by Alex Amit
“Wait,” I hold her hand, preventing her from entering the store and embarrassed of myself. “What should I do with him? Shall I refuse him? Agree? What do you do when…?”
“You’re so innocent,” she looks at me with pity before she takes my hand and enters the store with me. “Do you really think you can refuse him?”
After we leave the store, she takes me to a café; I think it’s out of pity, and I try not to think about the delicate feeling of the bra and the garter belt, the ones the saleswoman measured on me in the store.
“Does it feel good?” I finally find the courage to come up with the question that scares me.
“Sometimes it’s pleasant, and sometimes it’s not,” she answers me honestly, “but it should not be pleasant, it should serve your goals.”
“And what are my goals?”
“Let him be satisfied; if he is satisfied, he will give you what you want.”
“And how do I know what to do?”
“Don’t worry, he already knows, you’re probably not his first.” And I blush again.
“Is that how all men are?”
“Yeah, everyone’s like that, they just want one thing,” she answers me indifferently. What about Philip? Has he already gotten into other girls’ panties? Does he even care about me?
“And what about you? Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Doesn’t what bother me?”
“To be with him when he is a…” And I cannot finish the sentence.
“German?”
Yes, I nod. “Doesn’t that worry you?”
“Anaïs has to take care of Anaïs,” she places the coffee on the table and continues talking, showing me at a glance all the German officers sitting around us eating and drinking in the magnificent café, which overlooks the Opera House. “No one asked me whether to start this war, and no one asked me how I was going to get food, so no one should ask me what I am going to do to survive.”
I try to sip my coffee, but it tastes bitter to me, even though it’s real.
“Do not worry,” she puts her hand on mine, “you will be fine. Wear what you bought, lie on your back and let him do the work, everything will be fine.”
“Yeah, I’ll let him get into my panties.” I bring my head closer to her and whisper, trying to speak bluntly and sound mature, but the words sound ugly to me.
“Just like that.” She smiles at me, and also at two German officers sitting at a nearby table, looking at us with interest.
“What took you so long?” Simone asks me as I walk through the glass door, looking hostile at the shopping bag I’m trying to hide behind my back. “You said you were going out for a few minutes.”
“I apologize, I had to help a friend with a difficult problem.”
I will apologize to him for the last time; I need him to hold me before the two-day trip.
The guards on the Pont Neuf bridge ignore me as I pass on my way to the Latin Quarter. I need him to promise me that he will forgive what I intend to do, and never ask me about it.
I’m almost running into his arms, lowering my eyes so as not to stumble on that broken step right in front of the basement entrance. But when my eyes return to look for him, I stop abruptly, trying to walk leisurely again like a young woman.
Philip stands in his same position as always, his body ready to jump towards any noise, but his arms are on his hips, and he does not approach me.
“Monique, meet Robert.” He introduces the man standing next to him.
I reach out my hand, embarrassed by his unexpected presence, and tries to breathe as usual. Why is he here? Why today?
“Nice to meet you, Monique.”
“Nice to meet you, Robert.”
“Sit down,” Philip instructs me, and remains standing as the stranger sits in front of me, looking at me for a moment with interest and appreciation. Where to place my hands? On the table? Who is he anyway? What was his name? He’s older than the two of us, about thirty years old; what is that brown leather bag hanging over his shoulder?
“Does she know that they will execute her if they catch her?” He turns to Philip standing next to him, keeping distance from me.
“Yes, she knows.”
“And she still wants to do it?”
“She asked.”
“Are you sure about that?” He finally turns to me, and I’m not sure what exactly he means by that.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Well,” he sighs and opens the leather bag which rests on his shoulder, pulling out a small metal box with buttons and a glass lens, placing it on the table between us. I reach out, and for the first time in my life, I’m holding a camera.
“Carefully, pick it up carefully.” He speaks as my fingers glide over the magic of black metal and golden buttons.
“This is a Leica camera, small and compact, the best in the market. There is no substitute for the Germans when it comes to cameras.” He sighed, and my fingernails gently scratched the eagle with the swastika engraved on the camera’s iron body, feeling reluctant and nauseous. I have to put it back on the table, but I can’t; I can’t withdraw now, after he arranged a camera for me.
“Now listen, and listen well,” Robert demands my attention, “there is no room for mistakes.” And in the next minutes, he explains to me about photography, explaining the buttons, how to aim and where to click, what is a film, and how to load it, forcing me to stand and practice.
“You have to aim fast and shoot fast; you have to practice sliding the camera into a hiding place in your bag. You should also have a cover story, at least a basic one, although it won’t help you if a German soldier catches you.”
He keeps talking to me fluently as I stand in the small basement and turn the camera on, looking at Philip through the viewfinder, pressing the button, and getting used to the noise of the camera shutter opening and closing. Throughout all this time, Philip stands motionless in the room’s gloom, looking at Robert and me, not intervening or uttering a word. He trusts me, I can no longer disappoint him, even though I want to change my mind about the whole thing. What did I bring down on myself?
