by Alex Amit
There is still a faint smell of fire on the way to work, but they have already cleaned the glass from the streets, and the cracked shop windows are covered with strips of sticky paper. I try to work as hard as I can in the boulangerie, distracting my mind from the nights to come.
The boulangerie door opens, and I notice Violette coming in, her eyes red.
“Good morning,” I say, but it’s been hard for me to smile since the last time we met at the club about two weeks ago.
“I need to talk to you.”
“What happened?” I ask, already guessing that the answer has to do with her Fritz.
“I cannot say.” She looks at the soldier waiting in line for his order and watching us.
“Wait. I’ll be right with you.” I pack his croissants and hope she hasn’t gotten Fritz involved in that female problem. Did Anaïs also place a package of rubbers in her hands? Her Fritz probably brings them from German army supply; he wouldn’t want to harm his Aryan race’s purity, mixing it with some simple local mistress.
“Monique, you are daydreaming. The honorable soldier is waiting.”
“Sorry I only gave you only three croissants; we are limited in quantities.” I hand the bag to the soldier. Supply shipments have become irregular in recent days, but it does not really matter. The flow of soldiers in grey-green uniforms has filled the small space with loud speeches, and cigarette smoke remains only a distant memory. Only a few of them enter these days. Everyone is at the front, waiting for the invasion, hardly visiting Paris anymore.
“Sit down; I’ll join you in a minute.” Or maybe Fritz abandoned her, decided she was not right for him. We had not met since that evening at the club, I was comfortable keeping a distance from her, afraid I would be tempted to say nasty things. I’ve never been like this, maybe I learned from Anaïs, or maybe too much time has passed, and I have become one of them. Surely this is what Simone thinks of me. Even Marie no longer wants to go out for a walk with me on the boulevard, as she wanted to when she was new.
“What happened?” We sit down at one of the empty tables, and even Simone does not make a face. Maybe more customers will enter when they see that people are sitting by the boulangerie tables.
“I can’t go on like this anymore.”
“What happened?”
“I do not sleep at night, Fritz hardly comes and when he does, he is stressed, there are almost no food rations at the grocery store, and you do not come to visit me.”
“I was busy; I apologize.” I touch her hand.
“When will they invade?”
“They will not invade.”
“I’m scared,” she holds my hand. “Why can’t we be like we used to be?”
“What do you mean?”
“Back then, when we went to the river, sailed in boats, laughed and had fun, or when we were going to cafés on the Champs-Élysées, and no one cared about when the Americans were coming. I hate this summer.”
“The summer has not yet started. We are only at the beginning of June,” I answer her, and wonder when exactly, in all this time she was enjoying, Fritz’s friends killed my family in Auschwitz. I want to stop stroking her hand, but I hold myself back.
“I already hated this summer before it began,” she smiles a little. “I like to feel your fingers, they’re warm, I’m lucky you’re my friend.”
Two more armored German soldiers enter the boulangerie, laughing and saying they need something sweet before they leave Paris on their way to the staging areas, and Simone clears her throat. I have to get up and serve them.
“Do not worry; the Americans will not come.” I give her one last hug before I walk up behind the counter, wondering whether she would have stayed my friend had she known who I really was. “How can I help you?” I ask the two soldiers in the mottled uniforms with a polite smile, the ones who would try to kill the American soldiers if they came to set me free.
On the way back to the apartment, I stop for a few minutes and light a cigarette, walking into one of the small streets, far from the reproachful looks of men seeing a woman smoking, but on the way to the metro, I see several people in long black coats scanning the crowd, and I decide to walk home on foot.
Oberst Ernest informed me that he would come tonight, and I no longer know what scares me more, his presence or the bombers passing through the night sky.
What does it matter, I think to myself when I stop and light another cigarette. My end will be the same.
“How was your day?” I kneel at Herr Ernest’s feet, trying to help him take off his boots, but he ignores me and enters the apartment, examining it with his eyes.
“What happened to the wine glasses that were in the living room?”
“They were broken a few days ago by the bombers.”
“The American and British bombers?” He lets me help him take off his boots.
“Yes, the American and British bombers.” I look down at the floor, holding his dirty black boots.
“They are destroying all our achievements, coming at night like thieves, afraid to invade and fight the German army.”
“I hate them.” I place his hobnail boots by the front door.
“But all the people in the streets cheer when they come.”
“I don’t think they are cheering for them.” I get off the floor and help him remove his coat.
“No, they are spying for information, that’s what our intelligence says. They are ungrateful for our efforts to stop the Communist monster coming from the East, destroying the world together with the Jews.”
“I hate the Communists.”
“The French people always surprise me, supporting the wrong conqueror. Our intelligence reports that the resistance is passing information to England, helping them destroy France.”
“I’m with you. I don’t want Paris to be destroyed.” Is he setting a trap for me? What should I answer?
“Aren’t you more French than German?”
