Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/23

faces with the folds of their aprons, and try out their voices, hoarse and screechy like a violin in tuning.

Anna was in the habit of marketing here, usually leaving her bundles at a nearby cafe where she was known, and picking them up in the evening on her way home.

This morning she was somewhat depressed. She walked along, with bowed head, making her way automatically and paying no attention to the life that was going on about her. When she arrived at the Avenue Gambetta she mechanically crossed the street, but instead of turning into the narrow Rue des Amandiers she went in through the gates of the Père Lachaise Gardens.

Even here one could feel it was early morning. Beyond the fences the dead lay quietly amid the chirping birds and the sudden arrival of Spring. On the low branches of ancient trees some tiny premature buds were beginning to show. A bluish vapor rose from the soft soil. Wrapped in her black raincoat, and with her hands thrust deep into the pockets, Anna walked slowly up the sloping path. Her thoughts flew restlessly along, like clouds driven by storm-winds, helpless in their irresistible flight.

Questions sharp as poisoned darts gave her no rest. At the very first step I take must I find myself barred? She was thinking: "The same chasm that I saw before me in Lapov; the same yawning depth that can never be bridged. How did I fail to see it before? Was I dreaming? How could I have been blind to the fact that even here, in Paris, the world is split in two-Jew and Gentile? Or maybe the whole thing has nothing to do with religion. Maybe it's only his race. If only he weren't German!'

She was already late for work, yet she walked slowly, as though she might have been out for a morning stroll. Time