by Alex Amit
As I start to move away from him, he grabs my hand for a moment, stopping me.
“Mademoiselle Monique.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst Ernest?” Will he force me to kiss him?
“Next week, I have to go on a day trip to the North Shore area. Would you like to join me? Just the two of us.” And I nod to him in the affirmative, releasing my hand and walking down the boulevard. What else could I answer him?
I’m a French prostitute who will have to kiss a German officer who wants to politely hunt down the Jews.
“How was your polite guy?” Lizette asks me when I walk in.
“He invited me on a day trip.”
“And will you go with him?” What to tell her?
“I think I’ll go, though sometimes I feel like I have to sacrifice part of myself.”
“Will you drink coffee with me? Keep me company?”
“Have you ever sacrificed anything?” I ask Lizette as we sit down, and I hold the warm cup in my hands.
“I don’t feel it was a sacrifice because I believed in what I was doing.”
“And after that, weren’t you disappointed in yourself?”
“Why should I be disappointed in myself if I tried my best?”
“I keep on trying, but afterwards I feel disappointed in myself, I so want to succeed.”
“Life does not work this way; sometimes life can’t even provide us a normal cup of coffee.” She smiles at me and places the cup of bitter coffee substitute on the table.
“Thank you for listening to me.”
“Thank you, my child, for keeping an old lady company; I think you’ve sacrificed enough for one evening. It’s time for you to go up to your room to sleep.” I get up and look at her husband’s picture, which is in the silver frame on the fireplace. He stands in his army uniform, looking at me with pride, not knowing that a few days later he will run to his death in front of German machine guns on the Marne front, in that previous great war.
The First Kiss
“Are you waiting for someone?” Simone asks me a few days after the picnic.
“No, why?”
“Because you’ve been looking at the front door all day.”
For several days now, I have been restless, waiting for Herr Ernest to enter through the glass door, feeling tense whenever the doorbell rings. How would I travel with him for a whole day? What does he want from me?
“Sorry, can I have two croissants?” a soldier asks me in bad French, and I hurry to serve him.
“Mademoiselle Monique?” Another soldier in a grey-green uniform approaches Marie, who is cleaning the tables with a damp cloth.
“No, she’s there.” She points at me over the counter.
“Mademoiselle Monique?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I have a letter for you.” And he reaches his hand in a straight motion across the counter, while I move uncomfortably under Simone’s scrutiny.
“The commander asked me to wait here for an answer.” He speaks French with a German accent, cuts the words sharply before walking to the corner of the store, standing still, waiting for my answer.
“What’s in the letter?” asks Simone, leaving the cash drawer for a moment.
“I don’t know,” I answer her, blushing and heading to the back room, tearing open the envelope and reading the words written in perfect handwriting, arranged in straight lines.
Dear Mademoiselle Monique,
You are kindly invited to join me for a day tour of northern France, two days from now.
My assistant is waiting for your reply.
Best Regards,
Oberst Ernest
Commander of the 566 Engineering Brigade
“Monique, there are customers.” I hear Simone’s voice, and I have to stop looking at Ernest’s curly signature; I hurry back to the counter while holding the white paper in my hand.
“Tell him I will join him,” I mumble to his assistant soldier, who has to get close to hear me.
“I miss the days when French women had dignity,” Simone says to Marie a few minutes later, as they chat in the back room. My fingers arrange the remaining pastries on the tray, even though I already finished doing so before Ernest’s assistant came in.
What is he expecting of me? I need to talk to someone. Marie passes by, and I think of Claudine. Why did I notice the boy that day?
“Monique, come here please,” Simone calls me at the end of the day as I say goodbye to her.
“This is for you, your salary.” She puts the green bills in my hands.
“You gave me too much.” I return some of the bills to her.
“No, it’s yours, you replaced Claudine, and I decided to give you a raise; you deserve it.” And I hurry out into the street, forgetting to thank her. Why didn’t I ignore the boy that day?
The boy near the newsstand does not hand me an official letter written on white paper, signed with a curled signature; he doesn’t even wait for my answer, he just whispers to me: “Metro Opera.” And right after that, he shoves a bundle of newspapers into a big leather bag, and starts running down the street while waving at the newspaper, shouting the news headlines everywhere. “The Americans are invading Italy; the German army has repulsed them in a heroic battle, read about it now in the Paris Soir newspaper.”
As I walk towards the Opera, I can still see the boy running down the street and the people approaching him, paying in coins and taking newspapers from his hand, but my lips are dry and my thoughts are elsewhere; how will Philip react?
“What was it like going out with a German officer?” Philip walks around the basement like a panther looking for an exit in the damp walls that close in on us, hardly looking at me. My hands are placed on the wood table, waiting for his, but he keeps on standing, refusing to sit across from me.
“I did not go out with him alone. We all went out for a picnic day at the Marne.” He didn’t say anything to me when I entered the basement, moving away and not asking how I felt.
