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19, 1938, French/German Border
    B LEIBEN SIE HIER , bitte, ” a Nazi border guard told John LaFarge. “Please wait here.”
    The suspicious Nazi official seemed to think that LaFarge could be a Roman Catholic agent because he was dressed as a priest, was an American, and had maps of Italy and Czechoslovakia. LaFarge was led to an empty room where he waited as told.
    He had boarded the late-afternoon train from Paris for the five- or six-hour journey to the German border. LaFarge was apprehensive along the way and unable to focus on reading. Central Europe had been experiencing a drought, so the rain that fell may have been an irritation for a sole traveler with more than he could carry by himself, but the foul weather was a godsend for the parched fields. He spent much of the trip in the dining car, where the international cuisine was served with care, and LaFarge relished the unlimited supply of french fries. The train was full when it left Paris, but more and more passengers left the train at each local stop. By the time they reached the German border, only two passengers remained, LaFarge and a sad-eyed Polish lady in a black dress who said she was transiting Germany to return home.
    LaFarge could not avoid the boldly proclaimed glory of the new Germany as the train had pulled into the German border station. “One glance out the window was enough,” LaFarge wrote in his notes on the trip. “EIN VOLK, EIN REICH, EIN FÜHRER [One People, One Reich, One Führer] greeted you in enormous letters. The Latin alphabet changed abruptly to German Gothic. Swastikas and Heils blossomed out as if by magic. We were in Hitler land. I was in Hitler land, along with 60 million Germans.”
    A fat, old Prussian customs officer called for him after a while and apparently had decided he needed backup. Two menacing plainclothes agents inspected LaFarge’s books and reading material, concerned that he was carrying an Italian grammar phrasebook. What was this man up to?
    â€œSo,” said one of the agents, “you have been in Rome.”
    â€œNo, I am going to Rome,” LaFarge replied.
    â€œYou were in Rome when Hitler was there?”
    â€œNo, I have not been in Rome,” LaFarge told the official. “I am going to Rome after I go to Koblenz and Budapest.”
    One of the officials then asked why LaFarge was going to Koblenz.
    He replied that he was visiting an old friend there.
    The agents continued to question him until they were satisfied if not convinced that LaFarge posed no imminent threat. They could see that his passport did not have an Italian stamp. Unless he had entered and left clandestinely, that was proof he hadn’t been there yet. Passing on to another subject, the Germans furrowed their brows and conferred once more when they pulled out a book about Spain he had received as a gift.
    â€œDoes the gentleman realize that this might be a forbidden book?” one asked him with an air of triumph.
    No, LaFarge answered, he hadn’t even opened the book, pointing out that the pages where still bound together.
    The inspectors sullenly examined every document, letter, note, article of clothing, clean or dirty, before deciding the “forbidden book” would be confiscated, perhaps mailed to him later.
    Finally, LaFarge was free to wait for the next train to Koblenz; the old Prussian border guard, freed of the two inspectors, became suddenly friendly, almost making up for the way he had treated LaFarge. He even helped the priest board the train when it arrived.
    As it pulled out of the station, LaFarge felt nervous but relieved and foolish for not having thought about what he packed nor having taken care for what he said. The guards had not addressed him in the proper manner as hochwerden, the German equivalent of “father” or “reverend.” They referred to him as “sir.” They might have thought he wasn’t really a priest, even though he was