“What is it, Captain?”
Hartenstein tried to tug his tunic into place. “It’s about Beckermann, Herr Oberst. The dead man. He was in my company. A driver.”
“I know that, Hartenstein.”
“Private Wolfgang Treffel, another driver in my company, killed him.”
Colonel Hollinger felt as though he was going to vomit. Lieutenant Ludwig watched the colonel turn pale. He stepped forward and spoke. “We just executed five hostages for the crime, Captain. How long have you known this?”
Hartenstein glared at the lieutenant and then addressed himself to the colonel. “Another guy in the company, Corporal Kahlenberg, knew them both. They were seeing the same girl, some little French whore, according to Kahlenberg. He heard them arguing about her, heard Treffel threaten to kill Beckermann.
“You know how the men are, Herr Oberst. They’re always afraid to tell on one another. But when Kahlenberg heard about the executions, well, he told his sergeant, who then told me. I’ve got Kahlenberg and Treffel under arrest in quarters. Treffel has admitted to waiting outside the bar, Le Pêcheur, and shooting Beckermann when he came out. Both men were drunk, Herr Oberst.”
Lieutenant Ludwig raised his eyebrows. “How were you able to … persuade him?” he said.
“I slapped him around a little,” said the captain. “I got the truth out of him.”
Colonel Hollinger looked from Ludwig to Hartenstein and back again, but he did not see anything reassuring in either face. “Have you found the murder weapon, Captain?”
“I have the murder weapon, Herr Oberst. It’s Treffel’s rifle. It’s recently been fired. It’s my understanding that a shell casing was found at the site of the murder. I am certain, if the casing is compared with the rifle, they’ll match. You have executed five Frenchmen for nothing, Herr Oberst.”
Hollinger stared into Hartenstein’s tiny eyes, and Hartenstein stared back. So this is the face of justice, thought the colonel. This is what the truth looks like. “Continue to hold the two men under arrest, Captain Hartenstein. Someone will come from brigade to take them off your hands. That will be all.” Hollinger could not bring himself to say thank you.
Hartenstein said, “Jawohl, Herr Oberst.” He did not salute. He turned and walked out the door.
Hollinger stood up and walked to the window. It was a bright sunny day. The window was open, and the curtains drifted about in the warm breeze. People stood in line in front of the bakery. The mechanic’s shop door was open, and he could see a man working inside. Tables and umbrellas were set up on the terrace at the Hôtel de France. The wall against which the hostages had been shot had been scrubbed clean. At the foot of the wall someone had left a bunch of daffodils with a black ribbon around them. Colonel Hollinger leaned on the windowsill and closed his eyes.
* * *
“There was some activity at German headquarters today. A captain went in about lunchtime; he had his sergeant with him. He left after fifteen minutes. The colonel stood at the window and looked around. He didn’t look happy. Lieutenant Ludwig went out. Then Yves Renard went to German headquarters this afternoon at about fourteen fifteen, Schneider at about fourteen twenty. They both seemed in a hurry.” Jean read from his log while Onesime sat at his table looking toward the dark window.
“They went their separate ways when they left at about fifteen hundred,” Jean went on. “Then shortly after that, the colonel’s car pulled up and they headed off toward Tours, both the colonel and the lieutenant. Ludwig. What do you think is going on?”
“Something. I wish I knew. Maybe nothing. Maybe we should ask.”
“Ask? Ask who?”
“The count. Renard.”
“I’m not sure I trust either one of them.”
“I’m not either. But the count handled things just right the other night. And Renard seemed … correct too.”
“Yeah, but what would the count know?” said Jean. “And asking Yves is a big risk.”
“Well, the count’s a hostage.”
“So are you,” said Jean.
“Well, so what’s the risk? Maybe that would be an excuse to talk to him.”
The count did not seem surprised to see Onesime standing at his gate once again later that night. “Come in, Onesime,” he said.
