For a Small Fee

When the Germans hacked prostrate France into two parts the line of demarcation placed the tiny village of Cerilly in Unoccupied France. Its cemetery, half a mile away, was in Occupied France. By special dispensation, the German occupation authorities permitted funerals to cross and recross the line without the usual formalities.

Funerals became strangely frequent. Always first in processions was Pierre Guichard, dignified beadle of the Cerilly church. Next, the cure, sprinkling holy water with an energy suggesting joyous abandon. Behind him came the coffin bearers, their spirits lighter than the heavy box they bore. Then the black-veiled mourners, bearing their grief with an odd furtiveness.

For more than a year M. Guichard led his villagers back & forth. Then someone talked. German authorities checked up, found as many maidens walked out on moonlit lanes as ever before, as many men plowed the fields, as many oldsters sat in the sun, drinking the wine of Cerilly and upbraiding the quality of the bread. With Teutonic thoroughness, statisticians laboriously calculated that Cerilly had celebrated so many funerals that virtually every living soul in the village should be dead by now. Revealed at last was M. Guichard's sly scheme which had truly Gallic wit and practicality.

By interchanging mourners at the cemetery he had been smuggling Frenchmen back & forth across the "border," had gained fame throughout all France, had even handled mass movements by arranging particularly magnificent funerals. All this he had done for the pleasure it gave him and, of course, a small fee.

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