by Alex Amit
“I understand you work in a boulangerie shop,” he asks me politely as we sit down, after holding the chair for me; no one has ever done that before.
“Yes.”
“And what do you do there?”
“I’m just selling croissants and baguettes.”
“You should try them, their croissants are amazing.” Violette joins the conversation.
“Maybe I’ll do that one day,” he smiles at her, returning his attention to me. “Do you like your job?”
“Very much,” I try to be cordial as I can. “What do you do in the army?”
“Engineering matters, not something that would interest young women like you. We shouldn’t talk about the army; we should talk about art and the superb culinary heritage that brings such splendid food to our mouths.” I look down and feel the taste of the lipstick on my lips.
“Danke.” He thanks the waiter who places the wine glasses on the table, not noticing the slight reluctance in the waiter’s face. From a nearby table, I can smell real coffee. I missed that smell so much. How do I start a conversation with a German officer who frightens me?
“What do you like in our splendid Paris?”
“Well, Paris is still new to me; we were stationed here not long ago; it will take me some time to learn everything the city has to offer. Zum wohl, ladies.” He raises his glass of wine in the air, and as commanded, everyone reaches out and holds their drinks. “To our lovely hostess in our splendid Paris, may we stay here forever.”
“Zum wohl.” Everyone smiles and clinks glasses, sipping the wine, and I choke. I must get used to the taste.
“Are you okay?” He turns his attention to me.
“Yes, I’m okay, I’m not used to red wine.”
“Shall I order you a different wine?” He raised his hand in command, calling the waiter.
“No, no, that’s okay.” But he is already giving instructions to the waiter, and within a moment a cold bottle of champagne appears on the table, with new glasses.
“And again, cheers,” Ernest raises his glass, “to a new German-French friendship.” I take a small sip of the sweet liquid, avoiding telling him I’m not used to drinking at all.
We only had some wine on Friday evenings. Dad would pass the Kiddush glass of wine carefully from one to another, letting us taste the sweet red flavor, but that too had gone two and a half years ago, in that terrible winter, when we almost ran out of food.
“The food here is delicious, so delicate, many flavors, for that I must admit, French cuisine surpasses German.” And everyone agrees.
“At least they know how to do one thing properly, unlike fighting.” says Violette’s Fritz, and everyone laughs, except Oberst Ernest, who looks at me.
“And what about the beautiful women they manage to bring into our hands?” Fritz of Anaïs donates his part, and everyone rejoices, laughing when she kisses him on the lips. Oberst Ernest continues to smile at me, his polite smile; I don’t want him to.
“It is so nice here on the boulevard.” Violette contributes to the conversation.
“To a lasting partnership for a thousand years.” Anaïs raises the glass of wine, and everyone joins.
Later, after eating a pie with real cherry, flour and sugar, we march on the Champs Élysées, and even though I try, I can no longer separate myself. What do passersby think of me?
“Do you enjoy our company?” Ernest asks me, navigating the two of us so we can walk a few steps ahead of the rest.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m just not used to going out like that.”
“How come?”
“I’m not like Violette and Anaïs; I’m less Parisian than they are.”
“Where is the place you call home?”
“I grew up in Strasbourg and also in Dunkirk.” I’m thinking of my real home, the one I left running. Is he waiting for me? I never went back, too afraid to be recognized; what if someone calls my name again while I’m walking beside a German officer?
“Monique?”
“Sorry, I was thinking about my childhood home.”
“In Strasbourg?”
“Yes, I apologize for not listening.”
“If you grew up in Strasbourg, do you speak German?” He moves to his language.
“Like a native,” I answer him in German.
“And all this time, you let me struggle with my French?”
Had I annoyed him? I stop walking and look into his green eyes, trying to read the expression on his face, but I can’t. What should I answer?
“We’re in Paris, I was taught that a man should strive for a woman.” And he laughs out loud.
“You have courage. I love that in a woman.” And I think that if he knew me, he would have known how cowardly I am, but I keep on looking in his eyes and say nothing for a moment before lowering my eyes, not wanting to cross the line.
“And when did you move to Paris?” he continues.
“It’s hard for me to talk about it,” I allow myself to answer him. “And when did you get to Paris?”
“A month ago.”
“And where had you been before?”
“It’s hard for me to talk about it.” He smiles at me as if we have found a shared secret that brings us closer, and I try to smile back, wondering if I have any more lipstick left on my lips. Maybe I should have gone to the restrooms earlier and get organized? Like Anaïs?
“What are you talking about?” Violette interjects between us, as per an agreed-upon sign which ended the allotted time of a young couple’s privacy on their first date.
“Museums and art,” Ernest answers her as he watches me.
“I do not like museums; they bore me,” she answers him.
“And you?” He turns the question to me.
“I like them.” I think that’s what he wants to hear.
