Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

146 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

about even with me. Then, as the fellow closest to me looked the other way, I stood up, shouted something in German, and pointed in front of me. I did not have to try to create any impression that I belonged to the hunting party. No, I was positively sure that I actually urns one of them. And the craziest thing was that they did not doubt for one single moment that I was one of them. The hunt went on for an hour or so, and then they shouted that the "verdammte spitzel" (dammed spy) could not be found and that we had to report back. I remained in the rear, dropped out of the group, and later found my way safely to the frontier."

Oreste returned to Paris. The officials there were highly satisfied with his work but for obvious reasons he could not be sent to Berlin again. The French decided to use him somewhere else. By that time the armies had dug themselves deep in the trenches of Northern France. These lines were infested with spies, both men and women, who were used mostly for reconnaissance and intelligence about troop movements and information about the morale of the troops. Small fry, these junior grade spies were, but nasty as hornets. Was Oreste willing to bear the responsibility for counter-espionage in a particular sector of the line?

Before Oreste could answer, his chief told him, "Quite a lot of fellows who were offered this assignment refused because of the great danger involved. If they chance to catch you, they'll shoot you on the spot.

At being offered that dare, Oreste couldn't say no.

Later, he used to call this period in Northern France the lousiest time of his life. He didn't really want to talk about what happened. The only thing he told me was, that