“Is it nice to have a picnic on the banks of the Marne? I’ll bet the river is quiet and cold in the summer heat; the wind is pleasant; you can lie on the grass in the shade of the trees and laugh.” He continues his ugly speech.
“Yes, it is pleasant there.”
“And can you still hear the machine guns’ nonstop noise, or the cries of the wounded from the previous war against the green-eyed Germans?”
“We did not talk about it.”
“Did you enjoy swimming in the river? Cooling your body off from all the heat and sweat?”
“No, I did not enjoy bathing in the cool water.”
“Why didn’t you enjoy swimming in the river? The German language didn’t suit you?”
“Why are you asking me such questions?”
“Because I’m interested and want to know about you, isn’t that what we do in our meetings? I ask questions, and you answer them?”
“No, I did not enjoy the water.”
“So what did you do? Did you wear a swimsuit, especially for him to see?”
“I did not go into the water.”
“Why didn’t you go into the water? I heard the German officers enjoyed that their French dates wore swimsuits for them.”
“Why are you talking to me like this?”
“Because I want to know who I’m talking to right now.”
“I did not bring a swimsuit with me, because I do not have a swimsuit, because I have not worn a swimsuit in years.” I get up and push the table away from me.
“Do you think I was interested in going for a bath in the Seine when a day earlier I’d been searching for leftover food in garbage cans? Do you think it matters to me how do I look in a swimsuit? Do you think it’s fun to sit in a car with a German officer? To talk with him about the Jews, not knowing if he doesn’t like them, or maybe if he raised the subject because he suspects that I am Jewish? Do you think it’s such a pleasure to be with someone who scares me and invites me to travel with him alone for a
whole day, to try to think what I will do if he tries to kiss me?” I shout the last words and breathe quickly.
“I’m sorry; I did not mean that.”
“You meant everything,” I sit down in the chair again and cover my face. “Time after time, you send me from this basement to get you more pieces of information.”
“I apologize.” His arm wraps around me as he leans on the floor next to me, and I feel the smell of his body, with the same aroma of a printing press in his fingers. “Don’t cry; I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I don’t cry.” My hands cover my face; I don’t want him to see me like that. “He read me poetry; he asked me if I’d like him to read me poetry.”
“I apologize; I love poetry.” He lifts me from the concrete floor and hugs my body, his hands pleasant and warm.
“Do you really like poetry?” I look up at him, wanting to believe, feeling his hand stroking my back and not wanting him to stop.
“Yes, once, at the Sorbonne, in another life that will never return.” His lips are so close to mine.
“Were you a student at the Sorbonne?” I did not expect his lips to touch mine, but they do.
“A poor student at the Sorbonne.” I cling to him tighter and close my eyes.
What are all these sensations? I can feel the touch of his fingers through the fabric of the dress as I breathe heavily. My hands cling to his shoulders tightly as our lips tighten and keep touching more and more, unable to stop.
“I have to go.” My hands push him away, and I move backward, trying to catch my breath as I look into his dark eyes, feeling the rough wall scratching my back.
“I apologize.” He’s trying to get close to me again.
“Goodbye.” I move away from his warm hands and lips, panting up the stairs. I know that if I stay, I won’t be able to cross the bridge again to the German Headquarters area and walk as if nothing has changed under the red flags of swastikas fluttering in the evening breeze.
I have to stop for a few moments; I’m too excited. I need to talk to someone, someone who will listen to me without me having to lie.
“This is for you, my girl, may a loving man give you a flower.” I place the bouquet on the cold stone and sit down next to her. The old saleswoman at Trocadero Square tried kissing my hand when I bought a huge bouquet, paying her in a pile of bills above the price she asked. Again and again, she thanked me, blessing me with love while I walked away from her, feeling cleaner without all those green-grey bills in my pocket.
The sun will soon set, and I have to hurry and tell her, before the cemetery gate closes.
“His lips were pleasant to me, but I was stressed. Suddenly I began to breathe heavily.” I’m trying to explain it to her.
“I still feel the touch of his hands as they passed over my breasts through my dress.” The words come out of my mouth. But I’m too ashamed to tell her about the strange feeling in the bottom of my stomach. I don’t want her to think that I am a prostitute who cannot control herself.
“I ran away from him. He said nothing about Oberst Ernest. I should go with him. I did not tell you about Herr Oberst Ernest. I’m so scared.”
As I walk out of the cemetery, smiling at the older guard getting ready to lock the gate, I imagine Claudine whispering that I have nothing to fear from Oberst Ernest and that everything will be okay.
Everything will be okay.
“Do you feel comfortable?” Herr Oberst Ernest asks as I sit next to him in his army command car’s back seat. I can smell the eau de cologne from his shaved face when he leans towards me and helps me arrange my small bag.
This time I waited alone at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe, my body slightly shivering from the autumn’s early morning breeze, but precisely at the time we set, I heard an engine roaring from the empty boulevard.