I never liked museums. Ever since I was a child, walking with the whole class, looking up in fear at the enormous threatening paintings of people fighting, injuring each other, cutting off their heads, while the teacher spoke passionately about the duty of sacrifice for the homeland. But three years ago, I really started hating them. It was on that class trip to the Louvre when we came to a sign at the entrance: “Jews are not allowed.” And the teacher took Sylvie and I out of the line, sending us home, while everyone grinned or looked at us sadly. I hated their pitying looks.
“Would you like to go with me to the Louvre? I always wanted to see the huge paintings of Napoleon with my own eyes, to watch all his battles and victories.”
“I would be happy to join you if it interests you.”
“Like you, I’m the quiet type and find it difficult to connect with the Parisian bustle. I prefer to watch the art of the great painters.” And I manage to smile at him again as if we have found another thing that connects us, the desire for silence.
The street is quiet in the evening, and even though I enjoy the silence, I rise from the bench in the garden and start walking to the place I call home. It is already late, and the small attic is waiting for me.
After we said goodbye, I could not return to Lizette; I had to relax for a few minutes. We all stood under the Arc de Triomphe, looking at the figures engraved in marble, while Fritz and Fritz talked about Napoleon’s victories, and Ernest gently held my waist, leading me apart from the others.
“Monique, I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. You were a perfect companion.”
“Danke,” I answer him in German.
“I would be happy to invite you to see me again.”
“I’d like that too.” I know this is the only answer he expects to hear.
He bowed formally and came a little closer, kissing my hand, and I can smell his body scent mixed with quality male perfume.
“Good night, Mademoiselle Monique, we’ll meet again in a quiet place.” He smiles at me, talking in French.
“Good night, Herr Oberst Ernest,” I answer him in German and slowly start walking away, turning my back to him.
; “How is he?” Violette catches me before I walk away. “He’s very nice, isn’t he?”
“So what do you think of him?” Anaïs joins her, arriving in a peaceful walk. “You’d better get him for yourself.”
“How did it feel to me?” I ask myself later, as I sit alone on the bench in the street, rubbing my palm where his lips kissed it and holding my aching belly.
“How is he?” Lizette asks me when I enter her apartment.
“He’s nice and polite.”
“Will you join me for coffee?” And even though I’m afraid of her questions, I accompany her to the kitchen.
“He was very polite, and he was clean,” I try to describe Oberst Ernest to her.
“It is important.”
“It’s not easy to make a decision.”
“It usually isn’t.”
“How did you get to know your husband?” I dare to ask as we relax on the couch, sipping the bitter and disgusting sugarless coffee of war.
“I wasn’t polite, but it was a long time ago,” she smiles at me. “We met at a demonstration for women’s suffrage, before the previous war.”
“Please tell me.”
“I was a rebellious girl from a rich family, and he was a young bank clerk who volunteered to help us carry our protest signs when we escaped from the police.”
“And what happened next?” I’m happy to divert the conversation away from me.
“He was killed, and we still don’t have voting rights like men do, so it probably wasn’t that successful.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yes, life is sad sometimes, but the look in his eyes was worth it all.” She smiles for a moment, and I lower my eyes from his picture above the fireplace, concentrating on the bitter black cup between my hand.
Later, before going to bed, I stand in front of the mirror in my attic, scrutinizing myself.
The face has remained the same; the lipstick is long gone, the hair has also returned to its original shape, the waist and breasts remain the same, nothing has changed.
Dad was right; the second time is much easier, even the stabs in my back from the looks of passersby are almost unnoticed.
“Good night to you, licking German boots, Frenchie,” I whisper to myself before turning off the light. What shall I say to Philip next time I meet him?
The afternoon sunlight paints the city roofs in shades of gold, but the rays do not penetrate the dirty alley of the Latin Quarter, leaving the street grey as I walk to meet him.
What does it matter what I say to him? All that he cares about is the information I bring with me. He doesn’t care about me. My legs almost trip over a broken wooden crate that was thrown into the street, and a woman in the opposite store examines me while her little daughter is holding her feet firmly, curiously peeking at me and my new dress.
The stairs to the basement are waiting for me; I have to learn how to stay alive, to give him what he expects from me.
Philip is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, in the same alert position; I mustn’t get excited by him, he will not protect me if he has to choose.
“Good afternoon, how are you?” He tries to get closer, but I pass him and go inside, smelling him for a split-second.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
“Did you meet him?”
“I met him.”
Philip says nothing, just walking around the small basement, examining me with his dark eyes.
“We all went out together, walking down the avenue, and we also sat in a café. He ordered me champagne.”
For a moment, he approaches, still silent, as if to grab me by force and shake my body, but he stops himself. Why don’t you say something?
“And we talked a lot about museums and art. He would like to take me on a visit to the Louvre. I can’t wait to walk to the Louvre.”
Can anything hurt you? Like you hurt me?
“And he asked to meet me again, and I accepted his invitation, isn’t that what you wanted in the first place? That I get more German information?”
