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

by Alex Amit

“That’s what they say in the market,” Marie apologizes and heads down to the back room in tears.

  The rest of the morning passes in silence. A military truck occasionally passes by the boulevard, full of German soldiers. Simone and I accompany them with our gazes and return to cleaning the empty boulangerie tables with cloths.

  “Monique, please take care of the cash register. I’ll be back soon.” I stand behind the cash register excitedly. Simone never leaves the money drawer, she always makes sure to stand and keep an eye on the rustling coins and bills. “I’ll replace you,” I tell her quickly, not sure she heard me through the slamming door.

  My fingers repeatedly polish the porcelain plates with the white cloth, arranging them in a pile, deciding to clean them again and placing them in a new stack.

  Simone walks in and quietly closes the boulangerie door behind her, and I look up from the porcelain plates into her shining eyes as she approaches me and lowers her voice. “The BBC radio reported that the invasion has begun in Normandy. They said that the Americans and the British have taken over the coast.”

  My trembling hands keep wiping the plate I’m holding again and again. I’m thinking of the cannon battery in Normandy and the Polish soldier in German uniform holding flowers. Now they are shooting at Americans and British soldiers storming the barbed wire placed on the coast. Will they survive?

  “Statue of Liberty, New York, America,” I whisper.

  “What did you say?” Simone asks.

  “Nothing.” I wipe away a tear.

  VI

  Nemesis

  August 1944

  Telegram VI

  Secret

  8/2/1944

  From: Western Front Wehrmacht Command

  To: Army Group France

  Subject: Preparations for the defense of Paris

  Background: The U.S. Army has established units on Normandy’s shores and is trying to break through the German defense line in order to occupy all of France and Paris.

  General: French citizens should be treated as enemies rather than collaborators as in the past.

  Tasks:

  All Gestapo units and S.S. divisions should intimidate the civilian population in order to prevent insurgency and harm to German soldiers.

  The Gestapo units will work to exterminate the resistance fighters without regard for innocent civilians.

  All German female soldiers will be immediately evacuated from the Paris area in order to prevent the possibility of their capture.

  SS. Telegram 483

  The grey helmets will fight till the end

  “Certificate, please.” The German soldier standing in front of the guard post gives me a hostile look, keeping a safe distance, while his friend’s submachine gun is aimed at my body.

  “Guten morgen,” I hand him my ID card and wait patiently. Although they see me every morning, they no longer smile as I pass their checkpoint on my way to work, crossing the wooden guard post and the barbed wire fences they have placed near the German Headquarters on Rivoli Street.

  The soldier carefully examines the cardboard paper, looking at me and comparing my face to the photo attached, checking the stamps with his finger to make sure they are not fake.

  “Monique Otin?”

  Monique Moreno, I want to shout in his face that has almost disappeared under the grey metal helmet.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I replace the shout with a polite smile.

  “Have a nice day.” He hands me the worn-out cardboard, returning to look at Concorde Square’s wide roads, alert for a hidden enemy that might suddenly emerge.

  I keep walking down the street and put the certificate back in my bag, not looking back. Since the invasion, I’ve been taking it out so often at the checkpoints all over the city that the cardboard has become faded, wrinkled under all those hands that examined it, and the eyes that stared at me.

  A black car is coming towards me on Rivoli Street, and I stop walking, watching its silver lights aimed in my direction, getting closer.

  “Guten morgen,” I stop walking and say to a bored soldier standing next to one of the vehicles left in front of the headquarters.

  “Bitte?”

  “Do you have a light?” My hand searches for the cigarette pack in my bag while I turn my back to the black car as it slows down, and only the sound of the engine is heard on the empty street.

  “Sure.” He pulls out a metal army lighter, marked with the SS symbol, and I get close to his hand, smelling his scent of cologne mixed with grease.

  “Thank you.” I inhale the smoke. Did the car stop? I must continue walking. Otherwise he will start to suspect.

  “Have a nice day.” He returns the SS lighter to his pocket, and I have to keep on walking, my eyes following the small rear lights of the black car until it disappears around the corner. I’m safe this time.

  I must not think about the horrible building at 84 Avenue Foch, but for a moment I have nausea, and I throw the unfinished cigarette into the street before I continue on my way, trying to breathe the clean morning air.

  Above my head, I can hear the big red Nazi flag flying quietly in the morning breeze, as whispering above. Still, I look forward to the Louvre Palace, trying to count cars in front of the headquarters and getting away from the German soldier. Only a few of them left, and I do not know if they’re all at the front or have started evacuating back to Germany.

  A long convoy of trucks full of soldiers crosses the street on their way to the western front, in the direction of Normandy, and I follow them with my eyes, counting them and trying to identify the unit. The soldiers are crowded quietly and do not whistle in my direction, asking me to show them the city.

  To my surprise, the boulangerie’s front door is locked, and I have to walk by the alley around to the back door, stopping and looking over my shoulder to see if someone is following me. But Martin, the cook, is sitting inside his kingdom on an empty wooden crate, looking at the almost-empty pantry.

