Chapter Twenty-Two: Treatment Equal to That of Jesus

“Is the local population issue very serious?” Alan, having grown up in Syria, was not very familiar with the situation in France, but the meaning of the propaganda poster was immediately clear.

“Not serious at all,” Korman flatly denied, speaking with conviction. “There’s always a baby boom after a war. Besides, who are the Germans to lecture the French?”

The problem was only about when the outbreak would occur; France had been grappling with low birth rates for over a century.

Some of Korman’s current actions were aimed at intensifying the baby boom. Whether they actually worked or not was uncertain, but one must do their part and leave the rest to fate—it was better than doing nothing.

As for Germany mocking France over this issue? Among the major European countries, Germany’s fertility rate was the first to collapse. Positioned on the Cold War frontline and under a universal conscription system, life in West Germany was as stressful as in South Korea—an invisible, intangible pressure to survive.

It was unclear whether West Germany embraced South Korea’s self-deprecating phrase “Hell Joseon.”

But the people made their own choices. By 1970, Germany’s fertility rate had fallen below two, the first major European country to experience such a collapse. By 1990, West Germany had effectively become a one-child nation.

Korman couldn’t empathize with countries like West Germany or South Korea, having never lived there, but he had a similar knowledge base in his mind.

“This propaganda poster shows that the Germans have been trying to sow discord between French men and women, creating gender divisions to promote low birth rates and weaken France’s defense capabilities,” Korman said, pointing at the illustration as if unveiling a long-standing conspiracy.

Alan twitched at the corner of his mouth. He understood every word Korman said, but together it made less sense.

The poster only depicted men and women; there was no clear incitement of gender conflict. “Isn’t this reading too much into it? Even from a prosecutorial perspective, a single picture can’t serve as evidence.”

“Every wrongful conviction has irrefutable evidence,” Korman chuckled dismissively. “I know better than the Germans how they’ve been wronged, but this soon-to-be-defeated nation, destined for unconditional surrender, doesn’t care about adding another crime. Need evidence? We’ll make it for them. Isn’t the closing report written by us anyway?”

Korman pulled out a copy of today’s issue of Le Monde, which thoughtfully featured a short story. The tale’s essence boiled down to this: “You go to your true love’s engagement party; why regret it after I leave you?”

The familiar flavor was unmistakable—female-centered short stories appearing in a male-oriented newspaper, thanks in no small part to Korman’s efforts.

Alan saw it too. He hadn’t expected Korman to follow through so literally—if he said he’d feed French men nonsense, he’d do exactly that. Even now, Alan still didn’t understand Korman’s true purpose—was it just to keep his word?

“You call this garbage evidence?”

“What do you mean garbage? If I accept it, it’s evidence. This is proof of Germany’s conscious cultural invasion of France through gender issues,” Korman replied deliberately. “Add this poster, and the evidence is airtight. We can use it to launch a cultural purge and excise the cancer from the cultural domain.”

Korman made no secret to his comrades about his desire to fabricate a wrongful case. He had even planned the fate of those involved—for example, assigning them to a Sahara reforestation project, sending them to Africa to transform nature. Truly a meaningful punishment.

Alan refrained from commenting on whether Korman’s wild ideas would succeed. Besides sending the propaganda poster, he was just reporting on the Youth Corps’ current progress.

There were also some reactions from the French public. The Youth Corps had four regiments: except for the Antioch Regiment stationed around Paris, the other three were in northern France.

It might sound like the Antioch Regiment had it easier, but that wasn’t the case. Paris, as the French capital and former German garrison, had the highest number of French collaborators with the Germans.

The workload was no lighter than that of their brothers in northern France, perhaps even heavier. The only advantage was the capital’s well-developed infrastructure and comfortable environment, unlike the other regiments who were constantly exposed to the elements.

“Vigilante justice is quite severe,” Alan reported on the progress of the brother units, explaining to Korman that after liberation, various social groups were exacting revenge on German collaborators or suspected French traitors.

“They’re stripping women, shaving their heads?” Korman frowned slightly; honestly, he hadn’t seen such scenes with his own eyes yet.

“Not just that. Compared to women, it’s almost kind treatment. We’ve already found quite a few abused corpses. Upon investigation, all were suspected collaborators,” Alan shook his head; the situation was graver than Korman realized.

Damn vigilantes! Korman silently cursed. The information he had received only mentioned women being humiliated, with no impression of French men being executed. This meant the knowledge he had was altered in the 21st century—how could that not be infuriating?

“Let’s put that aside for now. Find some comrades to erect a Lorraine Cross under the Eiffel Tower. I’m going to make arrests tomorrow.” Korman kept his word. Since he had accepted the rape case, he had to show an attitude.

Leading his company, Korman headed to the temporary base of the Royal Air Force—the camp of the British-Indian Squadron, under RAF command. From this, it was clear that the Indian perpetrators were indeed elite; the air force was traditionally an aristocratic branch, and being part of the Royal Navy was proof of their capability.

It was worth noting that during World War II, Britain’s aviation technology was absolutely leading, rivaling even the United States.

Upon arriving at the temporary airbase, Korman exchanged pleasantries with the base commander before stating his purpose directly. Arrests always began with gathering information.

When the British brought up a pilot, Korman scrutinized his features and asked in halting English, “Sharma? Singh?”

His English was learned in Syria, where after the Syria-Lebanon campaign, the British had established an Allied liaison office.

“It’s me,” Sharma Singh said, his heart skipping a beat upon seeing Korman and the French soldiers accompanying him. But realizing this was a Royal Air Force base, he steadied himself.

Korman stepped forward and slapped the Indian pilot hard across the face, causing him to stagger before speaking. “I have some questions for you.”

Stars danced in Sharma Singh’s eyes. Although Korman’s spoken English was odd, he understood. But was this really how one gathered information?

“Notify the victim to come to the Eiffel Tower,” Korman ordered his subordinates in French, then waved at the Indian pilot. “Take him away.”

The British tried to intervene, but Korman ignored them, repeating his purpose and stuffing the suspect into a waiting vehicle before driving off.

At this point, he no longer needed to pretend. “If you’re identified, I’m prepared to treat you like Jesus.”

Beneath the Eiffel Tower, a hastily erected Lorraine Cross stood tall, drawing a crowd of onlookers in Paris. As expected, the world’s bystanders loved a spectacle, and many were resolute in their belief that this was the start of punishing the French traitors.