“Reverting to the accusation you have made against me,” I said, “let me ask you a simple question: If it is established that the chief of the German military police here, in Antwerp, knows me personally; if he and I have talked together at length; if he knows my nationality and under what circumstances I am in Belgium; why I came here; what I am doing, and what I hope to do, will you be of the opinion still that I have infringed the regulations knowingly and wilfully in not reporting to this office?”
The German officer was visibly abashed. He went to the telephone and spoke with the chief of police. He became convinced that what I had said was true, and while not so violent as hitherto, he said, in a haughty manner: “Well, you ought to know that in the quality of stranger you are not allowed to go around without a card of identification. We will give you your card and you must report yourself here every two weeks.”
The officer had to give full vent to his wrath on somebody, so, turning to the soldier who had remained near me, he said, brutally, “Los!” (Go!)
The soldier, poor slave, turned on his heels, struck his thighs with his hands, looked fixedly at his superior officer, and walked hurriedly from the room.
An hour later, and feeling really not too much annoyed by my trip, I returned to Capellen, where I was surrounded by my family and a group of friends all anxious to know in every detail what happened to me on my visit to Antwerp.
Apparently I was safe. With my card I might go freely among my patients. At the end of two weeks’ time I reported myself in Antwerp, where my passport was examined and found to be correct.
I still was allowed to breathe, with all my lungs, the air of freedom!