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.”

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