The Foundling's War

by Michel Déon

  Blushing and still trembling, the man was sweating with unctuousness. Jean went to warn Picallon, who was where he had left him, on his knees, communing with himself before the altar, thanking God for having saved his life and entrusted it to such resourceful friends, even if they did not seem very promising at first sight. Jean’s hand on his shoulder roused him from his reverie.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Very,’ the seminarian said.

  ‘Come on then.’

  As they crossed the square he explained the situation.

  ‘I’m not setting foot in there!’ Picallon said indignantly. ‘He’s a traitor.’

  ‘I thought you said you were hungry?’

  ‘Yes, but such a man’s bread shan’t pass my lips!’

  ‘You only have to open your mouth and eat.’

  ‘You’re both mad.’

  Palfy was in the sitting room, stretched out in an armchair, his feet on a velvet stool, holding a glass in his hand.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ Picallon asked, thirst getting the better of him.

  ‘Monsieur Graindemoncul’s pastis. Help yourself. The bottle’s over there and the water’s cold.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the kitchen, knocking us up a chicken fricassee.’

  Picallon helped himself to a glass of pastis and stared around the sitting room, finally exclaiming, ‘It’s really nice in here!’

  ‘Personally, I think it’s revolting,’ Palfy said. ‘I wouldn’t live in a room like this if you paid me. The worst of French bad taste …’

  Picallon was quiet, suddenly anxious. The black furniture polished to a dusky red, the dresser and its shelves of travel trinkets, the reproduction Corot that was so dull it made you want to throw up, the bone china on the mantelpiece had astounded him, but Palfy’s confident and violent antipathy cast doubt on all of it. He turned to Jean, who saw his discomfiture.

  ‘Listen, I grew up in a kitchen. My father’s a gardener, my mother was a washerwoman and a nanny. A house like this would have been the height of luxury to them. My father would say the same as you. He’s an honest, good man and I’ll never be ashamed of him. You stick to what you think, Picallon.’

  ‘But what about you, what do you say?’

  ‘I say the same as Palfy, but I’ve been lucky, I’ve learnt how to live.’

  They heard footsteps. Palfy put a finger to his lips.

  ‘You got the message, Picallon? Keep mum. You don’t speak a word of French.’

  Their host entered, smiling and happy. He grasped Picallon’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  ‘I hear you don’t speak French. Your comrades will translate. You are welcome in my house. I am a friend of Germany.’

  ‘Don’t waste your breath, Monsieur Graindorge,’ Jean said, ‘our comrade is an excellent soldier but a complete dimwit. The only thing he’s interested in is eating.’

  ‘In that case just give me half an hour, and forgive me for receiving you like this, with whatever’s in the larder …’

  The surveyor was wearing a blue pleated apron much too big for his narrow waist and he had turned up his cuffs, revealing pale, skinny wrists.

  ‘What do you think of my pastis?’

  ‘Drinkable!’ Palfy said without enthusiasm.

  ‘For German throats it must be a novelty.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Monsieur Graindavoine. Before entering France like a knife through butter, we had an intensive course in French language and customs. We were taught to appreciate garlic, red wine, accordions and women who wear little silk knickers … Don’t laugh, Monsieur, I’m not making it up. Our Führer is very far-sighted. Helmut here is quite different from my friend Hans and me. He may be a giant and rather crude-looking, and he may not have followed the course we did, which was somewhat beyond his intellectual capacity, but instead he was taught how to kill and he now belongs to a commando unit that specialises in terminating suspects with extreme prejudice. I’ve never seen anyone kill as cleanly as Helmut does. You can trust him, he eliminates without fuss, and if you like, if you have an enemy, I don’t know, anyone, just let me know, don’t be shy, all I have to do is lift my little finger and Helmut will get rid of him for you …’

  Picallon, furious, was about to explode with indignation. Jean gripped his arm and urged him to drink. The so-called Helmut’s sullen expression fully convinced Monsieur Graindorge, who quivered with excitement and fear at having such a redoubtable fighting machine as a guest in his house.

