Chapter Six: The Liberation of Paris

As the two men were leaving, they almost ran into a Kurd in a long robe, but no conflict broke out. They simply sidestepped one another, like two lines never meant to meet, brushing past in an instant.

The Kurd had appeared with a yellow paper packet in his hand, wrapped like a brick. He was just about to open it so Corman could inspect the goods, when an outstretched palm stopped him.

"I do not like this sort of thing. All you need to do is make sure it is truly good quality. I trust the Kurds would not dare cheat the army."

"Of course not. It is absolutely top grade." The Kurd's gaze was so earnest it might have sworn allegiance on the spot; in another setting, he could have been described as unwavering in will, if one ignored the opium in his hand.

"All the wealth your people have accumulated over these years, we are taking with us," Corman said directly. "Before we leave, we will draw up a Kurdish autonomous region. Isn't that what you wanted?"

In any case, they were leaving soon, and the problem would then belong to Syria. Besides, Corman had not been stingy with Syria; he had even handed over Lebanon without keeping a scrap for himself. Carving out a Kurdish autonomous region was merely a way of making up the difference. And even if he did not establish it, the future Syrian government would still be unable to manage the Kurds.

The matter of a Kurdish autonomous region had long been decided. He was only mentioning it now. Since they were all headed back to Europe, he might as well speak a few pleasant words and earn a bit of goodwill. Why not?

"Your kindness is beyond measure." For the present Kurdish envoy, the news was nothing short of a gift from the heavens. His eagerness to swear allegiance at once turned into profuse gratitude.

"When I bring the goods over, I will also bring a gift for Second Lieutenant Corman," the Kurdish envoy said solemnly before taking his leave.

"An unexpected bonus?" Corman laughed aloud, but did not take it seriously. What could it be? A local specialty? No, thank you. He truly kept away from poppies.

The conversation had not taken long. The Kurdish envoy left at once, but he left the packet behind so Corman and the others could sample it and prove he had not lied.

"Corman, don't you despise that sort of thing?" Martin asked, weighing the packet in his hand.

"That's because I know I have no willpower. I can't even be sure I could quit smoking, let alone something like this."

Corman glanced at the yellow paper packet and quickly looked away, then chuckled. "But I hear the Germans used stimulants on the battlefield. The Germans have no colonies, which may have caused a shortfall in production. For the sake of our neighbors and Franco-German friendship, we absolutely cannot stand by and do nothing."

"If the Germans knew that someone far away was thinking of them so intently, they would surely be grateful to you," Martin said with a long sigh, his tone full of shared sympathy. "You really do come up with things."

"How could I not? Even a rag for riding, even a pair of underclothes, has its uses," Corman said with his hands clasped behind his back. "We must learn to spot the bright points around us. Who knows what unexpected gains may be waiting."

"Three or four hundred tons of goods, and fifteen thousand tons of tobacco leaves. Let's see whether the Germans can shoulder it," Martin muttered, unable to tell what he felt. How could a man be like this?

"I will not allow you to look down on the Germanic people. Everyone knows I respect them most of all. They are born soldiers, with astonishing willpower and robust physiques."

Corman drew himself up proudly. "So for eighty million Germanic people, this is only an appetizer. I am doing this entirely because it is for their own good."

"Then why don't you do it yourself?" Martin asked after a moment's thought. "If that's the case, isn't this exactly the sort of great favor you always handle personally?"

I see you want to split into two forces alone and take the Fuehrer's head!

Corman gave his rather decent friend a long look. Just as he was about to speak, Martin seemed to remember something and walked out without looking back.

Corman had forgotten where he had once read that before the rise of the Mexican drug cartels, America's narcotics supply had been controlled by the French, and the supplier of raw materials working with France was Turkey.

So that was the blasphemous alliance of the drug trade. He had always wondered how France and Turkey, on opposite sides of the Mediterranean, could have colluded.

Only when he received orders to come to Syria did everything become clear. France and Turkey did not touch, but French Syria bordered Turkey. In that case, the Kurds spread across the two countries were the most suspicious.

