The
gendarme demanded to know the hour when I proposed to leave. I told him.
He said it would be necessary to have the permit "vised for departure"
at the headquarters of the gendarmerie. He pointed to the hazy outlines
of another building just distinguishable through the fog.
This was proof that the town contained buildings--not just a building.
The place was not entirely destroyed, as I had supposed. I went down the
main street from the station, the fog enveloping me. I had letters to
the town officials, but it was too early in the morning to present them.
I would first get my own impressions of the wreck and the ruin. But I
could see nothing on either hand as I stumbled along in the mud. So I
commented to myself that this was not as bad as some places I had seen.
I thought of the substantial station and the buildings across the
road--untouched by war. I compared Gerbeviller with places where there
is not even a station--where not one simple house remains as the result
of "the day when the Germans came."
The road was winding and steep, dipping down to the swift little stream
that twists a turbulent passage through the town. The day was coming
fast but the fog remained white and impenetrable.
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