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

by Alex Amit

  ”The maids at the hotels have to separate the uniforms and the lingerie.” It is the joke they like most.

  “Tomorrow, we will go to see the apartment.” Herr Ernest signals to the waiter and I sip my coffee in silence, ignoring the German speech and laughter all around in the café. What did I bring upon myself? How would I leave Lizette?

  I could not say goodbye to Lizette. I could not experience another farewell. For days, I wandered restlessly in the boulangerie, lowering my eyes in front of Simone’s judgmental looks, thinking of what I could possibly say after she treated me so warmly. The nightmares return, and I wake sweaty. Until I can’t sleep at all anymore, and I run away.

  I pack all my clothes in a big bag and leave the house while Lizette is out, leaving her a small farewell note. Carefully I place it under the picture of the dead man in the silver frame on the fireplace, lowering my eyes and unable to watch his. But he continues to follow me with his proud gaze until I close the door behind me.

  Why didn’t I stay to hug her one last time? Why didn’t I wait to hug Philip that time in the basement? What is wrong with me?

  “Do you like the apartment?” Oberst Ernest asks as we walk around the abandoned and furnished place, holding the keys and looking at me.

  “Who lived here?”

  “It belonged to a family that left France,” he answers casually, checking the study, “now it belongs to the German nation.”

  The creaking of the parquet under my feet feels foreign as I follow him into the study.

  “Monique,” he looks at me, “this will be my study. You will never enter here.” And I turn and go out with a downcast look, concentrating on checking the pantry, my fingers examining the wooden boards.

  “I’ll make sure they clean here.” He follows my fingers. “Do not worry about the dust.”

  I enter the living room and looking around.

  “And I will also take care of new paintings instead of the ones that were taken,” he adds as he notices my gaze on the bright spots on the walls. Once there were works of art hanging there, but they are gone.

  “Do you like the apartment? I think it will suit you.”

  I have been living in an apartment that suits me for two months now. I usually wait for him in the evenings, and he comes when he can. I can hear the sound of his hobnail boots on the wooden stairs as he comes. A moment later, he opens the heavy door with the key he has, and I wait for him by the entrance, taking his coat.

  “I brought you some boxes of meat and sausages.” He hands me the heavy paper bag.

  “Thanks, but there is no need. I have enough.”

  “Any cheese left from the last time?”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “I’d be happy if you serve it for dinner, with the red wine I brought.”

  “Will you stay the night?”

  “Yes.” He caresses my side with his hand.

  I exist for those times. For those nights when he falls asleep after he gets off me, lying in bed.

  Quietly I roll up the blanket and carefully walk on the wooden floor, searching in the dark for his brown leather bag lying in his study, the room I must never enter. Listening to every noise, I carefully open the bag, feeling like I’m putting my hand into a monster’s mouth as I pull out a pile of documents and take them to the bathroom. Behind a closed door, and by candlelight, I read them. Names of army units, dates and movement orders, fortification instructions, and situation assessments. When I finish, I shove them back into place, exactly in the same order, smelling the leather scent of the heavy bag monster lying on the floor, mixed with the scent of fear coming from my sweaty body.

  Then I return to bed with quiet steps and lay beside him. But it is difficult for me to get to sleep again, wondering if tomorrow morning Oberst Ernest will discover what I did and put me by the wall for the last time. Only in the morning, after I hear the building’s front door slam, do I allow myself to sit on the cold parquet floor by the entrance and hug myself for a few moments.

  Since Normandy, Philip has not hugged me again.

  The basement

  “You are late.” Philip leans against the basement wall, wearing his old leather jacket.

  “Someone was standing by the steps of the metro entrance, watching the people. I had to wait for a group of women to pass. I didn’t want him to start asking me questions.”

  “We need to change the method; it’s starting to get dangerous.”

  “The method is fine. I just have to be careful. I know how to be careful.”

  “I worry about you.”

  But he does not show it anymore. He just looks at me from a distance, and all I can smell is this damp basement.

  “Your hugs never happened,” I whisper to myself.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oberst Ernest is constantly busy fortifying and preparing for the American invasion. They call the barricades ‘The Atlantic Wall.’”

  “How do you get along with him? And with Simone at the boulangerie?”

  “Right now, they estimate the invasion will take place in the next spring. That’s what their intelligence claims.”

  “And where do they think the invasion will take place?”

  “They are concentrating on the Pas de Calais area. The shortest distance from Britain. They have moved another armored division there.”

  “What about Normandy?”

  “It gets secondary priority in their army orders.”

  “And how do you feel? Aren’t you taking too many risks?”

  “They are transferring less efficient units to Normandy. Some units are comprised of soldiers forcibly recruited from Poland.”

  “Does that mean they have a shortage of manpower?”

  “It does not seem to me that anything will cause a shortage for the Germans. They always can decide to conquer some nation or piece of land.”

