His Enemy, His Friend Read online

  Often he used to stand the Feldwebel at attention and lecture him. “Kleinschrodt, your trouble is you are like the Americans. I know well the Americans. For nine years I was head porter at the Schweitzerhof in Dresden and met many of them. Americans want to be liked. They are almost pathetic in this childish desire to be liked. Actually, this is an infantile trait. Americans are children, young and old. It is why they do not make good soldiers. In North Africa we had no trouble with them at Kasserine. We have nothing to fear from them, nothing. They wish to be liked. That is agreeable, yes; it is better to be liked than disliked. Best of all is for a man to be respected. Respect is the basis for discipline—at home, in business, in the Army. Now you are greatly admired by the troops here and liked by the people of the village. But you are not respected. Never forget that soldiers, too, are children. They will never obey you unless they respect you.”

  These words the Feldwebel remembered, for he was finding the Hauptmann right about obedience and respect. As he sat at the desk which an hour before had belonged to the murdered man, as he checked the deployment of the troops—his troops for the moment—around the village, as he listened to the telephoned report of a sentry a mile from town, he was amazed at himself. He had assumed responsibility. He had become the senior officer of the garrison at Nogent-Plage.

  No time to waste words. His voice was quite as crisp and curt over the phone, his tunic as spotless, as carefully hooked under the chin as that of the late Hauptmann. The invasion was at hand. It might come anywhere, any moment, surely by morning. Maybe right now advance elements were trying to land up the coast under cover of the fog. His duty was to his men, to his country, to the Third Reich. He felt attuned to it without thinking.

  And the men? There was a change in their bearing toward him, a surprising deference as they knocked on the door or addressed him. A certain respect that was new had crept into everyone’s voice. They seemed to be turning to him, leaning on him, trustfully, hopefully. That was as natural as it was for him to assume the duties and the responsibilities of command.

  And yet, all this solved nothing. It is not easy to obey orders when the orders are to have your friends shot; it is hard to issue orders when those orders mean a firing squad for your friends. Hanging over him was the thought of what lay ahead. When his mind was busy with other things it was all right. But the moment he stopped to think about it, revulsion took possession of him. Those men were his friends. That boy he had played football with. Obviously the teacher had Marxist leanings. Certainly, we had discussed them together. But brave. Loyal. A good Frenchman. How on earth can I kill a man like him? A veteran of two wars, already decorated upon the field of battle. For I’m the one who has to give the orders to fire. To watch them fall. To certify to their deaths. How can I do this? And that boy! A child really. My God....

  He rose and walked up and down the silent, empty room. The Le Gallec boy haunted him, devastated him, destroyed him. How could he? But he must obey orders.

  A short, sharp knock at the door and the corporal entered to hand him a radio dispatch from Headquarters. It merely confirmed what the Major had told him, alerting all officers commanding troops that a landing, either a feint or the real thing, was expected along the Normandy coast late tonight or early tomorrow morning. He filed it carefully with the other orders.

  The telephone rang, and the operator said, “The Major Kessler, Herr Feldwebel.”

  “Von Kleinschrodt? Is that you?” The anxious tone in the Major’s voice was meaningful. Now the Feldwebel began to feel and appreciate the terrible responsibility of command. The Major was obviously full of the imminent crisis, obviously worried.

  “Ja, Major Kessler.”

  “You were to report to me as soon as you secured those hostages. Have you done so?”

  “Yes sir, I was about to call you. They have been apprehended as you ordered.” In the back of the Feldwebel’s mind the same question kept rising. How can I save them? Surely some way must be found.

  “And have you discovered the murderer of the Hauptmann Seeler?”

  “No, Major, not yet, but we are still....”

  “Good God, man, how can he escape from a small village? Was the place surrounded? It was? Did you post sentries at all exits? Have you searched the houses thoroughly? Thoroughly, Feldwebel?” His tone was packed with exasperation. Plainly he was edgy. “Get him. It’s important to teach these partisans a lesson. When they kill, Frenchmen must be killed. No nonsense about it.”

