Читать книгу The Five Walking Sticks - Henry R Lew - Страница 14

From the age of thirty months I was entrusted to the full-time care of a Hebrew tutor. After that my parents visited me rarely and then only briefly. My master was very strict, short tempered and beat me frequently. For four and a half years he alone conducted my education. The only language that we spoke was Hebrew and by seven years of age I had become quite fluent in that ancient language. My schooling was then suddenly liberalised. I was sent to a German speaking secular school during the day, but despite this, my rigorous Jewish education continued outside of school hours. Talmud was added to Hebrew and Torah and these studies now occupied three hours in the morning before school, two hours in the afternoon after school, and from eight till ten at night. The only respite I had was six hours of sleep.

My secular and religious tutors were as day and night. The teacher at the secular school was gentle and encouraging and when I performed well he showered me with praise. In contrast I began to see my Hebrew tutor as a tyrant and a brute. I began to hate him, his Hebrew, and his Jewish religion. I could not dissociate Judaism from the Hebrew language as the two had always been taught me, one in connection with the other.

Things changed dramatically once I was ten years old. My mother informed me that my father, a wealthy Hamburg banker, whom I had seldom seen, had died following a long illness. He had left her property valued at one hundred thousand pounds sterling on the verbal understanding that she not remarry and that she keep our family and the estate intact. She removed me from the house of my tutor and I went to live with her in Vienna.

My biographer does not accept that my father died. He believes that mother’s large inheritance represented a more than generous settlement at the termination of a long-term de facto relationship. For him the co-existence of two immensely wealthy Israel Brodzkys at the same time seems improbable.

Eighteen months later mother married and we moved to Berlin. I took an instant dislike to her new husband. To call him father was out of the question and time did little to change my mind. Mother did her best to convince me that he was a fine, learned, cultured gentleman but to no avail. I desperately wanted to get away from him and, being used to not living at home, begged to go to boarding school.

I was sent to Highgate Grammar School in London for four years. Mother thought it a good idea for me to learn English. I found the language easy to master and soon became as proficient in it as a native born Englishman. A small trace of a foreign accent may have persisted but I don’t really think so. During the school holidays I was sent up north to Yorkshire to spend some time with maternal relatives in Leeds. On a warm summer’s day I would walk from Leeds to Selby, and then, for a shilling, catch a small steamer up the Rivers Ouse and Humber as far as Hull. I enjoyed these vacations and became an Anglophile forever after as a result. My next move was to the Douai School in France. This was to learn French so that I could prepare for the Baccalaureate. I took to French like English, as a duck to water. I really loved that language and learned to speak it perfectly, without a trace of a foreign accent. My French became so good that, later on, when I spoke English again, I did so initially with a French accent. I now prided myself on being a master linguist. I was fluent in French, English and Hebrew and very good with German and Latin and also Yiddish, which just fell into place because of the other languages.

After matriculating in 1868 I enrolled at the Sorbonne University to study medicine. In Paris I took myself a room on the Rue de l’Ecole de Medicine. It was the ideal location for a medical student. Well, what can I say about Paris? It just overwhelmed me. There is no other city quite like it on earth. I went everywhere! I saw everything! I lived and breathed it! In no time I had acquired all the vices of a Quartier Latin Bohemian.

My main problem was money. My mother’s lawyer would send me a stipend each month from Berlin. Instead of budgeting, so that it lasted, I would have a ball instead. While in funds, I would dine at Duval’s, go to plays at the Theatre Francais, and afterwards take supper at the Cafe de la Jeune France until the early hours of the morning. Study was out of the question while a gold coin remained in my pocket. But by mid-month my money started to run out. I was no longer able to pay my way in cafes and restaurants. This was a cue to hibernate for a fortnight and to study madly instead. At the end of the month I sometimes couldn’t even afford the price of a meal but finally solved this problem by paying the owner of a nearby cafe for a month of breakfasts in advance. The precipitating event for this sagacity was a hypoglycaemic faint that I suffered, while attending a lecture on the origin of Semitic languages by Professor Adolphe Franck. The faint proved to be a gratuity, for not only did the kind professor revive me, but he also bought me lunch and offered me a job. Franck was writing his famous treatise on the Kabbalah and needed some rare Hebrew manuscripts copied. He augmented my income, to the tune of five francs a week, by allowing me to do this for him.

