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

by Alex Amit

  “Everything is falling apart, everything we had.” She starts crying. “All I had.”

  “Do not worry, everything will return to normal.” I watch the green water flowing leisurely. “We will continue to sit in cafés and drink fine coffee, strolling down the avenue.” But deep inside, I know nothing will return to what it had been.

  I had Dad and Mom and Jacob, who disappeared without me even being able to hug them one last time. How could everything go back to normal? I have nothing left, only Philip, who will never love me after what I did. And I don’t even know if he is still alive or captured by the Gestapo. What world will I have after the Nazis go?

  “At least you have your Fritz.” I touch her hand for encouragement, but the touch is unpleasant for me, and after a moment, I return my hand to the metal railing. “Everything will be back to the way it was before the war, don’t worry.”

  “Before the war, I was a simple girl without a spouse to walk with on the avenue.” She continues to cry. “Even you have tears.”

  “Yes, even I have tears.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I say goodbye to Simone. I have to hurry to the empty apartment, it is not safe in the streets, but the child is waiting for me by the newsstand. I have to go.

  “Just a few more days.” I kiss Violette on both cheeks. “Don’t worry.”

  Just a Few More Days

  “St. Joseph Street,” the boy whispers to me, and I start walking. It is too dangerous to set a meeting point in the opera area. The place is full of Gestapo and people avoid entering the metro stations in the area.

  But when I enter the quiet street, it is empty, and no one is waiting to accompany me, on foot or by bicycle.

  “Get in the trunk of the van and wait,” a man in work clothes passes by and whispers, disappearing behind the street corner and leaving me alone, watching the grey van parked and abandoned at the side of the alley. What’s happening here?

  As if by itself, my hand goes down along my dress, looking for the pocket, but there are no pockets in this dress.

  The street is quiet, and there is no one around. Everything’s okay. I breathe quickly and enter the trunk, closing the door behind me, wrapping myself in darkness. Breathe, everything’s fine.

  I can hear the car doors open and close, and the engine starts, and I breathe slowly, fighting the urge not to open the door and escape. I have done this before. I have to trust them.

  How long have we been going? I’ve lost track of time. Are we still in the city? The vehicle changes direction every so often. We are probably still in Paris. Is the meeting at the place I met Philip for the first time? Will I meet him this time?

  Suddenly the vehicle stops, and I tense.

  “Shut off the engine,” I hear a voice in German and want to scream.

  “What?” I can hear a muffled sound.

  “Shut down the engine,” says the voice in bad French, and the monotonous engine rumbling stops. I must be quiet.

  “Certificates, please.” Rustling and then quiet.

  “What do you have in the trunk?”

  “It’s empty. We’re back from the market.”

  “Open the trunk.”

  Breathe, breathe, breathe, my nails scratch my thighs, breathe.

  “No need, it’s empty.”

  “Open it now.” The voice in poor French is getting louder.

  A barrage of gunshots, and footsteps, and more shots and a door slamming and shouting in German. My body is cramped in the dark as I bend my head and shove my fist into my mouth, stifling a scream.

  “Run away.” I hear a woman’s shout, and another barrage of gunshots and my trembling hands grope for the trunk door handle in the dark, opening it and sending my legs out, stumbling for a moment on the road. The afternoon sunlight dazzles me, but I manage to stabilize myself and start running around the corner of a warehouse, running non-stop.

  Run, run, run, do not look back.

  My whole body hurts from the effort, the sweat, my heavy breathing. Keep running, another corner, hide behind it, now behind the hill, do not stop, ignore the pain of running, keep running, even further, between the bushes, do not stop running, further and further.

  Only later, as I hide among the shrubs and try to catch my breath, I start to recall what my eyes had seen. The man in the black coat lying on the road in a strange position, looking at me with a hollow gaze as I burst out the back door and almost stumbled over him, the shouts in German that kept echoing in my head: “Shoot her, shoot her.” And the strange, whistling noise passing me as I ran. What happened there? I have to hide and wait for the darkness. It doesn’t matter what happened there.

  The darkness is already falling when I dare to get out of my hiding place under a large bush, walking quietly on the path and listening. I have to keep walking. It did not happen to me, it happened to someone else, not to me. I was never there in the van.

  My hips are scratched from the bushes, and I am already tired of walking. In what direction is the city? I must not be mistaken. Every time I see car lights approaching in the street, I hide until they pass. I walk through the abandoned warehouse area, hoping I’m going the right way, and the lights in the distance are directing me. I need to warn the man in the grey button-down shirt, something happened and I did not get to the meeting, he must know. There were other people there, and something happened to them too, what happened to them? I’ll tell him.

  I don’t know what time it is when I reach the east bank, but it is clear that the curfew has already started and I must not be caught on the street.

  Carefully I take off my shoes, ignoring the pain in my feet, and start walking barefoot so as not to make noise. Now and then, I hear the sounds of a German patrol’s hobnails boots, and I hurry to hide in the alley or at the entrance to a stairwell, waiting for them to pass before I can continue walking. Was it planned? Did anyone betray us? I must know.

