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| Germans in detail what had taken place the night before.
When I recounted how a single soldier's refusal to shoot us had saved our lives, the Captain was shocked and refused to accept that German soldiers had even remotely contemplated executing women and children. When I told them how the French doctor had been without morphine, the German Lieutenant sent immediately for his medical pouch, went straight to Jean's bedside, and administered a dose of morphine to Jean - under the horrified gaze of Madame Soulier, who asked me if this was really morphine and not some deadly poison reserved for the French. I calmed her down immediately. Hearing that I was a Protestant minister, the Lieutenant told me that his father was also a pastor, in the Lutheran church, but that he was teaching New Testament in one of the major German universities. He himself, he said, had moved to Vienna before the war, where he had opened an office in the Schwarzspanierstrasse, a street which was familiar to me from our stay in the Austrian capital. He even mentioned the name of his father, whose signature I remembered having seen in the Kittel Greek dictionary. (But I can no longer remember it.) Conversation among the three Germans revealed, to my delight, that the young Lieutenant was in charge of no less than two ambulances, which were parked in our courtyard. This seemed providential. I eagerly explained to the Germans that there was hardly any possibility of taking Jean to a hospital, as civilian vehicles were not circulating. Since he knew well that Jean's life was in danger if he was not operated upon within twenty-four hours, would it be possible to take him to the hospital in one of the empty ambulances? The Captain looked horrified. There was no way, he explained, to let any civilian ride in a military ambulance; it was strictly forbidden (strengstens verboten) according to the military rules. My heart sank. There were two empty ambulances, and was Jean to die because of regulations? Suddenly the Lieutenant piped up, "Captain, would it not be reasonable to make an exception, since the life of a young man whom I have just treated depends on it? I think I can defend transporting him since we are here precisely in order to evacuate the wounded." The Captain looked at him with amazement. "In your place, Lieutenant, I would not do it. But since you are in charge of the ambulances, it is strictly your responsibility. If you are caught, it will be your head, not mine." When I told the Souliers that the German ambulance would take Jean to the hospital, Madame Soulier did not know how to thank the Lieutenant. Having stood before a German firing squad only hours before, she could not comprehend the kindness that was being shown her this morning. But then, Aimé leaned over to me with another thought, which
I knew to be justified. He was worrying about the hospital, and I
knew immediately what he meant. For hospitals in France had hardly
changed since the Middle Ages. I knew this from my visits to these
institutions as an occasional chaplain in Montpellier. Patients lay
in rows along the walls of huge halls, without comfort, with little individual
care, each man for himself. In order to survive, one had to have
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