Stay at Gronau—remain in this God-forsaken place till the European conflagration burnt itself out, cut off from every soul we cared about and unable to communicate—impossible! Having arrived at this logical conclusion, we returned to our beds and went to sleep. At eight o'clock the examiners returned to the charge. We went into a long room with a raised dais. There were long tables ranged down it, covered with stained cardboard mounts for beer-glasses. Cigar ashes were in saucers, cigar ends on the floor. The smell of stale beer permeated the atmosphere. It was an engaging mise en scène.
Kitty and I were greeted by the head of police, two sergeants (one of them the bucolic hero of the vanity bag), and one of the girl searchers. The wearisome process began afresh. By the time the turn of my trunk came, the men were clearly bored. I had quantities of papers,—notes, MSS., sketches for lectures, extracts, charts,—papers which would have caused wild interest the evening before, but excitement was on the wane. By eleven o'clock everything had been seen thoroughly. The chief of police beamed upon us kindly. "It has to be done," he explained.
Later the burgomaster reappeared, more paternal than ever, and most kindly disposed. He was really sorry for all we had gone through, and promised he would do all in his power to get us over the border, and he certainly kept his word. Out of his pockets came all our confiscated belongings, and from some safe hiding-place was produced the fatal vanity bag!
At about one o'clock we went off again in the car, escorted by a now friendly policeman and one of the searchers. We were armed with a most reassuring pass, signed by the burgomaster himself, but when we arrived at the frontier and confidently handed it to the official there, he shook his head. "Impossible! Impossible!" he said. With a sudden rush our spirits sank to zero. This was the "most unkindest cut of all," but out of the darkness came light. We were at cross-purposes, and the man thought we wished to motor across the little bridge connecting Germany and Holland. We assured him we had no such desire, that I would take a trolley car to Einschede, charter a Dutch automobile to take us to Amsterdam, and return to the frontier to collect the girls and the luggage. Then came the hoped-for permission, and we all jumped out of the car. There was the little bridge—Kleine Brucke—and beyond Holland, the promised land. A few formalities, a few good-bys, a few planks traversed, and we were safe in a country that was neutral for the nonce: Holland, the stepping-stone to America.
S.S. Nieuw Amsterdam
A week later