by Alex Amit
The magnificent café in front of the opera, which was always full of German soldiers, is closed, and no black-coat Gestapo is standing at the metro entrance. The streets are empty of Germans as if waiting for the change to come, but the Nazi flags still hang in front of the opera house, and as I hurry to the boulangerie I see two German armored vehicles passing by in the middle of the boulevard. The soldiers are standing alert, wearing round helmets and holding machine guns, ready for battle. With a stone-cold stare, they watch the empty streets while driving slowly, making me stop and hide in one of the houses’ entrances, feeling the rumble under my feet and waiting for them to disappear
‘They will not run away like mice,’ I whisper to myself and accelerate my steps. They are still here, and no one has yet been able to expel them, neither the Americans nor the resistance, not with any of the information I passed to Philip or his replacement.
The diary is at the bottom of my bag, and despite its light weight, I feel the leather strap cut into my shoulder, leaving a red mark on it, and I have to fight the urge to turn around and run away. I have to pass that information on. I owe it to Lizette.
Why did you kill her? I want to scream at the red flags hanging in front of the opera building, but even though the street is empty, I’m afraid someone will hear my cries.
Now Lizette is with the charming man who waited for her patiently, looking at her for so many years from the picture above the fireplace. She hugs him non-stop, wrapping him in her warm arms, as only she and Mom knew. I need to hurry, and I almost stumble because of my wet eyes.
Two more German armored vehicles in camouflage colors pass through the boulevard, their chains creaking noisily and the soldiers holding machine guns aimed at the sides of the street, the bullet chains ready to fire, waiting to send the copper bullets out on command. I must ignore them.
The newsstand is almost naked of all the newspapers that covered it in the past, exposing wooden boards carelessly painted in peeling colors. Only a simple government newspaper glorifying German victories is still for sale.
“I’ve run out of cigarettes,” the salesman is looking to the sides, “even the simplest ones, try in a few days.”
“I’m not searching for cigarettes. The boy, I need the kid.”
“Which kid?”
“The boy with the grey cap, the one who is sometimes here and arranges the newspapers outside, at the back.”
“I do not know such a boy.”
“I need to find him. I have something for him.”
“Mademoiselle, you have to go,” he looks sideways apprehensively, examining whether I came alone and not calming down even when he notices no one is around.
“Please, I must find him. I know you can help me.”
“He has disappeared, never come here again, ever.” He lowers his gaze and turns to deal with his affairs, ignoring my presence. What to do?
“Please.”
But he no longer answers me.
Simone rises towards me from behind the counter at the sound of the doorbell, but the boulangerie is quiet and dark, the wooden door to the back room is closed, and the trays in the display case, which were always full of pastries, are empty.
“Good morning.” I gently close the door behind me.
“Good morning, Monique.”
“What happened?” My eyes look around, trying to get used to the gloom.
“It is impossible to open today. We are closed.”
“We are never closed.”
“As of today we are closed, there were no groceries, and the market is closed, we can do nothing, we will have to wait until everything is over. Go home, I have already sent Martin and Marie away.”
“What about you?”
“I will stay here, at least for now. I will wait for them here.”
For a moment, she seems lonely to me in the dark boulangerie, and I would like to say something encouraging to her, but she never liked me too much.
“I’ll help you arrange things, and then I’ll go.”
We both work side by side in silence, occasionally looking up the avenue at the sound of a German armored vehicle passing by in slow motion, shaking the road stones, and making us tense.
“What will you do when it’s all over?” she asks me, taking the tablecloths out of the drawer and folding them again, even though there is no need.
“I don’t longer believe it will end well.”
“For women who collaborated horizontally, it will definitely not end well.” She gives her opinion, and I know she means me. It doesn’t matter anymore whether I live or not. What I did can no longer be changed.
“I have to go.”
I quickly collect some leftover chocolate chip cookies. They are not fresh, but they are the last ones in the jar, and I have no other plans to pass on the information I have.
“When it’s all over, if you want to continue working here, you’re welcome,” she says when I go to open the door, probably for the last time.
“Thanks.” She does not really mean it.
“Monique.”
“Yes?”
“Be careful, take care of yourself.”
With a slight slam, I close the door behind me and hasten my steps to the Latin Quarter, armed with a diary full of crowded lines in my handwriting and a paper bag of chocolate cookies.
“What do you have in your bag?”
“A woman’s belongings.”
The soldier standing in front of the Pont Neuf Bridge military outpost looks at me indifferently while his friend examines my body with an eager look, moving his eyes from my dress to my feet. The policemen at the guard post have disappeared and been replaced by soldiers in grey and green uniforms, standing beside a machine gun position and barbed wire fences.
“Can I see the bag?”
“Please, it’s for you.” I take out the cigarette pack from the bottom of the bag, pull it out, and serve it to him.
“The whole pack?”
“The whole pack.”
