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

by Alex Amit

  A few days later, I’m walking by the newsstand when I notice the boy is back. He is arranging a pile of newspapers and whispering to me about the meeting point, and my heart is pounding. It’s been so long.

  I must not think about Philip; I have to concentrate, make sure I am not followed in the streets. What about my fears of Herr Ernest? Shall I tell him? Will he calm me down after all the horrible things I said to him?

  The road to the Latin Quarter does not end as I pedal the bike, hurrying as fast as I can, looking down in shame as I pass a long line of women. They are waiting quietly at the grocery store entrance, hoping to buy some food with their food ration stamps.

  I will tell him everything, even if nothing will ever be between us, and even if all he is interested in is the information I’m bringing. I don’t care; he is waiting for me.

  The stairs leading down into the basement seem dark, and I stand and arrange my breath, my dress, the bag strap on my shoulder, and I brush my hair with my fingers; I am ready, despite the dull ache in the bottom of my stomach. Will he hug me?

  Without thinking, I quickly go down the stairs, stopping on the last step, looking at him and freezing. He is not Philip.

  “Hello, Monique,” the stranger standing at the basement entrance reaches his hand out. “Do not run away.”

  The Stranger

  Where’s Philip? What did they do to him? Did they catch him? Is this man German? I want to scream, and my stomach hurts. What should I do?

  Think fast about a cover story. My hand quickly goes into my dress pocket, but all I have is a yellow badge. Why didn’t I put it back in its place? They will kill me. Where’s Philip?

  “Everything is fine,” the stranger raises his hand in a calming motion and tells me his name, but with all the screams in my head, I can hear nothing.

  “Monique,” he tries to approach.

  Slowly, I go back up the stairs.

  “Do not run away. Everything is fine. I’m one of ours. I’m replacing Philip.”

  Everything is not fine, and I do not believe him, where’s Philip? My hand stays tucked in my dress pocket, holding the yellow badge tightly; maybe he’ll think I have a weapon, while my eyes follow his movements, ready to run away, even though he will probably shoot me if I turn my back.

  “Everything’s fine, do not be afraid, I’m replacing Philip, and I’ll work with you from now on.” He smiles at me, but I can hear noises outside in the street upstairs.

  “Where’s Philip?” I slowly approach the wooden table waiting for us in the basement, watching him come closer and raise his hand again.

  Then, in one movement, I kick him as hard as I can, turning around and escaping up the stairs. Between my breaths, I can barely hear him groaning behind me, and the sound of a falling chair, but I’m not stopping; I must run out of here.

  Like a bullet, I burst into the street and start to run as fast as I can, almost tripping over the smooth street stones, trying to pass through two merchants arguing, holding wooden carts, and shouting at each other for the right to cross the narrow street. I don’t have time to look back.

  In one of the alleys, I hide and rest for a few minutes, leaning against the cracked brick wall and trying to catch my breath. What was that? What happened to Philip? Did they ambush me? I carefully peeked into the main street, but everyone seemed suspicious. The man dozing on the bench and the woman standing in the store’s doorway, and what about the young man slowly pedaling his bike, looking to the sides, is he looking for me?

  My head is down as I return to the main street, trying to walk calmly. Running earlier was a mistake; it surely attracted attention. I don’t want them to find me. I promised Lizette that I would stay alive.

  “What arrived today?” I ask the last woman in line as I stand behind her, waiting on the street to enter the grocery store, hoping I’m not arousing suspicion with my modern dress.

  “They say he had bread and oil, but there is not much left.”

  “I hope something will be left by the time we get inside,” I smile at her while looking to the sides of the street.

  “He does not accept the old coupons, only the new ones. Do you have the new ones?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Would you like to exchange coupons?” she whispers to me, not wanting the others standing in the line to hear us. “I can give you cheese coupons in exchange for meat coupons, is it right with you?”

  “Yes, sure.” My fingers rummage in my bag, searching for the ration card as I turn my back on her and carefully tear off the stamps. I don’t want her to notice that my ration card is almost unused, it will arouse her suspicions, and she will start poking around, asking more questions. The street is empty, maybe I’ve managed to escape from them.

  “What a fool I am. I’ve run out of oil coupons. I’m standing here for nothing.” I make a sad face.

  “Never mind, I’ll give you one of mine,” she smiles at me. “We women must help each other. Otherwise, how will we survive this war?”

  The sun has already set as I cross Pont Neuf towards the east bank, holding a paper bag with a loaf of bread. The metro has already stopped operating at such an hour, they are trying to save electricity, and I will have to walk all the way to the apartment. At least I insisted on giving her some meat stamps from my ration card, knowing they are priceless, and I do not need them anyway. My pantry is full of German army meat tins.

  On the way home, I occasionally stop and look back, making sure I am not being followed. Sometimes I sit on a bench in the avenue, resting and looking around, but I avoid smoking, even though I need it so much. A smoking woman always draws attention.

  Carefully I approach the building and carefully climb the stairs and listen outside the door. The apartment is dark and empty. No one is waiting to arrest me, not even Herr Oberst Ernest. He informed me he would not come today. He’s been coming less recently.