The manuscripts were housed at the Imperial Library on Rue Richelieu. Whilst working there I met and befriended Dr. Hertz, a retired German physician of independent means, long resident in Paris, with an interest in mysticism and the occult. Hertz invited me home and introduced me to his daughter, Emma. Here was a girl possessed of great personal beauty and charm. She had a perfectly proportioned head, luxuriant blond hair, a clear white complexion rose-tinted in the cheeks, and best of all, two large keen intelligent black eyes that shone brightly like beacons, and immediately alerted me, without even hearing her speak, to her fine mind. I was totally besotted by her and couldn’t keep away from the house. My love for her ripened daily and I knew elation when I felt her reciprocate it. Her father, the kind doctor, treated me not as a stranger but as a son. I now saw Emma every day, having weaned myself from my company. I simply lost interest in them. I wished that time might stand still, that nothing might ever change. And then, suddenly, on July 17^th 1870, my blissful idyll came to an abrupt end. War was declared between Bismarck and the Second Empire of Napoleon III.

The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War impacted on the inhabitants of Paris. The excitement was electrifying. The streets burst alive with the chatter of people. Newspaper vendors rushed around shouting, “Telegraphic News- the very latest news of the war”. A heterogeneous assemblage - shopkeepers, tradesmen, business people, workers, professionals, stockbrokers - poured forth from dark and narrow side streets and crowded the magnificent boulevards. Cafes and wine shops resounded with martial songs and patriotic fervour. The Marseillaise could be heard continuously from all directions simultaneously, an overpowering, stereophonic medley of sound. And then most frightening of all, at dusk, a rabid mob appeared out of nowhere, more than one hundred thousand stark-raving-mad-people, singing, shouting, howling, pushing, and jostling. They poured forth, like volcanic lava, from the Place de la Bastille to the Emperor’s palace in the Tuilleries. In the Rue de Rivoli this wild rabble broke into the kiosks where street sweepers put away their brooms. They torched these brooms with petroleum. Others did likewise with stolen doormats attached to shovels and poles. “Down with Prussia,” “Long Live France,” “Long live the Emperor,” they shouted. This torchlight procession, and the abominable stench it produced, was permitted, unhindered by the guards, to pass through the gateways of the Tuilleries into the Palace courtyard where they demanded to see the Emperor. Napoleon, being no friend of the mob, kept to his room. The mob remained there for an hour until a palace spokesman appeared on a balcony and lied that the Emperor was at St. Cloud. Then they dispersed but not before a scuffle broke out with a procession of bourgeoisie pleading for peace.

Later that evening I witnessed other frightening scenes. Six Germans driving across the Place de la Bastille were stupid enough to shout, “Vive la Prusse”. The crowd stampeded them, killing four outright, and severely mutilating the remaining two. Buildings bearing signs with German surnames or place names were severely vandalised. Walls were damaged, shutters fractured, and windowpanes shattered.

I went home to sleep. It seemed the safest thing to do. But by morning I had developed a high fever, severe pains affecting my muscles and joints, and a belly so distended that it seemed about to burst. This illness was protracted and confined me to bed for a week. Indeed I owe my very life to a kind, young seamstress, “une pauvre grisette,” who rented the adjacent room and went out of her way to nurse me. She was ‘magnifique!’ She kept me hydrated and nourished by feeding me soup, and dispensed a home-made remedy to lower my temperature. No qualified medical practitioner could have restored me to health in shorter time.

