An Officer and a Spy Read Free

if the prisoner made a speech?”
    “General Darras took the view that a few shouts of protest did not constitute a speech, and that music would disturb the gravity of the occasion.”
    “And was there any reaction from the crowd?”
    “Yes.” I check my notes again. “They began to chant: ‘Death … death … death …’ ”
    When the chanting started, we looked towards the railings. Sandherr said: “They need to get a move on, or this could get out of hand.”
    I asked to borrow the opera glasses. I raised them to my eyes, adjusted the focus, and saw a giant of a man, a sergeant major of the Republican Guard, lay his hands on Dreyfus. In a series of powerful movements he yanked the epaulettes from Dreyfus’s shoulders, wrenched all the buttons from his tunic and the gold braid from his sleeves, knelt and ripped the red stripes from his trousers. I focused on Dreyfus’s expression. It was blank. He stared ahead as he was tugged this way and that, submitting to these indignities as a child might to having its clothes adjusted by an irritable adult. Finally, thesergeant major drew Dreyfus’s sword from its scabbard, planted the tip in the mud, and snapped the blade with a thrust of his boot. He threw the two halves on to the little heap of haberdashery at Dreyfus’s feet, took two sharp paces backwards, turned his head towards the general and saluted, while Dreyfus gazed down at the torn symbols of his honour.
    Sandherr said impatiently: “Come on, Picquart—you’re the one with the glasses. Tell us what he looks like.”
    “He looks,” I replied, handing the binoculars back to the clerk, “like a Jewish tailor counting the cost of all that gold braid going to waste. If he had a tape measure around his neck, he might be in a cutting room on the rue Auber.”
    “That’s good,” said Sandherr. “I like that.”
    “Very good,” echoes Mercier, closing his eyes. “I can picture him exactly.”
    Dreyfus shouted out again: “Long live France! I swear I am innocent!”
    Then he began a long march, under escort, around all four sides of the cour Morland, parading in his torn uniform in front of every detachment, so that the soldiers could remember for ever how the army deals with traitors. Every so often he would call out, “I am innocent!” which would draw jeers and cries of “Judas!” and “Jewish traitor!” from the watching crowd. The whole thing seemed to drag on endlessly, though by my watch it lasted no more than seven minutes.
    When Dreyfus started to walk towards our position, the man from the Foreign Ministry, who was taking his turn with the binoculars, said in his languid voice: “I don’t understand how the fellow can allow himself to be subjected to such humiliation and still maintain he’s innocent. Surely if he really was innocent he would put up a struggle, rather than allow himself to be led around so tamely? Or is this a Jewish trait, do you suppose?”
    “Of course it’s a Jewish trait!” retorted Sandherr. “This is a race entirely without patriotism, or honour, or pride. They have done nothing but betray the people they live among for centuries, starting with Jesus Christ.”
    When Dreyfus passed where we were standing, Sandherr turnedhis back to demonstrate his contempt. But I could not take my eyes from him. Whether because of the past three months in prison or the bitter cold of that morning, his face was greyish-white and puffy: the colour of a maggot. His buttonless black tunic was hanging open, revealing his white shirt. His sparse hair was sticking up in tufts; something gleamed in it. He did not break step as he marched by with his guards. He glanced in our direction and briefly his gaze locked on to mine and I saw straight into his soul, glimpsed the animal fear, the desperate mental struggle to keep himself together. As I watched him go, I realised the gleam in his hair was saliva. He must have wondered what part I had played in his ruin.
    Only one stage of