Erwin had left Kit with a book and a pamphlet. The pamphlet US Involvement in Vietnam, he finished immediately. The book Mandate for Change he was reading two days later when Max walked in. --I’m Max, said Max. Why do you guys always have to live four flights up?
He was short and stout with a black beard and a slight accent.
This is it, thought Kit. This is the guy I knew I’d meet. I just had to!
--Erwin Adler asked me to drop around and see you. You know him?
--Sure.
--Okay. Now you want help from us, guy, Max went on, planting his briefcase on the floor and himself on the chair.
No, I don’t, thought Kit, but he didn’t say it. Because he hadn’t been able to figure out why everyone was so nice and helping him so much if they didn’t want something from him in exchange. The first people he could think of who would want something from him would be the Communists, and Max looked just like a Communist to him--the beard, the accent, and even the briefcase. Kit was afraid of being taken advantage of by the Communists, and he knew there were a lot of them in
--We’re ready to help you, Max repeated. But we want to know something about you. This is harder on me than it is on you. It takes a lot of my time.
Most people weren’t ready to help you unless they knew you, reflected Kit. Like his grandmother, like Lou Anne and her mother. So why should this guy be an exception?
--Okay? asked Max, leaning down and extracting a pad from his briefcase and a red ball point pen from his breast pocket.
Raphael and Chantal hadn’t asked him to do anything for them either, and Erwin had only asked him to be a responsible member of the Peace Movement which he was perfectly willing to try.
--I suppose you want to know why I quit the Army, said Kit.
--Not right away, said Max. I want to have some facts about your personal life. What do you think I’m going to ask you? The bomb formula? What would I do with the information? Sell it to
Kit shrugged.
--The Army knows. You might as well know.
--Okay, said Max. Name, rank, and serial number.
--
--Have you still got your ID?
--Sure.
--Not so sure. A lot of guys think the bright thing to do is get rid of all army papers as soon as they split. Big mistake. You’ll need them for identification, travelling--also, if you get picked up, it shows intend to return. You’ll get a lighter sentence.
--I’m not going to get picked up, said Kit.
--Let’s hope not. When were you born?
--June 25th, 1947.
--Where?
--
--Do you remember your address?
--Sure.
--Where was your next address?
--When I was about five, my mother took me with her to
New Orleans address? said Max as he wrote the question mark. And after that?
--My stepfather got sent to
--How old were you?
--Fourteen.
--Address?
--Just
--Hey, that’s a song, said Max happily. “
--No.
--I guess it was before your time, said Max. I’m Old Left. Not that it’s a very Left song. Okay, go on.
--Well, we lived in a suburb outside the center. I suppose it had an address, but we got our letters through the FAO,
--How long were you there?
--A year. At least I was. My parents stayed on longer, but I was sent to military school.
--Where?
--
Max looked up.
--Did you like it?
--No. I liked the Army better, in fact. In military school I was always the patsy for something.
--How do you mean? asked Max, genuinely interested and putting aside his pad.
--Oh, once I’d gone into town with some friends in the graduating class. They'd gotten girls and stayed on, but I hadn’t started that yet, so I hitchhiked back but I couldn’t get in because the school was closed for the night. So I went to sleep in an unlocked car and was pinched next morning. But my friends had gotten in from town in time for their first class and hadn’t been missed. Things like that.
--Unlocked car, eh? Sounds familiar. So what happened to you?
--I was punished.
--How?
--I had to walk in a circle in the sun with a loaded pack on my back. It wasn’t unbearable or anything--I was hot and thirsty is all. But what struck me was the stupidity of it. I wasn’t any more disciplined afterwards. Less, if anything.
--What school year did you do in military school/
--Ninth grade.
--Then where?
--My parents sent for me to come to
--Address?
--Same thing as
--Schooling?
--Tenth and eleventh grade. Then I went to
--Address in
--811 Via Cassini.
--Schooling?
