A book for critical and discriminating tastes, with an odd fascination, but popularly speaking, a more conjectural market than The Seventh Cross. It lacks the power and fervor of that extraordinary book; the foreign accent is more marked; its central figure is nameless -- he tells the story in the first person, and we know only his aliases; as a person he is evasive, dubious -- something of a louse. Anna Seghers writes with subtlety, quality, irony. This is the story of a former German, of no particular political conviction, who is making his way from occupied Paris to unoccupied Marseilles. It is a brilliant picture of the refugee-loaded city ""where everyone had just one wish, -- to sail; just one fear, -- to be left behind""; of the ""human sewage"" congested there in the official jumble of visa and transit and dossier and safe conduct. It is a strange tale, as the man assumes the identity (officially, not personally) of the dead Wiedel; as he is attracted to Marie, Wiedel's wife, who is still searching for him, and believes him alive because of leaks from the consulates; as he parries the doctor who also loves Marie and is trying to take her out the country; as he lacks the courage -- and the decency -- to tell Marie that Wiedel is dead; and as eventually he loses her because his own machinations persuade her that Wiedel is alive. A sure start on the strength of the other.