Word: potztausend
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...shouting on the pier-a customs official came aboard. For an hour he kept the whole party waiting while he asked questions. What was her name? Her race? Her age? He turned to the stout, red-faced individual beside her. Would he be good enough to state his profession? "Potztausend!" cried Father Ederle, looking hungrily at the gaunt official, "I am a butcher. . . ." He had not, on the long slow trip, behaved like one. As Gertrude Ederle, having splashed through the breakers at Cape Gris Nez, fell into a slow crawl beside the tug, "Pop" Ederle sat on deck, chatting...
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