  I wake up at night, hearing someone outside on the building stairs, but no one knocks loudly at the door, shouting at me to open up. What happened to Philip? Maybe I’m wrong, and everything’s okay? Perhaps he’s replacing him? I did not even manage to hear the stranger’s name.

  Next time I will be more prepared.

  The next day, on my way out from the boulangerie, the boy is waiting for me again, and I have to go back to the Latin Quarter. I’m ready this time.

  Step by step, I carefully go down the stairs, my hand resting in my dress pocket, my fingers firmly holding the knife’s handle. The yellow badge was returned to its hiding place in the sewing kit. I must never repeat such mistakes.

  Along the way, I was still hoping it was a mistake or a bad dream and that Philip would be waiting for me this time, but it wasn’t a dream. The same stranger is waiting for me in the damp basement.

  “Hello, Monique.”

  I remain standing on the last step, nervously examining him, and say nothing. I must know what happened to Philip.

  “Hello again.” He tries to get closer but notices the tiny movement of my body stepping back, and stops where he is, afraid I’ll run away or try to kick him again. My fingers hold the knife’s handle tighter.

  “I am listening.”

  “I’m replacing Philip.”

  “And why does he need a replacement, and where is he?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “So why should I believe you?”

  “You have to believe me. Look, he gave this to me.” And the stranger takes the map of the Normandy coastline out of his pocket, places it on the table, the same map I tried to draw the last time we met. I’m so sorry for what I said to him.

  “Did you replace him because of what I said to him?”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you ready to get closer?”

  “Will he meet me again?”

  “I do not know. It doesn’t depend on me.”

  “What is your name?” I ask him in German.


  “I do not understand,” he answers me in French. Shall I believe him?

  On the way back to the city’s east bank, I choose to return through Pont des Arts. The river’s grey water flows quietly under the wooden boards, and despite the chill wind, I sit on one of the benches and light myself a cigarette. A couple of adults standing not far from me are looking at me and whispering, but I ignore them, feeling the hot smoke in my throat. I have already done much worse than smoking. Am I falling into the trap of the Gestapo? Did they infiltrate the resistance? Doesn’t he want to see me anymore?

  “Do not cry, my dear. He will return.” The older woman who looked at me with anger earlier is approaching me. “Everything will be all right.”

  “Thanks.” I smile at her, wiping my tears with the handkerchief she’s handed me. He will come back, he must come back, I will bring the best information I can get, and I will stay alive, telling him how much I miss him.

  Before they walk away, the older woman turns to me, smiling one last time for encouragement, and I smile back at her, wiping my tears again. I have to stop this crying; Herr Ernest will arrive at the apartment soon. He wants us to go out with his officers, and I need to continue acting like everything is perfect.

  The dark night sky is filled with the lights of anti-aircraft trace ammunition slowly climbing up, until they disappear between the clouds.

  “Stop the vehicle,” Oberst Ernest instructs the driver as we hurry to get out of the car, rushing to the side of the street and looking up.

  I can’t see the American bombers in the dark night, nor the German searchlights traveling between the clouds and looking for them, but I can feel them there, in the sky above me.

  Their monotonous noise and the echoes of explosions in the distance make me sweat and cower in fear while I cover my head with my hands.

  The street is entirely dark, the few lamps that are still on at night have gone out, as ordered, and I kneel on the dark, cold sidewalk.

  “Come on, hurry up,” he calls to me, and I continue in the direction of his voice, clinging to the wall, waiting to feel the heat of the bombs, but they do not come.

  The sirens’ howls don’t stop, tearing at my ears, but the anti-aircraft batteries aren’t heard at all at a distance. Only their death bullets are seen, painting the skies in red stripes. The bombers are probably just passing by.

  “You can get up. It’s over.” Herr Ernest reaches his hand out after a few minutes, supporting me as I get up from the sidewalk, arranging my evening dress. “Your friends went to bomb other Frenchmen.”

  “I’m with you, and they’re bombing me too. I do not support the Americans.”

  “I know you are loyal to the German nation.” He opens the car door for me; did he mean what he said?

  The rest of the ride passes quietly, with the car’s headlights making their way through the dark streets to the nightclub, but his hand does not rest on my thigh.

  “I thought you would not come,” Anaïs hugs me and shouts in my ear, trying to overcome the noisy music.

  “Slight delay,” I smile and point up with my finger.

  “Yes, soon they will arrive, and then we all have to learn English.” She smiles her knowing smile.

  “I’m not going to replace what I have.” I place my hand on Herr Ernest’s back, as he is busy talking to the Fritzes. Even though we have not exchanged a word since the unplanned stop on the street, I must have him trust me.

  “We will see.” She laughs at me and hugs her Fritz, whispering something in his ear, and he takes a cigarette box out of his pocket, lighting one for her.

  “How are you?” I try to shout to Violette, who is sitting quietly on the other side of the table, but she does not answer me; she just smiles sadly.