“I’m with you here, isn’t it the answer?” What should I do? Why did Philip not prepare me for this?
Slowly I hand him back the bottle of wine he brought with him, praying he won’t notice my trembling legs, looking into his green eyes and whispering to him in German: “If that doesn’t suit you, I can go.” Then I turn and walk to the bedroom, getting ready to start packing, my whole body tense and shaking.
Did I do right? Should I have fallen on my knees and begged?
“Take your clothes off.”
But I keep walking, turning my back on him, knowing that he is a German officer and he can do whatever he wants to me. He can kill me. No one will even bother to investigate or even ask why he did it. The noise of my footsteps on the parquet floor is jarring to my ears as I keep walking, thinking about my breathing. I don’t know what to do, did I made a mistake?
“Please take your clothes off,” he gently says to me.
Later, when we are in bed, and he is catching his breath, he apologizes for not reading me poetry for a long time.
“I would love for you to read me poetry. I love German poetry.”
“A weak woman would get down on her knees and beg me to forgive her behavior. I hate weak people. Like back then in the East, when I could smell their fear,” he whispers, as if to himself, before he gets off me and falls asleep.
The open window and the growl of the planes passing over us leave me awake all night, repeatedly turning restlessly on my side of the bed. Although he is fast asleep, I am too scared to get up and go to his study. Can he smell my fear?
The smell of fear is all around me in the next days at the almost-empty boulangerie. I clean the same plates repeatedly or try to get out the back door, sitting in the sun for a while, but Marie never stops talking to me.
“They say the Russian soldiers are the worst. What if they come?” she asks. “The German army radio says we must unite and fight against them.”
“Marie, they will not come, they are far away, and according to the German radio, the German a
rmy hasn’t stopped winning.” I lose my patience with her. Even the newspaper headlines keep on publishing German victories, but I don’t believe them anymore.
“And they say the Americans will invade Belgium and that the Germans will destroy Paris, just as they destroyed every city before withdrawing.”
“Marie, the Russians are in Poland, the Germans are in Paris, they will not destroy Paris. Otherwise they will not have cafés and boulangeries with fresh croissants. Everything will be fine.” I get up and enter, waiting for the end of the day. But the boy is waiting for me again at the newsstand. I have to go meet him.
I’m just too tense. I stop for a few minutes over the bridge, trying to calm myself down and checking the people around. It’s just the tension that makes me imagine something’s wrong. I’ve been in this costume for too long. It makes sense that I’m scared, especially with all those rumors around, everyone is wondering if there will be an invasion and when.
Everything’s okay, I just need to relax.
I carefully go down into the dark entrance to the basement and get ready to meet the man in the grey button-down shirt who is waiting for me. For a moment, I imagine Philip will be standing there with his quiffed hair and old jacket, but I know it will not happen. He will never want me after what I did and said.
“Good afternoon, how are you?” He approaches, wanting to hug and kiss me on the cheek, but I hurry to sit down at the table, feeling more secure with the old wooden board separating us.
“Good afternoon, how are you?”
“I’m good.”
“What did you bring with you today?”
“I do not have much information. My officer rarely comes, and we almost don’t meet.”
“Still, didn’t you see or hear anything?”
“They are arguing among themselves whether there will be an invasion or not.”
“You told me that last time, we need more information.”
He leans back and looks at me angrily. What does he want from me? Doesn’t he know that I’m trying? He does not care about all the nights I do not sleep, wondering when they will catch me. About the Gestapo building on 84 Avenue Foch, that I dare not think about at all.
“I will try to do better.” My fingers firmly hold the knife in my dress pocket.
“What’s your officer’s name?”
“Didn’t Philip tell you?” He’s not my officer, he’s German, and I’m scared of him, I’m scared of you too.
“No, Philip told me you would provide me with all the information I would ask for.”
“Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Because the people above me want to know.”
“Then ask Philip.”
“Don’t be rude.”
“Sorry.”
“And what is his rank?”
“I think he’s an Oberstleutnant.”
“You do not even know his rank?”
“Their ranks are really confusing. They have so many.”
“You are not helping me. What’s his last name?”
“I think he’s an armored officer. I do not know exactly what unit. I think he’s in a Panzer tank.”
There is a long moment of silence as we sit on either side of the table, looking at each other. I lower my eyes, trying to think if there is another detail I can tell him that he’d like. Where are his hands? Why does he always keep them in his lap, not putting them on the table as Philip used to do? I have to look up and smile at him, the problem is with me and all the surrounding tension.
“Is that all you know about him after a year of being together?”
“He does not tell me anything, he is silent.”
“You must bring us more material, even if it involves taking more risks.”
“I promise I’ll try.” I choose not to tell him about that time in the bathroom, when Herr Ernest almost caught me.
His dark eyes continue to examine my face and body as if researching me.
