ABSTRACT
IN the early spring of 1938, shortly after the Nazis had taken over Austria, I came face to face with the Wolf-Man on one of the busy Vienna streets. He did not greet me in his usual polite and ceremonious manner but began to cry and wring his hands and pour out a flood of words which because of his excitement and his sobbing were utterly unintelligible. Alarmed that he was making us conspicuous on the street, at a time when this was not only inadvisable but even dangerous, I asked him to walk the few steps with me to my apartment where we could talk in privacy. As we passed through the entrance hall of the apartment house, the concierge, attracted by the Wolf-Man’s excited voice rising almost to a scream, looked suspiciously at us from his doorway.