  Near the apartment, the street is quiet. No car is waiting for me there, nor in the neighboring alleys, just a cool summer breeze and a single streetlight that shines dimly. Should I go upstairs? Are they waiting for me there? I have no other place to go, I must not stay in the street, it’s too dangerous.

  After waiting for long minutes in the stairwell, I carefully open the front door, afraid to enter, but the apartment is empty. No one is waiting to kill me as I scan the rooms in the dark, holding the kitchen knife tightly in my hand and moving suspiciously. I have to eat something.

  My hands tremble as I struggle with the opener, unable to get it into the metal lid of the meat tin, trying again and again, opening it as much as I can and starting to hungrily swallow the greasy pulped meat. In the light of the candle, I notice the eagle stamped on the tin, its wings spread, and I remember the hollow look of the man in the black coat and the woman’s shout: “Run away.”

  My legs no longer hold me up as I collapse on the kitchen floor, vomiting, and starting to cry.

  “You’re late again. I will not give you extra privilege for living with the Germans.” Simone raises her eyes from the money drawer the next morning when she hears the doorbell. But I can explain nothing to her. I cannot explain all the times I looked out the window last night, checking if a vehicle had arrived and people were coming to stand me by the wall. In the early morning hours, I woke up in a panic to loud noise, standing up, and noticing that the knife I’d held in my hand while sitting prepared at the chair in front of the entrance door had fallen out.

  “I apologize. I will try to arrive on time.” My hands take the apron from the hanger, tying it in mechanical motion. “What do you want me to do?”

  “The usual, nothing has changed since yesterday.”

  “Yes, madame Simone.” I will stand behind the counter as if nothing has changed from yesterday. What happened there?

  I must meet and inform the man in the grey shirt that something happened. Are they looking for me, or was it a coincidence? Did I make a mistake, had they discovered my identity?

 
Some German pilots come in, pointing to the bread in silence and patiently waiting for me to pack it for them.

  “Monique, you are not focused. They are in a hurry.”

  What could I have done that exposed me? Did Herr Ernest discover who I am, and sent his Gestapo dogs after me, wanting to hunt his French boot-licking mistress? My eyes rise, and I watch through the window, will a black car stop here in a few minutes?

  “Four Reichsmark, please.” I notice for the first time their buttoned grey uniforms, full of medals.

  Did someone betray me? What does he know about me? My name? Does he know the name of Herr Ernest or the place where I work?

  “Monique, they are waiting for the change.”

  “Danke.” They thank me indifferently, slamming the door on their way out and causing me to tense from the noise.

  “Monique, I need you to go to the market.”

  I’m too afraid to walk by myself, but I can’t say ‘no’ to Simone. Slowly I take my bag and head out, closing the door behind me and scanning the street.

  “It took you a while to visit me after the last dress you bought.” Anaïs picks me up from Reception. “What happened? Do you need a new evening dress again?”

  “I apologize. I was busy.”

  “You should buy one, the German ladies have stopped coming, they are scared, you will receive a big discount.”

  “I did not come to buy a new dress.”

  “So why did you come?” She takes out a cigarette and offers me one, but I refuse with a nervous smile, and she lights the cigarette for herself, inhaling the smoke with pleasure.

  “So why did you come? Even cigarettes are hard to receive these days. Fritz stopped bringing me any.”

  “I came to ask how you are. I’ll bring you cigarettes.” I take the pack from my bag, offering it to her, but she refuses with a bitter smile.

  “How am I? I’m fine, waiting for the Americans to come.”

  “And aren’t you afraid?”

  “What should I be afraid of?” She exhales the smoke into the air.

  “The Germans, your Fritz, all this crazy war around us, the Americans.”

  “Anaïs knew how to get along with the Germans, and Anaïs will know how to get along with Americans,” she answers indifferently and looks at me. “Are you scared?”

  “Yes,” I admit. “I’m afraid of everyone, of the Americans who want to kill us, of the Communists, of the Gestapo driving in the streets.”

  “You are the spouse of Oberst Ernest. You have nothing to fear from the Gestapo. As for everything else, we’ll have to see.” She smiles at me. “I’m sure the U.S. military has officers too.”

  Finally I say goodbye to her. She has to go back to work, and I have to go back to Simone, telling her that I couldn’t find any butter at the market.

  “See you soon,” I say, but I’m not sure it’s going to happen anymore. Soon they’ll probably catch me.

  On the way back, I hide every time a car passes on the street, waiting at a building entrance with my heart pounding. I have to relax.

  “Revenge.” The headline screams in black print on a poster pasted to a building wall on the street, and I slow down and try to read the text.

  “They did a big operation yesterday, killing and capturing many of them.” Two women whisper behind my back, and I keep standing, making myself continue to read the poster.

  “Who? The Gestapo?” the other one asks.

  “Yes, they say there was a traitor among them.”