“Monique, you can still change your mind; this camera could be your death sentence.” Robert stops me when the tutorial is over, and I hold the camera and understand that it is my most precious possession from now on.
“Monique, you can still back out.”
I’m trying to figure out how to hide it in my side bag and looking at Philip. What does he expect me to do? His dark eyes look at me from a distance. Why did I yell at him last time?
“I know it’s dangerous,” I answer Robert and shove the camera into the bag, trying to give my voice a tone of confidence, but my body trembles with fear. What happens if I fail or make a mistake? Will I let him down? What will happen if they catch me? Why does Robert not leave us alone?
Although I thanked him twice, he stayed to talk to us about cameras and photography, telling us that now he must only take pictures in secret and that he misses the days when he walked the streets and just photographed people.
‘Go already,’ I whisper to him over and over in my heart, but he does not hear as time goes by, and in the end I have no choice, and I have to say goodbye to them, feeling sad for leaving.
“Take care of yourself,” Philip tells me with distant politeness, and Robert joins in too.
“Take care of yourself.”
One tear flows from my eyes as I walk out into the narrow alley and look around. I could not apologize to him. The hug will have to wait for next time, if there will be a next time.
Normandy
Despite the coat I’m wearing, the cold of autumn makes me tremble as I wait for Herr Ernest in Place de l’Étoile, shifting my body weight from foot to foot and rubbing my hands.
The Arc de Triomphe monument standing above makes me feel that every time I stand like this in the square, waiting for the German car, the figures engraved on the marble monument despise me more, judging me with tormented looks.
The grey car arrives just in time for me, and Oberst Ernest gets out of it quickly, even ahead of the driver who hurries to open the door for me and stand up straight on the sidewalk.
“Let me.” Oberst Ernest takes the travel bag I am holding in my hands, caresses my arm for a moment, and does not forget to compliment me on the dress I am wearing, the one Lizette helped me choose.
The night before, we’d packed the bag together for the two-day trip; I looked in the closet, and Lizette volunteered to help. I’d folded the clothes with a shaking hand, trying not to talk or lie to her.
“Did your girlfriend invite you to come sleep with her tomorrow after work?”
“Yes, she wants us to go out.”
“Only one night?”
“Yes.”
“And you love him?” She feels I’m not telling the truth.
“Yes.”
“So why are you so worried?”
If only I could tell her, or change the characters, I was looking for the right words, but the fear that I’d slip up made me silent, as I tried to fold the same shirt over and over again.
“Give it to me.” She smiled and took the bright button shirt from my hand. I did not want to hurt her; she was so important to me; she did not deserve it.
What will I do when Oberst Ernest tries to do it with me? Maybe I can imagine Philip in his place? My fingers tremble as I fold the white lace underwear, carefully placing it at the bottom of the bag over a pair of silk tights, which are so rare because of the war. Anaïs handed them to me. “A gift from me,” she’d whispered as she entered the boulangerie for a moment, taking me into a corner and ignoring Simone’s gaze. “A woman should look her best.” She giggled and placed the soft bundle in my palm, and I had no choice but to thank her and quickly tuck them into my apron pocket, trying not to think what they were meant for.
Occasionally, when the boulangerie was empty of German soldiers, I put my hand in my pocket, feeling the delicate silk in my fingers and trying to ignore the dull pain in the bottom of my stomach.
Everything would be okay, I tried to convince myself, but the inconvenience continued even in the evening as we packed the bag by candlelight. Lately, the power outages in the city have been increasing.
“Take this dress; it’s going to fit you.” She pulled a warm grey dress out of my closet for the ride.
“How did you know when it was the right time?” I’d held the dress and checked myself in front of the mirror.
“I didn’t know; you can never know when it’s the right time.”
“So when did you decide?”
“I didn’t decide, I wanted to,” she paused for a moment and lowered her head, “but I wanted it to be special for us, I wanted us to wait until we got married, I thought we should create a moment for us to remember forever.
But he had to join the army; there is always a war or something to fight about. So I told him we’d wait until he came back. Here, that skirt will suit you, too.” She put on a dark burgundy skirt, and I thought of the man in the picture waiting for the right moment, so sorry for the last time, for the arrival of Robert, for not kissing him, for not waiting a few more minutes, even though it was already late.
“Do not be sad,” Lizette put her hand on my arm, “it’s just one story of an old woman, your man is waiting for you, you should be happy.”
While the grey-blue vehicle heads its way west along the Seine river, Oberst Ernest notices that I’m cold despite the coat on my body, and instructs the driver to stop at the side of the road to close the tarpaulin roof. Quietly I sit in the car and look up at the tarpaulin, slowly closing us into the gloom.
“Now you will be more pleasant.”
“Thank you; I love autumn.”
“I like the grey color too. I told you we are alike.” He smiles at me, and I smile back, concentrating on the big trees. Their yellow leaves are falling on the wet road, and I try to ignore his hand wrapped in his black glove, resting on my thighs.
