I left Berlin for Latvia, to do a series of articles on the Baltic states. After two weeks in Riga I was about to start for Warsaw and a vacation. In my mail were two letters, forwarded from Berlin. One was from my editor, suggesting a series on the Polish corridor. The other was in a brown envelope, postmarked Munich. The inscription on the envelope, “N.S.D.A.P.,” the abbreviation for the full name of the Nazi party, I did not notice closely.

“Herr Hitler has received your note of apology,” that letter said, “and the two hundred marks. He wants it understood that under no circumstances will he give you an interview. A draft for two hundred marks is herewith enclosed.”

I regretted that such a mistake had occurred and returned the draft to the Munich address with a short note. Then I left for Warsaw.

The officials in the Polish Foreign Office were very hospitable. They furnished all available statistics on the Corridor question and each day sent to my hotel a package of books on various phases of it. I told them I wanted to travel through the Corridor, and they seemed pleased that an American correspondent should take that trouble. When I was ready to leave I went to the Foreign Office to speak my thanks.

“We would like someone from our office to accompany you through the Corridor,” an official said politely. “You will learn more.”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“Oh, we insist.” I did not like his tone of voice. “We wouldn’t think of anything else. Our Mr. Bron will meet you at the station to-night.”

I returned to my hotel and found a letter, with N.S.D.A.P. on the brown envelope. “Herr Hitler wants it understood for the last time,” the letter said, “that under no circumstances will he give you an interview. The draft for two hundred marks is herewith returned to you.”

I wondered whether the inscription on the envelope had had anything to do with the tone of voice at the Foreign Office and the insistence on a traveling companion. The envelope showed no signs of having been opened, but the hotel clerk would notice any mail from the Nazi Party. I sent the draft back to Munich.

Mr. Bron was waiting at the station. He was a very charming young man, seemingly glad of a chance to travel. He was very talkative so long as we discussed two subjects: facts about the Corridor to prove that it was indisputably Polish and that the Germans had no claim to it; and my activities in Berlin.

“Take a telephone directory in Bydgoszcz. You’ll find few German names in it. Where’s the German population? What right have the Germans to a city almost completely Polish?” He could blow himself white-hot at the idea. Then, a little later, “You must meet a lot of interesting people in Berlin. Have you ever met Bruening? Do you know Dr. Schacht?” And, casually, “Have you ever, by chance, met Hitler?”

“Yes, I’ve met him.” I added no details.

“Indeed! How did he impress you? We shall have trouble if he gets into power.” He glowered at the idea. “Perhaps you know Ernst Roehm?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Indeed!”

After a week in the towns of the Corridor we reached Danzig, a free city where Poles and Germans live in the tension of a prize fight in its fifteenth round. After a week with Bron I knew the Polish side of the Corridor story backward. He had written several books on the subject and I knew them too. And Bron knew the name of every person I had ever met in Berlin, where I went, what I saw, and what I wrote.

I thought we should part in Danzig, but Bron took the hotel room next to mine. Each day he arranged excursions and provided automobiles and motorboats to see the city, its environs, and its harbor. A group of Poles accompanied us, and statistics on the rights of the Poles now came in chorus.

I wanted to hear the German side of the story. Across the border, in East Prussia, are the little towns of Marienburg and Marienwerder. I meant to stay in each town a few days and then go on to Königsberg. The Governor of the district, Dr. Behrend, lived in Marienwerder and I wanted to talk with him. When Bron was not about I called long-distance to the Governor and was told that if I wished to see him I should have to come down the next afternoon.

I explained to Bron that I was about to leave for East Prussia and Konigsberg.

“Excellent,” he beamed. “I will come with you as far as Marienwerder. I have not been abroad for so long.” Then, innocently, “By the way, do you know Dr. Behrend, the Governor?”

“I expect to see him,” I said bluntly, wishing I had not used the telephone.

“I’ll go with you to Marienwerder. I’d like to see the Polish consul there. He’s an old friend of mine.”

There was no way to get rid of him. Together we crossed the ten miles to East Prussia and walked the streets of Marienburg. We went through the ancient castle of the Teutonic Knights while the German guide pointed out the damage to the castle caused by the Poles in their attacks in the fifteenth century, “those same filthy scoundrels who have our Deutschland in their corridor.” Bron seemed unhappy but he was in a foreign country now.

I remembered that I had given Marienburg as one of my forwarding addresses, and before we took the train to Marienwerder, twenty miles away, I stopped at the post office. Bron followed.

“Is there any mail for me?” I asked the old postmaster.

“Oh! Oh, you’ve come!” The greeting was surprisingly warm. “There is mail and there is one telegram for you.”

He pushed a parcel of mail under the grille. “The telegram is a money order, forwarded from Berlin. Wait. I took good care of it.”

I was expecting no money. Bron was busily reading the public notices on the board by the window.

“Here it is, two hundred marks,” the old man smiled and sputtered. “You must sign here. Pardon me, but I couldn’t help noticing that the money was sent by the Brown House in Munich. Tell me, do you know Der Führer? Have you seen him?”

I nodded. I signed his book but my hand shook.

“There was no message with the money. I must shake your hand. Some day perhaps I shall shake His hand.”

He pushed two hundred marks under the grille and extended his hand.

I took the money as calmly as possible. Bron, two feet away, could not conceal what went on in his mind. He had been traveling for ten days with a man who received money by telegram from Hitler! There was nothing to say and I said nothing. Bron asked no questions, feeling sure that he knew what he wanted to know, but we were far from the Polish police now.

In silence we rode to Marienwerder. An automobile was waiting for me at the station and I had to say good-by to Bron. I thanked him for the many courtesies.

“Don’t mention it,” he said and walked away. I drove to the Governor’s residence.

For three hours Dr. Behrend talked about the Corridor, insisting that it was German and had always been German. He had a series of maps on display showing the results of archeological researches in the region.

“Remains two thousand years old show that this land was inhabited by Germans, long before the Poles ever emerged from their swamp. That’s the best argument.” Then a flood of statistics followed.

I was confused.

At the end of the interview the Governor said graciously, “My chauffeur will drive you to the station.”

I thanked him and we started to the railroad. Since leaving Bron I had felt unhappy. I did not want to be blacklisted in Warsaw. Yet the explanation of that telegram was so complicated and so ridiculous . . . I decided to attempt it.

“Instead of the station,” I called to the chauffeur, “drive me to the Polish consulate.”

He nodded.

I met Bron again and told him the story. He smiled and insisted that such misunderstandings are always possible, that they are sometimes embarrassing, “and, by the way, what did Dr. Behrend have to say? The Germans are such liars!”

* * *