Onesime began to apologize for the late hour, but the count repeated himself impatiently. “Come in, Onesime. I want to talk to you.” The count led him to the small study, took out the bottle of brandy, and poured two glasses. He drank in silence.
Finally he spoke. “I’m going to plant sugar beets this year.” He set his glass on the desk as though he had just made a grave announcement.
“Monsieur?” said Onesime.
“Beets. We’ll be planting sugar beets.”
“Excuse me, monsieur. But I do not understand. I did not come here to speak of planting. I do not mean any disrespect, monsieur.”
“Well, Onesime, I am a farmer, and these are the things a farmer talks about.”
“Perhaps so, monsieur. But not in the middle of the night and not in secret. One doesn’t talk about sugar beets in the middle of the night. Not these days.” The count looked as though he wanted to speak, but Onesime continued without pausing. “Two days ago, five of our own were shot dead on the square, monsieur, because someone killed one of the Germans. I knew them all, monsieur.”
“So did I, Onesime.”
“And the Germans will kill five more of us every week until they find out who did it. Forgive me, monsieur, but I am one of the hostages they will kill, and so are you. I do not think it matters much right now whether you want to plant wheat or peas or beets or anything else.”
“What are you saying, Onesime?”
“I’m saying … I’m asking really, monsieur. How do we live in days like these? Nearly a year has come and gone since the Germans arrived. And we have continued to live our lives as though nothing has happened. But something has happened. What do we do now, monsieur, now that we’re on a list of hostages and are likely to be killed before we can plant beets or anything else? Should we go into hiding, do we surrender ourselves without a struggle, do we resist them somehow? Tell me, what should we do?”
“What do you have in mind, Onesime? What do you think we should do?” And so the two men circled around each other in that manner for some time, neither knowing how to ask the other what he wanted to ask or to say what he wanted to say. Finally the count reached for the telephone.
“Who are you calling, monsieur?”
“Yves Renard,” said the count.
“Why him, monsieur?” said Onesime.
“Maybe he can help,” said the court. “What do you think?” Onesime did not have time to answer; Yves answered the telephone on the second ring. He did not sound as though he had been asleep. “Monsieur Renard, it is Maurice de Beaumont. Could you come see me?”
“When, monsieur?”
“Now.”
“Now, at this hour? It is two o’clock in the morning, monsieur.”
“If possible, now, yes,” said the count.
“What does it have to do with, monsieur?” said Yves.
The count looked at Onesime and thought for a moment. “It is about whether I should be thinking about planting beets this spring, monsieur.”
“I will be there in half an hour,” said Yves. He arrived as he had said he would. Yves and Onesime shook hands. The three men each looked into the others’ eyes, trying to divine the spirit of the other, to see whether each was trustworthy or treacherous, whether they stood for anything, and what it might be, what their limits were, the limits of their resolve, of their patience, in short, all the things one has to know in such a moment but can never know about someone else.
Onesime spoke up. “Today,” he said, “you and the mayor spent part of the afternoon in the Cheval Blanc. Shortly after you left, the colonel and his lieutenant departed for Tours. They went to command headquarters. What has happened?”
Yves did not seem sur
prised by how much Onesime seemed to know or by the directness of his question. Nonetheless he took a deep breath. It seemed as though he were embarking on a journey from which he would not be returning. His response would be a first tentative step. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because I may be shot for the murder of a German soldier, the count also. Neither of us killed him, and we have a right to know.”
“They have the murderer,” said Yves.
“Did they tell you who it is?” said Onesime.
“No,” said Yves. “All they said was that they have him.”
“Do you know who it is?” said the count.
“They are keeping it secret,” said Yves.
“Why are they keeping it secret?” said Onesime.
“I can’t be sure, but I can think of only one reason,” said Yves.
“The murderer is a German,” said the count.
