Evening star., 1941-07-24
(Tenth OF a Series.)
BY ROBERT J. CASEY,

foreisn Correspondent OF The Star and
Chicago Daily News.
Where are they now-the gold
haired Erenadiers of The Hague, the
Belgian lieutenant who forgot about
q war to find out about the World
Series the pitiful suppliants at the
door of Spain, the talented loiterers
who infested Klopp's terrace. and
for that matter, the sprightly Klopp
himself? What became of the man
who. fought the red tape of three
nations in the chaos of the great
retreat to get couple Of dozen dogs
into the peaceful atmosphere of a
neutral country? What became Of
the young Canadian medical officer
who had to get back to his unit,
which on that day-June l. 1910
was stationed near a place called
Dunkerque? What happened to the
young woman we took down from
the bombing of Chartres to bear her
child amid the bedlam of refugees
and in the house of strangers near
Tours? Where are they now, these
people-where is anybody you met
In that nightmare of the sorrowful
spring in France or in the noisy
unreality Of dozen more recent
blackouts?
History possibly will give little
place to Lucien Klopp of Remich,
Luxembourg, the impresario before
whose terrace the drama of the
sitzkrieg unfolded day by day. 1t
was as pleasant as 1t was fantastic
to sit at table in his garden and
eat delicately roasted pheasant and
listen simultaneously to shells burst
ing across the Moselle and tame
songbirds whistling in his grape
arbors. And possibly German gen.
erals today are finding Mr.. Klopp's
kitchen as surprising a place as it
seemed to the correspondents who
found it such an important adjunct
to the war. But one suspects that
the chroniclers of the May blitz are
likely to overlook this great and
good man and emphasize cannon
rather than cookery.
Klopp the Unbelievable.
Meantime. you wonder If Mr..
Klopp is still alive. You remember
that he never was very popular with
the fifth columnists who infested
his neighborhood in those dreamy
days OF the early war. You recall
his weird Cockney accent-relic of
the days when he was vaudeville
producer in England - and you
wonder what some Nazi linguist
might think of it. He may be dead
by this time-or in a concentration
camp-and you shudder somehow to
think of him-who had such a keen
appreciation of good food-existing
on the thin soup and sawdust bread
Of, a prison diet. Wherever he is the
thoughts of dozens of war corre-
spondents 60 with him - Klopp
who was the master of ceremonies
OF a war = Klopp the unbelieve-
able and the unforgettable.
1t was from Klopps terrace that
ve watched the fantastic flights of
Albert the Aviator. 1t was from
Klopp that We first heard about AL
bert It was Klopp who looked up
his history and identified him as the
son of a Thionville French father
and Diekirch Luxembourgeoise
mother.
We know, of course. what hap
pened to Albert. Some time in jan
uary, 1910, he attempted to fight
three Messerschmitts with a Potz
observation plane and got shot down
ever the Koenigsmacher swamp. Yet
when you recall Klopp. you recall
Albert. You remember standing
amid the ruins of a Roman atrium
on the edge Of the Klopp terrace,
looking down at Albert lie Screw
ball chasing the sentries of the
Remich Bridge, tossing flowers at
berserk anti-aircraft battery over
the river, flying close to the water
and waving his hand appreciatively
Ut his claque, which assembled each
afternoon along the Moselle from
Echengen to Wasserbillig.
Face Of Eager Youth.
Always Klopp was at your elbow
explaining Albert as Snowman
might talk Of a prize exhibit. You
got the idea that Albert belonged
to Klopp and presently that all this
pageant of battle also belonged to
Klopp gun fire, tank drill, shell
bursts, beer and delicstessen, through
the courtesy Of the management.
You were long time finding out
that it didn't. Even when you were
lodging bombs at Tours and Bour-
6esux you weren't sure. The old
impression fingers still-in spite of
everything. Yes. you wonder where
Mr.. Klopp may be. Wherever he is,