--Like I said, I graduated from high school.
Kit glanced at Max and added: On June 17th, 1966.
--Where?
--Okay.
Kit couldn’t help smiling. The things this guy thought of.
--At the American High School in
--What subjects did you like?
--English. History. I didn’t like math or science...even languages. Except I learnt them all right. Like Spanish.
--You liked
Kit’s eyes lit up.
--Sure. I really dig
--At fifteen?
--Yeah. Whenever I got picked up--because I was drunk or because I went through a light or up on the sidewalk or something--they’d let me go as soon as they called my father--because he was an American and working for FAO.
--Did you know any Salvadorians--if that’s the correct name?
--Sure. Some of the guys in my school, and their parents.
Kit paused. -
--Some people downtown too.
--How many of them didn’t speak English?
--Downtown they didn’t. Well, they all spoke some, but just enough to be understood. Anyway, I spoke Spanish, some Spanish.
--Everyone you knew was more or less dependent on the Americans--North Americans?
--Yeah. We just took it for granted. Even when something happened once that made me not take it for granted, I didn’t really register at the time, you know?
--Why? What happened?
This guy was eager for information. But what good could it do him? Something very personal that happened only to me?
--I don’t mind telling you, said Kit. I don’t know what you’ll get out of it. It was when I was drunk at a bar downtown with some friends. My friends got their girls right away and went off somewhere. I just went on sitting at the bar, getting really drunk. Finally there were no more girls left but this old whore, and so I took her into a room and started banging her. It was late, and she wanted to go home, but I was taking a lot of time because I’d had so much to drink. She began telling me to hurry up and finish and, you know, there’s nothing that makes it harder to finish than someone telling you to hurry. So I got mad and gave her a smack. She got mad and pushed me off and began to yell for her friends. She had a little room behind the bar, but there was another door going out on the street, and she pushed me out this door before I had time even to get my clothes on, She took me by surprise, but when she opened the door again and threw my clothes out after me, I busted in and grabbed her and really began to lay into her. I mean, I was blind. She fell and lay there in the street, screaming, while I was standing there half-naked, kicking her in the head. All of a sudden I was surrounded by men. Salvadorians, like you said. They had their knives out. Boy, was
--What happened to the girl? The one you had been kicking?
--I don’t know. We never went back to that house again.
--Did you ever think how the people in
--Not at the time. I behaved just the way everybody else did.
--How did your parents react?
--I didn’t tell them about that. But they didn’t like me staying out late and drinking in general. My mother almost split a gut when the doctor told her I had clap.
--She wouldn’t have thought the Salvadorians were right to pull a knife on you?
Kit shook his head.
--People like that could never be right to her. Americans, her kind of Americans, are always right. She had had a hard time making it, but she made it when she married my stepfather, and that was all that mattered to her.
--Oh yes, your parents. Mother’s name?
--Norma Novak.
--Born in?
--
--Father?
--My real father or my stepfather?
--First your real father.
--George Carson. My mother met him in high school, and from what I can gather--she doesn’t like to talk about it much--they both dropped out. I don’t even know if they were married. Probably not.
--But you have his name?
--Yeah. Then maybe they were.
--Do you ever see him?
Kit shook his head.
--I heard he was a truck driver and has five other kids. Though I just heard, I don’t know. He stayed in
--Did it bug you?
--What?
--That he wasn’t married to your mother maybe?
Kit shook his head and smiled. A lot of things bugged him in life, but whether his father had been married to his mother twenty-one years ago was not one of them.
Max was going right on with his questions.
--Stepfather?
--George McNeil. Funny, I never thought of that, that they both had the same first name.
Kit smiled again.
--I’m thinking of a lot of things today.
Max reacted to this.
--When you line up facts in an orderly fashion, he explained, they often yield interesting new information. Both to you and to me.
--Okay.
This time they both smiled.
--His profession is entomologist with the FAO.
--Entomologist--that’s bugs, isn’t it?