“What German information did you get?” he asks in a distant voice.
“They are starting to mobilize forces for the fortifications of the coasts, and they call the project ‘The Atlantic Wall,’ they assume the invasion will take place in the coming year through Pas-de-Calais. They employ forced laborers to build the fortifications, and he admires Napoleon, especially his journey to Moscow.” I pause for a moment to breathe, but Philip still says nothing, just listening to me as he grips the back of the old wooden chair.
“And your officer told you all that information?”
“His name is Ernest, and his rank is Oberst.”
“And your Oberst Ernest told you all that information?”
“No, I understood all this from conversations between them, when they thought we women were only interested in wine and cherry pies. But Oberst Ernest also talked to me about art.”
“Yes, I understood you like to talk about art.”
“Do you like art?” Why does he never tell me anything about himself?
“And is there any more information you received from your Oberst Ernest?”
“Why do I know nothing about you? What did you do before the war?”
“What does it matter what I did before the war? The war is the general who decides what we have to do and who we are; we are only the pawns.” He looks at me, still distant.
“Oberst Ernest likes art.” Has he always worked in a printing house? Will he ever tell me anything about himself?
“And did you get more information from Oberst Ernest who likes art?” He is not interested in me.
“No, but if you want, I will meet him again.”
“Do it.”
He does not touch me as we part, and on the way to Lizette’s apartment I see the Arc de Triomphe in the distance, and feel a pinch of envy for a moment, remembering the last time he hugged me before he hurt me so much. If only things could be different. Why can’t I be happy like Anaïs or Violette?
Violette
“Where’s Anaïs?” I ask a few days later when she enters the boulangerie before I go home, gently closing the door behind her.
“Today I’ve arrived alone.” She smiles at me.
“Would you like to have something sweet?”
“Is there anything left?” Since becoming my friends, they stop by from time to time without their Fritzes, asking if I have anything for them at closing time. Some baguettes, perhaps sweet chocolate or butter croissants. With grateful fingers, they pick up the leftovers of the German soldiers at the end of the day.
“Yes, there are some pastries left. I’ll pack them for you.”
“I’ll wait for you outside, is that okay?” she whispers to me when she notices Simone’s look.
“It’s fine. I’ll join you in a moment.” I gather the leftovers into a paper bag, wondering where Anaïs is.
“Young women need to have values,” Simone quietly says while she counts the money in the cash register, looking at me as I’m rushing out.
“Is it okay for me to wait for you outside until you finish work?” she asks when I hand her the paper bag with the pastries, turning to go inside. I have to clean and close the place up.
“Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to walk with you a little bit. Can you?”
“Where is Anaïs?”
“Anaïs is with her Fritz, showing him Paris the way she knows how.”
“Wait a minute,” I go inside, hurry to clean the tables, and wonder what she wants to talk to me about.
“I would not choose such company,” Simone keeps talking to herself, making sure I hear, but I ignore her; I have no other girlfriends to choose from; the last one died because of me.
“I’d be happy if we could be friends,” she tells me as we walk in silence, passing the Lafayette Gallery store, which showcases the summer fashion for German officers’ spouses.
> “What do you mean?” I pretend I don’t understand.
“The two of us never meet alone, walking together, telling each other our thoughts.”
“I thought you and Anaïs were friends like that. I always see you together.”
“Yeah, but Anaïs only does what is good for Anaïs, especially in relation to the entertainment side of life.”
“I thought you liked spending time with her.” I hold her arm. It seems like she needs it, but after a few steps, the contact between us feels fake to me, and I release my hand, continuing to walk beside her in silence.
“What do you think of these?” She stops by a lingerie store window, pointing to a white bra and garter belt.
“For whom?” I ask hesitantly; this is an expensive store for rich women. I have never worn such underwear; even Mom never dressed like that, telling me more than once that only prostitutes walk with garters.
“It’s for me. Fritz wants us to do it.” She finally speaks the frightening words, as if she has been preparing for this moment for a long time.
“Is he insisting on it?”
I have no experience with such things. Everything I know I learned from Claudine’s stories, I have not even kissed anyone on the mouth, only read about it in the magazine, the one Mom ripped after she found it.
“Yeah, he says that if we’re a couple, we should do it.”
“And what does Anaïs say about that?”
“She does not know.”
“And it does not bother you that he…” And it is difficult for me to say the words.
“He says he loves me and that they are winning the war.”
What shall I tell her? Shall I tell her all the jokes I hear in the boulangerie, listening to the German soldiers that don’t know I speak their language? Shall I tell her about the Panzer tank man in the black uniform who laughed a few days ago?
“Shut up; I have an announcement,” he’d raised his voice, and all the other soldiers got quiet. “Himmler announced that anyone who did not return from Russia in a coffin is entitled to receive a Sexual Disease Medal from a French prostitute.” Shall I tell her how they all laughed about it?
