Dinner passed in brief, constrained phrases, almost lost in the clicking of silverware and plates. Moreau complained about his business and about the Italians, and insisted pathetically on his good relations with the German economic administration in Paris. He tried to make conversation and I, on my side, politely, baited him with little aggressive jabs. “What is your rank there, on your uniform?” he asked me.—“SS-Sturmbannführer. It’s the same as a major, in your army.”—“Oh, a major, you’ve been promoted, that’s great—congratulations.” In return, I asked him where he had served, before June ’40; blind to the ridicule, he threw his arms up: “Oh, my boy! I would have liked to serve. But they didn’t take me, they said I was too old. Of course,” he hurried to add, “the Germans beat us fairly. And I completely approve of the Maréchal’s policy of collaboration.” My mother didn’t say anything; she followed this little game with alert eyes. The twins ate cheerfully; but from time to time their expression changed completely, as if a veil of gravity descended on them. “What about your Jewish friends? What’s their name? The Benahums, I think. What happened to them?” Moreau reddened. “They went away,” my mother replied curtly. “To Switzerland.”—“That must have been hard for your business,” I went on to Moreau. “You were partners, weren’t you?”—“I bought him out,” Moreau said.—“Oh, very good. At a Jewish price, or an Aryan price? I hope you didn’t let yourself be cheated.”—“That’s enough,” my mother said. “Aristide’s business has nothing to do with you. Tell us about your experiences. You were in Russia, weren’t you?”—“Yes,” I said, suddenly humiliated. “I went to fight Bolshevism.”—“Ah! Now that is praiseworthy,” Moreau remarked sententiously.—“Yes, but the Reds are advancing now,” my mother said.—“Oh, don’t worry!” Moreau exclaimed. “They won’t reach here.”—“We’ve had some setbacks,” I said. “But that’s temporary. We’re preparing new weapons. And we’ll crush them.”—“Excellent, excellent,” Moreau breathed, nodding his head. “I hope you’ll take care of the Italians, afterward.”—“The Italians have been our brothers in arms from the beginning,” I retorted. “When the new Europe is formed, they will be the first to have their share.” Moreau took this very seriously and got angry: “They’re cowards! They declared war on us when we were already beaten, so they could plunder us. But I’m sure Hitler will respect France’s integrity. They say he admires the Maréchal.” I shrugged my shoulders: “The Führer will treat France as it deserves.” Moreau grew red. “Max, that’s enough,” my mother said again. “Have some dessert.”
