Marie sat up straight in bed. She woke at the same time every day, 5am. She didn't need the alarm clock, unlike Clotilde. For her life ran like clockwork – she got up, got dressed, went to mass, came back, ate, and went to school, came back, studied, went to mass and then had supper, read and went to bed. At the weekend she did work on the farm – and studied. She didn't need anything else; for her life was simple, and there was only one goal. And it didn't pertain to life on earth.

Clotilde was a different story altogether. While Marie walked rigidly on the straight and narrow path, she veered to the left and right, but always made her way forward in the end.

Marie climbed out of bed and opened the wardrobe. With regards dress sense she was as much a Protestant as the British Puritans of old. Her dresses were almost uniformly black, with a red one to wear on feast days. But this was what she wanted; in her mind it was preparation for how her life would ultimately be fulfilled - in the convent.

She brushed her hair, put on a hairband, lifted her missal and rosary beads from the bedside table and descended the staircase to the kitchen. As it was summer it was light outside; she could still hear birdsong. She took the key from the hook on the wall and left the house. It was an old house – or so she had been told. Her parents, teachers, had inherited it from her paternal grandparents. There was a library on the first floor, which Marie wholeheartedly disapproved of. Books such as Justine and Les Liasons Dangereuses, which lurked unread for decades on the shelves did nothing but offend her Christian sensibilities. The décor hadn't been updated in that long either – the fabrics on the furniture was fading, and the woodwork was beginning to rot with the damp. The place had an aura of forgotten grandeur. No doubt in the past it was a great house – ten bedrooms; three bathrooms with running water – Marie was certainly a member of the bourgeois. However her parents had allowed the place to fall into disrepair. It seemed to her that they harboured a sense of distaste for the house's aristocratic past – it didn't fit with the impression they tried to give their friends – intellectuals; Communists.

As she closed the kitchen door into yard behind her, she saw in the distance a car and several trucks at the bottom of the field which separated her house from the road. There was a path which ran the length of it; once she had traversed the field it was a short walk down the road to the town of B-, in which she attended church and school. As she walked down the path she could see two men talking. Coming closer their features came into sharp relief. Both were wearing black trenchcoats – and grey caps, each with a skull in the centre. They were speaking in German. Nazis – the word sunk into her like a blade. A feeling of dread and foreboding was beginning to rise inside her, why were they here, outside our house? What did they want? A memory of her parents discussing Marx came to her suddenly, and a wave of nausea washed over her. Had they come for her parents?

They blocked her exit from the field. There was only one gate, and they stood in front of it. When she was a few feet away from them both turned quickly and stared at her. She froze, and became aware that she was shaking.

"Excusez-moi, Messieurs-" she began, but her voice failed her. She could feel her stomach sinking, a feeling of fear and dread overcoming her.

The man on the left raised his eyebrow, and smiled. He was older that the other soldier; perhaps forty, and blond. There was something sinister in his smile. He then addressed her in French,

"Of course, we are standing in your way." He then graciously stepped backwards to make the path to the gate clear. Marie clutched her Rosary beads tightly in her hand, and walked towards the gate. As she lifted the catch the man spoke to her again, "May I ask you, where are you going at this hour of the morning?" Marie half turned towards him, afraid to meet his stare, and answered quietly, "Dawn Mass." The man looked at her strangely, almost suspiciously. "May I see your book?"

Marie began to feel buzzing in her ears. She felt faint, nauseous. Nervously handing him her missal, she leant back against the fence to support herself. If they had come for her parents, what would they do to her and Clotilde? He flicked through it slowly, before asking her.

"Surely your family go with you to Mass?"

"No." She answered, singularly.

"Tell me, why has a young girl such as yourself been taken so much with Roman Catholicism, despite the…perfidiousness of her family?"

Marie stared blankly at him, completely unprepared to answer such a question. She said quietly. "They are not perfidious."

He looked at her strangely and answered softly, "That, Mademoiselle, is not what I have been told." Marie gasped; there was something dark, and terrible, behind his words.

"This book is in Latin – do you understand it?"

"Yes." She answered honestly.

"So…tell me what this means…" He began, smirking. Marie could feel her palms beginning to sweat. Why was he asking her so many questions?

He then began to extract certain phrases from the book, to which Marie mumbled a translation. Then his questions became more difficult; "So, Mlle, tell me the gender, case and number", "What tense is this? And what voice?"

Marie's answers were choked out; she herself was drowning in fear.

"Masculine, nominative…no, no, vocative! And singular." She answered his questions as best she could. Her hands were now sweating profusely, so terrified was she to answer a question wrong. The scene was perverse – what would happen if she answered wrongly? Would it be like school, where the Latin master took her to the front of the class and drove a strap down hard into her hand? No, there was something much more sinister behind this all.

Eventually he was satisfied that she knew her missal and handed it back to her.

"What's your name?"

"Marie."

"Your full name."

"Marie Rousseau."

"Any relation to Jean-Jacques?" He asked sarcastically.

Marie frowned, and said "No" from behind clenched teeth.

"And how old are you?"

"Fourteen."

He noted her details in a black, leather bound notebook. His fountain pen was made of white metal and engraved with the name H. Landa. Marie realised then who he was - the Jew Hunter.

Marie involuntarily let out an audible gasp. She could feel her blood run cold, unable to control her fear. She had become very pale and was by this stage shaking violently. The man – Landa - turned to her and asked, "Are you all right?" He put a gloved hand on the side of her face and Marie's head shot back immediately, disgusted that he had touched her.

