This scene, each time the same, each time a little different, is something that all three men have kept a photographic memory of. For Philippe Douroux, it was the spring of 1972, when he was 17 years old. He was curled up in a big beige velvet armchair in the family room of his house in Chatou, a western Paris suburb, full of tributes to Napoleon, of whom his father, Alfred, was a great admirer. The son preferred the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. In this setting transformed into an imperial camp, Alfred Douroux was sitting on the sofa. At his side, Jacqueline, his wife, kept fidgeting. Clearly, she disapproved of what her husband was about to say. "I'd like to talk to you..." he began.

Alain Lejeune remembered the day in 1970 when his father, Jean, entered his bedroom, or rather his teenage den in Brussels, lined with posters of The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. He was 16 years old and sitting on his bed, playing guitar. Jean interrupted him: "I've got something to tell you."

For Eric Frantz, the date was more blurry. Was it 1964 or 1965? He was 12 or 13. However, he remembered exactly where he was sitting in the small living room in Rue Lepic, in Paris's 18^th arrondissement. He and Denyse, his mother, were standing in front of the fireplace. She was in the process of divorcing Jacques, who was cheating on her with his secretary. She was consumed with anger when she said to him, "You know, your father..."

Without expressing the slightest regret

This is how Philippe Douroux, Alain Lejeune and Eric Frantz learned that they were the sons of former Waffen-SS. Not the "malgré-nous" type, like the men from Alsace-Lorraine who were forcibly conscripted. No, French and Belgian volunteers who had embraced the Nazi cause to the extreme and worn the German uniform in Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, Berlin, until the Reich's last days. Without ever expressing the slightest regret. This was the case for 10,000 Frenchmen and 8,500 Walloons.

You have 92.38% of this article left to read. The rest is for subscribers only.