When Marie and Clotilde returned from school, traces of the Germans could be seen in the house; the ashtray was full of cigarettes, half drunk glasses of beer littered the kitchen, and the spare bedrooms had been occupied. They stayed in the kitchen; their father told them that the Nazis had taken occupancy in the parlour.
Marie sat at the kitchen table to begin her homework, Clotilde preferred to go to her room.
Clotilde was tired from her day at school, and she had been given two hundred lines to do by Fr. Renaud for her impudence. She ascended the stairs slowly, lugging her heavy satchel behind her, with her eyes on the floor. As she crossed the landing, a German walked past her, knocking her shoulder back. She stumbled and nearly fell, but the man neither stopped nor apologised. She scowled and walked on. There was a hall in the centre of the house, with a staircase in the middle. From there branched two hallways and a bathroom straight ahead. Each hallway had three bedrooms, and Clotilde and Marie had each chosen the two bedrooms at the extremes of the hallway. Perhaps they had wanted to be as far away from each other as possible, but now Clotilde could feel a sense of trepidation in that she would have to share her hallway with two strangers.
She sat down at her desk, and began to write, "I will show respect to my teachers." Normally she would feel mildly annoyed, with a sense of righteous anger against Fr. Renaud, with his unwavering devotion to the church, and his dogmatic approach to religion, his desperate clinging to doctrine – it was laughable, or so it seemed to her. But today she had bigger worries; namely, how to deal with these intruders in her home. After finishing her lines, forsaking the rest of her homework she decided to visit the café. The café was the only place in town where young people could really socialise. It was run by a shrewd former politician, and served coffee and pastries at a price easily within the means of a teenager, however the saying "you get what you pay for" was especially true in this case; the pastries were often rock hard, the coffee bitter and you had to supply your own milk. However, Clotilde and her peers relished it.
She walked quietly out of her bedroom, trying to avoid eliciting any attention. She intended to exit through the door in the kitchen, but she had barely descended the stairs when she met Landa, who was walking in the opposite direction.
"Aha, Mlle. Rousseau, how are you this afternoon?"
"I am fine, Mo- Colonel. How are you?"
"I, too, am fine. May I ask where you are going?" Clotilde looked at him; he was smiling at her strangely. For some imperceptible reason, she felt like she shouldn't tell him; there was something untrustworthy about him. She searched her mind desperately.
"Um, I'm going to Mass."
"But it's only five."
"Yes, but I like to be there early."
"Early? What time does it start?"
"Seven…"
"You're going two hours early?" He smirked and raised an eyebrow as he asked her.
"Y-yes." She answered, trying to smile.
"I see." He said, "Mademoiselle, you make it very obvious when you are lying." Clotilde froze, and her mouth dropped opened slightly.
"Now, I suggest that you do not lie to me. Where are you going?" He was suddenly much sterner; his German accent began to cut into his French.
"I'm going to the café." Now, Clotilde dared not lie to him.
"The Café?" His words dripped with condescension.
"Yes. In town."
"And whom are you meeting?"
"I don't know, I'll see who's there."
He looked up at her and said, "And do your parents know where you are go- oh, I apologise, I had forgotten, Mlle, you are an adult." Clotilde frowned; how had she let him talk down to her in such a way?
"Well, if you'll excuse me." She muttered, and tried to push past him, but he turned and grabbed hold of her arm, holding it so tight it was almost painful.
"Manners, Mademoiselle!" He said with mock horror, before releasing her and continuing towards the stairs.
Marie was relieved to reach the café. She peered inside the door to see if anyone was there she knew. Her eyes scoured the tables and eventually she noticed her friend Sophie in the corner.
She pushed open the door and made her way over to the table. It was Sophie's table of choice, apart from the others and partly in darkness. There was something altogether ridiculous about Sophie. She was tall, and her neck was long, not like a swan, but when one saw her the image of a giraffe came to mind. Her egg shaped head seemed to balance atop her neck precariously, almost as if it would break off. Her hair was blonde and long, but she refused since the age of twelve to have it cut, resulting in numerous split ends. Moreover, Sophie was an eccentric in every sense of the word. She certainly had bizarre ideas, and at times Clotilde found it difficult to know whether she was serious or not. When she attended Clotilde's school the teachers had little patience for her, and had come to the stage where he refused to have her in his class. This was not especially a problem for Sophie, as she was not particularly religious. She did, however, succeed at Classics.
"How are you?" She asked upon Clotilde's arrival.
"I'm fine." She replied.
"How are you managing those Germans?"
"How do you know about that?" Clotilde replied, sitting down.
"Oh, I saw them outside your house when I was out this morning."
Clotilde sighed, looked at her friend tiredly.
"It's a nightmare. They're all over the house."
"Gosh. What about Marie?"
"Oh, Marie hates it. You know what she's like around men."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I think it makes her anxious, to say the least."
"Ah, I see what you mean."
"So how was school?"
"School? School was fine. Renaud gave me 200 lines."
"Are you serious?" Sophie laughed, "He used to give me far worse than lines!"
"No, no, Sr. Perpetua is the worst though," Clotilde replied, "I always get the cane off her for not learning my vocabulary."
"Does she teach you Spanish?"
"No, Italian."
"My God, remember that old nun who used to teach us maths." Sophie murmured.
Clotilde shuddered, that old nun had been particularly brutal with her pupils. As a young girl she would dread going to her maths lessons. She drank too much, and would use corporal punishment for the slightest indiscretion. Clotilde was once slapped in the face for arriving two minutes late.
"Yes, they sent her away though. Thank God for that."
"They sent her away? I heard a rumour that she died, and they buried her under the school."
Clotilde laughed, and said, "Oh Sophie, don't be so silly."
"It's not silly at all. These religious, they get up to all sorts of things we laypeople couldn't dream of."
"So are you going to go to lycee?" asked Sophie gently. Sophie was a year older than Clotilde, and had already progressed to the world of the Lycee, whereas Clotilde still attended College.
"I don't know." She said gently; she was still unsure about it all.
By the time she had returned home it was dark. Marie had gone to and returned from Mass. Pierre and Colette were sitting in the kitchen, both smoking.
"Where have you been?" Asked her father as Clotilde entered the kitchen. There was no worry in his voice; it was just a simple question.
"The café."
"Did you have something to eat?"
"No, but I'm not really hungry, Papa."
She went to bed that night without saying goodnight to Marie. As she ascended the stairs she could see two soldiers standing on the landing talking in German. The disruption was only beginning.
