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WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The
Beate Klarsfeld Foundation
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jacket come out of the house and hurry to a spot
about two hundred yards away, where a crowd had gathered to watch the parade.
Thinking it was Hagen, they ran after him. The cameraman mingled with the crowd
and pretended to be filming the parade. But when he got closer, he found he had
been following the wrong man.
Disappointed, we all got back into the
car and drove toward Hagen's house. Just at that moment the door opened, and
out stepped a man wearing glasses and a hat and coat. He came down the short
flight of steps and quickly walked to the adjoining garage. There he got into a
large Opel. I recognized him at once, although I had never seen Hagen. I had
imagined him as a youthful-looking man because his style in the documents we
had examined was lively and bespoke a quickness of mind that would not have
diminished with age. In the same way I had not been surprised when I saw
Lischka, for he too corresponded to the man of his memorandums – exact,
meticulous, and cold.
I jumped in front of the car just as it was
coming out of the garage and called: "Herr Hagen, is that you?"
He
raised his head, nodded, and then saw the cameraman filming him. He stopped the
car, opened the door, and ran toward the cameraman and Serge with his arm
raised as if to strike them. Then he stopped and got himself under control,
probably realizing that if he damaged the camera we would make a complaint to
the police and his name would get into the newspapers.
Like Lischka,
all he wanted was to live in complete privacy. I went up to him and, pointing
to Serge, said: "This gentleman is a French journalist who would like to ask
you a few questions."
He made the connection with the telephone call of
the night before and got back into his car. I was still standing in front of
it. He was waiting for his wife. In better French than mine, he said to Serge
indignantly: "Sir, you have no right to film me here in front of my house."
Serge replied: "M. Hagen, there are Germans who have been sentenced to
a life of hard labor in France for having done less than take pictures in the
street."
"But, sir, I am not in hiding. I have gone back to France more
than twenty times since the war."
"It's too bad the French police
didn't notice your name. You should have been arrested. All I want is to ask
you a few questions and find out whether you recall having had the following
jobs:
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WHEREVER THEY MAY BE
© 1972, The
Beate Klarsfeld Foundation |
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Page 172 |
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