Do you know what you’re doing hobnobbing with the chief of German intelligence in France? I don’t like it that you’ve brought him onto my boat, and now he’ll be around every Saturday through November. His presence intimidates my other customers.

We’re neighbors and met last Sunday over my tackle box. The man’s an avid fisherman. He’d heard of you as the best boatman on the Seine and when I told him that I worked for you…

That wouldn’t have been by design, would it?

The less you know, Captain.

Major General March was still mulling over that last bit of dialogue between the boat captain and his fishing guide: That wouldn’t be by design, would it? And Barnard’s reply: The less you know, Captain.

It was probably harmless. The captain might have been implying that Barnard was taking a risk ingratiating himself to the chief of German intelligence with hope of securing favors from him—extra ration cards, coal, petrol, foodstuffs—items impossible for Parisians to come by since the occupation. The general had already sent a canned ham with his compliments to the widow next door.

But he would keep alert to the remote possibility that Barnard Wagner was not who he declared himself to be. The general had learned to trust no one, not even his closest and dearest friends, as some had discovered to their sorrow, more was the sad pity of things because of this damned war. He would be especially disappointed to discover that Barnard Wagner, who reminded him of his younger brother in their innocent days before a deer hunter’s bullet caught him in the chest, had appeared by design in the lives of him and his son.

For Wilhelm had taken to their neighbor, too. A shy lad, lonely, still missing his mother, finding no solace in school, he had found in the fisherman the promise of a friend. The general had returned home last Monday evening to hear that his son and Herr Wagner had played kickball after school, after Wilhelm had inadvertently kicked his soccer ball over the hedge into Madame Gastain’s yard. The following evening, Hans had reported that Wilhelm had climbed the steps to the fisherman’s garage apartment that afternoon to ask Barnard if he wanted to come out and play. Barnard, whose workday finished early because Captain Allard liked to dock his boat before dusk, had readily agreed, and the two had been playing kickball on the back lawn every afternoon all week.

“You mustn’t let my son impose on you, Herr Wagner,” the general had told him the day before. “Do not feel under the least obligation to allow Wilhelm to intrude on your free time.”

“It is no imposition, General. It is good exercise for us both and gives Wilhelm a chance to practice for his soccer games.”