syrupy traffic moving into Paris.

Alongside the Seine that he glimpsed now and again behind the granite quays that lined the embankment, he spotted men casting their lines, while others further along loomed over their easels, their paintbrushes in hand. He drove south across town, his left arm propped up on the windowsill, a Gitane between his fingers, reflecting upon how the late afternoon thunderstorm sky, with its low scuttling putty colored clouds, seemed to reflect the menacing mood settling over the city.

The threat of the impending German occupation seemed more real than ever, but for many, including Rudolf and his French wife, who were Jews, it was a foregone conclusion, leaving them with little time to contemplate about how to save themselves. Uppermost in his mind as he drove home was the worrisome rumor that when Paris was occupied the police would be ordered by the Nazis—as had already occurred in Holland and Belgium—to betray all Jews. Those in France, it was expected, would suffer a similar fate, or so screamed the headlines, the opinion pages, and the fast-talking and excitable newsreaders on the radio. Even without the press there was no denying the outright frenzy gripping the capital.

What had once been a normal and smooth going home flow of traffic had become an everyday traffic jam, and that afternoon it was no different. Roads out of Paris were congested day and night with the hordes of the privileged determined to flee, those with country houses to the outlying provinces, or to the south of France, while the others—the ones who could afford to leave everything behind—made for the Atlantic ports in hopes of reaching neutral Lisbon or the United States. In town it was being reported numerous shops were already bare as everyone was hoarding supplies. And at Rudolf’s neighborhood boulangerie croissants and madeleines—his favorites—were being rationed in order to conserve flour.

TWO

Crossing his usual river bridge he drove in the direction of Neuilly, the commune that abutted the Bois de Boulogne and was adjacent to the west side of Paris.

It was where he and Aleece lived in their 5th floor apartment on the boulevard Suchet, an apartment that had belonged to Aleece’s parents and which she now owned. He parked in the inner courtyard, slammed the car door, and gripping his heavy leather satchel filled with all of the little things on his desk he had wanted to keep, headed inside.

He disregarded the smooth, white stone stairs in the lobby that wound in majestic fashion upward around a central shaft and instead pushed the call button next to the birdcage elevator door. As he waited Martin Prendergast, his American neighbor who with his wife occupied the apartment over theirs, moved alongside him.

"Rudolf. Ça va bien?"

They shook hands at once.

"Ah, Martin. Yes, bonsoir."

I’m glad I caught you. There’s something— said Martin the strain in his voice unmistakable. He hesitated as Rudolf looked at him, his distinctive American face suddenly crumpled with concern: the wheat colored hair, the blue eyes, the firm chin and he wondered what could possibly be the matter.

"Ah oui? What is it?"

The elevator slid down the shaft, and came to a silent rest. Rudolf reached to slide open the cage door and the two moved inside.

Something disturbing happened the other day and I’ve been meaning to speak to you about it—Aleece as well, of course, he said. He watched Rudolf slide the cage door close and jab the number five button on the brass control panel. The elevator jerked before beginning to move.

I’m sorry to have to tell you this, began Martin. But we’re being pressured— He lowered his voice and turned to face Rudolf. —the bank, I mean, by the Nazis. They’re ordering us. We’ve been told to prepare to confiscate the funds we hold for all Jewish persons.

What? Rudolf hissed. He inched closer to Martin. But you’re an American bank, Martin—New York Trust Company.

"I know, I know, but we’re the Paris branch of an American bank, Rudolf, not the New York office."

I don’t understand. How can they do this?

He lowered his voice. We’re still figuring that out, but I should tell you in confidence that one of them was at the bank last week.

A Nazi, here in Paris?

"Afraid so. Wore civilian clothes so he could slip into town, I would imagine, and he told us he was in fact a high-ranking Nazi. Fact was he said he was a general and spoke for Hitler and showed us his papers. He had instructions from Berlin and he warned that, according to his army, France would soon fall—inevitable, he said. He was arrogant about it and claimed it would only be a matter of weeks. And he added that when Paris was occupied it would become his responsibility to ensure that all Jewish funds held by all of the banks be seized and transferred to the Third Reich. So you see his meaning was quite clear. He called Jews rats. It was sickening to listen to him. He shook his head. I’m sorry, Rudolf, I know this must be upsetting. He watched Rudolf standing there and listening to him and seeing Rudolf’s distress. I’m telling you this in all confidence, Rudolf. Not a word to anyone, please. We can’t have a run on the bank."

How can they do this? asked Rudolf overcome. Bastards.

The elevator wheezed to a stop on the fifth floor. Both men stood motionless.

I don’t know, said Martin gauging his friend’s response. But they’ll occupy Paris soon enough. He’s right, of course, no question about it. So look. He shifted his stance and moved closer. You have to take care of this otherwise you’ll find yourself without a franc to your name.

Rudolf nodded and then sounding bitter added. I’ll take my money out.

Yes, you must.

