Word: border
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...Here is a dangerous Nazi who tried to escape over the border and shot a man!" they shouted...
...Warden Ludwig rushed down to help, was overpowered too. At pistol-point they snatched the keys from the warden's terrified wife, rushed Leader Hofer to a waiting automobile. In ten minutes every frontier post was warned. Shrewdly the Nazis did not make for the heavily-guarded Bavarian border, but for Italy, 20 miles away. On the Brenner Pass road an Austrian gendarme tried to stop them, was nearly run down, fired at the car, struck Nazi Hofer in the knee. At 5 a. m. the car was found abandoned three miles from the Italian frontier at Gries. Alpine...
Weber. Only slightly less than Austria has German Switzerland been bombarded with Nazi propaganda. Stolid German Swiss have been unmoved at offers to trade their dull commercial comfort for the hysterical frenzy of the Third Reich, but last week they got mad. At Ramsen on the German border three Nazi toughs crossed the Swiss frontier, beat off a Swiss customs guard before he could summon aid, seized a Czech citizen named Hermann Weber, dragged him screaming into Germany. There have been a series of similar incidents. Switzerland's unvarying foreign policy (MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS) has kept all Swiss...
Lessing. At Marienbad, near the German border, lived bearded little Professor Theodor Lessing, an exile from Germany. A pacifist and a Jew, Professor Lessing had been converted to Christianity, but returned to Israel after students, enraged by his radical opinions, forced his resignation from Hanover Technical College and the Hitler Government confiscated his property. To Marienbad he fled, taking with him as his chief treasure the walking stick of the great philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. Last week while the 18th World Zionist Congress squab- bled hoarsely in Prague, someone raised a clumsy fire ladder to the third floor window of Professor...
Many a writer appears on the literary horizon like a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, swells quickly to mistily gigantic proportions and-vanishes like a mist. Gertrude Stein is no such writer. Like a huge squat mountain on a distant border of the literary kingdom, obscured not only by the cloudy procession of more Aprilly authors but by the self-induced fog that hangs around her close-cropped top, she has loomed from afar over the hinterland of letters, a sphinxlike, monolithic mass. Twenty years she has squatted there; eyes accustomed to the landscape are beginning...