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

by Alex Amit

“We will win, but revolutions do not happen in a single day. What did you bring with you?”

  “Not much.”

  He walks away from me, taking a few steps into the small basement as I follow him with my gaze.

  “I can’t get much information, the guards near the headquarters examine me all the time, and in the boulangerie I hardly walk around among the soldiers. Simone wants me to wash dishes all day.”

  For almost a year now, I have had the feeling that he is disappointed in me, sorry he had not found a more effective German speaker instead. One that would not be afraid of the German soldiers entering the boulangerie, or would be willing to go out with them. They are walking like tourists all over the city, holding city maps supplied by the German army, looking for French girls to guide them through the wonders of the city of lights. But I’m not effective as he expected; in the end, he will get rid of me, leave me to my fate.

  “There are some new senior officers’ cars outside the headquarters, and I have new gossip from Claudine.”

  “Do you have the vehicle descriptions or numbers?” He approaches me again, takes a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket, but still does not ask me to sit down.

  “Let me write the numbers for you.”

  “I’ll write. If they catch me and get to the paper, they must not recognize your handwriting.”

  “You were wrong here,” I point out and correct him, touching his fingers by mistake and looking away in embarrassment, but continuing to tell him the numbers, ignoring the warmth of his touch.

  He has the pleasant smell of a man mixed with the scent of a printing house, but I have to concentrate, trying to remember every piece of information, even the smallest ones, like what I heard from Claudine.

  “She is now excited about a pilot stationed in Le Bourget.”

  “That’s good. Maybe it will bring us more information.” Why am I not like her?

  “Don’t you want to check my story, like last time?”

  “Not today, I have to hurry. We’ll continue to build your story next time.”

  “Will we meet next month?”

  “Yes, we’ll meet next month.” He walks away from me again, turning around in the damp basement as if he already wants to get out of here, into the air outside. He is disappointed in me.

  “Goodbye.” I turn and head up the stairs.

  “Monique,” he takes my arm, stopping me.

  “Yes?” I look up at him.

  “Be careful.”

  “You too, take care.” I release my hand and turn my back to him, climbing back onto the street. The man with the bike is waiting for me outside. He will escort me back to the city’s east bank; from there, I will continue home by myself. Like always, at the end of the boulevard I will make a detour, avoiding the billboard with the huge poster.

  For months now, “Come Work in Germany” has been glued to the giant billboard on the boulevard. The words are written in black square letters, and above them is a painting of a sturdy worker. In his hands, he holds a sledgehammer while his eyes look beyond the horizon. Maybe he knows something?

  My footsteps in my simple shoes hit the avenue’s pavement stones. It is too late, and I have to hurry home; it was a mistake to stop again in front of the billboard. My name is Monique Otin and not Monique who could not hug her parents goodbye. I have a new life, and I must not think about them, but maybe the painting on the billboard can give me some clue? The sledgehammer in his hand? The green fields behind him? The blue sky?

  I raise my eyes as I approach the billboard and examine every detail closely. Who are the French men going to work in Germany? Why are they willing to work in factories and farms instead of all those recruited German soldiers? Could it be that the Germans took them too? Why haven’t I heard from them for almost a year? Maybe the man painted in the poster knows? Perhaps he knows what happened to Mom and Dad and Jacob?

  But the poster doesn’t have a drawing of a barbed wire fence. Why did I let the train worker stop me a few months ago when I ran towards the fences? Why did I let him knock me down on the railway?

  My hand wipes away the tears as I continue my way home. I shouldn’t go near the billboard, and Lizette is probably waiting at home. At least I have someone taking care of me.

  Lizette

  My footsteps are barely heard on the marble stairs as I quickly ascend to the fifth floor, pull the key out of the brown leather bag Lizette bought me as a gift for my eighteenth birthday, and quietly open the white door.

  “Shall I make us some coffee?” She always asks me that when I walk into her house and put the bag in the entrance hall, even though it’s my job to serve her and not the other way around.

  “I will make some, you can continue reading your book.” But she is already getting up and walking to the kitchen with her high-stepping walk.

  “You worked all day; it’s good for me to do something.”

  As we wait for the water to boil, I look at her hair, which has started to turn silver, and at her hands, gently holding the porcelain cups while placing them on the silver tray.

  “You were late. I’d already started worrying about you.”

  “Simone delayed me at work, sometimes she asks me to stay, and I have to.”

  “Did you cry?”

  “I have to learn not to take the things she says to heart.”

  “Shall we sit in the living room?” She holds the kettle in her manicured hands and pours the boiling water carefully. “I got some sugar, one teaspoon can make life much sweeter, and also improve the taste of this disgusting coffee.” She smiles at me as she places the glasses on the tray while the silver bracelets on her wrists rattle, making me remember the first time we met, almost a year ago.

