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

by Alex Amit

  “You will not want to hear what happened; it has to do with you, the Germans.” But I know I’ll have to tell him what happened, this is why he invited me in the first place.

  “I would like to hear your story, to know what happened to you.”

  “It’s going to bother you.”

  “I promise it won’t.”

  “It was three years ago, in the summer, only the wheat had not yet been harvested. The whole field was full of crops.” And he looks at me with his green eyes, concentrating on my lips.

  “We were running from you.” I’m trying to think of the story.

  “It was a hot day, the sun was burning my skin, and the road was full of people,” I cannot remember the details, his gaze presses me.

  “Is that all you remember of your mom and dad?” he asks, and hits his neck, killing a mosquito. What to tell him?

  “We were in a neverending convoy,” I try to think of Mom and Dad and Jacob, the real ones, not the ones from the story. My eyes close as I concentrate on all the horrible rumors recently coming out about Auschwitz, imagining them walking in front of me in the field, and I start to cry; I miss them so much.

  “The road was full of people, and planes came and shot at us, and my father and mother.” How did I get to sit for breakfast with a German officer instead of being with my family?

  “I’m sorry that happened to you. It shouldn’t have happened.” He hands me a handkerchief. “I did not know that was what had happened to them.”

  “You couldn’t know.” I take the handkerchief from him and wipe my eyes; what happened to them?

  “It is terrible what happened to the French people in this war; you shouldn’t have declared war on us, forcing us to conquer you. You are such a culture-loving nation; there could be great friendship between us.”

  “I haven’t left Paris since.” I return the handkerchief to him. Herr Ernest takes it in silence and continues to look at me.

  “And why did you agree to go out with a German officer after all that happened to you?” A feeling of cold surrounds me as the ground drops beneath my feet, what can I tell him? My fingers tap the picnic blanket nervously.

  “I cried for two years. I don’t want to cry anymore; I want to live. I want to be on the side that talks about art, the side that has a purpose, I know the Germans are good people and that my parents died by mistake. Mistakes happen in war.” Why couldn’t I remember the story as I practiced it so many times?

  “Yes, mistakes happen in war.” Ernest relaxes back and sips the sweet drink, looking at me while nodding.

  “Shall we continue on our way?” he suggests, and I relax, getting up and straightening my dress as he signals the driver to approach. “Will you take a picture of us?”

  “A little souvenir from a day of fun,” he tells me in his quiet voice as we both stand in front of the driver, and I think I’ve passed his test.

  “Smile, he is pointing the camera at us.” His hand hugs my waist as he gets me closer, and I feel the softness of the leather glove, which he put on his hand again, ready for the drive to continue.

  “Magnificent.” He smiles at the driver after he took our photo. “We’ve almost arrived.”

  “La Coupole” is written in German on the white road sign, and it is already the third military checkpoint we have passed in the last minutes, each more strict than its predecessors. The soldiers carefully examine us, saluting as they see Oberst Ernest.

  “I need you to wait for me here. I have to see something, feel free to walk around,” he tells me as the driver parks the vehicle on the side of the road so as not to disturb the concrete trucks that pass us.

  “When will you return?”

  “It’s going to take me about an hour.” He smiles at me before disappearing with the driver behind the hill, leaving me by myself in the vehicle.

  It’s nice to be alone for some time, breathing the free air, lying in the back seat and looking at the clouds in the sky or standing and looking around, searching for something to do with myself; I have an hour.

  “TOP SECRET.” It is written on the brown cardboard folder placed on the vehicle’s front seat, in elegant black writing in the German language, with the stamp of an eagle spreading its wings, holding a swastika in its claws. They must have left it here by mistake as they organized the documents. For a few minutes now, I’ve been watching it apprehensively.

  Although Philip warned me not to risk myself, this is my chance. I can bring him the real material he is so looking for, not just gossip from soldiers in their free time in Paris. My feet carry me around the car, checking that there is no other person or soldier nearby, only the trucks and tiny soldiers are visible in the distance, but they are far away. The trees hide the massive building under construction, and there is no German soldier nearby.

  It’s now or never. I must take advantage of their mistake, making Philip proud of me at least once; it’s no time to be afraid now; all I need is a few minutes. My hand searches for paper and a pencil from my bag.

  “What are you doing, what are you writing?”

  “Nothing.” I quickly get up behind the vehicle and straighten my dress, hiding the papers behind my back; the pencil is left tossed among the weeds.

  “Show me that.” Oberst Ernest stands in front of me, speaking quietly, the German language coming out of his mouth like a snake’s hiss. His driver is standing next to him, holding the brown leather briefcase and binoculars.

  “I’m not doing anything, just sitting outside the car.”

  “What do you have in hand? Show me your hands, both of them.”

  “It’s nothing, just something I was writing.”

  “I thought we had a great friendship,” his mouth whispers the words with a bitter smile as his black hand waits to receive what I’m holding.

  My hands reach out to him slowly, handing him the wrinkled papers I hold in my fist.

