Desert Interlude

In Tunisia in 1942, a somewhat inept British spy (?) meets an unconventional Wehrmacht colonel. They understand one another better than either might have expected. The Colonel reached into his breast pocket and opened a small locket on an old-gold chain, containing a vignette photograph of a ruggedly handsome, dark-haired man in Luftwaffe uniform, with a devilish smile and the premature crow’s-feet of someone who spends his days looking into unfiltered sun. “My Rosen – Leutnant Kavalier. A bomber pilot, very dashing – though a bit of a reckless boy with no manners or graces. But we cannot rule where our hearts are given, can we?” The Colonel carefully replaced the locket in his impossibly crisp uniform shirt, twitching aside a scarf of almost transparent peach-colored silk to do so. “I understand,” said Fell. “I’m – quite fond myself of someone like that – though I can’t think entirely what to do about it. It’s very difficult, with our being on – opposite sides, you see.””