“That’s what I think,” said Yves. “Why else keep it secret? I found the shell casing at the scene. It might be from a military rifle. And I haven’t heard of anyone of us who’s gone missing or been arrested. That doesn’t mean much of course. But I think it’s a German. The colonel went to Tours to meet with his superiors and the Gestapo to deal with the case. As far as I can tell, Ludwig, the lieutenant, thinks they can keep it secret; the colonel doesn’t. Tomorrow they will announce that they have the culprit.”
“He told you this?” said the count.
“A lot of it I’m guessing. But I think we’ll know more tomorrow.”
“What should we do?” said Onesime.
“Wait until tomorrow,” said Yves. “Then we’ll see.”
The next morning Colonel Hollinger called Yves Renard and Mayor Schneider back to his office. He gave them copies of an official communiqué stating that, thanks to the harsh but necessary measures of the hostage execution on Monday, the Gestapo had discovered and arrested the murderer of Private Johannes Beckermann. The culprit, who for security reasons could not be named at this time, would be tried before a criminal court in Tours and, if found guilty, as the evidence strongly suggested he would be, would be executed.
The remaining forty-five hostages were released from their summary death sentence but would remain official hostages. The German high command fervently hoped that the citizens of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême had learned a valuable lesson. Terroristic assaults on German soldiers and other officials of the Third Reich would not be tolerated and would be met with swift and severe punishment. Anyone shielding or otherwise aiding those who had committed crimes against the Third Reich would be dealt with swiftly and harshly, as if they themselves had committed the crimes.
This stern notice was posted on the front doors of the Cheval Blanc, the Hôtel de France, the post office, the town hall, and various other sites around town where people routinely read official notices.
The next morning a mimeographed sheet appeared all over town. It too was tacked up, often beside the official notice. It was also tacked to trees and fence posts, stuck on benches, café tables, windowsills, slid into mailboxes, under doors—in short, left anywhere and everywhere its author could manage to leave it without being caught.
The mimeographed sheet even found its way to Tours that same morning, and a day later it showed up in Paris and Vichy. It was of course not distributed in those places in great numbers, but its mere presence attracted notice. In Paris it was tacked to the great plane trees by the street in front of Gestapo headquarters.
Liberation..….….….….……… May 10, 1941. Issue 2
Citizens of France. Terrible atrocities are afoot in our country. Every citizen should know about them.
After a soldier of the Third Reich was killed on the streets of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême in the department of the Sarthe, fifty citizens of the town were taken hostage and sentenced to die unless the culprit was found within a week. Five of the hostages have already been killed—Saint-Léon’s schoolmaster, two veterans of the Great War, and a helpless farmer and his wife—all five shot to death on the town square for everyone to see. The town’s children are left without a teacher; the service of France’s brave veterans has been severely dishonored; the farmer’s children are now orphans.
The killer of the soldier has been caught, we are told, and will be tried secretly and executed. Why secretly? We have not been told why, but it is obvious. It is because the killer was not French at all, as the officers and policemen in charge have pretended. Rather he was a German soldier, a minion of the Third Reich. He had argued with the dead soldier and shot him dead in a drunken fury.
Think of it, Frenchmen and -women: Five decent and innocent citizens of France have been brutally executed for crimes committed by a soldier of the Third Reich. Remember: The perpetrators of this atrocity include not only officers and soldiers of the Third Reich, but also the local and regional French police, the mayor and gendarme of Saint-Léon, and all the other cowering French civil servants who go along with such despicable business.
Citizens: Such atrocities and miscarriages of justice are happening all over France. In Tours not long ago seventy hostages were machine-gunned to death after a brutal and abusive captain of the army of the Third Reich was assassinated. He had raped French women and brutalized many others with impunity.
This is what the Third Reich does not want you to know; this is what their collaborators do not want you to know. But citizens of France, you must know what is being done to France in the name of the armistice, in the name of collaboration, in the name of Vichy, and in the name of the Third Reich.
Here are the names of the dead. Here are the names of the guilty soldiers and their guilty officers. Here are the names of the collaborators in Tours and in Saint-Léon-sur-Dême.