By the seventh day my appetite and strength had recovered sufficiently to make my way downstairs to La Cremerie, the cafe at which my breakfasts were prepaid. As I dressed a thought crossed my mind. I must give my young seamstress a very nice present. But being short of money I couldn’t just yet. I would put it off until I received more funds from home. The word home suddenly linked up a chain of thoughts in my memory. My home, strictly speaking, was Germany. The terrible scenes of the night of the seventeenth now came back to haunt me. The hostilities between France and Germany would cause my letters to be detained at the border. I would be stranded here with no funds. A dream now re-entered my consciousness. It wasn’t really a dream; I had only thought it was! The concierge had knocked on my door and had spoken to me. He said that all Germans had to leave France today. I suddenly appreciated the reality of my situation. I was born in East Prussia, and in receipt of monthly letters from Berlin that identified me as a German to the concierge of my building. All Germans were deemed spies until proved otherwise, and in great danger of being arrested and shot. The better educated a person was, the higher was the index of suspicion against him. The French Government had issued a decree on the declaration of war that all German nationals had to depart France by the end of the week. My week was now up.

I actually felt more French than German. I spoke French with a good Parisian accent and my thought processes were those of a Frenchman. I hadn’t lived in Germany since childhood and felt no specific loyalty to it. It was politics, a subject in which I had no interest, which now classified me ‘a German.’

Since falling ill I had lost contact with the Hertzs. They were my closest friends in Paris. I saw them daily. But despite this, I had deliberately omitted to give them my exact address. They knew my room was in the Latin Quarter but I had no desire that Emma visit it and share its squalor.

I locked my door, and left my key with the concierge. He looked me knowingly in the eye, but said nothing. At the German Embassy I learned that the Ambassador had left for Berlin the night before. A rough mob had congregated in front of the building and was creating a disturbance, hurling both insults and missiles. I noticed several broken windows. This behaviour was still new to me and made me feel awkward. I quickly departed.

Next I visited the Hertzs in Passy but they were not home. Their concierge seemed to think they might have left for Germany. I now felt isolated, terribly alone!

Back at my lodgings I asked the concierge for the key to my room. He confirmed my worst fears. “Sir,” he said, “you are suspected of being German and will have to show your passport to prove otherwise.” I decided on the spot to return to Germany via Switzerland in the guise of a Frenchman. I smiled, told him all was well, that my passport was in my room, and I would show it to him later. I took the key and went upstairs. I burnt my passport and any other letter or document that could identify me as a German. Next I made a parcel of my best clothes and most valuable books and immediately vacated the premises, never to return. The clothes were pawned for seven francs and the books brought five francs from a bookseller on the Quay d’Orsay. I used some of this money to purchase a detailed road map of France - also some cheese, biscuits, water and tobacco, with which to sustain myself - and a railway ticket for the last train of the day to Melun, a large town, 50 kilometres to the south-east of Paris.

I still had six francs in my pocket, and could have easily afforded an inn that first night in Melun, but I hesitated. I was afraid that I would be asked to show my passport. The nearby Forest of Fontainbleau, the finest park in the whole of France, seemed a safer option. I camped there instead. Rising with the sun, I passed through the town of Fontainbleau before it rose, and hurried on to Sens. I was very conscious of feeling too conspicuous. I sensed that I no way resembled a local provincial or a regular tramp; rather that I bore the air of a refugee from Paris. My response was therefore to avoid towns and make for the cornfields instead. There I could lie down, unseen by passers-by on the road, and pass the daylight hours reading, smoking and sleeping. When dusk fell I could recommence my journey. I maintained such a routine for six days.

