invaded my mind and out of them I created strange fantasies whose endings were forever denied me through slumber, but whose hero was always Erik.

Since the death of Kurt his behavior towards me had changed. He would observe me sometimes, silently, for many minutes, or ask me questions most of which would embarrass me: Did I have any close friends in school? Was there a particular one I preferred above all others? Had I ever kissed a girl?

He made plans for us, too: The war was not going to last forever; whichever way it should end, he would come back to France as a journalist. Nothing was going to stand in the way of our friendship.

I no longer listened to his every word as though he were the oracle; my attention would wander from what he said and concentrate on his face. I would think how handsome he was.

Then summer arrived, and with it my sixteenth birthday.

—

Mother, upon that important occasion, had invited about a dozen youngsters, the various offspring of friends, neighbors, aunts and uncles the boys all carefully groomed, the girls all simpering even then already, I felt an outsider in their midst.

-

Erik, on the eve of my birthday, had given me «The History of German Painting» which we had so often admired together. That sumptuous volume, which I was forced to hide for years for want of an explanation as to its source, always seemed to me the symbol of our friendship.

Once the guests had departed and my parents retired to their room, I went, as usual, to spend some time with him. Under a slack robe I was wearing nothing but my briefs, for the heat was stifling: I found Erik in his pyjamas, their tops wide open over a chest of dense brown hair.

He had to laugh when I described my party. He was very gay and, I even felt, laughed somewhat excessively.

When I was about to leave, he drew me close to him and kissed my forehead. «Happy birthday, my dear.»>

I had no idea what suddenly possessed me. I was sixteen and it was summer; I had some wine, and could feel the warmth of his half naked body so close to my own. My face barely reached up to his shoulders — I had only to bend my head to press my lips against his chest.

«Go

His reaction remained a mystery to me for a long time. He pushed me brutally away; in his eyes there was a strange expression I had never seen before. <<Go now, that will do.» His voice was trembling. «What do you know about me anyway, little Frenchman? Nothing. You're just a child and our countries are at war; can you understand that? But don't look at me so stupidly. Don't you understand anything?»

He was right. I did not understand until years later that he had wanted me that night with all his being; that he had known my trust in him was such that he could do with me whatever he pleased; but that he preferred to destroy everything rather than affect what he did not know to be my true nature; and above all, that he had wanted to leave intact the purity of a memory which was to brighten the rest of my life.

«Go now, he repeated, «you won't hate me forever; but tonight, go. Please! Go!»

He was almost shouting, at the risk of waking my parents, pulling me towards the door, shaking me. I think he would have hit me if my amazement

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had not abruptly given way to anger. I threw at him the first obvious insult that came into my head: «Filthy German!»

Like a cold slap in the face the door slammed shut behind me.

The days passed and, I shall regret it as long as I live, out of pride and rancor I avoided Erik, and left to spend my vacation with my aunt in Sologne without seeing him again. It was there that I received a letter from my mother, announcing with undisguised joy (in spite of the fear of censorship) that when I got back I would no longer find the German with them; having volunteered for the Eastern front, he had bid my parents goodbye, reassuring them that he would never forget his stay in France.

Immediately, I had to declare my happiness at the thought of getting my own room back; to denounce the war hungry elements of the German spirit, and to drink, from a bottle of champagne which my uncle had solemnly opened, a toast to the victory of the so far away Russians.

But when I found myself alone that night, when, to muffle my sobs, I could bury my face unseen under the blankets, I gave full vent for hours to the last sorrow of boyhood and the first sorrow of man.

I never saw him again. I do know that he was killed that summer, somewhere over in Russia. Like Kurt.

―

Not as often anymore, but with a deeper meaning, I still like when I'm the only alone some evening, to leaf through the book that he had given me souvenir I have of him. My fingers slip over the rough grey linen of the binding, then turn the pages one by one. Somewhere across the portraits of Dürer or Holbein, I sometimes think that I can see his finger-prints; something then tightens in my throat, something that hurts and will no longer flow.

On the title page he had written my name and his; then the date, July 23, 1942. (Translation by Bern Hard) (This story appeared under the title: «On ne Badine pas avec la Guerre» in "The Circle', 1956/VII)

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Vincent

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