“Well, we’ll see what to do with you and your poor material.” He ends the meeting between us after a few more moments of silence, signaling with his hand that I can go.
“Thanks.”
I’ll be better. I promise, I want to tell him when I get up, but I say nothing, just turning my back and searching for the stairs. How could I be so wrong about Philip?
The grey light at the end of the stairs seems to invite me to leave this suffocating basement, and I hurry to get out into the open air, feeling his eyes on my back, and letting out a sigh of relief as my feet touch the sidewalk of the alley.
I look for the little girl from the store, wanting to give her a chocolate bar that I brought with me, especially for her. A real chocolate bar, flavored with sweet sugar and bitter cocoa, such that my mouth fills with saliva when I close my eyes and imagine its taste. Even in the German army, they now give chocolate to pilots alone. A few days ago, Herr Ernest brought some chocolate bars with him, placing them in the pantry beside the wine bottles.
But the girl does not peek out the store door, and despite the dripping summer rain, I am ashamed to approach and look inside, preferring to stand and wait for her. I have a bad feeling that something will happen to her and that this is the last time we will meet. Maybe a bomb will hit her, and perhaps something will happen to me.
I need to relax. I will meet her many more times, the sun will soon set, and I have a long walk to the apartment. Herr Ernest has informed me that he will arrive tonight.
All night it drizzles, forcing me to close the window. Despite the silence in the dark apartment, I can’t fall asleep. My eyes are wide open in the dark room as I listen to his breathing, trying to force myself to walk to his study, but I’m too afraid to get out of bed. The ringing of the phone from the study wakes me up, I must have fallen asleep. While I’m trying to understand what happened in the middle of the night, Herr Ernest is already hurrying to the ringing phone, listening for a moment to the sounds coming from the black tube, putting it in place, and quickly starting to get dressed.
“What happened?” My hands are busy tying my bathrobe.
“Nothing special, usual military alert, go back to sleep.” He finishes zipping his coat, collects the papers from his desk, perhaps waiting for me as bait even though I did not dare approach them. Herr Ernest stuffs them in his leather bag and walks out the door, barely saying goodbye.
The rain has stopped, and I open the window and peek into the dark street. A military car passes and stops for a moment, picking him up and continuing on its way. The sound of wheels is heard on the wet street stones, but after it disappears behind the street corner the city returns to its peaceful night.
On the way to the boulangerie, the street traffic is usual while the morning sun dries the wet sidewalk. Still, inside I hear Simone’s angry voice, talking to Martin the cook, barely noticing as I walk through the door, despite the bell ringing every time it opens.
“This is the fourth time in the last two weeks that we have not received butter. How do they expect us to make croissants? With their terrible substitutes?”
“Monique,” she turns to me, “please note in the vendor book: June sixth, and no butter has arrived again.” I go behind the counter, take out the heavy supplier’s notebook, writing in perfect handwriting: “June sixth, 1944, no supply of butter.”
“Monique, I want you to go to the market again to try and get butter.” But I manage to convince her to send Marie, using the excuse that she must gain experience talking to vendors, and soon a lot of soldiers will come, even though the boulangerie is almost empty in recent days.
The morning hours pass lazily by as I help Martin clean the back room when the doorbell rings, and I hear Simone’s usual shout in the direction of the baking room: “Monique, you have customers.”
My clients are two transport soldiers. I recognize them by the unit badges on their uniforms.
“Good morning, how can I help you?” I ask the two transport soldiers in French, and a minute later,
two more soldiers from another unit enter, exchanging greetings, and one of them asks if they heard the radio this morning.
“No,” the taller of the two answers, smiling at me flirtatiously.
“The Army radio reported that the enemy has begun an invasion on the beaches of Calais, but we managed to push them back into the sea,” the transport soldier tells them and smiles. After a moment of excitement, everyone looks at me and falls silent.
“Have a nice day.” I address him in poor German, serving him the bread.
“Thank you.” He takes the paper bag from me with a suspicious look.
“How can I help you?” I turn to a soldier who previously tried to smile at me and is now no longer doing so.
“When were the cakes made? This morning?”
“No, unfortunately, they are from yesterday, we have not yet received butter this morning.”
“Well, never mind, I’ll come later.” He and his friend walk out the door.
“What did they say?” Simone asks me the second after the door slams shut.
“They said that the German radio reported an American invasion attempt in the Calais area this morning, and that the attempt failed,” I say, and watch the grey morning clouds outside.
“Well, that fits Americans, they can do nothing properly. Where’s Marie? Why is she so late?” Simone goes to talk to Martin in the back room, and I think she’s wiping a tear away as she passes me.
“All roads from Normandy are blocked,” Marie reports excitedly when she finally returns from the market empty-handed. “No delivery truck has come from there since last night, and everyone is whispering that the beach is full of American ships, and there is a war there.”
“But the German radio reported on Calais, and you also failed to get butter,” Simone silences her.
