he card itself.
One morning, while Otto was out in the queue at the butcher's, I slipped
away from the cellar to our sleeping-place and, lighting my candle, took
down the card and examined it closely. It was perfectly plain, red
letters on a green background in front, white at the back.

As I was replacing the card on the nail I saw some writing in pencil on
the wall where the card had hung. My heart seemed to stand still with
the joy of my discovery. For the writing was in my brother's neat,
artistic hand, the words were English, and, best of all, my brother's
initials were attached. This is what I read:

(Facsimile.) 5.7.16.

"You will find me at the Cafe Regina, Duesseldorf--F.O."

After that I felt I could bear with everything. The message awakened
hope that was fast dying in my heart. At least on July 5th, Francis was
alive. To that fact I clung as to a sheet-anchor. It gave me courage for
the hardest part of all my experiences in Germany, those long days of
waiting in that den of thieves. For I knew I must be patient. Presently,
I hoped, I might extract my papers from Haase or persuade Kore, when he
came back, to see me, to give me a permit that would enable me to get to
Duesseldorf. But the term of my permit was fast running out and the Jew
never came.

There were often moments when I longed to ask Haase or one of the others
about the time my brother had served in that place. But I feared to draw
attention to myself. No one asked any questions of me (questions as to
personal antecedents were discouraged at Haase's), and, as long as I
remained the unpaid, useful drudge I felt that my desire for obscurity
would be respected. Desultory questions about my predecessors elicited
no information about Francis. The Haase establishment seemed to have had
a succession of vague and shadowy retainers.

Only about Johann, whose apron I wore, did Otto become communicative.

"A stupid fellow!" he declared. "He was well off here. Haase liked him,
the customers liked him, especially the ladies. But he must fall in love
with Frau Hedwig (the lady at the bar), then he quarrelled with Haase
and threatened him--you know, about customers who haven't got their
papers in order. The next time Johann went out, they arrested him. And
he was shot at Spandau!"

"Shot?" I exclaimed. "Why?"

"As a deserter."

"But was he a deserter?"

"Ach! was! But he had a deserter's papers in his pockets ... his own had
vanished. Ach! it's a ba