On the seventh day I slept behind a stone wall enclosing a vineyard. Then at four in the afternoon a feeling that someone was coming my way awakened me. I rose, emerged from behind the wall and smartened myself up. I had run out of food and felt faint and weak. The time had arrived to venture into a town again to lay in new provisions. The nearest one was Dole, the birthplace of Pasteur, with twelve thousand inhabitants. Given its population the outskirts of Dole were unusually quiet. The streets were empty and the very occasional person that passed by seemed totally disinterested in me. But things can change quickly. Suddenly I emerged from a steep narrow street into a large overcrowded square. There the most bewildering and frightening scene of communal grief that I had ever seen confronted me. Thousands of people were wailing, grinding their teeth, wringing their hands, tearing out their hair. I heard shouts of - “all butchered” - “France is betrayed” - “we’ll avenge them” - “aux armes citoyens.” France had obviously lost a major battle. Till then I hadn’t realised that hostilities had already begun. I was very keen to ascertain the facts but at the same time I was naturally careful not to draw attention to myself by enquiring. Inconspicuously I edged my way through the crowd to the gates of the Prefecture where despatches had been posted on a notice board. I read them. They announced a terrible slaughter of the flower of the French forces at Weissembourg and Reichshofen.

I had scarcely finished reading when a man tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to face him and ask what he wanted but there was no time to compose a question. He had placed his hand on my shoulder again and shouted for the benefit of the bystanders, “You are arrested! This is the reason we were defeated! This is a Prussian spy!”

“A Prussian spy!” the crowd echoed. You can’t imagine the fear or terror that these words ushered forth from within. I was totally helpless, surrounded by an infuriated mob, many of them ignorant provincials, incapable of mastering aggression, and easily led to exact revenge on a hapless stranger, at a mere suggestion. For a few seconds my head became target practice for a succession of projectiles. One drunken individual even tried to stab me. It was only his vanity in imagining himself an orator that saved my life. Brandishing a dagger in his right hand, and my coat collar in his left, he spurted forth a speech as a prelude to his heroic act. “Citizens,” he thundered, “behold an enemy of our State. I have been a soldier and don’t despise an open enemy in the field. I am the last person to treat a prisoner of war badly. A fair fight is worthy but espionage and subterfuge, that is a different matter! We must put an end to this snake-in-the-grass behaviour. We French are a brave and strong people. It is only because of spying beasts such as he, that we have lost a single battle. Let’s make an example of him. What shall we do? Speak citizens, speak!” “Do away with him,” the crowd replied. “For my country,” my would-be executioner shouted. But before he could plunge his cold steel into my breast, the powerful hands of a number of policemen grabbed him.

A gendarme approached me. “Who are you?” he demanded. “I am not a Prussian spy,” I replied, as I was conducted into the police station and seated in a comfortable armchair in the middle of a spacious room. Spectators filed into it quickly to witness my preliminary interrogation. The Inspector who was to question me was still busy in the telegraph office. This left me time in which to concoct a plausible tale. I would have liked to tell the truth, that I was German and not a spy but the raging and the clamouring of the mob outside convinced me otherwise. They were shouting, “Deliver us the spy!” The thought of a firing squad put paid to any plans I had of not lying. In the midst of all this agony, the door opened and the Inspector entered. “Strasbourg is surrounded by the Prussians,” he whispered to someone seated nearby. Others whispered similar to their neighbours. The people in the room were disturbed by the news, but to me who was not supposed to hear, it brought great relief.

“Ah,” said the Inspector, as he sat in a chair facing his audience, “so this is the Prussian spy?” Every eye was fixed on me. Calmly, and in a studied tone, I replied. “Sir, you insult me, I am not a Prussian spy.” “What are you then?” he retorted. “I am a native of Strasbourg,” I pleaded, “who has resided in Paris a number of years. I intended to return home, but hearing it was difficult to pass the Prussian lines, I elected to go to Neufchatel instead, where I have friends. This accounts for my visit to Dole.” “That is a lie,” the Inspector countered, rising from his chair and addressing the audience. “Gentlemen, see how calm and collected this vagabond looks! There’s not even the slightest indication of fear on his face. He’s a spy and a very clever one into the bargain. The Prussians don’t send fools on such errands. Oh no! They’re clever knaves. Their strength lies in their cunning, not their valour. Gentlemen you have no idea what sort of training these Prussian officers receive. They are all Bachelors of Arts, polyglots, philosophers and scientists. It is all study and examinations with them. This fellow here is a fair specimen of one. Don’t be misled by his behaviour!”

