A mid-April day, rather warm for the season. The sunbeams were playing
around the slender spire of the Petrithurm at Hamburg, with sparkling
flashes at the bluish surfaces of the calm waters of the Alster.
At the curb before one of the houses on Grosse Bleichenstrasse stood a
blinking horse, harnessed to a cart, a driver fidgeting with whip and
reins. Soon the portal of the courtyard opened and from it emerged a
strapped black leather valise, then a little squatty man, then a slender
young man of medium height with small greenish eyes and light brown
hair, carrying a cane and an umbrella in one hand and in the other a
small bundle.
The older man placed the valise in the cart, the younger one threw in
the bundle, umbrella and cane; the two clasped hands.
There was a mist in the prominent eyes of the older man. There was a
faint smile on the large mouth of the younger, a smile pregnant with
sadness.
“Goodbye, _mein lieber Herr Zorn_,” murmured the older man.
There was emotion in his voice, tenderness in his tone, sorrow on his
face.
“Adieu,” muttered the young man; an involuntary sigh escaped his lips.
Their hands remained clasped.
“I hope success will meet you wherever you turn,” the older resumed
affectionately. “I hope your enemies will have no occasion to
rejoice——”
A smile again appeared on the young man’s pale face, a cynical smile
that only touched the iris of his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t worry, _lieber Hirsch_. _Sie werden noch von mir hören!_” (You
will hear from me yet!)
A sympathetic pressure of their hands and they both smiled.
The young man jumped into the vehicle, the driver slightly rose in his
seat and clacked his tongue, the horses moved.
“Goodbye,” the man called from the curb.
“Goodbye,” called back the young man from the moving cart and waved his
hand . . .
PART TWO
A FIGHTER IN THE MAKING