Page 19 - Unlikely Stories 1

Madagascar Madness

A jeep bounced into a dusty compound several miles of bad road
south of Diego Suarez, sending chickens into scattered frenzy. A
bearded old man reclining on the verandah of the main house slowly
turned and fixed the lone occupant of the vehicle with a piercing
stare.
“Oui, monsieur? Il y a quelque chose?”
The driver, a G.I. in his early twenties, vaulted out of the open
Willys and consulted a military handbook.
“Excusez-moi,” he intoned carefully. “On m’a dit en ville qu’un
Americain reste ici.”
The old man drew a deep breath and coughed. “Yes. No point in
denying it any more. The war is over, is it not?”
“Yes, sir. Last year, in fact. Vichy’s gone. The Wehrmacht and the
Italians capitulated. So did the Japanese. De Gaulle’s in charge now.
I’m Private Herbert Seidell, U.S. Military Intelligence. I’m looking for
any American citizens interned or trapped here during the war. The
French are giving us a brief opportunity to identify and repatriate
them. You are probably the last one I’m going to be able to track
down. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Indeed, I do, young man. And I wasn’t born yesterday.” The
intense gaze briefly crinkled as the man half-smiled, perhaps savoring
the unaccustomed use of a once-familiar idiom. “You’re undoubtedly
looking for traitors and collaborators, Americans you can send home
in chains. Why bother with expatriates otherwise? Well, you can pull
in your horns. I did what I could against the Nazis. If they had
captured me and discovered my origins, they would have killed me
on the spot.”
The soldier paused, uncertainty clouding his boyish features.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because I am Jewish.”
Private Seidell took off his cap and mopped his brow and
neck with a handkerchief. His face took on a new, strained
expression.
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