There followed a long list of names in boldface type, including Colonel Ernst Hollinger, Lieutenant Walter Ludwig, Mayor Michel Schneider, and Inspector Yves Renard. The tract ended:
Citizens: Know who your enemies are. The traitors in Vichy are your enemies; the soldiers of the Third Reich are your enemies; the collaborationists in Saint-Léon and elsewhere are your enemies.
Vive la France! Vive la Libération!
The author of the mimeographed tract had not gotten everything right, but the main facts of the case were sufficiently correct to have a devastating effect. Colonel Hollinger stared at the sheet and shook his head. He did not even have time to finish studying it and think of the consequences before his telephone rang and he was summoned back to Tours. “Only you, Herr Oberst. Leave Lieutenant Ludwig in charge. The general wants to see you.” This second meeting went even worse than the first one had gone.
General Paul Wallenstein was waiting in his office, which had been the mayor’s ceremonial office before the war. Several other officers, including Lieutenant Essart, were seated there with him when Colonel Hollinger arrived. During the drive to Tours Colonel Hollinger had given thought to what the response to the mimeographed tract should be. He proposed an approach that was unconventional and, as far as Lieutenant Essart was concerned, utterly appalling.
Colonel Hollinger wanted to demonstrate the superiority of German justice by not only publicly announcing that a mistake had been made, but also by having the murderer, Private Treffel, executed on the town square exactly where the five hostages had been shot. He even suggested that the Third Reich should consider paying the town reparations. “It has already been done once before, in Saumur, I believe, where French citizens were wrongly executed, and it helped to quell an incipient uprising. I understand the objections to such a proposal,” he said, watching Essart out of the corner of his eye. “Even before you raise them. But let us remember that the top priority must be given to keeping whatever rebellion is brewing from erupting.”
General Wallenstein said that he saw virtue in Hollinger’s proposal. Still, he did not find his arguments persuasive. The thought of executing a German soldier publicly and the implicit admission of guilt made that strategy untenable. “It would certainly defuse the immediat
e resentment of the citizens. But might it not at the same time pour fuel on the fire of future rebellion? We have to see to it that we come out of this with the least damage to our standing and the least distraction from our overall mission.”
“We need to defuse the situation as quickly and effectively as we can,” said Colonel Hollinger. “Admitting to a mistake and making amends is not a confession of wrongdoing, so much as—”
Lieutenant Essart was on his feet. “Herr General, the fact that the murderer was a soldier of the Reich changes nothing. The people of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême were uncooperative to the point of resistance well before this incident. Our interest is not to be fair or just. It is to rule with an iron hand, so that insurrection does not break out, in Saint-Léon or anywhere else.
“The paper has found its way to Paris, Tours, Vichy, and who knows where else. Insurrectionists will have their eyes on Saint-Léon. They are organizing themselves as we speak and looking for chinks in our armor. We must be strong and absolutely resolute.
“Allow me to remind the Herr Colonel that this tract, Liberation, is an extreme provocation. It is a direct challenge to our resolve. Any admission of wrongdoing on our part, tacit or otherwise, would be a show of weakness and would be recognized as such. It would embolden the enemy and encourage them to greater and greater provocations. Or perhaps you do not believe that the French are still our enemy? In my opinion executing the remaining forty-five hostages would be an effective way of demonstrating our unyielding strength and resolve.
“In addition, Herr Colonel, I must add that someone in your command appears to be giving information to the enemy. They must be found out immediately.”
“That is ridiculous,” said the colonel. “And I must strenuously protest your insinuations. There was no way to keep this secret, Lieutenant, and you are naïve to think that it is possible. My goodness. Think of it: If you arrest and execute someone in secret, after having been very public about it previously, others can only surmise that you have something to hide. And the only thing in this case worth hiding is that we have made a colossal and stupid mistake by jumping to the wrong conclusions and executing five people for no reason. The citizens of Saint-Léon will know it whether anyone tells them or not.”
The Resistance Page 13