  “Lately, Fritz doesn’t give her attention at all,” Anaïs volunteers to tell me the latest news, ignoring Violette who is sitting beside her. “She’s afraid he won’t take her with him to Germany.” And I feel sorry and want to hug her. She looks so lost to me.

  “Do not worry, Violette, he will stay here with us until the end.” Anaïs hugs her instead of me. “Look what the city has to offer him,” she points to the stripper dancing in front of the men. She is wearing panties and shaking her breasts, which are bound in a purple corset, to the cheers of the crowd. “No one else will be able to provide him with such pleasure.”

  Anaïs’ evil surprises me, and I look for something to answer her, but Violette gets up and walks towards the restroom, pushing between the crowds, women in nightdresses and men mostly in German uniforms.

  “She does not need you, she needs to face reality,” Anaïs grabs my arm as I get up, intending to follow her. “She needs to learn how to take care of herself, like us.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I smile at her, hurrying after Violette into the dim opening on the side of the stage, apologizing to the people around the tables as I pass. I’m running out of friends to lose.

  “He’s ignoring me,” she cries in front of the filthy mirror, and her whole body trembles as she searches through her little bag, looking for a pencil to fix the makeup around her eyes. “He tells me I don’t support him enough and that he’s busy.”

  “Maybe he’s busy?”

  “A few days ago, he returned to town, and we haven’t met since then.” Her sobs continue.

  “Men are like that,” my hand touches her shoulder. “They like to play in the war.” The feeling of the mature woman who should encourage another is strange to me.

  “He was not like that at first. At first, he had time to hang out with me, promising me things.”

  “That’s the way it is. First they promise you things until they get into your underwear, but after that, they are not interested.” I try to speak with a funny tone, but Violette just cries more.

  “What will they do to me?” She turns to me with a scared look, her cheeks dirty from her smeared eye makeup.

  “Who?” My hand continues to caress her shoulder, even though it feels strange to me.

  “Everyone, the French.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What will they do to me if the Russians or the Americans come?” I stop caressing her.

  “They will not come, they have been fighting for four years, and they have not come yet.”

  “I was so scared today when I heard the bombers coming. I didn’t want to come at all, but Fritz insisted.”

  “The Germans are strong. They will beat the Americans if they come. Nothing will happen to you. Your Fritz will protect you.”

  “And the Russians?”

  “They will defeat the Russians too.”

  “It all happened because of the Jews who control the world’s economy. They influenced the Russians with their money, and now the Americans too.” She wipes her face with a handkerchief she pulled out of her bag, looking at herself in the mirror. She has never really been my friend.

  “I heard that the Germans have done unspeakable things as well.” I can’t stop myself.

  “Those are just rumors. I do not believe that my Fritz would harm someone; he is so polite with me even when he is angry, not like French men.” She fixes her lipstick and, unhappy with the result, removes it with her handkerchief, applying it again.

  “They are probably just rumors. They will not come. You will stay with your Fritz forever, you will see.” I force myself to hug her a little for encouragement, waiting for her to finish fixing her makeup, but she already wants to return to the club. Suddenly the noisy club feels intimate to me, despite the loud music, the applause, and the cigarette smoke filling it.

  “Did you hold her hand while she was fixing her makeup?” Anaïs whispers as we sit down at the table. “Don’t worry,” she brings her mouth close to mine, making sure I hear her over the noise, “I hosted a company for everyone instead of you. What are best friends for?”

  But it does not seem to me that the men are paying any attention to her at all. Though she never stops stroking her Fritz’s ba
ck, the men’s eyes are focused on the almost-naked dancer on the stage. She slowly removes her skirt to the sounds of cheers and whistles. No one from the crowd cares anymore about the dark planes that passed over our heads earlier tonight.

  Later, in the apartment bedroom, I wonder if, like all men, Herr Ernest lays on me but imagines the stripper shaking her breasts in front of his eyes and mostly smiling at him, impressed by his high rank. When he was in Russia, did he own some woman? Doing horrible things during the day and being polite to her at night? The same politeness he shows me?

  The sound of Herr Ernest’s breathing disturbs the silence in the room as I sneak into the forbidden study. I must find better information, to see Philip again.

  Fissures

  “The Germans are moving more forces towards the coast and splitting headquarters. There is an argument between the generals.”

  “What kind of argument?”

  “Something about unit sectors, I could not understand.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I heard a phone call.”

  “Monique, you’ve done a good job so far, but these are things that we are less interested in. I need you to get me plans, photos, not rumors you maybe hear in a casual phone conversation.”

  “I’m bringing anything I can get my hands on.”

  “Monique, you need to work harder. We need every bit of information for the coming invasion, not just pieces of small talk. I need you to get me maps, telegrams, real material.” His finger knocks on the wooden table that separates us, making me cringe. It seems to me that he hasn’t forgiven me for the kick he received at our first meeting. I can apologize to him, but he’s still scaring me.

  “When will Philip return?”

  “I’m replacing him. You’re working with me now.”

  “Yes, but when will he return?”

  “What does it matter to you? Are you working for Philip, or the resistance and the liberation of France?”