Paris. 1941

It was a cool evening and Hans Landa was restless. Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to himself, he changes from his SS uniform top for a simple grey shirt. He locks the door of his Art Deco apartment and goes for a walk in his neighbourhood. As he walks further and further, the cares of the day fall away and he relaxes. In the city square and he finds a book burning event winding down. Men cleaning up the mess, and townspeople already going their separate ways.

He turns the corner and finds himself in a collision course with a young lady. He had hit her hard, probably because she wasn't paying attention to where she was going. She was short, with brown hair cascading from a little beret. She was quite beautiful, her green eyes sparkling in the night.

A small blue volume dropped from underneath her longcoat. The letters set in silver glimmered in the night. It read 'The Selected Poems of Heinrich Heine.'

He picked it up and eyed it suspiciously. It's edges were singed with soot. It was warm to the touch.

She stammered, 'You—won't report me, will you?' the sweat stood out on her temple.

He eyed her suspiciously. ' There is a stiff penalty for harbouring degenerate literature. A minimum of which, is one year, I believe.'

She tried to say something in her defence, 'But…I…'

She was at a loss for words. It was hopeless. She was caught red-handed.

He leaned forward and whispered to her. 'Which I believe is totally absurd. Your secret is quite safe with me, Madame.' he smiled like a mischievous boy and handed her the volume. She let out a loud sigh of relief. She could not believe her luck.

'Thank you,' she said, still quite astonished at his generosity. 'Thank you so very much.' She repeated, immensely relieved. She was about to go her way when he said to her:

'Won't you read me one poem?'

'Here? Now?' she said, for it was quite a dark deserted street.

'Well, it's getting cold. How bout in that cafe that's open late.' he pointed down the street. ' The one at the end. La Padite's. Do you know it?'

'Yes, I do.'

They turned in its direction. He offered her his arm, and she shyly accepted.

'So, you are a writer, Miss?'

'Mimieux. I'm not a writer.' she blushed.

'I just adore poetry. Heine doesn't deserve to burn at the stake, is all.'

'I agree. The Reich is a little too zealous interfering with our private lives.'

'I don't like National Socialism, or Nazis, for that matter.' She said.

Thank god I didn't wear my uniform tonight. Landa thought.

'They aren't my cup of tea either. I'm Hans.'

'Are you German?'

'From Vienna, actually.'

'What brings you to Paris?'

'I have a client who has retained my services for the duration of the war.'

'Sounds interesting, what exactly do you do?'

'I'm an investigator. My client has some cases for me to do here. How about yourself Miss Mimieux?'

'I run a small cinema.'

He raised his eyebrows, 'How does a young person like yourself end up owning a cinema?'

'My uncle died last year during Blitzkrieg. He left it to me.'

'I'm sorry to hear about that.'

'He took me in after my parents were killed by the Germans.'

'That is unfortunate.'

She was one of the many faceless people whose lives they had changed forever in their bid to serve the Fatherland. He had never given them a thought. Here she was, she had lost her parents and was totally on her own. That's why they hate us, he thought.

Finally they had reached La Padite's Cafe and entered. Emmanuelle found a small table by the window. He brought her a coffee and she opened the slender volume.

'What sort of poem do you wish to hear? He has all sorts. Some are about myths and legends, some are love, some are quite serious.'

She could see him quite clearly now in the light of the cafe, and saw that he had rather fine features. Although he was older than most men she'd gone out with, he was quite attractive. His hair was a pleasing shade of reddish brown with white hair beginning to show at the temples. Intelligent, and well spoken, he seemed an earnest and well meaning man.

'I don't know. How about your favourite poem.' he said.

'Hmmm..' she leafed through the book and began:

I don't believe in Heaven,

Whose peace the preacher cites:

I only trust your eyes now,

They're my heavenly lights.

I don't believe in God above,

Who gets the preacher's nod:

I only trust your heart now,

And have no other god.

I don't believe in Devils,

In hell or hell's black art:

I only trust your eyes now,

And your devil's heart.

Hans watched her intently, her voice rising and falling had a sweet quality about it. She read with much feeling.

'It seems that when one is in love, one can easily rely on being betrayed.' He tells her.

'Unless the Devil betrays himself.'

'Very poetic. Miss Mimieux.' he smiled 'Won't you read me some more?'

Her cheeks reddened ever so slightly.

'Only if you call me Emmanuelle.' she joked.

She read to him nearly the whole volume before he thought to look at his watch.

'Can you believe it? It is nearly midnight.' He says.

The lateness of the hour had crept up on them unexpectedly. 'I must get home.' she says

'May I accompany you? I want to make sure you are safe. It was on my account that you're out at this hour.'

'Alright.'

They walk to her apartment, on Valland St. The lights of the city twinkling in the distance.

'Will I see you again?' she asks when they reach the door.

'I am always in this neighbourhood. We will surely bump into each other, somehow.' he reassures her. She kisses him on both cheeks as is customary. He returns the gesture, suppressing a flutter of excitement of being so close to her.

If only I wasn't a Nazi. he thought sadly as he kissed her soft cheek.