Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

The Spirit of Alsace

THE HOUSE of M. Hermann was the third to the left on the Place au Cuir, facing the market. A shop occupied the ground floor—a gloomy ground floor, where it was often necessary to light the lamps before sunset.

In the springtime the linden trees on the sidewalk filled it with a perfume of honey, which mingled with the crude odor of linens and cottons. When winter came, one saw the storks, abandoning Alsace, fly by just over the roofs in a long, noisy train.

Hidden in the back of his shop, ignoring Sundays and feast days, M. Hermann came and went, pushing his ladder, rolling and unrolling his pieces, stopping only to verify his change, to measure his cloth twice, to sell to his patrons bodices and blue blouses, or trousers, which kept for weeks, in spite of the rain and wind, the deep creases worn in them on the shelves. Once a year he closed his shutters and disappeared. Then the neighbors said:

“M. Hermann has gone to Haguenau to gather his hops.”

Because M. Hermann had still down there his old parents, a little farm and a house—a fine house, which the Prussians had turned into a casino for the officers, since it stood near the new barracks.

He was there on July 30, 1914, and returned on the day when they posted on the walls the notice of mobilization. The whole village was celebrating. The old people smiled and rubbed their hands. The young people went away singing, their bags over their shoulders. Standing on his front doorstep, he watched what was going on, but said nothing. Presently the Mayor, M. Schmoll, a veteran of the War of 1870–71, came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder, exclaiming:

“This time, Monsieur Hermann, they are going to get back our old country for us. And the thing will not be dragged out. Before the storks sing their farewell I wish to see, in Strasburg, if my chop is still waiting for me in the Café à la Mésange, at my old table near the wine tun.”

M. Hermann nodded his head gravely and answered:

“I hope you may find it there, Monsieur Schmoll.”

That same evening a squadron of dragoons passed through the village on a trot. The next morning a battalion of chasseurs made a brief halt. The people pressed about them on the main road, throwing them flowers, and crying “au revoir” to the soldiers.

Then for two days one heard nothing and saw nothing but a French airplane, which wheeled for a moment in the sky and then disappeared. But on the third day, early in the morning, they heard a distant cannonade, and about 2 o’clock the chasseurs passed through again without singing, gray with dust, followed soon by gendarmes, weary and begrimed. The gendarmes stopped in the village square. The inhabitants came running to hear the news. M. Schmoll, the mayor, very pale, came up and asked:

“Have things gone wrong, brigadier?”

“They didn’t go very well, Mayor. We are retreating, and the Boches are following us closely. The women and children and all the young men between sixteen and nineteen will have to leave the village. They must start within two hours. It is the provost’s order.”

M. Schmoll read the paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket. Then, turning to the group around him, he said:

“My friends, you have heard what the brigadier said. You must leave. Only those whom duty or advanced age detains may stay behind. You others, put your most valuable possessions in wagons, lock your doors and go!”

He stopped there, because his emotion choked him. Gathering himself together again he added:

“But it will not be for long, if it please God.”

About 5 o’clock the Germans entered, playing their fifes and beating on their flat drums. Before the mayor’s office, wearing his scarf, his military medal, and his medal of 1870 pinned on his coat, M. Schmoll awaited them.

First they seized the post office and the railroad station. Then they requisitioned forage and wine. Finally, the sentinels having been placed, the officer who commanded the troop said:

“You will guarantee with your person the security of my soldiers. If one of them is insulted I shall arrest you. If one of them is injured you shall be hanged.”

M. Schmoll straightened out his angular figure.

“So long as your men respect the lives and honor of the inhabitants, no one will do them any harm. That is all that I can guarantee you.”

The officer slapped his boot and grinned.

“Agreed. And now take me to Hermann, the draper.”

M. Schmoll was speechless for a minute.

“Hermann, the draper? Do you know him?”

“Probably. Let’s go.”

M. Schmoll bit his lips and obeyed.

When he saw the officer and the mayor enter, M. Hermann came to the door of his shop, putting on his spectacles. The officer took a seat at the counter, looked around, and said:

“Your house at Haguenau is more comfortable than this one, M. Hermann. But, no matter. Take a chair. You are an intelligent man. I want to talk with you. How many head of cattle are there in the village?”

M. Schmoll interrupted.

“Monsieur Hermann is not authorized to answer that. I alone—”

“You will speak when I address you,” said the officer. “Answer me, Monsieur Hermann.”

“But, Monsieur le Commandant,” the merchant protested, “it is very difficult for me to give you anything like an exact answer. I do not know very precisely.”

“Good, good. You will inform yourself and tell me tomorrow. Besides, I need wine, beer, and groceries. I count on you to make your mayor understand what I want. He appears not to have a correct notion of his obligations to His Majesty’s troops, or to realize that what he is not ready to deliver to us voluntarily we will certainly take from him by force.”

M. Schmoll clenched his fists.

“I have no obligation to fulfill to the enemies of my country. As for the duties with which I am charged, I do not need anybody to inform me about them.”

The officer did not deign to understand. He lifted his eyes to the shelves.

“On my word, Monsieur Hermann, you have a fine stock here.”

“It is at your service, Monsieur le Commandant,” answered the draper with a bow.