--Yeah.
--I suppose there are a lot of bugs in
--Lining up some facts, eh? asked Kit.
--Yes, answered Max seriously. What I just said was a good example of deductive reasoning.
Weird guy. If he’s a Commie, and all the commies want to know is about the bugs in
--All right. Where did he meet your mother?
--At Berlitz. In a Spanish class.
--What about the rest of your family? Any brothers or sisters?
--Two little sisters--half-sisters. Mary Marlene and Carole Anne. Funny, my girlfriend is called Lou Anne. I’m certainly relating to names today.
--We’ll get to your girlfriend later. How old are your sisters?
--Twelve and seven.
--Any other relatives?
This guy is really the end.
--I have an uncle in the
Now what else could he want to know?
--Whose brother is he?
--Okay, you win. My father’s.
Max looked up and frowned.
--I don’t understand. What do I win?
--The questions you think up. Where are you going to line up the fact about my uncle being in the
--Line up?
--Where does it fit in?
--Maybe nowhere. I don’t know. It’s always information. Tell me more about your grandmother.
--She works in a factory. Oh yes, she has a motor bike she drives to work on.
--Very interesting. How old is she?
--Not so old. Fifty-six. My mother’s thirty-six. She was only sixteen when she had me.
--Does she know you’ve quit the Army?
--Not yet. Unless the CID have been around. I’ll write her when I get fixed somewhere. Erwin said I shouldn’t use this address.
--He was right. We’ll get to that later.
--I’d like an address to give my girl in
--For the time being, you can use the
Max wrote
--
--Okay. It came easy after the Spanish. But I didn’t need it for school because that was in English.
--Where?
--Where?
--Explain, said Max.
--Americans all over the world with their own schools, neighborhoods, land. Laws even. Maybe I was sort of beginning to wake up in
--Didn’t they send you back once from
--Yeah. But, you know, in all those countries,
Kit stopped.
--How? asked Max.
--Well, we paid them, and they were supposed to do what we said. The only difference was my mother didn’t beat their heads in when they didn’t--she just fired them.
--And when the men take their knives out?
--Then we shoot ‘em, I guess.
--Like in
--I quit not to go to
--Suppose your friends hadn’t come by in the car that night? asked Max. Would you have shot the men in order not to be knifed?
--If I was drunk and had a gun, I might shoot anybody. Sober, I couldn’t kill a fly.
--If the people in
--Sure they’d be right. It’s their country.
--Even if they shot people like you and your family?
--It’s their country, repeated Kit firmly.
--How about
--I enlisted when I was drunk.
--They didn’t make any trouble about taking you?
--Their doors seem always to be open, said Kit and smiled.
--I guess. But if you got drunk enough to enlist, you probably had a reason.
Kit sighed, lay back on the pillow with his hands folded under his head.
--Actually it was those first three months in the
--Why?
Kit shrugged.
--Like that.
--Okay, so what did you do next?
--I had leave before going to
--How did you make your way back to
--I went to
--Okay, so go on.
--There’s not much more. I found work as an extra in an American war movie--
--You’re kidding!
Kit smiled.
--Yeah, it does sound sort of weird. It was a movie called The Landing at
--AWOL GI’s, corrected Max. Never say deserters. It shows intent not to return, and if you get picked up you’ll be charged with desertion. If you’re AWOL, you’ll get a lighter prison sentence,
--I won’t get picked up, said Kit. Besides, after thirty days, you’re automatically a deserter. a deserter, but to convict--
--Look, said Max. Don’t give points to the enemy, They may list
you as a deserter, but to convict you they have to prove you weren’t going back. I’m glad to see you kept your dog tags. Got your ID?
--Yeah.
--Okay. Hold on to it. Anything you have belonging to the Army works in your favor--even an old pair of Army socks.
--I have those too.
--Good. So, you read in the Rome Daily American about
He looked down at his watch, said, My god, I’m late, and got up, adding:
--How did you get up here?