  “Lizette, this is Monique Otin, she’s going to help you with the apartment, just like you asked.” The woman who’d brought me introduced me to the impressive woman standing at the door of the fancy apartment. She examined me, and I lowered my eyes and looked at my torn shoes. Lizette looked a little older than Mom, and her hair was starting to turn white at the edges, which added charm and splendor to her appearance. Her dress was a lovely mustard color, and she wore new leather shoes, not a cheap wartime imitation like I had. I was ashamed to stand in front of her like that, with my old grey dress, and all my belongings packed under my arm in a paper bag, one more used dress and a pair of underwear given to me by the woman who accompanied me, whose name I did not even know.

  “Nice to meet you,” Lizette shook my hand cordially, inviting me in. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  With her hand on my waist, she soothed my fears, accompanying me up the stairs to the attic, my new home, not before saying goodbye to my companion who then disappeared into the darkness.

  And just like that, my new life started. Every morning I assist this impressive lady with the management and cleaning of her apartment, and in return, she gives me a place to stay. Soon after finishing the housework, I will hurry to my second job in the boulangerie as a dishwasher, beneath Simone’s comments. But Lizette always treats me right. “Your help is important to me,” she tells me every time she buys me a new dress or jacket, and most of the time I think that it’s not the need for help that caused her to let me into her house, but her loneliness.

  She places the silver tray on the table in the living room as I sit down in front of her and wait patiently; her peaceful movements relax me.

  “So what happened that you got back so late?”

  “Simone is disappointed in me.”

  She must not know about my double life; I will never be able to tell her.

  “Why do you think she is disappointed in you?”

  “She expects me to be more efficient, and I am not.”

  “Maybe you misinterpret her behavior?”

  “It does not seem so; she always asks me questions and hurries away from me at the end of the day.”

  “What we feel is not always what they think; it takes time to get to know people.”r />
  I lean back and look around the elegant room, staring at the picture in the silver frame, the one standing on the mantle in the living room, as I sip my bitter coffee.

  “It also took a long time for you before you knew?”

  “No, I knew from the first moment, but I’m just an old woman, you do not have to listen to me,” she smiles at me. “At my age, you don’t want to change the world anymore, you just think about the small things in life, like adding a teaspoon of sugar to terrible coffee.”

  Lizette is right; I have a place to sleep, food in my stomach, and Claudine as a friend to walk with after work, that should be more than enough for my new life.

  “Let’s go to sleep; tomorrow is a new day.” She smiles at me, and I head up the stairs to the attic. Tomorrow is a new day.

  The Champs Elysees is quiet in the early morning hours as I walk down the boulevard on my way to work. The car traffic is sparse due to the lack of fuel, and the wide road seems too big for the few vehicles that pass through it from time to time. A military truck full of soldiers passes by, its tires making noise on the rough road, and it leaves behind a sharp smell of burnt fuel and a greyish cloud as it heads to the Concorde Square barricaded by barbed wire fences.

  The gazes of the soldiers in the truck make me back away from the road to the safety of the cafés, walking between the empty chairs.

  “Coffee, mademoiselle?” asks a bored waiter standing at the entrance, looking at me as if trying to remember whether we’d already met.

  “No, thanks.” I continue walking. I was delayed this morning in arranging the house, and I must hurry. At such hours they do not serve real coffee to the French people on their way to work. The espresso machines pour a leaky liquid made from ground beans, which were browned and called “coffee substitute” by the waiters even though it doesn’t taste like coffee at all. The fragrant coffee bags that come by special delivery will only be opened in the afternoon, especially for the customers who wear grey-green uniforms and those willing to get acquainted with them.

  “Mademoiselle, can you take a photo of us?” I am asked by two German soldiers standing on the boulevard and holding a camera. I pretend not to hear them and speed up my steps, Claudine would’ve known what to answer them.

  “Did you see how he looked at you?” Claudine whispers to me, pointing towards a young man who passes us and smiles at her while we walk hand in hand, enjoying the afternoon sun.

  “He looked at you, not me.”

  “Of course not, he wants to invite you for a walk with him.”

  We both walk up the Champs Elysees, looking at the cafés full of German soldiers and their French girls. Claudine critiques their dresses, and I examine the men’s uniforms, memorizing their rank insignia.

  “You need to smile more often; you’re so serious.”

  “But it’s embarrassing to smile.”

  “You are wrong, it’s fun, and besides that, you have a nice smile. Do you see the guy standing by the café? Smile at him and lower your gaze, signal to him that you like him, but he has to make the first move.”

  “But he’s looking at you.”

  “He is looking at us, and he is interested in you, in you and your beauty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I already told you, I have experience in men’s gazes.”

  “How’s your flirty pilot?”

  “He came in today and invited me out. Even Simone smiled at him after she saw how many cookies he bought.”

  “And will you go out with him?”

  “Look at her.” Claudine stops, pointing with her head at one of the fancy cafés on the boulevard, my eyes following her.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s a famous movie star.”

  The famous movie star is wearing a fashionable long red dress, sitting in the café, laughing gracefully. She holds a white cigarette with a perfect hand covered in a black glove, surrounded by several high-ranking German officers, shining in their neat uniforms and medals.