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, I’m not missing anything. I have a full pantry. Oberst Ernest is taking care of me.” Philip takes a step in my direction, but after a moment, he returns to leaning back against the wall, folding his hands. He can’t understand me, it is not his job. It’s also not his job to hug me, not after what I’m doing with Oberst Ernest.

  “Do you remember the photo film you gave me, from Normandy?”

  “I’ve already forgotten about it.”

  He was so angry with me then, when I returned from Normandy.

  “How could you lose the camera? What will I say to Robert? It took so long to convince him. Do you know the efforts I made to convince him?” He’d walked around the basement shouting at the wall, and I’d stood embarrassed in the corner, ashamed of myself and of what I had done with Oberst Ernest.

  “I was not careful enough.” I’d tried to stop my tears as I handed him the film I had taken out of my coat pocket, my fingers gripping the small metal box nervously. I’d guarded it for days, afraid of the man in the black coat at the stairs to the metro. Would he choose to search my body?

  “Take it, it’s for you.” I’d approached Philip in fear, wanting to apologize, and did not find the words, but he just put the film box in his jacket pocket and walked away from me. Not even slightly touching my fingers, leaving me waiting to feel warm hands, that time after Normandy.

  “London loved the material you photographed; they really appreciate what you did.”

  “I manage to read a telegram.”

  “They asked me to relay their appreciation.”

  “The telegram indicates that the Germans are debating how to deal with the invasion.” And I explain to him the movement of forces and units as I remember them. He can pass all that information to those anonymous people living in London. I, too, have no identity. I no longer expect him to hug me anymore.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? Can I take care of something for you?” I look at his simple clothes.

  “No, thanks. Herr Ernest takes care of everything I need.” All Philip cares
about is the stuff I bring him.

  “Do not forget who you are. You are one of us.” He’s not trying to hug me.

  “I do not forget.” I’m a French whore that everyone leaves. You will also abandon me in the end. Luckily, I did not fall in love with you.

  “I just don’t like you mentioning him.”

  “I belong to him.”

  “You are one of us.” His fingers are playing with the pencil he is holding.

  “I need to go. I have an evening gown I need to purchase.” My fingers touch the hem of my coat.

  “Take care of yourself.” I manage to hear his voice behind me as I climb the stairs leading out of the basement to the rainy street, but I do not turn back.

  “Take care of yourself,” I whisper as I walk down the alley and wipe away my tears, passing a woman in a grey dress and her daughter, both standing in the doorway of their old shop, watching me walk in the rain. I have to hurry. I have a dress to buy.

  “I need your help,” my lips whisper to Anaïs, trying to make sure the receptionist won’t hear me.

  “She’s with me,” says Anaïs to the girl behind the mahogany desk, as she pulls me after her to the back rooms of the fashion house, the space that holds all the rolls of fabric standing against the walls.

  “How are you? Tell me, how is he?”

  “He’s polite.”

  “Is he gentle?”

  “Yes, he is very considerate.”

  “And does he hurt you?”

  “No, never. Does your Fritz hurt you?”

  “Sometimes, he has a hard time expressing his real feelings, but I know how to take care of myself. I’m a woman.”

  My fingers gently caress her hand, but she turns her back to me and lights a cigarette for herself, turning again and exhaling the smoke, closing her eyes with pleasure—the smelly grey-bluish smoke lingers between us. “The most important thing is to know how to take care of yourself. No one else will do that for you.”

  “I know.”

  “So, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” She again looks at me, and I’m sorry for not visiting her before, inviting her to a café, sitting and chatting together. Someday I will, I promise myself.

  “I need a dress.”

  “So let’s go buy you a dress. I’m just going to get my bag.”

  “No, I need a dress from here.”

  “From here?”

  “Yes, I need a dress for the opera.”

  “Are you going to the opera?”

  “Yes, Herr Ernest wants me to be his companion for the opera.”

  Anaïs looks at me, smoking in silence. Suddenly, she seems smaller and more vulnerable.

  “The dresses here are expensive. Do you have enough money?”

  “Herr Ernest gave it to me.” I put the rolled bundle of bills in her hands, asking anxiously: “Will that be enough?”

  “Yes, that will be enough.” She slowly examines the bills, returns them to me, and puts out her cigarette. “Not only does Anaïs know how to take care of Anaïs, Monique also knows how to take care of Monique. Follow me.”

  “Anaïs, come here, please,” the fashion house manager calls her from the back room. She apologizes to me, asking me to wait a moment.

  While standing in the center of the fitting room, I try not to look down at the seamstress kneeling at my feet. They have arranged the red dress wrapped around my body, examined the straps, making sure they do not fall when I bend over.

  “Anaïs, please help the lady in the red dress.”

  The windows of the measurement hall are covered with dark curtains. They probably do not want to stand out in front of the poor city outside.

  “Anaïs, please bring the lady a pair of high heels to match the dress, the closed shoes from the winter collection, what is your size?”

  There is a stack of wooden chairs in the corner of the room, placed on top of each other. When German women arrive, do they sit comfortably and watch the entire collection? I mustn’t look down.