After arriving in Syria and learning the situation, it proved to be exactly so. The drug problem along the Syrian-Turkish border was severe; it had indeed become a den of narcotics during the French colonial period.

Drug abuse was a common problem in this world. How severe it was in the United States, everyone knew. Kensington Avenue looked like hell had been let loose, and by proportion the United States had already overtaken the Qing Dynasty long ago.

In India, the problem was in fact equally serious; there were even more addicts there than in the United States. If this had not drawn more attention in the Eastern powers, it was simply because India lacked the strength.

After receiving two batches of visitors in succession, Corman no longer intended to stay in the church. He was a modern-minded believer and did not care for such formalism.

He read Christian scripture, and even the holy books of the peace faith, but only as a kind of balm for the soul. Most scriptures urged people toward goodness, and all religions that could carve out a place in this world were much the same.

Alan came in to ask whether matters were finished. Corman nodded, and the three of them, together with Martin, returned to the Youth Division's camp. Their unit had no formal establishment and was simply called the Youth Division, or the French Youth Division.

As for why it bore that name, it was not because they were imitating the Third Reich. The name came entirely from Corman's belief that carrying the title of Youth Division made it harder to be used as cannon fodder. He did indeed have a fierce desire to take part in the world war, but he did not want to pay the price for it. That was not a contradiction; in Corman's view, that was the very definition of mental clarity.

At the Youth Division camp, the whole unit had already entered combat readiness. About to set out, they had received orders, and the officers at every level were conducting ideological preparation. Of course, one had to adapt to local conditions: if there was no commissar, was there not still a priest? There was always some way to bend the rules.

Corman and Alan inspected the weapons and ammunition. There was news from the governor's residence: once the convoy reached the port, the Youth Division would set out for the European battlefield.

Before departure, General Fontaine, commander of the French forces in Syria, would personally come to the Youth Division camp to give a speech.

At that moment, Damascus was broadcasting a recording of de Gaulle's speech upon returning to the Paris City Hall: "Paris! Humiliated Paris! Trampled Paris! But Paris has finally been liberated! The people of Paris have liberated themselves, with the support of the French army, with the backing of all France! This is the victory of an entire nation, the victory of justice!"

Though there were tens of thousands of soldiers in the Youth Division camp, all that remained was a hushed silence, each man feeding off the presence of the others. To hear the crackling broadcast more clearly, Corman paused his work. "Today, we stand here not as supplicants who have been freed, but as victors! For the destiny of France must be in the hands of the French themselves! Long live France..."

Corman stopped what he was doing. Only when the broadcast ended did he say, "Paris has been liberated. The governor's residence will probably notify us to move out very soon."

A day later, Corman was mulling over what else he might have overlooked when Martin found him.

"The Kurds are transporting tobacco to the port. They hope you can help keep their transport route clear."

"That is indeed important," Corman said, and immediately followed Martin out of the camp. The Kurdish man who had come was the same envoy from the church before; Corman did not even know his name.

Corman explained the checkpoints all the way to the port of Beirut and how to deal with them. "General Fontaine will not stop you. He knows how important this is."

"We are deeply grateful. Our local elders are truly thankful as well, and they know of your family connection with General Dragoon, so they asked me to bring a gift. Please be sure to accept it," the Kurdish envoy said warmly.

I really am not interested in your local specialties, Corman was just about to say that he was not an addict when he saw the other man draw a knife from his sleeve, and he swallowed the words back down.

"This is a Damascus steel blade forged by our tribe." While speaking, the Kurdish envoy drew the knife from its sheath. The silver scabbard was inlaid with three gemstones in red, blue, and green, and the blade bore the distinctive pattern of Damascus steel. "This is our sincere regard. Please do not refuse..."

"Thank you very much." Corman had no intention of refusing at all. He had lived a life of clear honor and open dealings, taking what he saw and feeling entirely above reproach. What reason did he have to refuse such a modest keepsake?