The Girl Under the Flag: Monique - The Story of a Jewish Heroine Who Never Gave Up (WW2 Girls)

by Alex Amit

  “Keep on talking.”

  “An endless convoy headed south; I can remember the sun; it was so hot that day. Every now and then, we had to move to the side of the road, to allow a group of dirty soldiers sitting in an old truck to pass our way; they were heading north, trying to join the battle and stop you. Even though they already knew it was a losing battle.”

  “Stopping us?”

  “Stopping the German tanks marching towards Paris.” I have to imagine them, feel the story.

  “We abandoned Dad’s car that morning after it ran out of gas, and Mom allowed me to take only one suitcase, which I was already having a hard time carrying while sweating from the heat of the sun. We’d been walking for a few hours by the time they appeared above us.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “At first, they seemed like insignificant tiny dots in the sky to me; I looked up at the disturbing hum that overcame the noise of the cicadas in the fields, and saw them. Have you ever heard the sound of cicadas in the wheat fields in May and June?”

  “No, never.”

  “There were four planes. Suddenly they changed course and dived on us, getting bigger by the second. We all ran away, screaming into the fields on the side of the road and scattering everywhere. The buzzing noise changed to a painful squealing of engines whirring, with the hammer’s pounding of machine gun fire along the ruined road. Maybe they thought we were military men, maybe they were just coming back from a mission and were left with some ammunition, and didn’t want to return it to base.”

  Philip is silent, sitting and watching me, and I go on talking.

  “I never thought planes made such terrible noise.” I must think about them, even though I’m trying not to.

  “Yes, they make terrible noise.”

  “Then there was silence; only the noise of the bombs resounded in my ears while I rose from the ground, scratched by the weeds I had flattened upon in the field. I searched for Mom and Dad with my eyes, among all the people who stood up between the trampled oats, but they didn’t stand like all the others. They just lay quietly on the side of the road, in an embrace. Dad had tried to protect her with his body, wearing a white shirt that now had a growing bloodstain on his back, and Mom lay with her face to the sky, smiling at him, as if indifferent to the red puddle coming out of her back, painting the grey asphalt.” I see them in my imagination while speaking slowly; what really happened to them?

  “I’m listening.”

  “But the people didn’t care, they just got up and checked themselves, seeing if they were all right, returning to the road, keeping on strolling heading south. I still remember the pitying looks they gave me. Do you know what’s the stupidest thing?”

  “What?”

  “All that time, what bothered me was that Mom would be mad at me for losing my suitcase when I ran from the planes into the field.”

  “And did you find the suitcase?”

  “No, I just stood on the side of the road staring at them, not knowing what to do, while the whole convoy passed me in silence. Until one woman took pity on me and picked me up with her, bringing me to Paris to my aunt, with whom I live to this day.”

  “Now that was good enough, you’ve convinced me of your story. I hope you will persuade the German who might sit in front of you. It’s important that you talk about your arrival in Paris and where you live. By the way, the tear you shed when you talked about your parents, it was good.”

  “See you next time.” I get up from the wooden chair and head out, waiting to climb the stairs and exit the damp basement where we are meeting.

  “See you next time. And try to get more information.”

  I have known him for almost a year now, meeting with him about once a month. And for almost a year now, he has been examining me, making sure I do not fail, and for almost a year now, he is not happy with me.

  At least I’m not Jewish anymore. I’m Monique Otin, who lives in the 8th arrondissement, working in a boulangerie on the boulevard next to the opera.

  “You’re late.” Simone, the boulangerie owner, scolds me as I quietly enter the next morning, closing the glass door behind me.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Simone.”

  “Hurry up; your kingdom is waiting for you.”

  “Good morning.” I hang my bag on the hanger and smile at Claudine, the second employee, who stands behind the counter.

  “Good morning, how are you?”

  “Monique, the tools in the back are waiting just for you.”

  “I’m going there, Mrs. Simone.”

  I quickly tie the white apron around my waist and rush into my kingdom in the back room, near Chef Martin. Here I spend my time washing dishes and cleaning the floor, sometimes I help Martin knead the dough, but usually I devoutly scrub the large baking pans.

  From time to time, I have to go out among the customers, move a cloth around on the floor and wipe baguette and croissant crumbs off the seating tables. While working quietly, I listen to the buyers’ conversation, keeping my head down.

  “If you’re done washing the baking pans, help Martin arrange the stock in the pantry, and then help Claudine clean the tables.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Simone.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead and get up from the little wooden chair in the corner, going to the pantry to help Martin.

  There is fine butter on our shelves, and there is no shortage of flour, cinnamon, or any other ingredient that would prevent Martin from baking. Even real chocolate arrives once a week, unloaded from a special truck approved by the authorities. We have everything needed to please the German soldiers during their stay in Paris, or as Simone calls them, ‘our happy German customers.’ A crispy morning baguette on the way to the Headquarters at Rue Rivoli, fragrant croissants to bring to a commander’s meeting, and in the evenings, a slice of chocolate cake to the mistress waiting in her apartment.