The shrill sound of a buzzer filled the shaft. Someone downstairs was calling for the elevator.

"Let me give you a piece of advice, however. When you go down there it’s best you don’t ask for me. I was the one who opened your account, after all. Tu comprends? Have one of the others help you. And whatever you do don’t give a reason."

The buzzer sounded again, a long shrill ring.

"Oui, oui, d’accord." Rudolf tapped his fingers on the brass control panel.

"Good. And of course ask for your funds in cash. So, look, I should go upstairs. Someone wants the elevator. Oh, and by the way, perhaps it’s time to think some more about that plan you told me about. Remember my offer of the house? Think about it. So I’ll say bonsoir."

Yes, I know, we’re talking about it. Rudolf looked pained, switching his satchel from his right hand to his left.

Well don’t wait too long, Martin said in a quiet tone of voice. Things are getting serious. You two need to look out for yourselves. Try and not worry. Just get your money out—soon. Goodnight. We’ll talk again, right? said Martin brightening.

Come down tonight if you’d like, said Rudolf. We can talk some more.

You sure? He was surprised. Wonderful, yes, that would be fine.

"Sept heures?"

Seven it is. Can we bring anything? He moved sideways to reach the control panel ready to push the button for the sixth.

Rudolf shook his head. "Pas du tout."

Then say hello to Aleece for me, would you? We’ll see you both in a little while.

Rudolf, his mind in turmoil moved out onto the fifth floor. Behind him Martin slid the cage door shut, the mechanism engaged and he was silently transported upstairs.

THREE

Martin’s wife, Renée, came from money, or so the Bambergers learned over time.

Tall, with a pinched face, and so very thin she seemed to float rather than to walk as though an undercurrent beneath her feet was holding her up and propelling her forward. She seemed to enjoy coming downstairs to be with them—though she never appeared without Martin—and while her French could be understood if one was willing to take the time to try to grasp what she wanted to say, engaging her in a simple conversation could be torturous.

Nowadays, she had taken to wearing a beret over her short dark hair. Aleece had decided that it wasn’t so much a fashion statement as a form of cultural appropriation for she was above all an ardent admirer of all things French. And the outsized horn-rimmed frames glasses she slipped on when it seemed to suit her were a detail Aleece always remarked upon to Rudolf. There was nothing wrong with her eyes, she would say in her no-nonsense tone of voice, it was just an affectation. And though they thought her rather odd, on balance they agreed she had a good heart. She remembered their birthdays and, when invited down for cocktails, never failed to bring a little extra something and, on Easter and Christmas, often something very special.

Rudolf made it a point to try to chat with her because he felt he had to, but she had an unpleasant habit of commandeering a conversation and steering it in her direction rather than listening to what was on his mind. He had explained in some detail about his work at the parfumerie only once and thereafter she had never raised the subject again. Instead he was most often compelled to listen to her in her fractured French describing her various attempts at painting still lifes—her latest was of drinking glasses—various iterations of which were propped up on the several easels that lined the long parquet hall leading into their bedroom. She was an amateur oil painter and a student observer at the Écoles des Beaux Arts.

Aleece, 30, precise, patient and demure—a teacher, she taught arithmetic to seventh graders at the nearby private École Pascale—would throw up her hands at home muttering she was sure the woman had to memorize every word she uttered so incapable was she of stringing together a sentence in French.

Aleece preferred chatting with Martin.

He, of course, was his wife’s complete opposite. With an open pleasant face, he had a warm and thoughtful way of speaking and spoke French well. And, unlike his wife, he was always ready with a good laugh. He was everything Rudolf and Aleece had ever heard about Americans: pleasant, generous with his time, and often with his wallet on those occasions when they dined out, and a lover of all things French. He was from Chicago, unlike Renée who, they were once informed as though it meant anything to them, had grown up comfortable in the nineties on Park Avenue in New York City. It was a preciseness that was unclear to the Bambergers so Martin had lowered his voice one afternoon when she left the room and explained it to them. They both liked Martin but agreed he was an unlikely banker—at least not by the officious, no nonsense standards that defined a French one. Still they warmed to him at once, Aleece reminding her husband that Martin had ties to France and speculating it might have explained his assignment to the Paris branch of his bank.

Rudolf shrugged. He took people at face value. I suppose.

Martin, it developed, had inherited a country house in rural seaside Brittany. His parents had bought the place during the several years they lived in Paris when he was just a youth. It was set on a windswept coast, in a speck of a village, a place they often visited.

He and Renée tried to spend time there two or three times a year, though, because it was almost 300 miles from Paris, it was not at all a weekend getaway. Still, each time they returned, they would come downstairs bearing gifts—an aromatic local cheese with an orange rind wrapped in cloth, several heavy dark unlabeled bottles of homemade sparkling cider, a creaking wicker basket of green apples from the orchard and still moist fresh cut flowers from the garden—and recount in detail how they had spent their days. How he had painted the shutters and polished the brass while in the silent courtyard dimmed by a pallid sun Renée had set up her easel under the fig tree.