The Inspector sat down highly satisfied with his speech. He wrote for a few seconds. Everyone in the room started whispering again. I wanted to say some words in my defence but the Inspector silenced me and asked for a company of soldiers to be brought from the railway station.

When the soldiers arrived I was handed over to an officer. “This is a Prussian spy,” the Inspector said. “Here is the order for his arrest. Conduct him safely to prison. See that the people do not harm him. We will court-martial him tomorrow.”

My gaoler was an old soldier from the First Empire who delighted in having a spy in his custody and set to work with great zeal. He brought me prison clothes and bade me undress. As I removed each garment he carefully examined it. He turned out the pockets and opened the linings, looking for a document that might help establish my guilt. He chuckled when he found the map of France. “At last,” he held it up triumphantly, “conclusive evidence of your guilt. What fools those gendarmes are. Why did they not search you at once? Tomorrow, Sir, you will be shot. Yes, shot! I salute you. You are a soldier, an officer of rank. We shan’t degrade you by hanging you like a dog. Oh, no! You shall die like a brave soldier. Let people say what they like about it being contemptible to be a spy. I say that it requires more courage than to fight on a battlefield.”

I was left alone in my cell with the regulation loaf of bread and jug of water but was neither hungry nor thirsty. My head was full of thoughts of the trial the next day. Lying on an old iron bedstead, I could think of nothing else but the wrong verdict and twelve bullets. Unable to contain my emotions I burst into tears, and then, eventually, exhaustion sent me to sleep.

I slept soundly. When I awoke my gaoler was standing beside me, a bowl of soup in his hands. “You’ve slept 16 hours,” he exclaimed. “And not yet shot,” I replied. “No,” he nodded, “all in good time. Will you read a book? We have German books in the library.” I asked for a French book, preferably a novel, and was given The Count of Monte Cristo. Ironically I enjoyed its pages as much as a free man would.

In the morning my clothes were returned and I was ordered into them. Two gendarmes came to the prison gate and conducted me across town to a public building. No one molested us on the way. The previous furore had died down.

Next the gendarmes guided me through a labyrinth of offices and one of them knocked on a door. I was made to enter a large room but they did not follow. Therein a gentleman was seated at a table. On it were cigars and refreshments. He was very polite and asked me affably, “Will you smoke a cigar?” “Thank you,” I replied. “Join me in a glass of wine as well,” he countered. I thanked him again.

With a fine Havana in one hand and a smooth old burgundy in the other, I listened, as he spoke to me, quietly, easily, and without any trace of official stiffness. He apologised for my awkward situation and repeated at length how he was there to help me extricate myself from it. He perplexed me. I wondered who he was and what sort of trap he was setting for me.

He looked at me and continued to speak with even greater warmth than before. “Sir, I am deeply interested in you. I am sorry that you were subjected to such harsh treatment. Prison is no place for a man of your intelligence and education. You are accused of being a Prussian spy, but I know, from information received, that you occupy a high position in the German army. You were sent here to make plans of the fortifications of Besangon and Belfort. You are a soldier who was ordered to do it. We shall treat you as such, as a prisoner of war, and not as a common spy. Confess and I promise you will be sent to a southern town, where you will be free to walk about provided you give your word of honour, as a gentleman, not to escape.”

This was a speech calculated to make a spy confess. He made me feel confident that if I told the truth, I would be granted my freedom. I was close to doing this when the sound of a quill on paper suddenly reached my sensitive ears. It came from behind a heavy curtain that divided the room, behind my inquisitor’s chair. There must have been a clerk hidden there, whose job was to copy down everything I said. This could then be used in evidence against me at my trial. I proved equal to the occasion. I thanked my would-be friend for his kindness and interest, and reiterated that I was a native of Strasbourg. ” But we can’t write to Strasbourg to confirm what you say is true.” “Why not?” I asked. “Because it is surrounded by the Prussians.” I expressed surprise and said I had heard this for the very first time.

