The Prentice women and Russ Hewett and myself were quite the happy family. Martha had put on a floral print dress and looked almost pleasant. Russ was, as usual, the hail fellow well met, and at least some of his bonhomie seemed genuine enough. Gail looked politely glum, like a bobby-soxer who’s been forced to attend her father’s company picnic. But a bauernwurst on a roll swabbed with sweet mustard and a glass of cool wine on a sunny afternoon can make the most sullen prodigy crack a smile.

Russ took Gail by the arm and led her a few steps away to introduce her to someone from the War Memorial Opera House whom Russ had met when Treasure Island’s outdoor concert shell was being built.

A roving photographer had been taking pictures and handing people his business card. He went over to Russ, Gail, and the others and arranged them in a little tableau.

“Ray.” I turned to see Martha looking at me with sympathetic eyes. “Would you like a picture of you and Gail together?” she asked. “For you to have, on the road?”

Something in her expression told me there was a woman behind that face who hadn’t had it easy in life, who knew how much all this was tearing me apart and what such a photograph would mean to me. “Yes, Martha. I really would. Thank you.”

She called the photographer over and had a few words with him. He fetched Gail and Russ and positioned them on either side of me. “Put your arm around her!” he encouraged. I looked to Martha for her approval. She closed her eyes and nodded enough to let me know it was all right. I did as the photographer had instructed, Gail mugged for the camera, and the moment was captured. The cameraman called to Martha, “Now let’s get your friends in the shot!” He was obviously looking for multiple sales.

Carl Brauner came over and put his arm around my shoulder, happy to be snapped with a “celebrity.” I kept Gail in the shot with me, happy to be with her. Brauner waved some of his friends over, and the photographer kept snapping away. I was standing in a park on a lovely day with Gail at my side. I could smile for the camera till Kodak ran fresh out of film.

The German band had been playing near the beer barrels but now moved to chairs on the grandstand. As the crowd (there must have been over a thousand people on hand) gathered in front of it, Russ looked concerned. He pointed out to me that the fellow in the Bund-inspired outfit was part of the delegation assembling around the podium.

The first bad sign was that the band played “The Horst Wessel Song” and that the master of ceremonies, a fellow named Fred Kuhn, who apparently helmed the Friends of the New Germany, encouraged the crowd to sing along.