  Porcelain trays display Martin’s masterpieces, protected by showcase glass and sold by Claudine’s smile, all for German Reichsmarks or Vichy government francs. Every coin is welcomed in Simone’s outstretched hand, quickly entering the cash register with a cheerful ring. We can be happy; after all, we are a favorite Nazi boulangerie in the heart of the Headquarters area.

  “Take a break; I’ll manage on my own.” Martin expels me from his kingdom, but I stay, handing him the sack of flour. Even though it’s my job to go out among them, it’s hard for me to listen to the German soldiers in the boulangerie.

  “Go, Claudine needs you.”

  The boulangerie is full of soldiers in green-grey uniforms; they stand patiently in line, laughing with each other and filling the small space with cigarette smoke and the odor of male sweat.

  “Shall we go for a walk at the end of the day?” Claudine asks me as she takes an order from a German officer, flirting with him with her eyes.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Three and a half Reichsmarks.” She reaches out her hand to him, and he puts the money in her palm, holding her fingers for a moment as if inviting her to a prom dance.

  “Thank you very much. Come again.” Her smile is dedicated especially to him.

  She always looks perfect with her wavy black hair, just like the latest fashion. Sometimes she even puts on lipstick, ignoring Simone’s remarks about it being inappropriate.

  “Who’s next? Monique, help me.”

  “And what’s the name of the young frau?” A fair-haired soldier turns to me, and I look down, having a hard time looking at his uniform and staying calm.

  “He is waiting for you,” Claudine whispers to me as she lowers her voice and turns to serve a handsome pilot wearing dark grey uniforms.

  “I saw you were excited about him.” Claudine teases me after we say goodbye to Simone and Martin, starting our walk down the boulevard towards the Opera metro station.

  “I saw you were excited about the pilot.”

  “He was flirty. I think he is a fighter pilot.”

  “How do you know he’s a fighter pi
lot?”

  “All fighter pilots are sure of themselves, and he also has a lot of medals of honor, probably for shooting down enemy aircraft. Not many like him arrive at the boulangerie.”

  “And what did he say to you?”

  “He said that I have beautiful eyes and that I should go out with him.”

  “And will you?”

  The exit of the metro, at Place de l’Étoile, is packed with German soldiers who have come to see the world-famous boulevard, and I cringe in the aisle, careful not to rub against them.

  “Monique, you are not listening to me.”

  “Sorry, what did you answer?”

  “I told him I don’t know him at all and that I can’t go out with him.”

  “And that’s it? Did he give up?”

  “No, not at all, I told you he is sure of himself.”

  “So how did it end?”

  “He said he would return to Le Bourget, they have a Messerschmitt squadron there, but he will come again tomorrow.”

  “And will you go out with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, going out with a German officer?”

  “At least he will treat me politely and take me out, not like all the French men, talking all the time about how difficult life in Paris is these days.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to go out with a German soldier.”

  “Maybe we should go out together, me with my pilot, and you with the one who wanted to talk to you.”

  “He didn’t like me at all.”

  “He does, you’ll see he will come tomorrow, he’s interested in your beauty, you just have to start wearing makeup.”

  “How do you know he is interested?”

  “Because I have experience with that sort of thing.”

  “But I’m not pretty.”

  “Believe me; you are, I know about this.” And she folds her arm in mine as we walk down the Champs Elysees, watching the café full of German soldiers and their girls.

  I never thought I was beautiful. How beautiful could I feel if, from the day my breasts started to grow, everyone looked at the yellow badge stuck on my chest? How attractive could I feel in the simple dress Mom bought me? Or in that old coat I was wearing, trying to become as invisible as I could?

  “The worst thing is getting noticed,” Mom had explained to me, firmly refusing to have my hair permed as I’d seen in the glittering posters of movie stars hanging on the billboards in the street. “Worst of all is drawing the attention of a policeman or a soldier.” She yelled at me when she discovered the magazine with the pictures I had tried to hide.

  “You will never dress like those whores.” She ripped it apart and threw the pages into the fireplace, replacement for the heating logs we were so desperate for.

  “I’m sorry I was born into this family,” I yelled at her in tears and ran to the dark stairwell, unable to see the torn magazine on fire.

  But Claudine thinks I’m beautiful as we walk around the cafés, even though I do not have perfect wavy hair like hers.

  “This soldier is also interested in going out with you.” She squeezes my arm and laughs, pointing to a handsome armored soldier standing in his black uniform, watching us pass the boulevard, and I’m trying to smile. She must never know why I hold back from the German soldiers.

  “Good night, see you tomorrow.” Claudine is walking to her home, and I’m heading to the apartment which has been my home for almost a year.

  How would my life look if I was in her place instead of mine? I think as I pass the large billboard on the street. Would I be excited about hanging out with German soldiers? Or would I continue to worry every morning on my way to work?

  “ID, please.”

  Just a few minutes’ walk separates the quiet boulevard and the billboard with the worker’s poster looking to the horizon and the guards’ post in Concorde Square, the checkpoint for the Headquarters area.

