And as the train taking them all to Zurich began to pull out of the station, Jakob Feldman found a seat in a compartment where Dada Heidler, the Artistic Director of Cabaret Voltaire, with his girlfriend Magda Bloom and his sister Paula – one of Kermit Hackensack's large Secretarial Department – were discussing this rapid change in their lives and fortunes: "this will be the first time outside Austria," said Paula, with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, her face glowing at the prospect: "of course Dada has been to England, you know, Herr Feldman?" and the young artist grinned: "well, really just Liverpool, I don't think that equals the whole country just a lowly job in the hotel where my brother Alois worked, and most of his friends were from Dublin or Belfast," and Jakob remembered being told that Dada's sister-in-law was an Irish woman, as the young man continued: "in fact, a lot of the hotel staff were Irish and some of them even spoke their Gaelic, so it probably wasn't really typical of England at all," and he laughed, "you know, before yesterday's Company Meeting, if anyone had said I'd soon be scurrying out of Austria like a thief in the night, and heading for neutral Switzerland like a traitor, I'd have laughed in his face – you want to hear something?" and Jakob nodded, then Dada said: "well, I don't feel like a traitor at all – oh, yes, a few years ago, when I was mixed up with those irascible Nationalist Germans with all their grandiloquent denunciations, blaming and scapegoating, I too would have said that we were all traitors, had made Faustian bargains to save our own skins, but I've changed so much, thanks to you Jakob, and Magda and Miriam and everyone else in Cabaret Voltaire – I realise that this war is a spat between the Crowned Cousins, it's not even about Franz Ferdinand and the Bosnians any more, but more about Empirical Expansion; young Tristan loaned me a book by Friedrich Engels and about thirty years ago he predicted just what is happening now and like Herr Hackensack said yesterday, the whole of Europe is going to become the funeral pyre of an entire generation – well, if War is an Extreme Measure of Population Control. . . . ." and he hung his head for a moment then looked back up, with his usual cheeky grin restored: ". . . . . I suppose our emigration to Switzerland could be regarded as a Minim of a Measure of Population Control for the benefit of Austria!"