The man relaxed his features. He seemed to think my story might be true. “You have lived in Paris? How long did you say? Who knows you there?” “Dr. Hertz,” I replied. “Leave me the doctor’s address. Enquiries will be made. In the meantime you must go back to prison.”

The die was now cast. I had given Dr. Hertz’s name without even knowing whether he was still in Paris. And if he were there would he know to say that I was a native of Strasbourg? And should he guess correctly, would his testimony be taken? All these questions now haunted my mind but, nevertheless, I felt I had done the right thing.

I found out later that when I visited the Hertzs prior to my departure from Paris, they were both at police headquarters. A detective had taken them there earlier because of the decree concerning German aliens. They had been questioned at length and the good doctor had become quite indignant. “When I became a naturalised Frenchman I never imagined that I would be molested in such a manner. I cannot find my papers of naturalisation just yet, but if you give me till tomorrow I promise to produce them for you. Would you have treated Heinrich Heine or Ludwig Borne in the same way?”

The Prefect was satisfied for the moment. Dr. Hertz was allowed to go home and rummage among his papers. As soon as he discovered the required documents, he and Emma returned to the station. The Prefect apologised, made an entry in a book, and allowed the pair of them to remain in Paris.

Back at home the good doctor became very pensive about the evils of war. “Emma,” he said, “I think I could do some good during this campaign.” “Surely, father, you are not going to fight?” “No, fighting is not my business. Even though I have not practised for twenty years, I could still be useful in alleviating the sufferings of the injured. There will be broken heads, broken limbs, a great deal of pain. I could join an ambulance corps. ” I was thinking of joining myself,” Emma replied, “but I thought it might displease you. Let us both apply to join the Internationale.”

The doctor then sat down and penned two applications to the Committee of the Ambulance Internationale. Emma continued, “I wonder whether Maurice is still in Paris. He has not called here since the day war was declared. I am afraid that something has happened to him.” “Emma,” interposed the doctor, ” he has left Paris. He is on his way to some country other than Germany.” “How do you know father? Has he written to you?” “No, my child, but don’t ask any questions?” Emma didn’t cross-examine him further. Perhaps she did not wish to arouse any suspicion in him as to how much she loved me.

Two weeks passed and father and daughter had joined the ambulance. They were enjoying their last meal at home, dressed in travelling attire, with a Red Cross band around their left upper arms, when the concierge entered and introduced a gentleman dressed in black. The detective presented his compliments and requested that Dr. Hertz give him some information concerning a young man, Monsieur Maurice Brodzky, who has been arrested in Dole on suspicion of being a Prussian spy. “He denies it. He says he is a native of Strasbourg, and that Doctor Hertz can testify to this.” The doctor gazed at Emma and saw her agitation. The policeman did not notice it. “He’s not a Prussian spy,” was the doctor’s calm and studied answer. “We know him well; he is an intimate friend of this house; his sentiments are entirely French.” “Would you then sign this document, in order to effect his release?” The doctor signed the document and the police agent departed. Emma fell on her father’s neck and covered him with kisses. “How did you know what to say father?” “Because I realised a fortnight ago what had happened, and I was prepared for it.” This time she did press her father for an explanation and he told her that the concierge had mentioned my visit of the 25^th July.

For twelve more days various officials tried all manner of tricks with which to break down my story but I refused to budge from it. Finally, at nine o’clock on the thirteenth morning my persistence was rewarded. I was conducted to the office of the prison governor. “We have made enquiries about you,” the governor said. I held my breath. “We find that your statement is true, that you are a Frenchman. You will be liberated at once, but you must present yourself today at the Town Hall and enlist in the army. You are of age, you are able-bodied, and you must serve. You cannot leave France! The law prohibits it! Your country is in danger and requires that every young able-bodied Frenchman defends it.”

I left the prison and made straight for the Town Hall where hundreds of young men were awaiting their marching orders. I admit a temptation to try to escape. But I feared that someone might be secretly watching me and I did as I was directed.