  “What is this?” he asks as he carefully examines the crumpled papers.

  “Flowers.”

  “What are these flower drawings? Nothing is written here.”

  “Drawings of flowers.”

  “Why are you drawing flowers?”

  “I was bored and delayed, so I got out of the car and sat down in the grass, drawing flowers, I like to draw flowers.” Oberst Ernest looks for another moment at the papers gripped in his black leather gloves, and silently returns them to me. While I debate whether to say something, he walks away with the driver following him and turns to him, but I cannot hear their talking. My hand is on my stomach.

  On the way back to Paris, everything returns to the way it used to be. Herr Ernest politely gives me a hand to help me get in the car and asks if I’m comfortable. As we turn onto the road towards Paris, he continues to talk about art and the Louvre Palace, and how special it would be to visit it. Still, I have a hard time listening to him and paying attention to the conversation. Most of the time my eyes are on the back of the driver who is driving in silence. What would have happened to me if I had not noticed the open binocular case left under the glove compartment? What would have happened if I had not thought of the grey rabbit that crossed the road?

  My stomach hurts, and I try to close my eyes and breathe slowly, imagining what it is like to run through the wood, escaping from the hunter.

  “We have arrived.” I open my eyes in the darkness to the touch of a leather glove on my cheek, looking at the silhouette of a German officer leaning over me, and I want to scream.

  “Mademoiselle Monique, we have arrived, wake up.” The German officer whispers to me. It’s Oberst Ernest, and I’m inside his military car. From the window, I can notice the Arc de Triomphe standing in the dark above us.

  “Give me your hand.” I grab his palm and stand in the street, getting used to the streetlights’ dim lights, only a few of them shining due to war regulations, and the square deserted in the late hour.

  “You were cold, so I covered you with my coat.” I slowly look down and exam
ine the heavy coat that covers my body, making me warm, realizing I’m wearing a Nazi German officer’s uniform. My fingers slide slowly over the black metal cross close to my chest, feeling the tip of the blades.

  “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  “Thank you so much for a fascinating day.” He does not mention a word of what happened at the construction site.

  “Thank you.” I do not mention it either.

  “I would be glad to meet you again.”

  “I would be glad to be your companion.”

  His hands grip my neck as he brings my face closer to his lips, pinning them to his. Despite the day’s travel, I can still smell the eau de cologne from his cheeks as he pulls me closer while his tongue penetrates my lips.

  My hands rest on the sides of my body while his tongue touches mine until he stops, and in the gloom of the evening, I can see him smiling.

  “I’m glad we kissed,” he says. What does it matter what I answer? He would have done it anyway. He’s used to getting what he wants.

  “I’m glad we kissed too.”

  “May I? Please.” He raises his hand.

  “What?” I ask him, not understanding.

  “My military coat, can I have it?”

  “Sorry.” I take off the coat and hand him the grey-green cloth, feeling the evening’s cold.

  “Good night, Mademoiselle Monique.”

  “Good night, Herr Oberst Ernest.”

  My eyes follow the military vehicle moving down the almost-deserted boulevard, smelling the burnt petrol it’s left behind and starting to walk home. The sleepy French policeman who guards the Arc de Triomphe monster follows me with his gaze, but I ignore him, directing my steps towards the single lit streetlight at the alley’s end.

  I need someone to hug me very much.

  I count the stairs down the dirty basement in the Latin Quarter, waiting to hug him. So much has happened since the last time we met, when we kissed, and I’m so ashamed of myself. I kissed a German officer.

  Philip stands waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, as always, but when I approach him and try to hold his hands, he steps back.

  “Monique, I apologize for what happened last time; it should not have happened.”

  I get closer and look at his dark eyes, examining them closely. Are they brown or black?

  “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he continues to strike me. “It is too dangerous for us; we have a mission to do.”

  “Yes, we have a mission to do.” I turn my back on him and go to the wooden table, sitting down in the chair, wanting him to stay away from me. I will survive, even without his hug. Philip approaches me and looks for more to say, but I no longer look into his eyes, instead carefully examining the grooves in the old table’s wooden surface.

  “They’re building something big in the north. I don’t know what it is.”

  “Did you hear what I said? We are at war, I’m sorry.” He grabs my arm and tries to pull me towards him.

  “There are a lot of army checkpoints, a lot of soldiers.” I pull my hand away from him and sit down again, not wanting him to touch me.

  “It’s just not the right time. We’re at war.” He sits in front of me and places his hands on the table, and I look closely at the black color spots on his fingers, but I don’t put my fingers on his.

  “A lot of concrete trucks, maybe a big bunker.”

  “I am not allowed to do what I did. It endangers us and our judgment. Last time never happened.”

  “And he kept talking to me about art; did your Sorbonne never happen either?”

  “You have to forget about the Sorbonne; my Sorbonne belongs to another life, it’s not me anymore, now it’s me and you here in a shabby basement in the Latin Quarter in an occupied and hungry city.”

  “He took an interest and asked me about my past.” You don’t really know what it is to be hungry.