--I hitchhiked to
Max leant over, put the pad back in his briefcase, rehooked the red pen in his breast pocket.
--What do you want to do now?
--I don’t know, said Kit. I’d like to get out of the Morin’s hair as soon as possible.
--Have they said you were in their hair?
--No, they’re very nice. But Erwin sort of suggested it, and, I mean, it’s obvious. They don’t have any money, they have a small place here, I must be in the way.
--Did Erwin have any ideas about what you might do?
--No. I thought that was why he got in touch with you people.
--Well, we don’t have any readymade solutions, said Max. I mean, don’t think we can offer you a job and a house and a girl. I forget, you have a girlfriend in
--Her parents were the ones got me to Mr. Glanzberg.
--And what did he do?
--He gave me the Morins address. It was pretty complicated. I had a telephone number from Lou Anne’s mother for this Mr. Glanzberg. I couldn’t seem to get him the first day or so, and I had an infected thumb from cutting it on a can of peaches in Fregene. I went to the police station--
--Which police station?
--The one near the Pantheon.
--Oh no! said Max. They must have been very unhappy to see you. That’s where Manfred Jackson was brought when they picked him up for being a deserter.
--Manfred Jackson? Oh yes, he was the one I read about.
--The cop who arrested him is probably walking a beat in some distant suburb by now.
--But he got asylum.
--Not asylum, not yet, and it wasn’t that easy, said Max, sitting down again. But this is very important. You went to the police station and what happened?
--They were okay, as it turned out. They sent me to the hospital for my thumb to get treated and then gave me a soggiurno.
--A what?
--This.
Kit took his carte de sejour out of his wallet, handed it to Max.
--Usually they don’t give these out unless you have an address, said Max. Sans domicile Fixe. Hmm.
--It’s only good for a few more days, said Kit, looking up at the date.
--That’s okay. we’ll have someone go into the prefecture with you and get a renewal.
--I’ll have to get an address. Can I use that Quaker place you gave me for that?
Max shook his head.
--That’s only a mail drop. People don’t live there, so...the Morins lent you some money?
--Only to pay my hotel bill so I could get my things. I’ve written to my grandmother for the money.
--When were you at a hotel?
--When I first came. Then I went to the hospital. Chantal lent me the money to settle the bill.
Max raised his eyebrows.
--Chantal?
--Mrs. Morin.
--Are you interested in her?
--Oh, I wouldn’t do anything like that after her husband has been so nice to me. Kit paused. At least I think I wouldn’t. I don’t think they are getting on though.
--Well, try not to get involved, said Max. There are not that many people willing to put up deserters. So--you went to the hospital--how long?
--For a week, about. When I came out, I finally got this Glanzberg guy on the telephone, and he sent me to the Morins.
--How did he impress you?
--He didn’t. That is, I never saw him. We just talked on the phone.
--How?
--In a cafe. I had to give him the number there and he called me back.
--And Morin?
--It was his address Glanzberg gave me. He was alone that day--Morin, I mean. I didn’t get to see Chantal until later, but he was very nice. He had a lot of fruit in a bowl on the table, and he offered me some. Then he saw I was hungry, and he made me a meal.
--I thought he didn’t know much English.
--He doesn’t. But we get along.
--Did you ask him about Glanzberg?
--I said that was who I was from. The funny thing was they didn’t know him or Erwin. And Erwin doesn’t know Glanzberg either. I’m not surprised it took me three days to get in touch with you people. How can you be well-organized if none of you know each other?
--We aren’t an organization, said Max. We’re just a little group of friends against the Vietnam War. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but most French people are against it, and they consider that helping you is one way they can help to fight.
--I appreciate it, said Kit. A French girl I met just before I went to the hospital said that too. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see her again.