The officer now inquired about a watering place for the horses and about the vehicles available in the village. He also asked what had become of the three canvases by distinguished painters that were known to hang in the château of M. de Pignerol.

“The watering place is a hundred meters beyond the slaughterhouse. You will find some carriages at the shop of Mathias, the blacksmith. As for the paintings, I think that the servants of M. le Marquis have carried them away.”

“Too bad! Too bad!” said the officer, half to himself. “They were to be sent to the museum in Berlin. But we shall be quits if we find them a little further on.”

Having said this he reflected a second, and recapitulated, under his breath:

“The wine, the beer, the groceries, the vehicles, the watering place.”

Then he arose.

Night had come. M. Hermann placed a lamp on the counter. The officer lighted a cigarette and went on:

“One thing more. By what road did the French leave?”

“By the main road, I suppose.”

“I doubt it. But I don’t mean the civilians. I mean the soldiers.” M. Hermann hesitated.

“My God! Monsieur le Commandant, I don’t know.”

The officer shrugged his shoulders.

“Come, come! No foolishness!”

He said this in so brutal a tone that the merchant was visibly troubled.

“Well—”

He stopped, shamed by the look on M. Schmoll’s face. But he was afraid of the Prussian, and answered slowly:

“Well, they had to take—”

“You mustn’t tell that! You have no right to!” cried M. Schmoll.

“Be quiet!” shouted the officer. “Continue, Monsieur Hermann.” But M. Schmoll burst in:

“Monsieur Hermann, be silent! I order you to say nothing. While I am alive no one shall betray our soldiers. Monsieur Hermann, I forbid you to do it. Besides, you don’t know. You know nothing. He knows nothing whatever, Monsieur.”

The officer took a step toward him.

“But you? You know, don’t you?”

“I do. But if you put twenty bayonets at my breast I will not tell.”

M. Hermann bent his head and turned his skull cap between his fingers.

The officer yawned and stretched himself and then said, without paying any attention to the protests of M. Schmoll:

“You hesitate? So be it! I am going to let you reflect for a while—the time it takes me to smoke a cigarette outside. I shall be back in five minutes. Try to decide by then. I give you that advice.”

When he was gone M. Schmoll took the merchant’s hands.

“You won’t say anything, will you, Monsieur Hermann? It was only for the sake of gaining time that you seemed to yield?”

M. Hermann disengaged himself and passed behind the counter. He had raised his head and spoke with precision.

“I am going to tell him. If I could I should remain silent. All that I possess is in the hands of the Germans, both on this side of the frontier and on the other. He has told you. What we do not do voluntarily they will make us do by force. The law of the victor is a terrible law. Believe me, Monsieur Schmoll, at our age we must know how to incline ourselves to it.”

M. Schmoll lifted his arms.

“Is it you who talk like that? You!”

The officer, who was walking before the door, stopped to relight his cigarette. M. Hermann answered:

“What would you have me do? I am only an old dry-goods merchant. We have not wished the war, you or I. We were living in peace. Then why—”

“Be silent!” cried M. Schmoll. “Be silent! I am ashamed of you.”

The officer re-entered.

“Have you decided?”

“I am at your orders,” murmured M. Hermann.

“The sooner the better! Get your hat and let’s go. You know the road?”

“Very well.”

“You will serve us then as a guide. Let us get under way—and quickly.”

M. Schmoll stammered:

“Wretch! Wretch!”

The officer pushed him into the street.

“You, Mayor, come with us!”

M. Hermann exchanged his slippers for heavy shoes, drew on his cloak, locked his cash drawer, put up the shop shutters, extinguished the lamp, and followed the others out.

In the Place four companies were assembled. They put M. Schmoll between two men and the troop set out, M. Hermann leading. M. Schmoll tried to escape. They pushed him back into the ranks with the butts of their rifles. He cried aloud, pointing to M. Hermann:

“Look at the traitor! Vive la France!”

Leaving the village, they followed the national road. Then they took a road leading across the fields. Some distance away, to the left, a bridge crossed the river. But M. Hermann showed them a ford, over which the whole troop passed, scarcely wetting themselves.

“My faith!” exclaimed the officer. “We have gained almost four good kilometers. At this rate we ought to fall on their rear guard before daylight.”

The night was so black that one could hardly see three feet ahead of him. Each time in the course of the march that they came near together M. Schmoll hissed at the dark figure of the guide:

“Boche! Prussian!”

At first M. Hermann simply shrugged his shoulders. Finally, becoming annoyed, he asked the soldiers to put a handkerchief over the mayor’s mouth.

After having marched a good hour they entered a wood. At a junction where three roads crossed M. Hermann said:

“One second, so that I am sure I don’t make a mistake. In the daylight I should have no trouble, but in pitchy blackness like this!”

They advanced very carefully. The company to the rear, which had not preserved its distance, pushed against the company preceding it. The company in the lead had almost come to a halt. The column was thrown into confusion. M. Schmoll found himself against M. Hermann. The trees were so tangled that the troops could neither advance nor retire.

In the semi-panic M. Hermann gave a command in an undertone to M. Schmoll:

“Lie down! For God’s sake, lie down!”

Then, turning about and waving his hat, he shouted at the top of his voice:

“Chasseurs of the 10th! I have brought them to you! Fire into their ranks!”