Johannes, from whom she had accepted so much. But she didn't like the atmosphere which
the young Robins brought with them, and she thought them a bad influence for her husband.
She argued that the danger couldn't really be so great as Lanny feared. "If the Nazis are
anxious to get votes, they won't do anything to important persons, especially those known
abroad."
Lanny replied: "The party is full of criminals and degenerates, and they, are drunk with the
sense of power."
He couldn't stop worrying about it, and when the day for Hansi's coming drew near, he said
to Irma: "How would you like to motor to Cologne and bring them out with us?"
"What could we do, Lanny?"
"There's safety in numbers; and then, too, Americans have a certain amount of prestige in
Germany."
It wasn't a pleasant time for motoring, the end of February, but they had heat in their car,
and with fur coats they would be all right unless there happened to be a heavy storm. Irma
liked adventure; one of the reasons she and Lanny got along so well was that whenever one
suggested hopping into a car the other always said: "O.K." No important engagement stood in
the way of this trip, and they allowed themselves an extra day on chance of bad weather.
Old Boreas was kind, and they rolled down the valley of the Meuse, by which the Germans
had made their entry into France some eighteen and a half years ago. Lanny told his wife the
story of Sophie Timmons, Baroness de la Tourette, who had been caught in the rush of the
armies and had got away in a peasant's cart pulled by a spavined old horse.
They reached Cologne late that evening, and spent the next day looking at a grand cathedral,
and at paintings in a near-by Gothic museum. Hansi and Bess arrived on the afternoon train,
and thereafter they stayed in their hotel suite, doing nothing to attract attention to a member
of the accursed race. Among the music-lovers Hansi would be all right, for these were "good
Europeans," who for a couple of centuries had been building up a tradition of
internationalism. A large percentage of Europe's favorite musicians had been Jews, and there
would have been gaps in concert programs if their works had been omitted.
Was the audience trying to say this by the storms of applause with which they greeted the
performance of Mendelssohn's gracious concerto by a young Jewish virtuoso? Did Hansi have
such a message in his mind when he played Bruch's
the audience leaped to its feet and shouted, "Bravo!" were they really meaning to say: "We are
not Nazis! We shall never be Nazis!" Lanny chose to believe this, and was heartened; he was
sure that many of the adoring Rheinlanders had a purpose in waiting at the stage door and
escorting the four young people to their car. But out in the dark street, with a cold rain
falling, doubts began to assail him, and he wondered if the amiable Rhinelanders had guns for
their protection.
However, no Nazi cars followed, and no Stormtroopers were waiting at the Hotel Monopol.
Next morning they drove to the border, and nobody searched Hansi's two violin cases for
dynamite. They went through the routine performance of declaring what money they were
taking out of the country, and were then passed over to the Belgian customs men. Lanny
remembered the day when he had been ordered out of Italy, and with what relief he had
seen French uniforms and heard French voices. Eight years had passed, and Benito, the
"Blessed Little Pouter Pigeon," was still haughtily declaring that his successor had not yet been
born. Now his feat was being duplicated in another and far more powerful land, and rumors
had it that he was giving advice. In how many more countries would Lanny Budd see that
pattern followed? How many more transformations would it undergo? Would the Japanese
conquerors of Manchuria adopt some new-colored shirts or kimonos? Or would it be the Croix
de Feu in France? Or Mosley's group in England? And if so, to what part of the world would
the lovers of freedom move?
VIII
The tall slender figure of Hansi Robin stood before the audience in the symphony hall; an
audience of fastidious Parisians whose greeting was reserved. In the front row sat Lanny,
Irma, and Bess, greatly excited. Hansi's appearance was grave and his bows dignified; he
knew that this performance was an important one, but was not too nervous, having learned
by now what he could do. The conductor was a Frenchman who had given a long life to the
service of the art he loved; his hair had grown white, and what was left of it stood out as a
fringe under his shiny bald pate. He tapped upon the edge of his stand and raised his baton;
there came four beats of the kettledrum, followed by a few notes of a timid marching song;
then four more beats, and more notes. It was Beethoven's violin concerto.
Hansi stood waiting, with his instrument in the crook of his arm and his bow at his side; the
introduction is elaborate, and not even by a movement of his eyes would he distract anyone's