  “Did he suspect you? I do not want you to risk yourself.” He puts his hands on mine.

  “I didn’t risk myself, and he doesn’t suspect me at all. He treated me very nicely. He is not a poor student.” I take my hands off the table.

  “Did you see some documents? You need to be careful not to get close to the documents; it might be a trap.”

  “No, nothing, just the trucks, and one rabbit running across the road.”

  “I do not want you to get hurt.”

  “I will not get hurt, I know how to take care of myself, we even took pictures together, he has a picture of both of us. I think you should get me a camera next time we go, so I can take pictures too.” At least someone will have a souvenir from me.

  “Did you take a picture with him? Why do you need a camera? It’s dangerous.”

  “Because if I had a camera, I could take pictures of the bunker they are building.” And also get caught and be executed, maybe that’s what happens to one like me who kissed two men. You regret it and say it never happened, and the other is a German officer.

  “I’m not bringing you a camera, it’s too dangerous. Why did he photograph you?”

  “Because he wanted to have a souvenir from our trip, of the one he kissed.” Or the one he is trying to hunt.

  “Did you kiss him back?” His hand is no longer on the table, he gets up and walks around the room, and I look again at the wooden grooves on the table, examining them carefully.

  “You should check what’s up there in the north. I think he’s a senior commander.” And he did not say it was a mistake, as you said. You do not even want to sit at the same table with me.

  “You have to be careful of him, he’s dangerous.”

  “We have to take risks, don’t we? Aren’t we at war?” I get up to go, and he repeats our traditional blessing.

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “Take care of yourself,” I answer before turning around and walking away. Slowly I climb the stairs leading out into the street, hating him and those words.

  “Take care of yourself, you miserable Frenchie,” I repeat the blessing the following nights before I fall asleep, trying to forget what his lips tasted like when he kissed me in the basement that time. It never happened. He will not embrace me anymore. I need to learn to stay away from him.

  Invitation

  It takes a while until I turn my attention to the next soldier in line, handing him the bag full of cookies, raising my head, looking into his green eyes, and freezing.

  “I thought you used to send your assistant.” Despite the showcase that separates us, I can smell his eau de cologne.

  “I wanted to come and see the place where you work, the place everyone is talking about.” He ignores the rudeness of my words while Simone closes the cash register and tries to listen, making herself busy.

  “I work here when you don’t surprise me.” I show him the small space, full of chairs, tables, and cigarette smoke, trying to pull myself together while ignoring Simone as she bends to take something out of the counter but stays close.

  “So you don’t like to be surprised?”

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t like to be surprised either; I think we just found another thing in common.” He smiles at me, and I manage to smile back.

  “Sorry, Madame,” he turns to Simone in French as she rises, smiling at the sight of his many ranks and decorations, as she first noticed him. “Can I borrow Mademoiselle Monique from you? I’d be happy if she could show me around the city.”

  “She’ll be happy to join you.” She smiles at him and nods at me to leave, and I turn to remove the apron around my waist, wondering what words Simone will use after I walk out the door. Will she tell Marie that she misses the respectable young French women? Those who can’t be found in the city anymore?

  “Thank you very much; she will get back to you tomorrow.” He thanks Simone while opening the boulangerie door for me, putting his arm around my waist. We both know I am his property, what surprise has he arranged for me today?

  “Is everything
okay? Why are we getting inside?” I break the silence between us in front of the Tuileries Gardens’ gate.

  “I have a few hours, and I wanted to spend some time with you.” Oberst Ernest stands at the sign to the garden entrance, pinned to the open iron gate: “Entry to Jews is forbidden.” Left over from those days when there were still Jews in this city.

  “I thought you wanted me to show you the city.”

  “Isn’t this garden a beautiful part of the city?” He crosses the gate and steps inside while his boots crush the white gravel.

  “What did you do in the army before you knew me?” I hesitate for a split-second but walk after him into the garden I have not visited in recent years. The round pool at the entrance is empty of water, and no one sits on the green iron chairs. Where did the marble sculptures go?

  “I told you before, I do not want to talk about the East, it will not interest you. When I’m with you, I want to talk about Paris and art, not about the war.”

  “Why me?”

  It takes him a while to answer, as if he is trying to think of the right words. Silently we walk in the almost-empty garden, listening to the noise of gravel under our feet.

  “Because you are different, you are not like the others.”

  He folds his hands behind his back, looking at the Louvre Palace’s vast expanse. “You are quiet, not loud like Violette or disrespectful like Anaïs, you are not trying to impress me, but you are willing to learn. Maybe you are like the French nation, lying in wait for someone to come and take you. And I’m going to be that someone.” He smiles to himself at finding the words he was looking for, stopping and looking at me.

  “Am I a symbol for the French nation? Triumph and victory?”

  “Don’t forget who you are; you were born in German Strasbourg, you are only called French because of a historical insult.”

  “I never forget who I am.” I speak German and French, I also kissed him, and I also lick German boots.