  “Quite, Major. My Silesians here are first-class troops. They have been through many partisan attacks in Poland and Russia. I have three search parties out under the most experienced noncoms. They will dig up the man. Just a question of time, I assure you.”

  “Good. If not, you understand, those six French must be executed. You understand, do you not, Feldwebel?”

  “Perfectly, sir. I only wondered... I only meant.... I do happen to know these six hostages. I can guarantee myself that none of them had a thing to do with the murder of the Hauptmann.”

  The voice of the older man rose irritably. “Hier haben Sie nicht mitzureden.” That’s none of your business. “Feldwebel, listen to me carefully. These men are an example to the populace. A warning, you might say. If they are all innocent, so much the better. The villagers along the coast must be impressed with the seriousness of the situation and know what measures we shall take if there is trouble. We have shot sixteen terrorists at Abbeville and are rounding up a dozen at Yvetot.”

  A pause, then the Major went on. “You may recall, Feldwebel, that in March a band of Italian partisans killed thirty-three of our SS men outside Rome?”

  “Yes, Herr Major.”

  “Then you also remember that we were forced to execute three hundred and thirty-five Italians, that is, slightly over ten Italians for every German. At Nogent-Plage we are moderate, only six for one German and an officer at that. We are being lenient, really. Are you there, Feldwebel?”

  The annoyed voice at the other end persisted. “These lines are being cut constantly now. Did you get that Jewish fellow? What’s his name? Are you still on the line? Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Herr Major, we got him. His name is Varin.”

  “And the priest, as I suggested?”

  “The Père Clement. But truly, Major, he had nothing whatever to do with the killing of the Hauptmann Seeler. Actually he is almost eighty. That I would vouch for myself.”

  The Major paid no attention to the Feldwebel’s comments. “And the café owner, probably a Communist also.”

  “His place is closed up. We have him.”

  “His name? I had it before, I think. We must have his name. Remember, you are to post a notice after the execution listing these Frenchmen by name and stating that any further sabotage or interference with German forces carrying out their duties will mean that twenty-five more hostages will be selected and dealt with in the same manner. Is that quite clear? Now the man’s name.... Are you there, Feldwebel? Or are you perhaps dreaming of football? This is not a game. You are a soldier of the Greater Reich.”

  “Yes, Major, I am still on the line. The man’s name is Charles Lavigne.”

  “Good! You realize, of course, that the situation is critical. Perhaps the most critical moment of the war. The Herr Generalfeldmarschall Rommel, under whom I had the honor of serving two years in North Africa, sent around a secret bulletin last week before he was wounded. He anticipated an attempt at a landing by the English and Americans about this period, with the moon full and the tide high. He urged us all in the strictest terms, Feldwebel, not to forget that we must defeat the invaders here, on the beaches. We cannot permit them to get a foothold inland where their superiority in the air will count. We must throw them back at all costs, von Kleinschrodt. You understand?”

  “Yes, Major, I understand.”

  “You are in a key position. Your responsibility is therefore great. From that rock—I inspected it myself with the Herr Generalfeldmarschall—one
can sweep the coast for several miles in each direction. We depend upon you. The Fatherland is in peril tonight; the invasion may burst on us any moment. Germany counts on all her sons, Feldwebel, especially those from an old and famous army family such as yours. Remember your father, who died gloriously on the field of battle, and your grandfather, the General von Kleinschrodt. Be worthy of them! Obey orders implicitly. Do not fail. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Major....”

  “Good. Now if we cannot get an officer to you, then you must carry out the execution and post the proclamation. As soon as the assassin of the Hauptmann Seeler is found or the hostages shot, notify me at once by telephone. Yes, of course, if you find the partisan who committed the crime, you may release the hostages with a warning. But be sure to take pains to frighten them. I gave you one hour. How much time is left?”

  The Feldwebel Hans looked carefully at his watch. “Thirty-nine minutes, Major.”

  “Right! Let me have a report. And Heil Hitler!”

