The Foundling's War. Yasmina Khadra

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.

      Palfy yawned in a way too forced to be real and said to Jean, almost without moving his lips, ‘Now’s the time to produce your famous letter from the prince.’

      ‘It’s in my tunic pocket.’

      ‘And your tunic?’

      ‘In the tankette.’

      Soldiers were searching the tankettes and had already removed several pots of jam, chocolate biscuits, and three sub-machine guns. Jacques Graindorge was shaking so much that he was on his knees. A soldier forced him to his feet with a rifle barrel to the ribs. The Obersturmführer studied the square in search of a wall against which he could line up his four captives. The firing squad could not do its job with the sun in their eyes. But behind him his grenadiers were doubled up with laughter and, wanting to understand what had caused his men’s hilarity, he scrutinised his prisoners until he noticed Picallon’s ill-adjusted uniform. A roar of laughter blew across the square and the Obersturmführer summoned Walter Schoengel who walked over to Picallon and, with the barrel of his revolver, flipped the flaccid member back into his trousers.

      ‘Pig!’ the officer repeated, putting into the one insult of which he was confident all the scorn that seethed inside him.

      Picallon was sobering up slowly. He was regaining his lucidity and faith at the same time, already glimpsing his final moments, for which he was better prepared than his two friends. He began, under his breath, an act of contrition: ‘My God …’ Palfy told him to shut up and then Jean told Palfy to shut up. Karl Schmidt was enjoying the unprecedented moment. In Poland, where his section had advanced into a zone already cleared by the Wehrmacht, he had never been favoured with a moment as dramatic as this. The French campaign was at last offering him an opportunity worthy of him. He dispatched a grenadier to fetch his camera. When it arrived he took several pictures of his prisoners. The surveyor, his throat constricted, attempted to explain the appalling error that had been made, but not one articulate sound emerged from his mouth, which was distorted by a rictus that the Obersturmführer interpreted as insolence. Handing his camera back to the grenadier, Karl Schmidt walked up to Graindorge and slapped him twice, hard. Blood flowed from the corner of the surveyor’s mouth and he fell to his knees again.

      ‘Pig too!’ the officer said. ‘Get up!’

      Palfy helped the foolish man to his feet.

      ‘I thought—’ Graindorge said.

      ‘We fooled you, you stupid twerp,’ Palfy said. ‘All three of us are French. Now you’re paying for your stupidity.’

      ‘Quiet!’ the Obersturmführer said.

      ‘No!’ Jean retorted. ‘We’re not irregulars. And you don’t shoot prisoners. Now, if you like—’

      ‘May God forgive you!’ Picallon finished his sentence, then lowered his arms and put his hands together in prayer.

      The SS lieutenant pointed to the façade of the Café des Amis, and the grenadiers shoved the four men towards the wooden shutters. The sun was going down. A pink light bathed the square and fell gently on the church porch. Graindorge’s cat jumped from the bonnet of the tankette and followed its master, its back arched, its tail bristling. Walter Schoengel selected the twelve men of the firing squad.

      ‘It’ll all be over very quickly,’ Palfy said gloomily.

      ‘Yes,’ Jean answered.

      ‘The raspberry liqueur was really good.’

      ‘It’s a consolation. There’s none left for them.’

      ‘They’ll be pardoned!’ Picallon said.

      ‘Not by me!’ Palfy said.

      Karl Schmidt made a sign to a grenadier to bring him the cat, which let itself be picked up and settled in the Obersturmführer’s arms.

      ‘Schön!’ the officer said tenderly. ‘How he called cat?’

      Graindorge started with indignation.

      ‘It’s not a male, it’s a female. She’s called Sarah.’

      ‘Sarah! A Jew name!’

      The Obersturmführer threw the cat down, tried to kick her but missed, unholstered a revolver and emptied its magazine at Sarah, missing her again as she dashed to hide under an armoured car. A ricochet hit the Obergrenadier who had taken down the French flag, injuring him in the calf. The lieutenant paled, pressed his lips together and swore at the man, who stood to attention with blood flowing down his boot. Jean, Palfy, Picallon and Graindorge lined up in front of the wooden shutters of the Café des Amis. Karl Schmidt issued a brief order and a grenadier ran to his car, from which he returned carrying a violin case. The firing squad took up position under the orders of the Unterscharführer, who then inspected them. Karl Schmidt took out his violin and bow with an ecstatic smile, pressed the instrument against his cheek and tuned it before walking over to the Frenchmen.

      ‘Do you like Brahms?’ he asked, a delicate smile lightening his porcine features.

      ‘No!’ Jacques Graindorge shouted, seized by convulsive trembling and convinced this was another trap. He would never like anybody again.

      ‘Don’t listen to him, Lieutenant,’ Palfy said. ‘He’s a fool who knows nothing about music. I can assure you, and I speak for my comrades too, that we all like Brahms very much, and that if you were to do us the honour of playing his Sonata No. 1, Opus 78, we could die happy.’

      ‘You know?’ Karl Schmidt said, astonished not to be dealing with brutes.

      ‘Obviously the piano will be lacking, but I feel sure that playing solo will allow your musical temperament to be given full expression. We are your humble audience.’

      The grenadiers stood to attention. The officer advanced between them and the prisoners, legs apart, eyes lowered to concentrate before his first bow stroke. Karl Schmidt was a fine violinist. Before joining the Waffen SS he had been second violin in the Stuttgart city orchestra. His father was a virtuoso and his two sons played the flute and viola respectively in a Hitler Youth orchestra. Since being commissioned he had missed playing in public. Not any old public. One that was thoughtful, contemplative, ready to feel the music’s emotion. Who could be a more attentive audience than four condemned men? Four was not many, but the future promised bigger audiences, much bigger, and one day Karl Schmidt would have the great public his talent deserved. Music transfigured him. Under podgy skin that shone with heat and effort the fine features of a blond child could be discerned, a little German boy who could have been generous, trusting, enthusiastic. The little German disappeared with the last bars of the sonata.

      ‘Clap!’ Palfy whispered to the others.

      They lowered their arms and clapped with a fervour that surprised Karl Schmidt so much he straightened and bowed his head as if he were on stage in a concert hall. The sight of Graindorge’s pasty face brought him back to earth. The surveyor was not applauding. He was dribbling. He no longer