  “She must have forgotten to open,” he says, and I enter the boulangerie from the back.

  At first I do not see her, but then I notice that Simone is bending behind the counter, opening the bottom drawer where we keep the tablecloths, pulling out a red-white-blue flag and kissing it carefully.

  “You have arrived,” she quickly turns as I place the bag on a chair.

  “Good morning.”

  “It’s just in case the Germans withdraw, but it’s not going to happen.” She hurries to return the flag to the bottom drawer and closes it.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Why didn’t you enter from the front door?”

  “It’s okay. I will not say anything.”

  “I miss those days when women had values, and weren’t peeking behind my back.” She passes me, going to talk to Martin. I want to whisper in her ear that we are both on the same side, even if she is disgusted with me because I’m licking a German officer’s boots, but I know she wouldn’t believe me.

  I also know she is listening to the BBC radio news, an offense worthy of execution by the black-coat Gestapo people. “I heard it from the neighbor,” she tells me, but I do not believe her.

  “Monique, Supply has not arrived again. You will have to go to the market and try to get some.”

  “Maybe Marie could go? I went yesterday and Tuesday.”

  “No, I want you to go. I do not trust her.”

  Despite my requests, she does not let me off the hook this time, and I get out and walk as fast as I can. I try to stay off the streets, and it’s not just me; everyone is trying to avoid being outside while the Gestapo is searching for the resistance.

  In the first days after the invasion, the city was waiting for the Americans to arrive, people made flags, and there were also brave ones who spat at German soldiers as they passed by. The German female soldiers, those who were called “grey mice” behind their backs, have completely disappeared from the city streets and are no longer seen walking down the Champs-Élysées holdi
ng cameras, as if they were on vacation.

  But the days went by, and the German soldiers are still in the city, standing in the streets and checking people. What’s going on at the front lines? Was the German counterattack successful, as the German army radio reported?

  On the way to the market, I cross the newsstand, but even it can’t tell me any news. The German army magazine and the daily newspaper are the only ones on display, yelling loud Nazi propaganda, which is limited to four thin sheets of paper.

  “Papers, please.” Two German soldiers are stopping people in the street, and I lower my eyes to their hobnail boots.

  “Are you tense?”

  “No, I’m not.” I look at his dirty, greasy fingers.

  “Bitte.” He hands me back my papers, and I smile at him politely, walking as fast as I can, but there are three men in black coats near the market entrance.

  “What took you so long?” Simone asks as I close the door behind me.

  “The seller in the market said that since the invasion, there are barriers around the city. They are hardly letting supplies get in.”

  “And you brought nothing?”

  “He said he didn’t receive anything today.”

  “You should have argued with him.”

  “I did.”

  “You needed to do more. We do not have the privilege of not being loyal to the Germans and stopping providing them with what they want.”

  I look down and apologize, hurrying to put on my apron, and returning to the empty space behind the counter. Again I polish the porcelain plates and pray that it will all be over. Soon I’ll hurry to the quiet apartment. Herr Ernest almost doesn’t come anymore.

  At first, when I close the thick wooden door behind me, hanging the bag by the apartment entrance, I do not notice anything unusual. But Oberst Ernest’s voice from his study causes me to tense up, and I cross the hall into the living room and stand there.

  The study door is open, and Herr Ernest sits in his leather chair, leaning in front of his documents and looking up at me like nothing has changed. Still, all the paintings on the walls, the ones we bought together, and others I have never seen, have been removed and concentrated at the side of the room, ready to be shipped. Besides the painting, there are several nailed wooden crates of wine and champagne, and maybe even cheeses and other foods that I cannot identify.

  “Good afternoon, how are you?” He looks up from the documents in front of him but does not stand.

  “I’m okay. How are you?” I stay at a safe distance from his study door.

  “I’m fine, thank you, can you please make me something to drink?”

  “Why are all the paintings off the walls?”

  “I’m transferring them to the homeland,” he says and returns to his writing.

  “Why? I thought you were defeating the Americans.”

  Herr Ernest stops writing and looks at me.

  “We are defeating them, and we are not preparing to leave Paris, certainly not without a German mark that will be remembered for eternity.”

  “What will you do to the city?”

  “We will find a worthy solution for this city, just as the American bombers are destroying the cities of Germany.”

  “Are you going to destroy Paris?”

  Herr Ernest examines me for a moment.

  “I thought you were on our side.”

  “I’m on your side and think you’ll stay here forever, so I do not understand why you’re taking the paintings.”

  He raises his eyes again from the papers in front of him, and I fear that I’ve said too much, but he just smiles and goes back to reading.

  “And what about my painting? The one I chose?” I can’t stop myself, watching my dancer placed by the wall, near his hunters’ paintings.

  “Can you smell the fear of the people around us?” Herr Ernest raises his eyes from the document he is reading, looking at me with his green eyes. “I don’t smell it anymore. Maybe it’s time for a lesson about loyalty and betrayal, don’t you think so?”