“Guten morgen.” Oberst Ernest got out of the bluish-grey car, holding his hand out and helping me get into the back seat while I hold his black glove-wrapped hand. His personal driver sat behind the wheel, ignoring my existence and looking straight ahead like he was welded into place.
“Now you’ll be more comfortable.” He takes his field binoculars out of side storage, hands it to the driver, and places my bag there instead. “Shall we go?”
The Champs Élysées is empty of cars at this hour, and even on the sidewalk only a few people are walking on their way to work. I look at them and imagine myself walking on the empty boulevard now. Would I look at the passing German vehicle, giving a look of contempt at the woman sitting next to the German officer?
“Should I ask the driver to close the roof?” Oberst Ernest asks me when he notices a shiver gripping me for a moment.
“No, it’s okay, I’m not cold.” I lie and stare forward at the driver’s back, feeling that I deserve contemptuous glances.
“What are you thinking about?”
“The city waking up.”
“This city is so special, look at the magnificent building facades, we Germans definitely have something to learn from you.” He speaks to me while saluting the guards at the checkpoint in Concord Square. The car slows down as it passes the concrete block and barbed wire barrier, and I look down, wondering if these are the regular guards and whether they recognize me.
“We will make Berlin more beautiful than Paris. The Führer has already approved the plans, a combination of French art and triumphant Prussian spirit.” He salutes the Headquarters guards as we pass under the huge swastika flag hanging from the Army Headquarters building, and my fingernails scratch my knees.
“Where are we going?”
“To La Coupole, near the border with Belgium, close to Dunkirk where you grew up. It’s a small, unimportant village; you probably know the place.” And I try to smile; my eyes are fixed on his black gloves while the driver speeds the vehicle through the quiet streets, turning on Opera Avenue towards the exit north of the city.
“Why are we going there?”
“Military matters that wouldn’t interest a beautiful companion like you, you will surely enjoy the open nature and the lovely places we will encounter on our way.”
“I haven’t been there in such a long time.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to return to your childhood places; I have made you a small surprise.” He smiles at me.
“Surprise?”
“Don’t all women like surprises? But in the meantime, you can sit back and relax; we have a long way to go.” He approaches me, and again I feel the smell of eau de cologne from his neck as he takes my hand and places it in his leather-gloved palm.
“Halt!” Ernest’s hand quickly touches the driver’s shoulder, and my body tilts forward as the vehicle stops, tires screeching.
“Wait here,” he tells me and gets out of the vehicle, pulling his firearm out of the leather case, and I start shaking.
What happened? Is it about me? I look back at the road, watching him walking slowly, holding the gun in his hand. Is that the surprise for me? Shall I go out of the car and run away? I have to stop shaking.
A pair of grey ears move between the bushes, and a rabbit begins to run across the road while Oberst Ernest raises his hand holding the gun. I look down and close my eyes.
There is no gunshot, but I can’t open my eyes, waiting.
“It managed to escape,” he tells the driver as he opens the vehicle door, returning the firearm to the leather case.
“It was close.” I hear him speak for the first time.
“I’ll catch it next time,” he smiles at him, signaling with his hand to start driving.
“We will not give up.” The driver turns his head for a moment before pressing the accelerator.
“Did you see how it managed to escape?” He takes my hand again. I have to smile.
“I barely got to see it. I did not know you were hunting.”
“The military is a profession; hunting is a hobby that every military man with sharp senses adopts for himself.” He looks at me. “Are you cold?”
<
br /> “No, I’m fine.”
“You’re cold; you’re shaking.” And he asks the driver to stop and close the roof before we continue down the narrow road. Occasionally we pass a horse pulling the cart of a local farmer or a military truck, but there are no civilian cars on the road, probably because of the lack of fuel.
“You’re silent today.”
“Sorry, I apologize.”
“I thought you’d enjoy visiting the places of your childhood.”
Why does he mention it? Why did I agree to travel with him for a day trip?
“I’m sorry, I’m a little hungry.”
“Sorry, what a lack of consideration, we’ve been traveling for so long and I have not asked you if you had already eaten breakfast.” Herr Ernest gives one short command to the driver, and within minutes the vehicle stops at the side of the narrow road, a blanket is pulled out of the trunk, and a picnic basket is placed beside a plowed field.
“The surprise, please join me.” Oberst Ernest approaches the vehicle, inviting me to step out, and I watch on all the food arranged just for me on the picnic blanket.
“Is it good for you?”
“The food is delicious, thank you.” I watch the fields around us, the ground is waiting for autumn plowing, some trees stand in the distance, and I can feel a pleasant morning breeze. Even though his intentions are good, his gaze makes me nervous, and the meat sandwich gets stuck in my throat, suffocating me.
“Tell me how you got to Paris,” he asks, and I finally understand his intention by inviting me to join him. He promised me surprises.
“I thought we would not talk about it.” I’m trying to smile at him, but too nervously.
“I thought I would like to know more about a lovely companion joining me on a one-day trip.”
