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served at a table in an open booth like the booths in American restaurants. In the centre of the long low room, a tall black-haired man stood against an upright piano, playing an accordion and singing a German song about Hamburg on the Elbe. He was very pale in the bright light, and his heavy black beard sprinkled his shaven jowls like black pepper on the white of a fried egg.
    He had a rich baritone, though Schnaps had raised slivers on its surface.
    “That singer should be able to sing blues,” I said to Ruth.
    “Buy him a glass of beer and ask him for St. Louis Blues, ” she suggested.
    “Does he know St. Louis Blues? ”
    “Try him.”
    When he had finished chanting about Hamburg on the Elbe, I ordered him a glass of beer and asked for St. Louis Blues. He sat down at the piano and sang it in English. For three or four minutes I found what every American abroad is unconsciously looking for, the illusion that he’s at home. I forgot that the great city around me and the girl on the other side of the table were mysterious and alien to me. I was an American college boy out on a date and the world was my oyster and there was an R in November.
    A thin young man with a long nose and corrugated fair hair came past our booth before the singer had finished.
    Ruth said, “ Hallo, Franz,” and the fair young man turned and smiled at her with teeth that were too good to be true.
    “Why, Ruth,” he said in German, “it’s good to see you again.”
    “I’d like you to meet Mr. Branch,” she said. “Mr. Branch, this is Franz.”
    I rose, and he gave me a hand like leather-covered wood and clicked his heels. He looked about my age but there was something faded about his eyes that made me wonder if he was older.
    “How are you,” I said. “Won’t you join us?”
    “Delighted,” he said in English and sat down on the long seat beside me. “You’re American, are you?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your last name.”
    “Franz has repudiated his last name,” Ruth said with a smile. “He’s an Austrian baron but he refuses to admit it.”
    “I’ve enough personal crimes to answer for without assuming responsibility for the crimes of my ancestors,” Franz said, smiling like a precocious boy. “My ancestors were in the aristocracy racket.”
    “And you’ve been in the United States,” I said.
    “Apparently I still talk United States adequately. Sure, I lived in California for several years. They deported me for being a Wobbly. That’s one of my crimes.”
    “A Wobbly? You’re older than you look.”
    “And younger than I feel. Thanks. How have you been lately, Ruth?”
    “Very well, I–”
    Two young men in black uniforms went by the open end of the booth. They looked in but neither spoke. Ruth turned pale and bit her lip.
    Franz got up and said, “I must be going. I hope I have a chance to talk with you some time, Mr. Branch. I haven’t been in the States for ten years. Auf Wiedersehen. ”
    He was gone almost before Ruth could say, “Good night, Franz.” As he went out, I saw the deep wrinkles on the back of his brown neck and the leather patches on the elbows of his shiny suit.
    “He’s a surprising sort of person,” I said to Ruth. “How old is he?”
    “Over forty,” she said.
    “Really? He looks about twenty years younger.”
    “Danger keeps some men young. It destroys some but it keeps some men young until they die.”
    “What kind of danger?”
    “There are many kinds of danger,” she said, “especially in the Third Reich. … I’m sorry, but I think I must ask you to take me home.”
    “Of course,” I said and got up. “I haven’t offended you, have I?”
    “No.” She touched my arm. “No, you haven’t offended me. It’s just that I’m suddenly tired.”
    I helped her on with her coat and we went out to the street. We had to walk blocks before we found a taxi near the Bahnhof, and then it was a run-down affair standing high on its wheels like a horseless