With a gesture, he puts the pack of cigarettes in his uniform pocket and instructs his friend to let me pass.
Don’t look back, keep on walking, your eyes straight ahead, don’t give him time to regret.
I ignore the soldiers measuring the bridge and the officer pointing with his finger, giving orders to a soldier who kneels at the bridge’s center, painting white crosses on the old stones with a paintbrush.
Keep walking, enter the alley, only there will you feel safe. When I walk into the narrow street, I allow myself to stand for a few minutes and wipe my sweaty hand holding my bag and the diary inside.
The old alley walls are full of posters, urging citizens to revolt and take up arms. A few people gather around the entrance to a grocery store, talking to each other and pausing as I pass, scrutinizing me, reviewing my new dress.
I’m one of you, help me, I want to shout at them, but I know they will not believe me. Who will believe a young woman dressed elegantly in a poor neighborhood? After all, I cooperated horizontally with the Germans.
The basement entrance is also closed with a metal door, locked with a large padlock, and there is no one around to help me. Only the girl from the store smiles at me.
She looks at me with sparkling eyes through the old shop door, and I approach her hesitantly, wanting to give her the cookies I’d kept, especially for her.
“Get out of here,” her mother whispers angrily, pulling her inside the store.
“I need you to help me.” I follow her. I have no one else left.
“Get out of here and don’t come back.” She picks up a wooden stick.
“The man who was here a long time ago in the basement,” I put the diary on the filthy counter. “Give this to him.” And I turn my back and run away before she can say anything, before I regret it, before she looks at what is written inside and goes straight to the police or the Gestapo.
On the way back to the east bank, I notice that I forgot to leave the bag of chocolate cooki
es for the girl, but I don’t have the courage to return, and I sit on a bench, eating them and watching the Notre Dame Cathedral and the soldiers measuring the bridge. I have to talk to someone. I need to calm down.
“Anaïs no longer works here,” the receptionist answers me with a smile of victory as I stand in front of her, asking to call her.
“What happened to her?”
“She did not come to work, disappeared, so she was fired. Can I help you with something else?”
“No, thank you, I was searching for Anaïs.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about her,” she continues in her arrogant tone. When I go down the marble stairs, I think of Anaïs taking care of Anaïs, wondering which soldier her next occupation will be. With a perfect smile, she will show him all the treasures of Paris.
I can look for her at the apartment where she lives, she once told me the address, but I have a feeling she may not be there either, and worst of all, when I go down the street and start walking down the avenue towards the Lafayette Gallery, a few shots are heard.
A group of armed soldiers stands at the entrance to the big store, quickly running into battle positions, taking shelters behind the tree trunks. What should I do? All the people disappeared from the street when the shouts began, leaving me standing alone on the sidewalk.
Where to run and hide? I manage to run to a nearby advertising column, bending and trembling at its feet. Who is shooting? All I can hear is the German shouts from the soldiers lying in the street. Where are the shots coming from?
Minutes pass on the street, no car passes, and only the sounds of tree branches in the wind is heard on the avenue.
“Everyone on your feet, keep on moving,” the sergeant shouts in German at his soldiers, and they all rise and keep on marching down the street, looking around with weapons drawn and suspicious looks. As they pass by, I bury my head between my hands, cramped by the sound of their hobnails boots on the road.
“Are you okay? The danger is over. You can get up.” A gentleman in a suit touches my shoulder and holds my hand, helping me up.
“Thanks.” I look around, rubbing the dirt from the sidewalk off my knees. The soldiers have already moved further down the street.
“Go home. It is dangerous on the streets.” He makes sure I’m fine before he walks away, and I hurry to the apartment. I have to stay there and wait. Soon everything will be over. Just a few more days.
Paris, Eighth arrondissement, August 18, 1944 evening
All afternoon I am shut up at home, trying to read a book I took from the bookshelf, but I’m unable to concentrate, finding myself reading the same paragraph over and over again and losing concentration. Occasionally shots are heard through the open windows, making me cringe in the little living room armchair. What’s going on outside?
The hot summer air penetrates the apartment, and only in the evening does a cool breeze enter. I peek out of the window and see people running, wondering if the Germans have abandoned the city, but a few minutes later a truck full of soldiers stops, and they quickly jump out of it, spreading in the street, causing me to withdraw from the window.
Have they come to arrest me? Did the woman in the store pass the diary I gave her to the Gestapo?
At first, as I’m trying to listen through the entrance door, the staircase is quiet. But suddenly I hear footsteps of hobnail boots climbing the wooden stairs, and I push my feet as hard as I can to block the door as they come. I will not give up without a fight.
“Monique? What are you doing?” I hear Herr Ernest from the other side of the thick door, trying to push it open.
“Sorry, I was scared. There were shots in the street today, I did not know if you would come back.” I open the door slightly, trying to see if he’s come alone.
“We evacuated the hotel. We’re moving north, so I came to say goodbye.” He stands in front of me, and I look up at him, checking his green eyes.