  “I know I’m loyal to you,” I place my trembling hands behind my back.

  “I know you are loyal to the German nation and me. I was talking about the French nation and the price they are going to pay for their disloyalty.” He smiles. “Why did you think I was talking about you?”

  “Will you leave my painting here?” Is he trying to set me up?

  “The painting must go to its new homeland. It is valuable. I cannot leave it behind. It is already German property. Please prepare a drink for me.” He looks at me angrily.

  For a moment, I want to ask him if I too am considered property for German use. Occupied property that will make its way into the thousand-year Reich’s borders, but I prefer to look down and examine my painting, which lies by the wall. My dancer is still tying her ballet shoes, lying on her side, and it seems like her pink skirt is flying high, exposing her body to Herr Ernest’s eyes if only he would look at her.

  “Please leave the painting to me, just as I’m staying with you.”

  He looks at me in silence for a moment, as if debating whether to push me into the corner or let me go, at least for now, playing with me for his pleasure.

  “I appreciate your loyalty and the remnants of German blood in your veins, but my dear, I’m the one who decides when you stop being with me.”

  The way he looks at me and says things makes me cringe, but I smile at him and keep holding my hands tight. I am his personal property, as long as he wants me.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  In the kitchen, I rest my hands on the sink, close my eyes, and take a few breaths. For a moment, I have a desire to open the knife drawer and examine its contents, but I stop myself and light a fire to heat the kettle. It’s too dangerous to walk down the streets with a knife, especially now with all the surprise checks. I just have to stay alive, just a few more days, until the Americans succeed in breaking the German defense lines and come.

  “After you’re done with the coffee,” his voice comes from the study, “I’d be happy if you brushed my boots.” I want them to shine for tomorrow morning.

  Even though the window is open to the night air, I can’t sleep beside Herr Ernest, and my eyes are fixed on the dark ceiling. I know I have to go to his study, but I can’t. I’m too afraid, feeling stifled between the rooms and his shining hobnail boots guarding the entrance door, keeping me and my dancer painting from running away into the street.

  The next morning, as I walk down the avenue, I see them emerge from a black car and stop in my place. I grip my handbag tightly in horror.

  Like a black raptor, the vehicle arrives at a fast pace and stops next to a man walking in front of me down the street. He does not notice what is happening, continues to walk. And I want to shout at him to run away, but it is too late.

  Three people in black coats jump out of the vehicle and grab him by force. Even though he tries to resist, they point a gun at his head and drag him into the car. In seconds, the doors are closed, and the vehicle continues to drive, disappearing behind the street corner.

  Keep on walking, do not stop walking.

  All the other people continue on their way as if nothing happened, turning their heads to the other side, only the ringing bell of the boulangerie door calms me down a bit. Here I’m a little safer.

  “Monique, it’s good that you’re finally here. You’re delayed just like all the farmers who are unable to supply flour.”

  I have no answer for her, and I hang my bag on the hanger, but it falls to the floor.

  “What happened? Did you not sleep at night, that you have no strength?”

  “I’m okay.” I bend down to pick my bag from the floor with my shaking hand.

  “So you’d better hurry, maybe some German soldier will come by chance and you can serve him.”

  “I’ll be right there, I’m sorry.” My fingers get tangled with tying the apron.

  “Let me help you.” She approaches me.
“You are like the Americans. You need help with everything, unable to do anything properly. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine.”

  “Do not cry. I did not mean what I said. It’s just all this tension and the waiting for the Americans to arrive.” She finishes apologizing and goes to the back room, probably scolding Marie.

  When will the Gestapo arrive at my door? I try to make myself a cup of disgusting coffee substitute.

  All morning the boulangerie is empty, and I pass the time listening to what Simone thinks about the British and watching the street, searching for black cars. Still, by noon, I notice Violette standing outside the glass door.

  “Can I take a break?” I ask Simone, already taking my apron off.

  “Did you hear? The Americans have also invaded the south of France. They conquered Nice.” Violette enters through the door. “They say the German army is collapsing.”

  “Paris is not in the south of France, and it has nothing to do with us,” Simone answers her. But she too is gripped by excitement. Without noticing me standing next to her, she bends down to the bottom drawer behind the counter, sliding her hand over the hidden flag, but quickly rises when she notices my gaze, wiping her face with her hand.

  “Go, go. I need to re-fold the tablecloths,” says Simone, “but don’t stay outside for long, it is not safe anymore.” And I hurry to remove my apron, going out into the summer sun outside.

  “What is going to happen?” Violette asks in tears. “The Germans are retreating. They will not be able to protect Paris.”

  “No, they will not succeed, they will probably retreat soon.”

  “You promised me there would be no invasion and that the Germans would win.”

  “Yeah, I was wrong, I was wrong about so many things, I’m sorry.”

  We both stand on the Pont Des Arts, watching a group of German soldiers laying down sandbags on the bank, to the shouts of a nervous sergeant, preparing defensive positions for fighting throughout the city.