  The Feldwebel Hans replaced the telephone and sat staring into the empty room. The face of every person in the cellar rose before him: Varin, Lavigne, the Père Clement, Marquet, Deschamps, and the boy. He couldn’t even bear to say the boy’s name to himself.

  At least this much he could do. He pressed the buzzer on the desk. A corporal knocked and entered immediately, alert, attentive, keyed up. And deferential. Amazing how the man’s whole bearing and attitude had changed in one hour.

  He met the gaze of the soldier steadily.

  “Here, Grossman. Take pencils and paper down to those people in the cellar. For messages....” His voice shook ever so slightly, as he said, “They will understand.”

  Only too well, he thought. They will now realize that their friend the Herr Oberst has failed them. They are about to be shot. How could he? they will ask each other. Ah, all Germans are alike, each one will say. Underneath they are all Boches. He is like all the rest; they are all the same, they will say.

  The corporal took the pads and pencils, clicked his heels, and went out, shutting the door carefully. The Feldwebel put his head down on the desk and wept. He wept for the affection that was gone, the friendships that had failed, the trust that was no more. He cried for those six hostages, but most of all he cried for himself. Because for the first time in his life he saw so plainly and so well that there was no health in him.

  Chapter 12

  MONSIEUR LAVIGNE, THE CAFÉ owner, and Monsieur Varin, the teacher, were quietly talking beside the small cellar window that gave onto the vacant lot adjoining the Bloch villa. Despite the commotion caused by the killing of the Hauptmann Seeler, half a dozen boys were playing football there as usual. One was Jean-Paul, the teacher’s young son. Occasionally the ball bounced back off the brick wall of the Bloch villa.

  The teacher, a shortish man, took a small wooden box and found he could see plainly through the window. A helmeted sentry with a fixed bayonet stalked back and forth before the house. Monsieur Varin looked at his watch. It was an old-fashioned timepiece, a thick, gold affair that once had belonged to his father and his grandfather. He treasured it and wore it attached to his trouser pocket by a worn leather strap. He soon discovered that the sentry walking back and forth in front of the house was out of sight of the cellar window for about twenty-one or twenty-two seconds, eleven going and eleven returning.

  “Pssst... pssst... psst.... Jean-Paul... Jean-Paul!”

  The boy hearing his name, yet not sure where the sound of his father’s voice came from, stood perplexed with the ball under one arm. Then he saw that face framed by the little cellar window.

  “Papa....”

  “Sssh... don’t look. For the love of God don’t look this way,” cautioned the teacher. “Wait until the Fridolin gets past. Play! Kick that ball!”

  The boy instantly obeyed. As soon as the sentry vanished from sight, he kicked the round balloon almost up to the window and leaned down.

  “Papa!”

  “Sssh, a message. I’m giving you a message for Madame Borel, out on the road to Varengeville. Understand?”

  The boy understood. He gulped. “Ouai, ouai. I understand,” he panted, now frightened at the sight of his father behind the barred window. He took the ball, whirled, kicked it high into the air and raced after it.

  The sentry turned, stomped his heels, and went into his act. Except for the little cellar window which the man had failed to notice, all the windows of the Bloch villa giving onto the empty lot had been bricked up. Hence he paid little attention to the band of boys at play. As soon as he disappeared, Jean-Paul grabbed the ball, kicked it toward the window, ran after it, and knelt down to hear his father’s instructions.

  “Listen carefully. Go get your bicycle. And your fishing pole. Go to the end of town and tell the sentry if he stops you that you are going fishing. Then get to Madame Borel’s house as soon as you can, and explain what has happened. That we have been taken by the Fritz.”

  The lad rushed away as Monsieur Varin stepped down from the wooden box. His face was wet with anxiety. Would the boy get through? Could Madame Borel summon help in time? Is the old truck available?

  “Whoof! At least there is a chance. If they get here before the hour is up. How much left?”

  “Thirty-six minutes.”