  “May God protect the resistance. Let them survive,” the other answers and crosses herself as they continue walking down the avenue, and I follow them with my eyes.

  Philip, is he alive? I must know, I must talk to Lizette, she is the only one that might know him. And I start walking as fast as I can to the metro station, forgetting that the Gestapo is waiting at the entrances, checking the passersby.

  “Lizette, open up. It’s me.” I knock hard on the door. I’d tried ringing the bell for a long time, waiting patiently and trying again before knocking. But the door is still closed. She does not usually go out at such hours. “Lizette, open up. It’s me.”

  “She’s not here.” The neighbor from next door opens her apartment door, peeking out as if ready to slam it at any moment.

  “Excuse me, where is Lizette?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she? I must find her.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Wait, aren’t you the girl who lived here a year ago? I used to see you on the stairs, Monique?” She opens the door and approaches. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Lizette is gone, she was killed, the Gestapo killed her, the other neighbor said she tried to escape from a vehicle they’d stopped.”

  While running down the stairs, I can hear my pounding footsteps hitting the marble stairs as if drums were beating in my ears, and the neighbor’s voice calling my name from a distance, but all there is are the drums in my head and the sharp metal sound of the building door when I burst into the street.

  My hands grip my ears tightly as I bend down on my knees on the pavement, trying to silence the voices but failing. They do not stop, swirling loudly and making a strange whistle as they pass through my body. What did I do? Why is everyone dead instead of me? Even the embracing arm of the neighbor trying to hug me can’t stop the screams, and I rise and run away from her, whispering to her as I get away: “Do not touch me, anyone who touches me dies.”

  The telegram

  “Why did you light those candles?” Herr Ernest asks when we sit at the table.

  “I thought there might be a blackout.” I watch the four candles standing in the cabinet. Do the Christians light memory candles?

  “Now blow them out. After we regroup north of Paris, there will be a lot of blackouts.” He hungrily bites the canned meat I served.

  “I thought you would stay with me forever.” I rise from the chair and approach the candles, putting out the fire with my fingers, ignoring the heat and pain.

  “We must retreat from Paris. There are traitors among the French, passing information to our enemies. Return to your seat, aren’t you hungry?”

  “I’m not hungry today, I apologize. Would you like my meat?”

  “But we are going to get revenge. They thought we wouldn’t find them. We will catch them all. The ones that escaped, hiding in their holes like dirty rats. They won’t stop us anymore. Is there wine left?”

  “No, all the wine is gone. Is it okay if I go to sleep? I’m a little tired.”

  “Yes, you may. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  Later that night, with Herr Ernest beside me, I can’t sleep. I feel the pain in my fingers and think about the man in uniform, the one in the silver-framed photo at Lizette’s house, and I can’t stop the tears.

  Quietly I get out of bed and walk barefoot to the study.

  Top Secret

  8/16/1944

  From: Division 44

  To: Engineering brigade 7112

  Subject: Preparations for destroying Paris monuments

  7112 Engineering Brigade will mark key sites and bridges in Paris prior to their demolition.

  Maps and charts of the sites will be taken from the municipality of Paris.

  Explosives will be supplied by Supply Battalion 4221, which is located at Le Bourget airport.

  Destruction will take place after a direct order prior to retreating from Paris.

  SS. Telegram 912

  My eyes pass quickly over the telegram by candlelight, my fingers flipping through the other papers, searching and trying to read the most important ones before carefully putting them back in his leather bag, quietly returning to bed. What should I do with this information?

  I must forget what I saw. The Americans are on the way. I just have to stay alive, wait for their arrival. I must not risk myself anymore. They are searching for me.

  Even if I
wanted to, I have no one to pass the information on to. I don’t trust the man in the grey shirt with the buttons, and I can’t find Philip.

  My hand wipes the tears away in the dark room while I constantly hear Herr Ernest’s breathing beside me in bed. Soon the morning will come, and he will wake up.

  I will pass the information in the diary on to someone. I don’t know how, and I don’t know to whom, but I will find a way.

  The alarm clock rings early in the morning, and I sit up tense, hurrying to put on my silk robe and rushing to the kitchen to make him coffee, there is some left. But Herr Ernest gets dressed in silence and hurries out, leaving me alone in the kitchen in front of the boiling kettle. “Please don’t come back,” I whisper after I put my ear next to the wooden door, hearing the building’s front door close behind him and going to get dressed. I have to hurry.

  The boulevard is silent, and no German army vehicle crosses the road with rattling engine noise. Even the metro exit in the large square in front of the opera is empty of people. Only a few passersby stand and look at the posters hastily attached on the billboard during the night. “Popular uprising,” shouts the headline. “The policemen and railway workers for Paris.”

  Another poster is calling for revolution, printed in black ink on the billboard.

  “We are going to pay in blood for this.” One man expresses his opinion and makes room for me as I push between them, trying to read the rebels’ instructions.

  “They’re already running away, like mice in their grey uniforms,” says another, and I look around.