“I brought you the poetry book you love, for the evening at the hotel.”
“Thank you; I’d enjoy listening to you.”
“I want this evening to be perfect, a moment that you will remember forever.”
“Me too.”
“On the way, I have to stop at a few places, check some things, military subjects; you’ll have to wait for me.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Did you bring the diary I gave you?”
“Yes, thank you, it’s beautiful. I haven’t yet had time to thank you.”
“You can draw flowers, as many as you like.”
“Yes, thank you, I will.” Will you also take the binoculars with you this time?
Oberst Ernest goes on to talking about the wonderful French wine, telling me about a new crate of bottles he’s received especially from Bordeaux, and about the bottle he especially brought for tonight. I smile at him, putting my palm in his hand and thinking of all the women who crowded in line outside the grocery store in the Latin Quarter a few days ago. They were whispering that a shipment of flour had arrived while they waited patiently, hoping it would not end before it was their turn.
“You’re quiet today.”
“I’m looking at the river view, look at how beautiful it is.”
“But today you are especially quiet.”
“I thought you liked that about me.”
“I liked that, but I would like to know more about you.”
“What more would you like to know?”
“I’ll be happy to know what’s on your mind right now.” His palm is still on my thighs as if guarding me, where can I run?
“I’m thinking about the grey clouds ahead of us,” I point my head at the grey mass in the sky that awaits us above the horizon. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”
“Soon we will reach the seashore; you will love the open sea.”
The autumn wind constantly shakes the bushes and weeds on the dirt road, which curves to the seashore. On our way from the nearest village, we pass two army checkpoints which block the beach for the local fishermen, and on either side of the road there are barbed wire fences and concrete bunkers from which machine guns peek out.
“They might come from here,” Herr Ernest tells me once as I look out over the trenches, making myself calm and holding the side of the vehicle shaking on the dirt road.
“Why did you stop?” Oberst Ernest asks the driver who slowly slides the vehicle onto the road.
“Look.” The driver nods at a brown rabbit standing peacefully among the bushes.
“It’s time,” Ernest whispers to him, “this time he is mine.” Quietly he gets out of the car, and I turn my head to the other side and close my eyes tightly, waiting for the shot to come. But even though I’m ready, my whole body shakes when I hear the sound of gunfire, and I have to stop myself from screaming, leaving my eyes closed.
“Great hunting.” I hear his voice and open my eyes, trying to look at the distant sea and ignore Oberst Ernest, who proudly shows the driver the brown, dirty red lump of fur.
“He is big.” The driver admires the trophy.
“Yes, we will give it as a gift to the cook at the outpost; he will make lunch out of it.” He laughs and sits next to me, slamming the door and signaling for the driver to drive. I can smell the blood.
“Did you see?” He asks me.
“I could not look.” What does he expect me to say?
“Hunting is not for women,” he puts his gloved hand back on my thighs, and I imagine the lump of fur lying next to the driver and his hand touching it, feeling nauseous.
“Here’s the beach and the sea you love so much,” he shows me as the driver continues on the winding path towards the scarred sand, striped with barbed wire fences and jagged iron pillars that extend into the stormy sea and the grey waves hitting the shore.
“Heil Hitler.” I hear the loud call from the line of soldiers waiting for us in a parade, shouting when the vehicle stops in front of a larg
e grey concrete bunker.
“Would you like to wait for me in the car? Or you can go for a walk around, draw some flowers in your notebook,” he asks me as the local commander approaches and stands politely away from the vehicle, waiting for Oberst Ernest to put on his officer’s hat and say goodbye.
“Can I go around and draw?”
“Yes, but do not approach the edge of the cliff or try to go down to the sea.” He nods at the beach dotted with barbed wire fences.
“I will stay away from the sea; thank you.” I tighten the coat around my body and get away from the vehicle, turning my back to the driver who shows the lump of fur to the soldiers. What did the rabbit think as it ate grass? Did it know that its fate was sealed?
“What are you doing?”
He is wearing a German soldier uniform, standing above me on the mound, watching with interest as I bend over and hold the camera, trying to quickly shoot a battery of cannons that are well-camouflaged and hidden inside a concrete bunker, dominating the beach.
“I’m taking a picture.”
“Photography is not allowed here, who are you?”
I am a young woman who is soon going to end her life with severe torture because she was stupid, arrogant, and careless. My legs are shaking, and I want to scream, or start running and throw myself on the barbed wire fences surrounding the cliff overlooking the sea.
“I’m a photographer for SIGNAL, your army magazine, do you know it? So I’m allowed,” I answer him in perfect German as I get up, trying to smile my most peaceful smile at him, praying he doesn’t notice my trembling legs.
“Really? So why were you bending over?”
“How much can you photograph army stuff? Sometimes I also want to photograph flowers, come and see.” And he lowers the barrel of the rifle which was pointed in my direction, hanging it over his shoulder, and approaches me suspiciously. I can smell his strong body odor mixed with the stench of cigarettes and sweat.