  “Anaïs, please arrange the hem for the lady.”

  “I think it’s okay.” If only I could run away from here.

  “No, we need it to be at the perfect height, Anaïs, please fix that.”

  Maybe they cover the windows because of the nighttime regulations against bombers? No, they surely don’t want to show off.

  “This dress looks perfect on you. You’re perfect. Thank you, Anaïs, you can go back to the sewing room.”

  “When do you need the dress?”

  “The concert is tomorrow.” My eyes follow Anaïs’ back, watching her disappear into the back room, closing the door behind her with a slight click.

  “Excellent, our courier will bring you the dress tomorrow morning, give the address to the receptionist.”

  On the way out, I want to go and say goodbye to her, but the salon manager accompanies me to the exit, kisses both of my cheeks goodbye, and I’m too ashamed to go back.

  One day I will visit her, and we will both go for a walk in the street, passing the fancy café and watching the opera house. Tomorrow I will enter it for the first time in my life.

  Pompeii

  “Did you get wet?” Herr Ernest asks when we get out of the car, hurrying up the marble stairs leading to the magnificent entrance.

  “No.” But Herr Ernest turns to scold the boy holding a large umbrella, and opens the arriving car’s doors.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. He needs to know how to do his job.” Herr Ernest goes down the stairs and speaks to him in his quiet voice, and I turning away, looking up at the big red flags with swastikas in their center. They hang at the building entrance, drizzling rain onto those coming to the concert.

  “Shall we go inside?” His hand holds mine. “Be careful not to slip on the wet marble stairs.”

  At the entrance to the hall, I stop in place, overwhelmed by the golden wealth surrounding me. The crystal chandeliers illuminate the spectacular ceiling paintings and shiny gold sculptures, as if there are no power outages throughout the city. Waiters in black suits and bow ties move quietly among the guests, holding silver trays with champagne glasses. The war did not cross the threshold of the opera, except for the guests, German army officers in pressed uniforms with various ranks and decorations.

  “Please, for you.” Herr Ernest hands me a clear yellowish glass with small bubbles while bringing his lips closer to my ear, so as not to shout in the bustle of noise all around us: “What do you think?”

  “Wonderful.” I want to run out of this place, feeling so prominent in my red gown.

  “The dress suits you so well.” He holds my arm, like all the other German officers traveling in the hall in their uniforms, proudly presenting their female companions wearing their prom dresses, as if they were a valuable prize.

  “Come, I will introduce you to some of my colleagues.” He leads me to the center, under the huge golden chandelier.

  “And how come a young French lady like you is interested in Wagner?” A senior officer in a black uniform and visored hat turns to me in French, looking at me mockingly.

  “There are young ladies who love his music and his opinions,” I answer in perfect German, looking at the skull decorating his hat.

  “You did not tell us she speaks German.” The officer turns to Oberst Ernest while appreciatively looking at me, and everyone laughs.

  “Be careful. Maybe she is a spy.” Another officer answers him, his helmet also decorated with a skull, and the sounds of laughter increase.

  “It’s clear to me she’s a spy.” Oberst Ernest smiles at him. “Therefore I will keep her close to me, so you can’t snatch her. You all know the German rules. What we hunt belongs to us.”

  “Never trust French women unless they are accompanied by a German officer supervising them,” I answer the officer in the black uniform in my perfect German, smiling a perfect smile with my red lips, but my stomach hurts from tension.

  “To the beautiful and
loyal French women.” The officer in black raises his glass in my honor, and I feel the hand of Oberst Ernest tightening around my arm.

  “To the thousand-year Reich.” Another officer raises his champagne glass, and we all cheer.

  “And to the pleasures of Paris,” adds another officer.

  “And to staying here forever, to never be sent to the Russian front.”

  “You can trust the Americans who are preparing for the invasion. They will keep us here.” The sounds of laughter continue, though no one dares raise his glass.

  “To our Führer.”

  “To the Führer.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the ladies’ room.”

  “Hurry up. The concert is starting soon.” He releases my arm, and I cross the hall slowly, having a hard time walking on luxurious high heels while knowing that all the officers’ eyes are fixed on my back, examining me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks me in French as I wash my face in the luxurious restroom.

  “Yes, thank you, I was nauseous for a moment.”

  “It’s the champagne. You’re probably not used to it.”

  “Yes, it must be champagne.”

  I hear the bell ringing in the hall, calling everyone to enter the concert. Oberst Ernest is waiting for me in the emptying lobby, and I watch the column of men holding their colorful wives. They slowly climb up the marble stairs, and I think of the man from the railway company, that time in Drancy, when he told me about the rows of people climbing into the train carriages.

  “Are you enjoying the evening?”

  “It’s a wonderful evening. Thank you for taking me.”

  When he stays the night in my apartment after being inside me, I sit quietly in the bathroom and read military orders. The Russian winter offensive has begun. Therefore the Final Solution to the Jewish Question must be accelerated.