  “Eh, juste! If they get that old Berleit truck they used to derail the train at Montford. The sides are armored. This will take time. Also men and guns to tackle these Silesians. But boldness must pay off. With the old truck they can make it here in fifteen, eighteen minutes. Unless they run into a German patrol.”

  Everyone listened with attention. Nobody in that cellar had suspected that Monsieur Varin was so close to the Resistance, yet no one was greatly surprised. He seemed to assume leadership.

  At this point the door above opened and a helmeted soldier entered, followed by another who stood at the top of the stairs watching with a gun. The first man handed each of the hostages a pencil and a pad of paper. No words were spoken. Nor were any necessary. Each one turned the pad over, examining it. The pads were blocks of old German army orders, blank on the back.

  The soldiers left, relocking the cellar door, leaving the six looking down at those ominous squares of paper. Still nobody said a word. Nothing the Herr Oberst could have done would have been so utterly final.

  “Ah—” A kind of sob came from young René Le Gallec, curled up on the dirt floor. “Ah, mon père,” he addressed the priest. “Once you said that someday I would be good enough to play for France. You should know; you played for France long ago. Now I shall never, never...” he cried.

  “Chut!” The priest leaned down and placed his hand on the shoulder of the boy. “Come, René, we are not lost yet. We are alive. They may send us to Germany, but we shall return. The Fridolins are beaten; they know it themselves. See, the Herr Oberst is now commanding the garrison. They cannot find an officer to relieve him!”

  In a little while everyone except the farmer Marquet was writing. The teacher, crouched against the wall, had his pad on his knees. He wrote clumsily with the aid of his magnifying glass, forehead wrinkled, eyebrows raised in the air.

  By ancestry I am at least partly a Jew, although not by religion, for in all honesty I have never attended any synagogue or professed any creed. Yet I feel neither pride nor shame in my origins; indeed I never think about them save in the presence of an anti-Semite, of whom there appear to be many in my beloved France today. First of all, I am a Frenchman. Second, a teacher of French youth. Third, a Marxist, something that, like my origin I have never attempted to conceal. Why should I? My great great grandfather served as a soldier of Napoleon at Austerlitz. My grandfather was wounded in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870. I, myself, was twice wounded in the battles along the Somme in the campaigns of 1917 and 1918. I fought through the disaster of 1940. Because of this or because of my decorations—for the Germans like the French have a military tradition and a respect for soldiers, even their enemies—I have not been se
nt away from my home here in Nogent-Plage. Hence this France, from which today some of my compatriots would like to exile me, remains the land where my emotions are fixed, my being is centered. I have drunk her culture. I have done my best to defend her honor with my body, to help train her youth. I breathe fully only when in her climate. Next to my wife whom I adore, and my dear son Jean-Paul who is my pride and joy, I count my country as my nearest and dearest.

  Adieu La France,

  Georges Varin

  Across the room, Marcel Deschamps the fisherman was kneeling before the priest. René Le Gallec waited his turn. The farmer Marquet, his head between his hands, sat motionless on the bench. He had written nothing and was muttering to himself.

  For how can you write a letter of farewell to a horse named Sebastian?

  Chapter 13

  RENÉ HAD MADE his confession, yet his blond head remained bowed. At last he looked up, still on his knees before the padre. There were tears in his eyes.

  “My parents don’t even know where I am. They think I went swimming. I told them I was going swimming with Michel.” Then he voiced the thought of everyone in that cellar. “Why doesn’t the Herr Oberst do something? Only this morning he told me I should use the left foot more. You remember, don’t you, Père? He said I had an excellent left foot. Why doesn’t he do something? Now he must be in command here. He has always been good to the people of Nogent-Plage, always....”

  He broke down, sobbing, staggered by the brutal injustice of what had happened. Half an hour before he had been free, outside in the sunshine kicking his precious football, the one the Herr Oberst had obtained for him. Now he was locked up in the cellar of the Bloch villa, soon to be sentenced to a German prison camp for life. Or something worse, though he could not quite bring himself to believe the Germans would really shoot six innocent people.