Brotzeit Beirhaus on the Boulevard du Sichon was not the busiest German bar in Vichy, but it was one of the most popular with the large population of Germans, mostly former soldiers of the second Great War. Many of them had a similar story to the Beirhaus’ publican. Serving with the 2nd Panzer Division out of Vienna, Oberleutnant Georg Hegel had commanded his tank crew through Poland, France and Russia before heading back to France to counter the invasion of Normandy. He’d been wounded and thus missed the near destruction of the Division in the Falaise Pocket. The Fuhrer had dropped the bomb before he had rotated back to duty and he never saw action again. 

Georg unloaded the last tankard from his tray on to the table of customers to a chorus of thank you’s. He made his way back behind the bar, collecting empties as he went. As he moved through his place he picked up snatches of conversion. Most was the usual, jokes and banter or classic bar arguments about history or films, but something caught Georg’s ear. 

“It was those fucking Algerians, I swear it was!” complained an older Austrian man, not a regular. 

“What did it say?” asked his companion. 

“Vive la liberté! Right across the windows of my shop!” The man huffed in exasperation, the fire having come out of his voice. “I asked my neighbours, one of them said he saw one of those negroes watching my shop from down the street. I repair watches, now the paint is all over my...”

It was not the first story Georg had heard like this. The Tirailleurs, an activist group made up of young French-Africans and Army if Africa veterans, had been causing trouble in Vichy for years. Their ‘statements’ had become more common in the last month, with news of a diplomatic conference between certain European Powers. It was only weeks away, and the Tirailleurs and other likeminded groups had been working hard to make their position known. Mostly there were rallies and speeches in cafes and salons, but not always.

Georg stayed away from such things. His wife was French, and though Nicolette was a very patriotic woman she respected his wishes in the matter. Together, they would live their lives in peace. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder.

“Did you hear me, Georg?” asked one of his waitresses, Veronique. “You have a call on the telephone from Berlin. He says he is your cousin Anselm?”

“Je vous remercie Veronique,” said Georg.