"I- I have to go to mass." She whispered.

"Of course." He replied, almost kindly. "I shan't keep you further. Go on."

Marie walked quickly out the gate and along the road to town. She felt the urge to run. God, how she wanted to run; just to get away from the Germans. As she walked along the road beside the trucks she could hear other SS men speaking in German. It unnerved her greatly – the urge to run was growing – just to get away, to get away to safety.

Eventually she reached the town and she began to feel a sense of security returning to her. The church she attended – St. Agnes' – was along the main street, with a café beside it and a post office opposite. It wasn't an especially big church, but it was big enough to meet the needs of the town. It was one of those old style churches which were opulently decorated inside. The priest, Fr. Renaud, was a young man who had recently been ordained, having studied at a seminary. His ideas were staunchly conservative, and it was this man who wielded most influence over Marie. Indeed, he taught her catechism class at school.

However, as he began to rattle off the Tridentine Mass, Marie found herself distracted, unable to follow the Latin rite. Her mind drifted off during the priest's homily, which today focused on the subject of God's mercy, with reference to the parable of the Prodigal Son. After going to receive communion, humbly kneeling on the altar rails as the host was placed in her mouth, she forced herself to pray. Please God, protect my family. Protect us from the Germans. Give me the courage to face them.

Marie walked back slowly to her house, dreading to find out whether the Germans were still there. Her heart sank as she saw the German trucks still in situ outside her home.

She had nearly reached the gate when she felt a hand roughly grab her, turning her and throwing her to the ground. Marie screamed, as a man, this one a lower ranked officer, threw himself on top of her. In the corner of her eye she saw other men gathered around her, all shouting in German. The man ran his gloved hands over her body, tugging at her clothes, trying to pull up her skirt. Marie used her hands to futilely try to defend herself; the man eventually grabbed the rosary beads clenched in her fist, in an attempt to throw them away. Marie refused to let them go, and they snapped, with the beads spilling onto the ground. At that point she heard him, Landa, shouting in German at the man on top of her. He stood up and Landa put his hands under her shoulders to lift her. She stood up herself and pushed him away, sobbing. As she stepped back her ankle caught a stone and she fell once more. He took a few steps towards her but stopped when he saw her backing away. Eventually she got to her feet and he said amicably, "I must apologise for my men; they have been warned previously about inflicting their…amorous desires on the local female population."

Marie was still crying softly. She stared at him for a few second before running desperately home. He made no effort to chase her.

Marie was an innocent girl; she had no understanding whatsoever of sexuality. Landa's words confused her; it was many years before she realised that that man had been attempting to rape her.

Marie's mother, Colette, sat at the table in the kitchen smoking a cigarette. Her hair wasn't brushed, and her eyes were tired and weary. She hadn't had much sleep, worry was consuming her; she feared she was pregnant. At thirty-five she was getting older, and her involvement with the French Resistance put her in danger on a daily basis. Clotilde sat opposite her, she too smoking a cigarette. She was already dressed, and had done her hair and washed. The husband and father of the family, Pierre, stood by the cooker, spreading butter and strawberry jam on bread for breakfast.

Marie burst upon this quiet scene, crying and shaking miserably. Her parents listened with concern as she recounted what had happened. When she finished Marie murmured, "I need n-new rosary beads. T-they broke mine." She held up her broken beads pathetically, and her eyes began to well up again.

"Sit down and have some breakfast." Her father said kindly. Colette stood up as Pierre beckoned her to the corner of the room.

Marie and Clotilde ate in silence, but they could hear their parents whispering to each other; "Nazis? Nazis! What are they here for?"

"Have they come for us?"

"No – we haven't broken our cover, have we?"

Colette started to wring her hands, "They won't kill Marie and Clotilde, they're only children. No, no, they won't."

"No, Colette, you must stop with your worrying. They're probably looking for Jews…"

Marie overheard every word. The two sisters exchanged glances throughout the conversation; they shared an understanding that only sisters have.

Their father insisted on walking with them to school. As they approached the gate Pierre eyed the two SS officers suspiciously. Landa turned and greeted him cordially.

"Aha! M. Rousseau. I believe we haven't yet met. I must introduce myself; I am Col. Landa of the SS. I'm afraid I must inform you that the SS requires the use of your abode, while we complete our work in B-."

Marie started to shake, her blood went cold. Her father remained silent, and there was an angry flare in his eye. Landa smirked, almost daring him to react.

Pierre forced himself to smile. "Of course, Colonel. But for now, I must take my daughters to school."

"Ah yes – Marie and I have already been acquainted." He said, still grinning. He then turned to Clotilde, and asked, "Mlle, may I have the honour of knowing your name?"

Clotilde smiled in the sweet way she did, and her bright blue eyes stared directly into his.

"My name is Clotilde Rousseau, M. Landa."

"Mlle, excuse my pedantry, but in Germany we are very particular about titles. I must insist you call me Colonel."

Pompous bastard. She thought.

"If that is the case, Colonel," Clotilde replied, "Then I insist that you do not speak to me familiarly." (Indeed, he had been using tu rather than vous.)

Marie froze - would he tolerate such impertinence? Indeed, his jaw dropped, but he quickly regained his composure, turned to Pierre and remarked, "Well, M. Rousseau, you certainly have a precocious daughter… I won't keep you further; is there anyone whom I can speak to at home?"

"My wife is at home." Pierre told him through clenched teeth, "She can help you."