Hands Across the Half-Seas Over

From Berlin last week, TIME Correspondent Alfred Kornfeld cabled:

"I watched the following incident in Berlin's swankiest nightclub, the Femina. At the end of a set of dances a SHAEF-patched U.S. Army captain staggered drunkenly off the dance floor. His 'Is there any son-of-a-bitching Russian in the house?' could be heard all over the suddenly quiet club. His bleary eyes fell upon my guest of the evening, Russian Senior Lieut. Anton Pablov. Making his way towards our table, the American officer shouted at the top of his lungs: 'Come on out and fight, you raping bastard.'

"The club manager persuaded the captain to retake his seat, then came to our table to apologize. The Russian officer cut him short: 'It's you Germans who are the cause of all this. Get away from here.' Lieut. Pablov then walked over to the American captain, said in perfect English, 'Don't worry about it, I wish I were back home myself.' Pablov offered his hand. The American captain took it, turned back to his bottle. Red-faced, the German manager retreated to the kitchen."

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