YOUNG SCHROEDER AND HERBERGER joined him before the monument, leaning over to read the lettering on the plaque. What could it possibly mean to these boys? the baron wondered. They were but a few years old when it all happened, twenty years ago to the day.
The children of the village, openly curious, surrounded the strangers from the stranded bus. Once again the baron reflected, as he had so often in the past, on how appealing were the French youngsters. The boys wore shorts and striped jerseys, the girls checked dresses and wide-brimmed straw hats.
Like everyone else in the home town of Jean-Paul Varin, these children had spent the afternoon watching the game. Therefore, the face of Otto Schoen, the crewcut of Sepp Obermeyer, above all the lined, handsome features of the baron were familiar to them.
One boy, bolder than the others, edged toward the big man and with up-turned face asked, “Are you Monsieur the Baron von Kleinschrodt?”
For a minute the man almost shook his head. Then looking down at the child, he realized this boy could have been the son of René Le Gallec, had René Le Gallec lived and played for France. The denial died away in his throat. At least he owed the truth to those six whose names were on the simple monument. So he nodded.
Elated, the boy shrieked, jumping up and down, “Laurent! Kiki! Jules! Viens vite! Le Baron est à Nogent-Plage.”
They came from nowhere, they scrambled up the cliff, they swarmed about him, thrusting bits of paper and grubby pencils at him. Others rushed from their houses to join the group. He stood there signing his name, hearing as he did that familiar half slap, half crunch of the waves on the pebbly beach below. It took him back to that distant June afternoon, that day which began in such calm and quiet and ended in such disaster for everyone concerned. Suddenly he felt a jab in his sore ribs. It was the more painful side, where he had fallen and perhaps injured himself. It hurt. He looked up angrily.
Before his face were the eyes of a madman. It was more than mere madness; there was ferocity in those eyes, a kind of animal savagery. The man had quite obviously not shaved for a week. His hair was long and matted. In his hands was a hunting rifle. It felt most uncomfortable against the baron’s ribs.
The children immediately explained. “Ah, it’s only Pierre. Crazy Pierre, Monsieur the Baron, don’t take any notice of him.”
“It’s only Pierre Marquet. Don’t worry....”
“He was in a prison camp five years. He’s touched in the head....”
So the demented son of old Louis Marquet stood there, holding a deadly weapon, and incredibly, as if the madman simply did not exist, the boys kept after the baron for his autograph. The baron was a famous football player, the same as Jean-Paul. They had heard their elders talk about him many times in connection with the killing of six hostages from the village during the war. But to the children, the hostages were merely names on a monument, whereas the baron was a living legend, someone everybody had watched that afternoon on TV, the incredible German goalkeeper.
Suddenly Crazy Pierre was joined by a biggish man, also with an insane look in his eyes. He, too, had a weapon, a tommy gun cradled in his arm.
The boys spoke up. “It’s the Racleur. The fiddler. He was at Dachau five years. He’s mad, too.”
Vaguely the baron remembered a village youth who had assaulted a German officer when he was picked up in a labor sweep at Verville. That was all. How strange he should remember.
A big, wild-faced woman joined the growing circle. Her straggly hair blew about in the wind. The baron had recognized her coming down the street. She carried a small pistol which once belonged to some German officer.
Her voice was grating, menacing. “So, you have returned! You have dared to come back!” She next addressed herself to what was now a sizable crowd of villagers, young and old, crying out that the Herr Oberst had pretended to be a friend and then butchered her only son, René. Her rapid French was much too fast for any of the Germans but the baron to follow. She was taking over and the crowd was with her, stirring uneasily at her words.
“Monsieur Le Boucher,” she suddenly screamed. She motioned the baron ahead with her pistol. Crazy Pierre and the Racleur aped her gesture with their weapons. He moved along with his teammates and the minibus driver beside him.
On both sides of the street the wooden shutters of second-story windows flew open with that whanging sound he recalled so well. Women leaned out to watch. “Herr Oberst,” they said, pointing at him. “Herr Oberst.” They did not say it in a polite, pleasant fashion as they used to long ago. Now they mouthed the old familiar name in a brutal, savage way. The strange procession moved up the Grande Rue, followed by every child in town.
That house there was the home of the widow Dupont. She must be dead by now. She had a small white fox terrier, which stood outside yapping at everyone who passed. He never yapped at me; he knew I liked dogs. That’s where the Bleu Marin used to be. I see they call it the Café des Mariniers now. The awning is yellow and the chairs outside are different. I always liked those old iron ones.
Schroeder, Herberger, Obermeyer, Schoen, and the driver looked at him. What’s up? Where are they taking us? He had no idea, save that it was ridiculous. They must all be mad.
They paused before an unoccupied stone house. It was the Bloch villa.
Someone kicked roughly at the front door. It crashed open. They were all pushed inside by the insane French with their guns. The room on the right, he could dimly see, had been his headquarters. They were shoved down a flight of steps into the cellar, dark and dank, a dirty floor underfoot. This, he recalled, had been where those six hostages had huddled while he sat upstairs in the office so tormented and alone.
The five other Germans surrounded him, asking questions. What does it all mean? Who are these crazy people with guns? Did the end of the game upset them this much? Do they take football that seriously? What’s the matter with them? The baron’s teammates knew, of course, that he was the so-called Butcher of Nogent-Plage. What they did not know was that this was Nogent-Plage. So what’s going on, Herr Hans?
Footsteps echoed overhead. Then Madame Le Gallec’s voice could be heard giving orders. She was obviously in command. But what was happening? The minutes seemed eternal. Just so, thought the baron, they must have seemed to those five Frenchmen and a boy in this same cellar twenty years before.