ABSTRACT
One day in the spring of 1933, a boy whom I vaguely knew from school stopped me in the street and asked whether I would join him and a dozen friends next Sunday on a walking tour. How long would it take and how did he know that I would be welcome? He dismissed the questions as of no consequence. And so I found myself early one Sunday morning at the terminal station of one of the urban tram lines. The others were in a uniform of sorts, with white shirts, short blue trousers, and a blue handkerchief, also a blue anorak of a special cut, and military shoulder bags made out of canvas. Some of the boys I knew from school, others I was meeting for the first time. The group leader was named Tom, a tall nineteen-year-old who had a natural air of authority. We waited for a few latecomers, and then we started a brisk walk that took us through villages, fields, and forests. One had brought a guitar, and when we rested, there would be a singsong. At noon the sandwiches that had been brought were collected and then redistributed. We must have walked a good twenty miles, and I returned home in the early evening, sweaty, dusty, and very happy.