“You came to say goodbye?” Will I stay alive?
“Yes, I came to say goodbye, but before that, I have a few more things to finish here.” He smiles at me, and I keep on smiling but want to scream.
“What kind of things?”
“Some orders that need to be executed tomorrow, and some things to check that they are done, not something that should interest a pleasant companion like you.”
“Is it related to Paris?”
“It has to do with German honor,” he answers flatly, removing his military shirt and draping it on the arm of the chair, exposing his pale body while remaining in only a sweaty green tanktop. “We will leave after giving the French nation a present, the same we gave the Communists and the Jews. We will always destroy the ones trying to fight and betray us.” He keeps talking, but it seems he is mostly talking to himself as he organizes the few things left in his study, turning his back and ignoring my presence.
“What do you mean? Is it about all the stories coming from the east?” I stand outside the study door and ask, regretting it a moment later.
Herr Ernest stops arranging the papers on his desk and looks at me.
“You think the German army is losing, but we never lose. You just don’t know how to view history. The Communists and the Jews did not defeat us. Like rats, they entered the camps we built for them.”
“What camps?” I lower my eyes, unable to look at his fingers holding the telegrams and commands.
“What does the name matter? Camps we built to ensure German supremacy against the Jews and their ambitions to rule the world.”
My fingers scratch the doorframe of his study, but he continues.
“One day you will all thank us for what we did. Please make me dinner.”
We eat dinner in silence, and after that he continues to work, leaving me to nap in the small armchair until the door opens, and he goes to bed, not before he sets the alarm clock next to his dresser.
“What happens tomorrow? When are you going back to the army?”
“Tomorrow morning, we will say goodbye properly.” He smiles and sits down on the bed, removing his tank top and lying down to sleep.
I cannot go to bed with him, but I must, otherwise he will suspect me.
The city is quiet in the dark, and the gunfire sounds have ceased, but I cannot fall asleep. My eyes look at the bedroom curtain moving gently in the night breeze, and I think about Auschwitz in the east that he built for my family.
The streetlights are almost all off, and the city outside is dark, as if waiting for tomorrow. What did he write in the study? The pain in my stomach does not stop.
Even though I have no one to pass the information on to, I can’t help myself, and I rise quietly, walking barefoot to the study door, gently closing it behind my back and sitting in his chair.
Top Secret
8/19/1944
From: Engineering brigade 7112, Commander
To: Engineering brigade 7112 Units
Subject: Destroying Paris monuments
Commencement of operations, starting at 8/20/1944 08:00 after the departure of the main army units from the city, executing according to plan.
Oberst Ernest
7112, Commander
My eyes quickly go through the destruction order he has already signed, examining his signature at the bottom of the page, and the pain in my stomach intensifies. What to do?
I must hurry, my hands moving quickly between the documents, and my hand accidentally hits his fountain pen’s ink jar lying on the side of the table.
Even though I try to catch it, the ink jar slips through my fingers and hits the wooden floor, crashing into sharp pieces of glass that sound like they’re shaking the whole apartment.
I freeze in place. What have I done? Did he wake up?
“I’m dead,” my lips whisper again and again as I get down on my knees, trying to stop the ink stain from spreading on the floor, moving my fingers quickly around the black liquid, which looks like a stain of dark blood expanding without stopping.
�
�What have I done?” I speak to myself, ignoring the small pieces of glass scattered on the floor that wound my hands, making me bleed on the parquet, dotting the wood with burgundy spots in the dim light of the candle.
I’m dead. The dark stain has been absorbed into the wooden boards and spreads to the carpet, painting its edges black, which my ink-soiled fingers fail to scratch away. Soon he will wake up and kill me, what will I tell him? I will no longer be alive when the Americans arrive.
The hours pass as I kneel on the rug, hugging myself and holding my aching stomach tightly, ignoring the blood and black paint on my hands, soiling my nightgown, painting it with stains. Soon, before sunrise, the bedside clock will ring shrilly, and he will wake up, get out of bed, come looking for me. I will no longer get to see the morning sun.
What was Lizette doing?
In a quick motion, I get up from the ink-stained carpet and walk out of his study, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can and stepping into the dark kitchen. My hands search for the drawer, and my wounded fingers hold the wooden handle firmly. I’m dead anyway.
Do not stop and think, do not hesitate, walk to the bedroom, be careful in the dark, do not stumble and make noise. I can see Herr Ernest lying under the blanket, and I raise my hand above my head, holding the handle firmly until my fingers turn white.
“You murdered my father,” I whisper and lower the knife with all my might, pushing it firmly against his twisting body.
“You murdered my mother.” The knife goes down again, hitting and penetrating more and more, ignoring movements under the blanket as his hands reach out, trying to hold me.
“You murdered my Jacob,” my whisper becomes hoarse as I stab his hand and body over and over, managing to wound his hand, which is trying to strangle me.
