The Statement Read Online Free PDF Page A

away to Germany, he didn’t pretend: he stood before those red-robed judges in the Palais de Justice. ‘Monsieur le Président, I’m not one of those who’s going to tell you I’ve played a double game. I did what I did. I am proud of what I did. I made a mistake but I acted in good faith. I believe I served my country.’ Yes, Joseph Darnand was the only one to speak out for the things we fought for, a hero, a man of courage. In his prison cell in Chatillon the night before he died, he wrote a letter to de Gaulle, asking clemency for ‘my miliciens , for these old soldiers of 1914–18, and these many young men, workers, peasants, and boys from the liberal professions who did not hesitate to give up everything to serve what they considered from the bottom of their hearts to be the true interests of their country. They have committed only the fault of loyalty to a great soldier, they have been almost the only ones who refused to betray their oath and abandon a lost cause.’
    Next morning they took Darnand out and shot him. I am old now, I forget things, I have to make lists, I write down names of new people when I meet them, while the names of old friends go blank in my mind. But I will never forget those words. The cause was lost – more than that, the war was lost. Was it any worse to live under the Maréchal’s New Order in co-operation with the Germans than to watch the Anglo-Saxons, the stupid ‘ Amerloques ’ and the two-faced English who ran away in 1940, help Russian communist troops rape and steal and kill their way across Europe? How many in France knew then that we had not won but had lost the battle? How many sensed it but didn’t dare to say it? The Church knew: in Rome, Pius XII asked for an amnesty for all who had been faithful to the Maréchal. The Pope knew the real enemy. He knew that the Maréchal was first and always a true son of the Faith. Soon even the stupid Americans saw the light and began to use Nazi brains in the struggle against Stalin. We could speak our minds at last. The enemy was Russia. The true motherland of those who brought France down.
    I am on my knees tonight, humbly giving thanks for God’s mercy today. I must not let my mind drift back to anger. I have been a sinner and now I am blessed with God’s pardon, God’s love. He does not want me to die. I will protect myself against my enemies, His enemies.
    He made the sign of the cross and stood up. He opened the suitcase that contained his memorabilia and took out the Walther pistol from its leather holster. Whoever sent that Jew to kill me knew that I would be in that bar in Salon today. Why was I there? To pick up my envelope. Who are they that they would know about the envelope, the most secret thing, the thing I have confided to no one, not even to Monsignor Le Moyne? What else do they know? Who told them?
    It was a long time since he had slept with a gun under his pillow. He had lived in the shadows, for forty-four years, managing to stay in France when others fled to Argentina or Peru. That had been his triumph. He had not let them drive him out of his own country. He had lived here under their noses. But now they would find him. Someone knew. And, in that moment, fear came upon him like an ague. If I die tonight, will I be forgiven? Will God balance the things I did to save France from the Jew communists against my sins: women, the friends I betrayed, the hold-ups, the frauds? Monsignor Le Moyne says God’s mercy is infinite. I have lived these years of old age as devoutly as any man: mass, prayers, devotions. Yes, I killed today, but in self-defence.
    But the fear did not leave him. What if the Monsignor is wrong? What if God, weighing all in the balance, casts me down? I must make my confession to Monsignor. He will absolve me. I must change my plan. Tomorrow, I will drive to Caunes.

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    Security, they called it. T had never seen anything like it. He looked out now across the Place de l’Alma, at the tour Eiffel,