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She probably meant the way I kept changing the location.” “What? Possible. Hmm. Yes.” “And after that I wrote many more letters. Would you believe it? After you went to sleep, I’d sit in here a few hours more and write her a little about myself, a little about her, and a lot about the Children of theHeart, which wasn’t easy, believe me. I have no experience as a writer, though in Braunschweig we took a three-month course in military correspondence and I came through pretty well. But a story—that’s different, and besides, the only books I ever read were Bible tales and the travels of the missionaries my father brought us when we were children, and Karl May, and your stories, of course, and here I was, all of a sudden, sitting down to write a story. No, Herr Wasserman, it wasn’t easy! It would have been a lot easier to go out and do my regular work, but I held fast. I made a DECISION [q.v.]! Night after night I sat here and grappled with the story. And what made it all the harder is what I consider to be your main problem [sic!!!]—you have such a disorderly mind. You jump all over the place. It’s pretty hard to write a book when you don’t know how it ends, isn’t it?” “Ah yes, Herr Neigel, I imagine it is.” “But you know the ending already. For me it’s almost unbearable, because in the midst of all my other problems in the camp, I have to deal with this wild, crazy thing which would probably be dangerously imaginative for someone weaker … Listen, you may laugh, but sometimes I couldn’t fall asleep trying to imagine how you were going to continue the story [see under: CREATION]. I think that’s when I began to feel, well, sort of like a writer.” “I believe you did.” “And don’t forget that it was harder for me than it was for you, because I had to take everything you told me and change it around so that our censors wouldn’t understand what was going on, you see? Because they read our letters. Yes, I found an ingenious system, Herr Wasserman. You’ll be proud of me.” (Wasserman bitterly: “Nu, finally a little naches.”) “I wrote it in the form of a children’s story, an innocent tale like ‘Snow-White.’ The facts were as you told them, minus the provocations, of course, but I wrote it in the style of your old stories, and I think I did pretty well, Herr Wasserman, because offhand you would probably say Camp Commander Neigel was amusing himself with a story-letter to his son, but anyone who read between the lines, like my Tina, would understand very well.” “Splendid, Herr Neigel. Mr. Lofting also started his career with letters from the front to his son.” “Lofting? Who’s that?” “Doctor Doolittle.” “Never heard of him. I was loyal to you, Herr Wasserman.” (Wasserman: “And a lot of good it did me!”) Neigel stretched, adjusted his uniform, and took another sip. He had recovered now. He was relieved. He looked calm. He had unburdened himself, and now he could continue as if nothing hadhappened. He asked Wasserman if he understood now why he couldn’t bring a war with the Germans into the story. Wasserman feigned innocence and answered in the negative. Neigel grew furious again. His calm mood was shattered. Wasserman’s writing, he explained, was distinctly seditious, and if such a letter were ever intercepted, Neigel would be promptly executed in no time. Wasserman suggested that the German write the story his own way, “now that you are a bona fide writer.” This is where Neigel screamed, “BETRAYAL!” [q.v.] again. Wasserman, who could not hold back a smile, asked the furious German officer, “Do you really and truly believe that if I tell you the story of Kazik now, your wife will come back to you? This is not a fairy-tale world, you know …” And the German explained that it wasn’t like that, it wasn’t the story itself but the fact that he could tell a story that restored Christina’s faith in him. He glanced at his watch and his eyes widened. Only five minutes left. He begged for a hint: “Just a few words, please, please, just the general drift of the story, so I’ll have something to tell her when we meet today. You must help me, Herr Wasserman. It’s urgent!” And the writer, stubbornly: “You are already in possession of everything you need to make her come back to you.” “No! No!” Neigel shook his bull’s head with horror. His eyes were bloodshot. “I can’t tell her things like that! Not about their war with the Germans, not that!” “But why not? It will not go past the censor, will it?” “No. Listen, I can’t say out loud those things you wrote. It would be a breach of my officer’s oath, it would be … ach!” “And what of your oath as a human being?” demanded Wasserman, his lips pale, and his wispy beard standing on end. “What oath, Wasserman? Who swore any oath?” And the Jew, coolly and forcefully, pronounced the words: “RESPONSIBILITY [q.v.]! Your DECISION [q.v.]!” And Neigel: “Help me, Herr Wasserman, help me. My life is in your hands now. You, too, have a wife and child somewhere. You must understand me.”

Wasserman turned to stone. Neigel’s driver knocked on the door, and Neigel yelled for him to wait in the car. Wasserman spoke: “Listen please, Herr Neigel. Two and one-half months ago, seven and sixty days, to be exact, I arrived here unwillingly on the morning train with my wife and daughter. We stepped off on the station platform, and my little girl flew like an arrow to Officer Hoppfler’s buffet. Chocolate was her heart’s delight, even though Dr. Blumberg had ordained that it was bad for her teeth and that she must abstain.” Neigel: “Get to the point,Wasserman, my driver’s waiting.” “That is the