But it was quite evident to both, that, though we might make up a plausible story as to why I was going to Brussels, although I might call myself an American, or an Italian, or a Spaniard (seeing that I could speak those languages well enough to deceive the Germans, and seeing also that I had the letter to the Spanish minister in my bag from the Vice-Consul at Antwerp), still, neither I nor Jean could do the one thing necessary; we could not produce any papers of mine that would satisfy the Germans if I fell into their hands.
"But we're not going to meet them!" said Jean.
He lit a cigarette.
"You had better give me all your papers," he added airily.
"What will you do with them?"
He smoked and thought.
"If we meet the Germans, I'll throw them away somewhere."
"But how on earth shall I ever get them again? And suppose the Germans see you throwing them away."
I did not like the phrase, "throw them away."
It seemed like taking from me the most precious thing in the world, the one thing that I had firmly determined never to part with—my passport!