Professional groups.

Are you active in church work

Has religion been a problem....

Are you interested in sports

How long

Politics

Business

Farming

Pets

_Literature

Music

Art

Theater

Other

Do you ever buy physique photos.

Extensively.

Would you like homosexual pen pals

How often do you have sex

Is sex a problem to you

Do you consider yourself effeminate (males)

Do you consider yourself masculine (females)

Moderately

Is this adequate

How do others regard you

What role do you prefer

Have you ever been arrested for homosexual activity

Convicted

Served time

Beaten up

How long How Often

Have you ever been blackmailed

Robbed

ONE institut

232 south hill street

los angeles 12, california

War is not a Game for Children

by Gilles Armor

«On earth, a happy memory is perhaps more true than happiness...» (Alfred de Musset) and then again: «One loves fully only once, the first time; the loves which follow are less involuntary.» (La Bruyere)

I was hardly fourteen when my parents, returning from flight, found their small house in the suburbs of Paris occupied by four Germans. Mother, in the face of this new disaster, broke into tears. Father clenched his fists, and I studied the enemy closely with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

Following several trips to Headquarters and several nights spent with some of our luckier neighbors, the departure of three of the Germans enabled us to reoccupy our house. Only one of the rooms still remained under requisition, putting it indefinitely at the disposal of a Lieutenant Hanfstaengl, whose namet my mother considered it her sacred duty constantly to mispronounce, and who represented to my father a stark symbol of humiliation and defeat.

The Lieutenant had selected my room on the ground floor, which meant that I had to have a collapsible bed installed for me in one corner of the living room. Mother, who believed the circulating rumors of slit throats fully, had been anxious to put me up on the first floor instead, but Father convinced her I was too old to share their bed room. In short, I slept apart from my family, stranded alone on one floor with the German Lieutenant.

My parents always made it a point to limit their contact with him to some icy greetings, dismissing his own friendly advances as the orders of the propaganda office. I too followed my parents' example for several months, and might perhaps have followed it throughout the Lieutenant's two years stay with us, had it not been for Theseus.

Theseus was our household's darling, a magnificent blue persian cat who simply could not be made to understand that the room on the ground floor was henceforth out of bounds. In the habit of sneaking in through the always open window and remaining there for days on end, he would remember our existence only when he got hungry.

Mother would have preferred never to see Theseus again, rather than to stoop to asking the Lieutenant about him. Yet my own pride being less touchy, or else my love for the cat being greater, I decided, when left alone in the house of erstwhile one Thursday afternoon, to enter the German's room in quest playmate.

I found him sleeping, curled up on the bed as usual. It was a bit painful to see my place upset through the preferences of another; my little table was strewn with German books, one of them a huge volume on painting, full of beautiful color reproductions. On the night stand I saw the small radio which evening after evening filled the house with the symphonic music which so exasperated my father. And from the mantle piece two unfamiliar faces were looking down at me: an elderly lady whom I presumed to be the Lieutenant's mother, and a soldier in his early twenties, probably, I felt, his younger brother. The latter photograph bore an inscription: <Für Erik und auf

immer. Kurt.»