--There I can’t help you, bud, said Max. What I can do is try to find you another place to live. Now, there’s not a lot of jobs available, and there isn’t much point moving you to another temporary address. What we sometimes suggest is the Compagnons Batisseurs. That’s an organization helping communities get work done: fixing rooves, building things. They’re pretty nice people, and they’re willing to help AWOL GI’s.
--Out in the country, huh?
--A group of them, usually with a girl along to cook, go out into the country, live together in a school or some building donated by the community, and do whatever has to be done. You get free room and board and fifteen francs
a week, about three dollars fifty, for cigarette money. It’s hard work, but it will give you a chance to think things over...if you want. You don’t have to decide now. The Morins can keep you another week. But if you’re interested, it’s one way.
--How long would I have to stay?
--You don’t have to stay at all. You don’t have to go. But if you do go, you should stick it out at least three weeks. That makes it worthwhile for them.
--Can I call you tomorrow?
--You have a week. I have to go see them in the meantime, but they can usually use the extra manpower.
Max got to his feet again and picked up his briefcase.
--The next time, we’ll meet in a cafe, he said. So I don’t have to walk up those stairs,
--Fine, said Kit. Wherever it’s convenient.
Max shook Kit’s left hand, looked at his watch, muttered something else about being late, and charged down the stairs.
Kit waited until the sound of his footsteps died down. Erwin was to take him to dinner at seven. Erwin was more simpatico than Max, but Max seemed to have more control over things.
The Peace Member:
I had remembered the café as a butcher shop and not a very good one. Sometimes on the way back from the market I bought meat for my dog there. Now it had turned into a café with a good location on the corner of the rue de Seine and the Boulevard Saint Germain with buttoned leather benches and slow service. I forget how the coffee was. Erwin was already through half a cup when I got there.
--I’ve heard from Kit, he said.
His black lock of hair was as usual smashed across his forehead.
--Yes, so have we.
I thought he looked disappointed, as if he wanted to be the only contact with Carson. I did not want to discourage him as we had enough to do with all the others.
--Then he wrote you about the Compagnons Batisseurs too?
--Barely. He just said that he had arrived and that it was working out.
--I see, said Erwin. Well, he wrote me in some detail. I can read parts of it to you if you would like.
He looked up apologetically and continued:
--His handwriting is rather difficult—and there are references to political conversations we had—it wouldn’t be interesting to anyone else. But I thought you might like a report on his progress.
--Oh yes, I would, I said and ordered a coffee.
In a low voice, Erwin began to read:
Dear Irv; This will not be a full scale letter tonight so I will have to finish it tomorrow. There are a few things that might interest you. Things are coming along fairly well here. It's no picnic, and we work hard, believe me, George!
Irwin paused to take a sip of coffee.
--Oh, is George still there?
He looked up sharply.
--Who’s George?
--A CO from the South. Church of the Brethren, I believe. He was there already when Manfred and Buster made a brief appearance there.
--Oh, said Erwin. I thought it was that old expression—like by George. Or yessiree, Mike. But it seemed strange to me that someone of Kit’s generation would use it.
--There actually is a George. He wears glasses.
I hoped this would reassure him that George was no beautiful rival. If that was what he was worried about. I wasn’t sure yet.
--Of course, Erwin went on, perusing the letter. Now I understand. Before I was always a little confused by the next sentence, which reads as follows:
--George especially. I’ve never seen a man with so much energy and yet so much moral spirit.
While I was pondering whether energy and moral spirit were normally contradictory, Erwin continued with his exegesis.
--It only makes sense if one reads (I’ll go back a sentence): It’s no picnic, and we work hard, believe me. George especially. I’ve never seen etc. etc. Wow! I do nothing compared to him and yet I, for one, ache all over. However, I can put up with it! So that is no problem. He seems to have forgotten his Basic Training. But I think there is no doubt he is genuine, do you? I mean, it seems undeniable that he really was a soldier.