The clerk informed me that I could only enlist for as long as the war lasts, on account of presenting myself to the wrong depot. Strasbourg was my proper depot and once the war was over I would have to go there and re-enlist for the remainder of my three-year term. The good news was that, for now, I could join the regiment of my choice. I consulted a placard on the wall that listed all the regiments and their depots. I chose the First Regiment of the Tirailleurs Algeriens at Blidah in Algeria. I hoped that by the time I arrived in Blidah the war would be over. I received the relevant documents. You can now appreciate why I fabricated the details on them. When enlisting in the French Army I could hardly be seen as being born in Prussia.

I was very happy to leave Dole but in no hurry to get to Marseilles. On the way there I passed through Dijon, Lyons, Vienne, Avignon and Orange and made a special point of seeing everything of interest in each place. When I finally presented myself to Fort St. Martin in Marseilles the last steamer had just left for Algiers. The next one was not due for three days, leaving me time to explore Marseilles as well.

There were more than two thousand recruits and regular soldiers at the fort. They played cards, drank sour wine and ate soup. I soon learnt that a tin spoon was as important a part of a soldier’s armament as his gun. Soup was served out in large dishes for twelve to fourteen people. Those who possessed a spoon got some; those who didn’t missed out.

Our steamer took us to Algiers and we marched on to Blidah. The morning after our arrival we were given our uniforms. I thought that basic training would last six weeks but it was over after only eight days. One hundred of us were then shipped straight back to France to replenish a regiment decimated at Woerth. Contrary to all hopes, I had not been able to sit out the war in Algeria.

My regiment formed part of the army of the Loire. General D’Aurelle de Paladines was our first commander-in-chief and General Chanzy succeeded him. We were subjected to continuous marching and fighting. It was no fun. I fought in the battles of Toury, Coulmiers, and Artenay. One little episode is fixed in my memory. On the eve of the Jewish New Year we were camped outside Orleans. The orders of the day permitted Jewish soldiers to absent themselves for twenty-four hours to attend religious services. I decided to take advantage of this privilege. I remember that my comrades were much surprised to discover I was Jewish.

At Artenay I was wounded and evacuated to a military hospital. I remained there until after the armistice was signed on May 10^th 1871. More than two months passed before I recovered from my injuries and was discharged from my regiment. While convalescing, I wrote to the Hertzs in Paris but found myself totally unprepared for the doctor’s reply. Emma was dead! A shell had hit the ambulance in which she was working. At first I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it; I couldn’t accept it; I couldn’t think of anything else but Emma. Her image was always in front of my eyes; I spoke to her continuously in my mind. And then after several weeks, suddenly, I made peace with it all. I attribute my recovery to the war. War surrounds soldiers with a stench of death and conditions them to accept it; immediate self-preservation requires not a living with death, but rather a getting on with life. It wasn’t easy. I didn’t feel that I could distract myself by going straight back to University. Either way I had to visit my mother in Berlin and re-evaluate my financial situation with her. En route I spent a couple of days in Paris with Dr. Hertz and we consoled one another. Berlin was only to provide more bad news. Mother had died of a fever six months earlier. I contacted her lawyer to enquire as to my share of the estate. Most of it, the solicitor claimed, had gone to sustain and educate me for more than a decade. I couldn’t help but feel that he and my stepfather had acquired a fair share of it for themselves. But I decided not to pursue the issue further. I was too upset to embroil myself in a legal battle and had no wish to risk losing the bit that was still mine in the process. Instead I decided to re-start my life again, faraway from all this. I had read about Australia in books and now thought about visiting it. London would be the best place to make inquiries. Gold had been discovered in Victoria and had helped to create many opportunities there. It was possible, by way of a Government grant, to acquire a farm of 640 acres and I still had sufficient funds with which to stock and work it. I was young and idealistic and the thought of acquiring wealth from the soil by some honest hard work really appealed to me. I booked a passage on the Sussex.