But Renée’s comments aside to Aleece implied that though the place was quaint it wasn’t for the faint of heart. It’s charming, of course, but the running water is only a trickle, she sniffed. It takes hours to shower. And the living room always fills with smoke when he lights a fire.

Aleece returned an imperceptive shrug. "You have to expect that, Renée. C’est une maison de campagne." She wasn’t predisposed to feel sorry for her, this American woman, and her affectations, raised in luxury and comfort in New York City. How could she ever hope to understand that for thousands of French families a country house like theirs, with its vegetable garden and fruit trees, would forever be beyond their grasps?

FOUR

There’s more trouble, Rudolf said his words freighted with gloom when Aleece at last came through the door to the apartment that evening after her day in the classroom.

What?

He bent to give her a quick kiss hello on the mouth. I love you. How was your day?

"Love you, too. Oh, you know, same as usual. What is it, mon chéri? she said after they had pulled apart and she paused to examine him. You look worried, something about work? You’re finished there, yes? Today was your last day?"

No, no, it’s not that. Yes, I said good-bye, it’s done. I even have a present for you from Madame.

A present? she said showing little surprise. "I can guess what it is. What’s wrong, chéri? Tell me."

In the elevator tonight I rode up with Martin. He told me something. He said when the Nazis invade France and occupy Paris they’ll confiscate the bank holdings of all Jews.

"Non, she said drawing out the word. I can’t believe it."

I believe it. He reached behind her to lock the front door because she always forgot to. After all he’s an officer of their bank, a vice president, isn’t he? Why would he lie? So we have to withdraw everything, all of it. Nobody knows when their army will reach Paris, but Martin thinks it will be soon. He told me a Nazi general came to the bank and put them on notice.

"A Nazi general? Good heavens. But why do they want to do this to us? What have we as a people ever done to deserve this kind of treatment? What else did he say? All of our money is in his bank, she said grief-stricken What are we going to do?"

We have to take it all out, Aleece, all of it, right away. Martin told me to ask for it in cash—as much of it as we can carry.

She turned and walked over to the dining room and placed her worn leather satchel and her beige purse on the old mahogany table she had inherited from her parents. With her back to him she untied the slipknot beneath her chin that held her workaday headscarf in place something she wore because she walked to work and out on the boulevard in the spring the gusts of wind would make a mess of her hair. She slipped it off before rearranging the ends of her cinnamon brown hair with two fingers so that it fell across her shoulders. She turned to him holding her scarf down at her side. Do you think that’s safe? she asked looking concerned. "Carrying all of our money in cash? He probably thinks it’s safe, but he’s not going to be traveling—"

What choice do we have, Aleece? he said becoming impatient with her the way he would when their minds did not align. He moved closer. "We can’t leave it in the bank, or any other bank in France. The Nazis will find it and take it. You see that, correct?"

Of course I see it.

Then I’ll go. I’ll take it all out.

I just don’t know how we can be safe carrying all of it around— It’s horrible, Rudolf, just horrible. She proceeded to make a little prolonged noise with her tongue. It was a clucking sound she seemed unable to control that surfaced when she was overwhelmed. He had grown accustomed to hearing it over the course of their four-year marriage. I can’t believe it’s come to this, she said her words freighted with emotion. First this Hitler invades Europe and now he wants to steal our money. What is this world coming to?

I don’t know, but I’m not surprised, he said his tone bitter. We’re Jews. It explains everything, you see, everything. I’m German, too, but I don’t understand this man. He was so popular once, but now with his Nazi Party and—

Please, Rudolf, she said imploring him with her hands. Not now. I don’t want to hear about politics or Hitler.

All right, but do you remember Martin telling us not long ago that it’s not the way it is in America? In America, he says, they don’t have this problem with Jews. I’m not sure I believe him but— People there are left alone no one cares about their beliefs or religion.

Aleece stared at him for a moment. Well that’s in America, she said finally. This is France.

Of course. I’m going down to the bank tomorrow, he said at last. I’ll take care of it.

Yes, go. Aleece looked over at him, her eyes heavy with resignation. We have to, the sooner the better. But all of those bills, Rudolf? How are we going to carry them? It’s not play money. We have to hide it. I can’t just put all of it in my handbag.

I’ll find a way.

Can we talk about something else? Claudine and Jean-Louis are coming over tomorrow night—for dinner—I invited them. She’s anxious to talk about the apartment and our plans. They’re eager to move in.

Did you give them a date? he asked annoyed at their mention. We’re not sure ourselves, Aleece.

No, I just told her soon, that’s all. They’re living with her mother, you know, and she’s anxious.

Everyone is anxious these days, he said irritated. They’ll have to wait. You didn’t mention where we’re going did you? Nothing at all?

I just said we’re trying to find a place away from Paris, somewhere to be safe. She understands.

"I hope so. I’ve never liked her. She’s