  ‘As you see, the village is deserted,’ he said. ‘So I have no enemies here any more. In peacetime it was a different matter … The mayor was a leftist and a warmonger. No one would mind seeing the back of him … but as I say he’s not here … We’ll talk some more. I need to see to my saucepans.’

  Jean thought of his father. Albert Arnaud would definitely not have left Grangeville. At the beginning of the phoney war his pacifism had made him several enemies. Now his leftist ideas would make him a sitting duck for the Graindorges of the world.

  ‘I’ll have you for this,’ Picallon said to Palfy. ‘If you take the piss out of me once more—’

  ‘Drink your pastis, young priest, and belt up. You are about to eat like a prince and we’re about to empty this ass’s cellar.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we’ll see.’

  ‘It will end badly.’

  ‘Everything always ends badly. So if it’s a bit sooner or a bit later than expected, who cares?’

  Monsieur Graindorge was a competent chef, though it was hard to judge on the basis of a hastily prepared chicken fricassee in which he had had to use tinned mushrooms. His sauce lacked body.

  ‘Forgive me—’

  Palfy interrupted him.

  ‘Monsieur Graindemaïs, let me say that we are listening to you with the closest attention. The truth is that you are our first real contact with the French population. But on Adolf Hitler’s instructions – very strict instructions – we were ordered categorically never to say “Forgive me” but “I beg you to forgive me”. I can’t believe our Führer would have made a mistake on such a point …’

  The surveyor blushed deeply. He was not an ugly man, having an average nose, mouth and eyes, but the rush of blood to his cheeks and forehead and around his neck, in large splotches, coloured his face so violently and artificially that it looked like a mask tortured by fear and anxiety. Have I mentioned that this was a man who had only just turned forty and was therefore in what is commonly referred to as his prime, and what is more a bachelor, which in general keeps you young; that he enjoyed a level of material comfort as a result of his technical abilities, which were sought after in the region; that he was a gourmet, a trumpeter in the village band, always jockeying for position on official occasions, but unhappily secretly undermined in his pleasure by a deficiency that, at another time and place, would have earned him highly trusted status in a harem? I’ll admit that that is a lot to reveal about the character of a man whom the author will feel obliged to leave behind fairly swiftly. Jacques Graindorge, then, was ignorant of the subtleties of the French language that Palfy was disclosing to him with a calculated ingenuousness. Querulous, he started to stammer, then, feeling his self-importance rapidly slipping away, made a superhuman effort to get a grip on himself and hide his petulance.

  ‘Your Führer is right … I have made a mistake in French and what you have been taught is absolutely right … but look, you must excuse me. So as not to seem like a pedant in this village, inhabited by honest but unrefined citizens, I tend to adjust my speech to stay in tune with them. Stupidly, in your company, I forgot myself …’

  ‘I’m not annoyed,’ Palfy said, ‘because our Führer is right on this point. I’m not aware that he has made a single mistake in his life.’

  Picallon was shovelling down his lunch, apparently devoting himself to the pleasures of his plate. He served himself a second helping without a word or gesture to his host. Monsieur Graind
orge ventured a timid smile.

  ‘Your killer has a healthy appetite, anyway. It’s a real pleasure to see him eat. What a face! A real animal. I expect he was born in some remote province in Germany …’

  Under the table Palfy applied sudden sharp pressure to Picallon’s foot, sensing he was about to explode, and to calm him served him a third full plate of fricassee. Monsieur Graindorge noticed nothing. Crouched at his sideboard, he was looking for a box of cigars that was so well hidden that for a moment he suspected his housekeeper of having made off with it in her pram. He eventually discovered it under a pile of napkins. Palfy sniffed one with suspicion.

  ‘Hm,’ he said. ‘Rather dry … Well, there’s a war on.’

  The surveyor offered him the flame of a petrol lighter. Palfy drew back in surprise.

  ‘Well, well … that is remarkable … We were taught that the French were as painstaking about their cigars as they were about their wine, and they only lit them with wooden matches … Might our Führer have been mistaken?’

