The Foundling's War by Michel Déon Page B

come from the south and been on their way for more than an hour, which showed how far behind the lines the tankettes were. But was there still a line on 20 June 1940? One wonders. The car was crossingthe square when the colonel caught sight of the drama in which the Obersturmführer was already losing interest. He tapped the driver’s shoulder. The car braked in a cloud of dust. The Unterscharführer ordered his platoon to about-turn and present arms. Karl Schmidt attempted to inject an offhand note into his salute, but the colonel ordered him to approach.
    ‘What do you think you’re doing? Are you shooting civilians?’
    ‘They’re irregulars, Herr Oberst.’
    ‘They are not, because there aren’t any. And if there were, they would first of all be answerable to a court martial, not to an SS lieutenant.’
    ‘Herr Oberst, I assure you that they are dangerous bandits.’
    The colonel sighed and stepped from his car to approach the men lined up in front of the Café des Amis.
    ‘Will you excuse me,’ he said in French to the two prisoners who flanked him, pale and with clenched teeth, on the rear seat.
    The colonel approached Jacques Graindorge, who was seized again by a mad hope.
    ‘Were you sheltering these soldiers?’ he asked scornfully. ‘If one may call them soldiers …’
    ‘I thought they were Germans, General! I’m a friend of Germany, General, of Greater Germany, General.’
    ‘A friend of Germany ought to be able to tell the difference between a colonel and a general and a pair of khaki trousers and a pair of field-grey trousers. Or alternatively he’s an idiot, but even if he is we aren’t going to shoot every idiot on earth – we’d be here for years.’
    One of the prisoners got out of the car and walked up to the colonel. Had it not been for his uniform, he could have been taken for a German: a tall Celt with curly blond hair, eyes of a clear blue, hollow cheeks.
    ‘Colonel, will you allow me to ask these men a question?’
    ‘Of course, my dear fellow.’
    The man stared at the prisoners in turn, with great concentration.
    ‘Are there any Bretons among you?’
    ‘I am Anglo-Serb,’ Palfy said.
    ‘I’m Norman,’ Jean said.
    ‘From the Jura!’ Picallon sang out.
    ‘And you, Monsieur?’ The prisoner turned to Graindorge.
    ‘From the Auvergne!’
    The man turned back to the colonel and shrugged.
    ‘They are of no interest to me at all. Having said that, Colonel, spare them if you’re able and if you believe, as I do, that we should begin our project in a spirit of reconciliation rather than hatred.’
    ‘Consider it done!’ the colonel said.
    He called Karl Schmidt and ordered him to release the prisoners. The Obersturmführer protested. The officer reminded him of his rank. There was much heel clicking and more presenting of arms and the SS section drove away in its armoured cars.
    ‘Do we have you to thank?’ Palfy asked the Frenchman.
    ‘No. Thank the colonel.’
    ‘There are always blunders when two great peoples such as Germany and France are reconciled,’ the German said, ‘but it is well known in Berlin that your country has been plunged into a fratricidal war by unscrupulous politicians … Now, leave your two tankettes and try to rejoin your army …’
    Laughing, he added, ‘… if you have strong legs.’
    Jean studied the French prisoner who had spoken to the colonel with such assurance, and to whom the colonel spoke in a tone close to deference. In the colonel’s car, the other prisoner was looking both furious and bored. It was the combination of the two faces that reminded Jean where he had seen them before, one open and friendly, the other sarcastic and closed.
    ‘I’m wondering whether I might possibly know you,’ Jean said to the prisoner whose incomprehensible contribution to the situation had saved their lives. ‘You wouldn’t be a friend of the abbé Le Couec?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then you know me too, and your friend sitting in the car owes his