  “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Arletty, but you don’t go to the movies anyway, so you will not know her.”

  More passersby stop and look out the café windows, but some look away and spit on the pavement while walking on.

  “Let’s go on; it’s unpleasant here.”

  “It seems to me that everyone is in love with her.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Because she’s so special.”

  “And how do you know you’re in love?”

  “You feel it, all over your body, you’re hot, and you get excited when you know you’ll meet him soon.”

  “And it’s nice?”

  “It’s a little stressful, but it’s also pleasant, like when you walk together, and you let him hold your hand, feeling the warmth of his palm, or when he hugs you, and sometimes even more.”

  “And what’s that ‘even more’?”

  “Monique, Monique Moreno?” I hear a call and turn my head.

  “I’m Monique, but Monique Otin, not Moreno,” I answer the young man who approaches us, feeling a cold wave pass through my whole body.

  “Monique Moreno? Don’t you remember me? Jean, Jean Bosse, I studied with you in school.”

  “Sorry, I do not remember you, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Monique, how are you? How are you surviving the war with all the restrictions?”

  “I’m sorry, we have to go.” I grab Claudine’s arm and pull her towards the road, wanting to cross the avenue to the other side.

  “Who is he? What happened to you? You’re hurting me.”

  “Sorry, I did not mean to.”

  “Who is he? Why did he call you Moreno?”

  “He was confused by the name. I hated him at school. He used to hit me.”

  “Isn’t Moreno a Jewish name?” Claudine lowers her voice, getting closer to my ear.

  “I have no idea. I hated him. What about your pilot? You didn’t tell me the end of the story.”

  “Are you Jewish?” She stops and looks at me, releasing our hands.

  “No, I’m not Jewish, I hate Jews, I told you he had me confused for some other Monique.”

  Is he following us? I must not look; I must act as if nothing has happened. I am not a Jew; I have never been a Jew.

  “Will you go out with your handsome pilot?”

  “What about the woman you are living with? Does Lizette know?”

  “I already told you, I’m not Jewish; he was confused.” I must keep going as if nothing had happened.

  “Monique, wait,” Claudine catches up with me and grabs my arm again. “It’s okay, I promise not to tell, it’s a secret between us.”

  “There is no secret, I am not Jewish, and you should continue telling me about the pilot.” I grab her arm and look at the German soldiers in the cafés; they look more threatening.

  “Obviously you’re not Jewish, just stay away from my wallet.” She laughs and continues to hold my arm as we stroll down the avenue. I keep on smiling and behave as if nothing has happened, but my heart is racing now. Why is this happening to me? Why did he suddenly appear? Will she tell anyone else?

  “You promised to tell me about the pilot.”

  “The pilot? The pilot wants to go out with me; most of all, I like that he has no big nose and that he is not stinky.” She continues to walk with a cheerful look while holding my arm.

  I must keep ignoring her, let her forget, it did not happen.

  Philip is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and I can already smell the damp basement; what shall I tell him about Claudine? For days I’ve been trying to decide what to say to him, especially since Simone started looking at me differently. But when I asked Claudine, she swore to me that she had told her nothing.

  How will he react if I tell him? How angry will he be? I have to go down the stairs.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” He smiles, keeps standing too close.

  “Sh
all we sit down?” I offer, and he pulls away.

  But even when he sits at the other side of the small table, his eyes make me nervous.

  “What happened?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There are a lot more German soldiers in the boulangerie, and Claudine wants to go out with the pilot. She keeps talking about him.”

  “What is she saying?”

  “That he is a fighter pilot in the Messerschmitt squadron, located at Le Bourget airfield. He was previously stationed in North Africa. A lot of new units are coming from North Africa these days, and she may suspect that I am Jewish.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “His entire squadron was transferred to Le Bourget after the German withdrawal from North Africa.”

  “I did not mean that.”

  “So what did you mean?”

  “What did you said about Claudine?”

  “She may suspect me of being Jewish.”

  “How did that happen?” The creaking of the chair on the basement’s stone floor is jarring to my ears as Philip gets up from his chair and stands up, his hands leaning on the table.

  “We walked down the boulevard, and she said something against the Jews, adding that I look like a Jew, and I didn’t deny it fast enough.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It seems to me she thinks I’m a Jew, even though I denied it.”

  “Was that all?” He walks away from the table and turns his back to me, but after a moment he returns and watches me, as if I’d disappointed him again.

  “Yeah, that’s all it was.” I also stand up and put my hands on the table. “She probably realized I’m a Jew and she’s gossipy, that’s Claudine. She’s also my friend.”

  “She’s not your friend; she’s Monique Otin’s friend.” He puts his hands on my palms and brings his face closer. “And she likes to talk.” His scent is strong to me.

  “I know she likes to talk. All the information you get from me comes from her mouth because she likes to talk.” I release my hands and stand still, looking up at him. The main thing is not to look down, so he doesn’t notice I am afraid of him.