Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/14

who would stuff him into his traveling bag if he misbehaved. During his high school days in Munich he was on friendly terms with some Jewish students who seemed to him like regular fellows. Yet it had been hard for him to remove the Jew-devil image of his early childhood, and despite his outward show of friendliness, it was difficult to root out the suspicions that his Jewish cronies were not entirely human, hiding the devil's tail in their coat pockets.

Now for the first time in his life he was face to face with a Jewish girl. "A rather fascinating one, too," he thought, eyeing her quizzically. They busied themselves for a moment with munching their buns and sipping their coffee, casting shy glances at each other.

"Quite a competitive trade, painting, eh?" he asked tentatively.

"Why, are you an artist?" she exulted, adjusting her beret.

"Not exactly, just a student. It's my fourth year at the Sorbonne, but I haven't learned much. Might as well be back on the farm and feed the pigs. But I won't call it quits till I get my sheepskin."

"Are you studying art?"

"No, medicine."

Her head sank. She rose as if to leave, but eyeing his puzzled expression, she waited until he paid the check.

Then he took her arm and led her across the street. She did not try to get away, feeling safe in his presence. They strolled on, chatting gaily, edging their way through the crowded traffic and then reached the Luxembourg Gardens. He stopped suddenly, scratching his head.

"Good heavens," he blurted, "I didn't even introduce myself. My name's Eric."

"And mine's Anna."