  Picallon grabbed a cigar from the box uninvited and chewed a piece of it before spitting it on the floor. Graindorge rushed to pick up the flakes of tobacco scattered over his flower-patterned carpet. Picallon took advantage of him bending over to make an expressive gesture, placing his hands around an imaginary neck and wringing it.

  ‘Once again,’ the surveyor answered, ‘your Führer did not deceive you but, well … I haven’t any matches left. The tabac is closed, and a fortnight before you arrived my fellow citizens panicked and started hoarding matches.’

  ‘This is extremely serious!’ Palfy said. ‘You are aware of course that looting and hoarding are both punishable by death. Our comrade here – who I would agree is a little coarse – is responsible for executing all summary verdicts by courts martial. It seems to me he would have his hands full in this area. What sort of brandy do you have?’

  ‘I haven’t a very big selection.’

  Palfy cast a suspicious eye over the bottles and glimpsed an unlabelled one behind the run-of-the-mill brandies.

  ‘Thank you, no, this gut-rot isn’t for me; I look after my health. But tell me what’s in your bottle there.’

  ‘A raspberry liqueur,’ Graindorge said, looking devastated.

  ‘What brand?’

  ‘There’s no brand.’

  ‘Interesting! Interesting! Then I suppose it must be the gift of a private distiller?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Palfy waved his hand disdainfully: he was hardly going to go to the trouble of explaining. Graindorge served them with a sinking heart and made to put the bottle back in the sideboard. Picallon took it from him threateningly. The surveyor, who was partial to his raspberry liqueur, tried to reason with Jean.

  ‘You shouldn’t let your comrade get drunk. Men like him, real forces of nature, they don’t know their limits. When a brute like him gets alcohol inside him, he’ll be unstoppable and very dangerous.’

  ‘We have him well under control, Monsieur. He only kills to order.’

  A ray of sunshine cutting across the dining room splashed onto the tablecloth. In the golden light the curls of cigar smoke stretched out languidly, forming silvered snakes and mobile geometric shapes. Picallon was indeed drunk, but the naive and good-hearted seminarian was more ready to burst into tears than fly into a rage at the role he was being forced to play, of a poor country lad among the ways of gentlemen. Their host, he saw, was a proper bastard, and there is always something sad about the first bastard you ever come across, about discovering the multiple ruses by which Satan attaches himself to a human being. One day when the war was over and the seminary reopened, he would unburden himself of all these thoughts to his spiritual director, the abbé Fumerolle …

  The reader is already aware of the author’s warm feelings for Picallon, who reminds him of the parish priest at Grangeville, Monsieur Le Couec. Between the country boy from the Jura and the elderly Breton there exists a certain bloodline: a now vanished race of French priests whose only reasoning was their brazen faith and who lived among their parishioners in poverty, charity and hope. They taught children their catechism in simple, idealised pictures that seemed fascinatingly magical. And yes, in their sermons Jesus was always a great magician, whose feats would never cease to dazzle the world. At the time this story begins, the integrity possessed by young men such as Picallon is already under threat, but so far our seminarian has been immune to the new order. His model is the village priest who awoke his own vocation, just as for Jean, already half disillusioned in faith, the model priest will always be the abbé Le Couec, that rough Breton ‘exiled’ to Normandy. Picallon of course is fated one day to confront the influences of his community, but we shall not see him in those circumstances. Meanwhile he is here, in this bourgeois dining room in a French village with a full stomach and a dry mouth, and it is too late to stop the game his comrades are intent on playing. The afternoon wears on, the bottle of raspberry liqueur is emptying, and now and then Picallon rocks back on his chair and lifts the white tulle curtain to keep an eye on the still-deserted square and the two tankettes parked on the avenue with the surveyor’s cat asleep on the bonnet of one of them. Palfy is on his third cigar, Jean has excused himself twice, and the dreadful noise of a toilet chain that refuses to flush properly has been heard. Picallon would like to go too, but is unsure of his ability to remain upright, and in a foggy dreamlike state he recalls the wedding feasts in his village at which the laziest would slip an empty bottle under the table and use that. He has hiccups, pins and needles in one leg and above all he is sick of listening to the nasal tones of Jacques Graindorge, surveyor, toady and coward, watching his every move with a terrified expression. When Picallon finally gets to his feet, the dining room sways and without Jean’s steadying hand he would have fallen over. Moving gingerly, he reaches the front door and there, in the middle of the square, opens his flies and sprinkles the cobbles as he gazes gloomily at the flag drooping from its flagpole.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asks Jean, who is still holding his arm.

