The offensive has resumed, the radio says so, and this reconnaissance plane flying low over the village, all alone, veers on one wing, comes back, taking photos perhaps, tricolour roundels in plain sight, the forester follows them with amazement, nose in the air, arms dangling, yes it's the end they seem to be saying, what did you think, the hour has come, no miracles, turn tail, it's high time.
That evening, the first soldiers pass, about thirty, on foot, come up through the valley and stop at the castle, are hungry, thirsty, a captain scrutinises the horizon through his binoculars, indifferent, almost relieved, no battle sounds, no machine guns, no cannons.
The captain and soldiers go off, pass down by the station, as if on a stroll, without hurrying, without turning around, the night is calm, Emmi, Martin keeps their eyes peeled for glimmers in the distance, movements, signs, they see nothing, hear nothing, the silent army is drawing near, as in the theatre, stealthily, in small dashes.
The plane comes back in the morning, lets out a volley of bullets on the valley, a little later young recruits pass through running, haggard, trembling, they're fourteen, fifteen years old, have thrown down their weapons, their SS uniforms make the forester squint, he himself conducts them along a footpath far from the village.
Noon, magnificent weather, splendid spring light, not a cloud in the sky, sharp, brilliant sunshine.
The Fuhrer's portrait has disappeared from the vestibule, the flag from the office, insignia and pennants from the hallways, haven't been replaced yet, it's the moment of rare vacancy and expectation, no more points of reference, the body in retreat, memories, each person holds back his voice, pricks up his ears.
[Disconnection, Ollier, C.]
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