In Bayonne I met my mother again, and continued my trip to London with her. I also met numerous acquaintances, a large number of them for the first time since Belgium. But when I try to picture Bayonne, when the spectacle of its streets and of its sufferings presents itself again to my mind, I can find no other name for it than the "Gates of Hell." For many, the gate is closed forever, against the last hope.

An unbelievable crowd filled the town. This was a new act of the tragedy of France that was being played out. All those who wanted to leave, those who wanted to fight on, those who were afraid flowed toward the only exit that still existed. Present there were the diplomatic corps, writers, artists, and financiers. There was the innumerable procession of Jews of Belgium and France, over whom floated the shadows of pogroms and assassinations. They had seen, as I was able to see myself, the German refugees and their still open scars. One had to FLEE, flee towards it did not matter where, always further away, to the furthest point of Europe. But visas became more and more difficult to obtain.

The first visa that all of these unfortunate people had to obtain was that of Portugal. In front of the consulate, thousands of people were standing in line. The irritated soldiers who were on guard threatened to charge them with the bayonets. There were tears and fainting. I have seen old people stand on line for THREE DAYS AND THREE NIGHTS, without interruption, taking turns in going to look for food, in order to finally have their visa refused because their passport carried a stamp that had been useless for a long time, dating from the Spanish Civil War, stating, "valid for all countries except Spain."

Then there was a dramatic incident. The consul of Portugal lived in a small villa in Anglet outside the town. All night people were coming under his window, pulling the bell, and shouting. Suddenly, the consul appeared, in pajamas, and shouted: "Enter, all of you, enter! I will give visas to everyone." He had gone mad.