Erwin was showing a symptom of the suspicion paranoia that hit all of us sporadically at one time or another. I myself sometimes wondered if Max wasn't acting for some official Communist Party (which would not have disturbed me) and not telling us (which would have). Moscow? Certainly not Peking. Something even the phoneless friends did not know about?
--Oh, I am sure he is genuine, I said, meaning Kit but also Max.
--However, I can put up with it. So that is not problem. Secondly, I renewed my “carte de séjour” today, (or however the hell you spell it) for another fifteen days or so until the 25th of November, in other words. My parents are sending my winter clothes etc. I have received letters from my girlfriend in London, so everything in that area is OK. As far as moral spirit—
Erwin looked up and announced that this part was interesting.
As far as moral spirit goes—sometimes I’m up, sometimes I’m down—but I’m OK. And I feel great! The main thing I’m down about is that I have to wait twenty-four hours for letters from the girl. That is the only depressing thing, so it is a very small matter and an immature one.
The other two French boys working along with George and myself are OK. One I like quite a bit, the other I can’t stand, but I try and put up with him. Strange boy, but then so am I. I’d love to bust him, but I don’t, for obvious reasons. Don’t worry, Irv. I think every now and then, and that’s what keeps me out of trouble. On the whole, however, things are OK. We stay out of each other’s hair as much as possible. Our group plans to return to Paris on the twenty-fifth of this month, so we should arrive there sometime in the evening.
--Okay, as Kit would say, said Erwin, looking up grimly. Now this is what I particularly wanted to discuss with you. Listen to this: I have to tell you something—you won’t agree with it—you might not like the idea, but I’m going to do it. I want to see my girlfriend for a few days. So I plan to hitch up to where she is about the third. Altogether I should be gone about a week. I think she can put me up. It's not very far off, and I do want to see her so badly, just once before Xmas. I’ll be careful and keep a level head. If anything happens, well, I’ll just say that I think it’s highly improbable, and if anything does happen—I run fast as hell, and I’m smart enough to know how to watch out. I don’t think there will be problems. Frankly, I’ve thought about it a lot, and if I didn’t think I could make it OK, I sure as hell wouldn’t go.
Erwin was reading faster and faster.
--But I’ve made up my mind for a change. I’m a person again, see? Well, what do you know? I’ve said everything, so I won’t have to finish tomorrow. I told George I was going to write you, and he said it would be OK. He’s a good guy, and I like him a lot. I hope that he also feels the same about me. Maybe we can all have dinner together or something when I get back to Paris. I really remember those conversations we had as something very new for me.
--Then he goes into some specific things we talked about. What do you think?
--About what?
--About this trip he talks about to see his girlfriend. She lives in Italy, doesn't she?
--Yes, but she’s going to be in England until after Christmas.
--I’m going to England at the end of the month, said Erwin slowly. I would be willing to see her for him.
--I think his idea is more or less to see her himself.
--In that case, he could get an electric blanket and save us all a lot of worry.
Not knowing how else to react, I smiled and said that of course we thought England was not a good place for a deserter to go.
--I don’t see how he can even get in! exclaimed Erwin. There is a very severe control.
--Well, don’t forget he has a valid passport.
--That means nothing if they really control entrances, said Erwin. Of course, it is true that sometimes they don’t. The method, as I have heard, seems to be that they arbitrarily choose one flight and check everyone on it. Others they let go through with just the customary questions about length of stay and so on. I suppose he intends to take the plane.
--It usually is less auspicious. I mean, they probably expect a deserter to take the boat.
--Well, the whole thing seems ridiculous to me, that a lot of people should waste time and energy figuring out how a deserter can take a plane trip to England to see his girlfriend. Those Algerian War friends of Mathilde would never believe it.
--What Algerian War friends?
--Oh, nothing. Some people she introduced me to.
--They handled deserters during the Algerian War?
--Actually, I think one of them was a draft resister at that time. It doesn’t matter. Would you care for another coffee?
Erwin was fussing around so much I could see he felt he had make a slip.