  “Guten morgen.” I hand the cardboard card to the guard, looking around as he examines it carefully. The barbed wire fences and wooden barriers are spread along the road, destroying the square’s beauty. Why are they looking at my ID for so long? They should already know me by now. Did they notice my trembling fingers?

  “Name?”

  “Monique Otin, I passed here yesterday and the day before and the day before.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I work near the opera.”

  For almost a year now, I have been passing by the guard post every morning, and for almost a year now, I have to calm myself down as I approach the German soldiers standing near the barbed wire.

  The sergeant looks at the ID for another moment, examining my face in front of the photograph as I look back at him until he relents, returning it to me.

  “Have a nice day, Frau Otin.” He taps his heels tightly and makes me cringe for a second as I return the ID to the leather bag resting on my shoulder.

  “Have a nice day, Sergeant.” I try to smile at him and continue walking down the street, looking at the senior officer’s cars, parked in a straight line in front of the building, under the huge red Nazi flag that flies in the morning breeze.

  Keep going ahead, look down, memorize the vehicle numbers, count the guards at the Headquarters entrance, and smile at the bored drivers polishing their officer’s cars. I hope they engage me in conversation and provide me with some information along the way, like last week when I learned about the new division arriving in France.

  The quiet sound of the red flag above my head makes me quicken my steps, though I need to calm down, must not arouse suspicion. It moves calmly and serenely, looking down at me, and I lower my gaze, trying to avoid the black swastika sewn in the center of the white circle, just a few more minutes of tension.

  The edge of the building is already approaching, my eyes examining several military trucks that pass through the street in slow motion, memorizing the unit symbol painted on their sides. In a few steps I’ll turn to the avenue leading to the opera.

  “Mademoiselle.” I’m looking back to the soldier running towards me, and I stand still.

  Breathe quietly, do not tremble, and do not run away; keep calm.

  “Mademoiselle, the scarf, it fell from your bag.” He catches up with me, all sweaty, handing it to me with a smile.

  “Danke schön.” I smile at him and turn onto Opera Avenue, taking a deep breath and holding the leather bag tightly until my fingers turn white from the effort. In a few more minutes, Simone will ask me why I’m late again, and Claudine will ask if we will go for a walk together after work among the cafés on the boulevard.

  “Not today,” I will have to answer, “Today I cannot.”

  At the end of the day, the boy will probably be waiting for me next to the newsstand.

  “I apologize, I have to go visit her mother today. I promised I’d do it after work.”

  “I thought we could take a walk down the boulevard.” Claudine fails to hide her disappointment as we leave the boulangerie at the end of the day, walking arm in arm down the avenue. “She’s always asking you for favors.”

  “I owe her, she let me sleep in her home, I cannot refuse her when she asks me to help her.”

  “Do you want me to join you?” She stops next to me at the newsstand.

  “No thanks, you’ll be bored.”

  My fingers search among the newspapers hanging on the walls of the stand. I pretend to look for a particular newspaper from the poor selection of wartime magazines, but my attention is on the boy with the grey casquette, the one standing with his back to me.

  “Metro Opera,” he whispers to me as he loads a pack of newspapers into a large leather bag, continuing on his way, and I do not answer him, hoping Claudine did not hear his whisper.

  “Why are you looking for a newspaper? They’re just full of war stories anyway.”

  “She likes me to read to her. It’s already hard for her to read.”

  Claudine takes a magazin
e with a red title and a photograph of a pilot on the cover, handing it to me.

  “Buy her the German Army newspaper in Paris, the Signal; she probably won’t notice.”

  “Put it back; they’ll think we intend to buy it.” I laugh at her.

  “No one cares what we do.” She waves the magazine in front of my face, but finally relents and returns it to the stand.

  “Goodbye, I have to go, she’s waiting for me, we’ll meet tomorrow.” I hug her quickly and walk away, holding one of the government newspapers in my hand. It announces a further reduction in meat rations. The man near the Metro Opera is waiting for me already.

  Next to the billboard, I stop and look at a poster showing a new movie star in a red dress, taking the time to look over my shoulder. Is anyone following me? The soldier by the stairs is waiting for me, or has he made an appointment with another girl? And what about the café across the street? It’s full of German soldiers, are they looking in my direction?

  At a slow pace, I cross the avenue and approach the marble railing of the entrance to the metro, looking around and pretending I’m looking at the opera house which overlooks the boulevard, ignoring the red flags with swastikas hanging in front of it.

  “Come with me,” a stranger whispers as he hands me a bicycle, and we start pedaling down the streets. I do not know where, but I must trust him to lead me to the meeting point with Philip.

  He waits for me at the entrance to a basement in the Latin Quarter, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up as I descend towards him, and finally climbing a few steps in my direction. He’s still wearing a simple white shirt with his sleeves rolled up below his elbows, his quiff still wild, and he still has a gun sticking out of his belt as he looks at me with his brown eyes, examining me.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  A small table and two chairs stand in the corner, but he does not offer me to sit, and we remain standing, facing each other as I look up at him.

  “How is the underground? How is the revolution progressing?”