  ‘Of what? What you’re doing?’

  ‘No. The flag.’

  ‘It looks a bit limp.’

  ‘And what about liberty, equality and fraternity?’

  ‘I’m afraid the moment for them is past.’

  ‘Why are you holding my arm?’

  ‘So you don’t fall down.’

  ‘Am I drunk?’

  ‘Not half.’

  ‘It’s the first time in my life and it’ll be the last, but I want it to be a drunkenness I’ll never forget, one befitting the Apocalypse. We’ll empty that stinker’s cellar, and anything we can’t drink we’ll smash up.’

  ‘All right, old chap …’

  ‘We’ll smash it up, we’ll smash it up!’

  Picallon, his bladder much lighter but suddenly distracted by his obsession with smashing up what could not be drunk, forgot to put his organ away and, supported by Jean, remained standing unsteadily there, limply facing the erect flagpole on the mairie’s pediment.

  It was in this posture that he was first observed by Unterscharführer Walter Schoengel as he arrived at the village square in an armoured car, his body emerging from the green turret, ramrod straight in his black SS uniform, his face darkened by the sun beneath his peaked cap. Jean, for a second, imagined that in this victorious warrior he was seeing his friend Ernst, his companion from his famous cycling tour of Italy which had taken them to Rome in 1936, but – as we already know – Ernst and Jean will never meet again, and no chance meeting in the long war now under way will revive the friendship born four years earlier between a young Frenchman indifferent to politics and a handsome member of the Hitler Youth with straw-coloured hair.

  Unfortunately this particular warrior was not Ernst, but a run-of-the-mill SS NCO with no sense of humour whatsoever, who was greatly offended by the sight of these two men in khaki shirts and trousers, staggering and with flies undone. Leaping athletically
from his armoured car, revolver in hand, he walked up to them, barking a sharp order. Jean understood and put his hands up. Picallon remained bewildered. The Unterscharführer barked again. Jean translated.

  ‘Put your hands up, you idiot, otherwise he’ll shoot us.’

  Picallon did as he was told, forgetting his open flies and limp penis, which was enjoying its exposure to the fresh air with an utter lack of curiosity for the events unfolding around it. The puddle on the cobbles bore witness to what had occurred only moments before. Walter Schoengel circled it with disgust and patted both men down. Reassured as to their inoffensive character and that they were a couple of strays, he sniggered and delivered a good kick to both their backsides. The driver of the armoured car had raised his goggles and was observing the scene with ill-concealed ribaldry as the square suddenly began to fill with motorcycles and sidecars, a further two light armoured cars and an open-topped car on whose rear seat sat Obersturmführer Karl Schmidt, his face hidden in the shadow cast by a gleaming helmet adorned with the SS lightning flashes. Schmidt was a lieutenant with a plump face and small, piercing grey eyes, and to begin with he paid no attention to what was happening. With a gesture he motioned to a young Obergrenadier to lower the French flag, then ordered a house-to-house search. Jacques Graindorge’s door was still open. Two grenadiers jogged into the hall and returned with the surveyor and Palfy, who were propelled forward by the rifle butts in their back and then lined up with Jean and Picallon. The Obersturmführer knew a few words of French.

  ‘You ambush behind Wehrmacht! Shoot you!’

  Jacques Graindorge realised that there had been a mistake and smiled apologetically.

  ‘Mein Herr, I believe you are mistaken. These three men are some of your comrades. They are German soldiers. I invited them to lunch. I’m a friend of Germany.’

  The SS lieutenant reddened with fury.

  ‘Shut up, pig. Shoot you as well. Harbouring irregulars.’

  The grenadiers quickly broke down the doors of several houses. They were empty. They reported to their section chief, who nodded and set sentries to hold the square against fire from all four corners.