--They didn’t say anything about wanting to set up a guerilla camp for deserters in the South, did they?
--Oh no. They just mentioned the security measures they had had to take at that time, during the Algerian War, that is, and this made me think of how American we all are, flying a deserter into London to see his girlfriend. I mean, the French would think we are insane.
That sounded like the phoneless friends to me. There couldn’t be two underground groups like that in Paris. Not being Max, I did not start to grill Erwin on the subject. Kit, whom I had never seen but who was a deserter, interested me much more than this group that was turning out to be our opposite number across an unknown divide.
--Kit mentioned this English trip in his letter to Max, I said untactfully. Now we agree with you that it is not a political action, but then the deserters are not very political in the sense of the Peace Movement or most French groups. If they want to do something, they do it anyway, whether we think they should or not. If Kit has the money to go to England, he will probably go. So we stick with him in case he has any trouble. We can tell him we think he shouldn’t go, but we don’t banish him forever if he does.
Erwin shrugged and made a small face.
--Actually, you could help, I went on. Max’s idea was that if someone we knew was going to England, he could travel on the same plane with Kit, not obviously, and therefore if Kit got picked up in one of the controls you mentioned, the other person could call us in Paris and get a lawyer in London and generally prevent his getting kidnapped or “lost,” which is the usual technique used with deserters.
--I don’t know about that, said Erwin.
Huffily?
--That’s what happened in Switzerland to a deserter coming out of a Swiss police station. And in East Germany, a dead deserter was found in an abandoned church.
--There is no proof, said Erwin. Of any of that.
--But would you be willing to go with him?
--No, I wouldn’t, said Erwin. If he’s going to do something foolish, against the advice of people who know better than he does, he will just have to take the consequences.
He got to his feet and put some money on the table.
--I have to go, he said. Recently I have gotten permission to research the archives of the Communist Part, but they close early.
I thought he was a son of a bitch to refuse to go with Kit, but he was all so mixed up with discipline, disappointment and love, probably, that I spared him my opinion and asked what he was researching.
--A Fifty Year History of Illegal Organizations in France. Actually, all this activity reminds me very much of things I am researching.
I thought about that one, and when I got back to Max that afternoon, I asked why he thought Erwin hadn’t given Kit to the phoneless friends instead of to us; especially since he was so hipped on illegality and secrecy and security.
Max was annoyed at Erwin’s refusal to go with Kit to England.
--Maybe he doesn’t know the phoneless friends, he said. Erwin is in PACS, isn’t he?
--Yes, but he was talking about former Algerian War deserters and security. All that sounds like the pf’s.
--A lot of people think that is the way to handle deserters. Not only the phoneless friends.
--But they’re legal!
Max looked at me severely.
--They are not legal, June. They are tolerated. This means they will not be sent to jail if a cop stops them on the street and asks for their papers, but we take no chances. Particularly on our next interview.
--When is that?
--Next week. I am going to let Carson come if he wants.
--But he'll be in England.
--Then he’ll be in England and won’t come.
--You’re going to do it behind a sheet and everything?
--The works. I have made the journalist feel we are doing him a great honor by letting him be there.
--What journalist?
--Life magazine .
--But if Kit is in England?
--We’ll use Buster.
--And Manfred?
--If we can find him.
--He hasn’t been arrested again?
--No, but he’s sort of dropped out of circulation. It was all very well his getting the first papers, but his French supporters found a job for him where he was supposed to go to work at six in the morning. Manfred probably thought it was too much like the army. Anyway, he quit.
--Where did he go?
--He’s living with a girl somewhere. Buster keeps in touch with him. But he’s done enough, and I don’t want to push him into any more interviews if he doesn’t feel like it.
--But that just leaves Buster.
--Oh, we can always ring in a CO as a deserter if we have to.
But we didn’t have to. Carson got a Dear John letter from his girl and did not go to England and, in the meantime, Richard the Lion-Hearted had appeared.
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