Foreign News: For High Treason

Not in a tumbril but in a Black Maria, Henri Philippe Pétain, 89, hero of Verdun, Marshal of France and chief of the late Vichy Government, rode to one of history’s great trials—his own, for high treason. With him rode the France of 1940 to be judged by the France of 1945.

Few of the Marshal’s countrymen, who five years ago looked to him as a fallen nation’s hope, caught a glimpse of him as he passed on the way from Montrouge Prison to the Palais de Justice. Stiff with age and dignity, Pétain sat far in the back of the van. His wife, two doctors, two nurses and three lawyers trailed him in a five-car convoy. In the Palais courtyard the half-deaf old man was helped down by two gendarmes. “Ah,” he quavered, “so we are here.”

Next day he donned his khaki uniform with its seven stars (for Marshal of France) and one decoration—the gold-and-blue Médaille Militaire, France’s highest award for valor. Then he shuffled from his Palais lodging (a 14 ft. by 12 ft. magistrate’s cloakroom) to the prisoner’s dock in the jampacked chamber.

Before him ranged the red-robed High Court of Justice, a three-man tribunal headed by stern Pierre Mongibeaux, 65, (in 1941 he had sworn loyalty to Pétain’s Vichy Government). The public prosecutor was André Mornet, 75 (in World War I he sent Spy Mata Hari to the firing squad). The 24-man jury had been chosen half from the Resistance movement, half from non-collaborationist ex-parliamentarians. Behind the prisoner sat his counsel, his doctors and nurses, the witnesses (there would be about 50), the tightly packed reporters and spectators.

“I Saved France.” The prosecution read the Bill of Accusation: As Vichy Chief of State, Pétain had put the capstone on “a long-prepared plot against the Republican regime. …” Then the judges (following French legal fashions), turned to question the defendant. The Marshal cut them short.

His old, bony hands trembled as he unrolled a six-page scroll, but his voice held firm as he read: “History will show the evils from which I saved France…. Each day, with a dagger at my throat, I had to battle the demands of the enemy. … I surrendered nothing essential. . . . My actions sustained France. I assured France of la vie et le pain (life and bread). … I prepared the road to liberation. . . .

“The people of France . . . conferred power upon me. It is to them only that I am responsible. The High Court of Justice, as now constituted, does not represent the French people. I will make no other declaration. I will answer no questions. …”

Judges hurriedly consulted. Spectators burst into jeers and catcalls—some aimed at the bench and the prosecution for “political” bias. Said Prosecutor Mornet: “There are too many Germans in this room.” The hubbub grew to a tumult of protests and shrieks, scuffling bodies, overturned chairs and tables. In the prisoner’s dock the old man sat stoically until he was led away for safety. At Tommy-gun point, gendarmes restored order.

“He Betrayed France.” Later the parade of prosecution witnesses began. Day after day, past the prisoner’s dock marched men who had led France in the prewar years of disunion and gathering defeat. They talked torrentially, plaintively, querulously. They pleaded, argued, wept, declaimed. They defended themselves, often by accusing each other. They were France, baring her shame.

Cried dapper ex-Premier Paul Reynaud, 66, who had been Pétain’s predecessor: “I, like the rest of France, was fooled by the Marshal. … He tried to destroy what remained of France’s soul. . . .”

Cried bull-like ex-Premier Edouard Daladier, 61, who signed the Munich pact: “Pétain betrayed his duties and the charges of his office. . . .” (The sweating jurors sent for cooling drinks. Attendants brought them Vichy water.)

Sobbed Albert Lebrun, 74, last President of the Third Republic: “I cannot understand how [Pétain] allowed himself … to do such blameworthy things. . . . A warrior of France . . . risen so high to have fallen so low!” (A juryman demanded that the Marshal answer a question—”His honor is at stake!” Quavered the prisoner: “I heard nothing. I don’t even know what’s going on.” Snapped Judge Mongibeaux: “I know perfectly well he hears.”)

Said courtly Jules Jeanneney, 81, last President of the French Senate: “The Marshal failed us. … The armistice was an irreparable error. . . . But let us admit we had no other choice.” (Suddenly the Marshal heard quite well, bowed warmly to the witness.)

Mumbled Léon Blum, 73, Socialist Premier of France’s Popular Front Government (1936-37): “The Marshal . . . used his personality . . . and his prestige to lead France into shame. … I call that treason.” (Twice Léon Blum broke down and cried. The Marshal, who once tried Blum for war guilt at Riom, eyed him without visible emotion.)

“He Represented France.” At week’s end the prosecution had almost finished its case. This week, counsel for the defense will summon its witnesses. Few doubted that the case against the Marshal, the national need to repudiate a national humiliation, would end in the old man’s condemnation. But for most Frenchmen the trial was embarrassing. Wrote Academician François Mauriac, a leader of the leftist Front National, in Figaro:

“We do not seek to excuse the old Marshal but let us have the courage to say that he did not inaugurate a policy but rather that he was the culmination of a policy. … If we deserved to have Pétain, we deserved also, thank God, to have De Gaulle. The spirit of abandonment and the spirit of resistance—both are incarnated in Frenchmen, and these two spirits met in a duel of death. . . . Since the most modest among us shared the glory of the first resister, let us not shrink from the thought that a part of ourselves was an accomplice of that crushed old man.”