A/N-Hello, people. This is Chapter 3. Sorry for the delay I have been having computer issues. Have Fun! AM

There wasn't very much to buy in the shops any more, not very much that she could afford anyway. The Germans wanted all the best food for themselves and so took the animals on the hoof, causing whatever was left to be sold at a high price. Much too high for someone like her to afford more than just the basics, so most of what she ate consisted of bread and potatoes, and that took up most of her wages as was. One would think that being employed by the Germans would mean extras, but no. Yes, she was allowed to buy more than everyone else, but that was to be used in the Avenue Louise only, and at the end of each and every day she had to account for everything used. There were ways to get extras, but none of which she was willing to partake in, no matter what other people said.

The Greengrocers was one of the worst places. Not only was there barely anything on the shelves any longer, but it was also where the majority of the pot shots were taken. There was one woman, Madam Ceelen, one of those snooty, 'I'm superior to you', upper middle class types, who was forever complaining about 'those girls', in other words any girls who were overly friendly with the Germans. And unfortunately because of her job, she fitted in to that bracket very nicely. Although they were were never said to her face, she was pretty sure that Madam Ceelen was the origin of such nicknames as 'the Germans' Whore' and 'the Nazis' Slut'.

She turned the corner and a cold breeze suddenly picked up, it was definitely getting colder, Winter would surely arrive soon. She pulled her coat further around her, she would have to replace it soon. It was her favourite colour, a deep red, but it was starting to get thin in places and probably wouldn't last through another Winter. Her aunt had been a seamstress, one of the best in Brussels. Silk, velvet, satin, lace, she could do it all no matter the difficulty. Replacing that one missing button, adjusting the seams on a dress that was just that bit too snug or reworking those garments too worn out into something brand new, nothing was too much.

She crossed the road and turned onto the Avenue Louise, heading in the direction of Gestapo Headquarters. It was her day off, or half a day off at least, and she was intending to spend the rest of it with Monique. She got half a day off every week; it had originally been on a Sunday to give her the chance to go to church, but not being Catholic, she hadn't seen the point and so had changed it to a Saturday. On a Saturday morning, she would make a note of what supplies were needed, go restock at the shops and then head to the Candide for a chat with Monique. It had become a ritual of sorts.

She had first met Monique before all of it, the war, the death, the destruction, the Germans. She had been in her aunt's shop, assisting in altering a dress for a regular customer, when a young woman walked in wanting a new blouse. She had just got a new job as a waitress at a café called Le Candide and wanted to look her best for her new boss. Although she suspected that it was more than just that, as while being measured, the woman told her that the owner, an Albert Foiret, kept watching her and had offered her the job almost immediately. That had been 5 years ago now and she and Monique had been good friends ever since.

"May I see your papers please, Mademoiselle,"

A policeman stood in front of her, his uniform buttons glinting in the crisp autumn sunshine.

"Your papers please, Mademoiselle," he repeated.

She was never happy when someone asked for her papers, because every time there was a chance that they would realise what was wrong with them. They were fake. When she had first arrived in Brussels, her aunt had seen fit to register her as French, and burn any evidence of her life in England. An act which had, in effect, saved her life.

"You've just been to the shop I see," the policeman said, looking at the basket in her left hand. "May I see the contents of your baskets, Mademoiselle?"

"May I ask what you are looking for, Monsieur?" she asked.

"We are searching for Black Marketeers, Mademoiselle. And so we must check everything. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course, Monsieur, you must do your job," she replied, pulling back the fabric cover of her basket.

He examined its contents for a few moments and then straightened back up. "Very well, Mademoiselle, you may go."

In the back of her mind, she knew that it was just a ruse. The police were never just looking for Black Marketeers, especially not when German soldiers were involved. The Black Market was a civilian matter and therefore nothing to do with the German officials. The only reason why soldiers would be searching the area was that they were on the trail of some Allied Airmen.

It was common knowledge there was an escape line operating somewhere in the city; of course everyone knew that. There were always rumours about it going around; who was running it, where airmen were being hidden and of course what you could get from the Germans if you gave them valuable information, although she usually only heard the latter from some of the other people in her building. It didn't matter what was said though; the people running the line always seemed to be two steps ahead, which would be rather amusing if it did not mean more hours and the cancelling of her half day off, and all without any extra wages.

And that was a problem, the lack of wages. How could it be possible for there to be such a huge gap between peoples' livelihoods when the country was at war. There were people who lived on luxuries and ate out every night at expensive restaurants. And then there were people like her, who were struggling to get by and were forced to live on whatever meagre supplies that were available. It sickened her sometimes, that any of this was even possible. And then, other times she knew that this was life, life wasn't fair and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

She was very glad that she was headed to the Candide and not stuck in the kitchens. While putting away her latest supplies, Anton had come down for more coffee and had mentioned that an operation had gone wrong and that Kessler was now on the war path…again, and that she should be careful for the next few days. It was a good piece of advice, but she knew that Kessler wasn't much of a danger, she was a maid, nothing more, too low on the scale to be noticed very often. It was the ordinary Belgians that were the problem, she had told Anton this and he had still warned her to be careful even if she was just going to the Candide. Anything could happen, especially on the side streets.

She stopped at the Candide's back door and knocked. The door was locked, they always kept it locked, for security reasons; something about angry Belgians and Swastikas. The local people weren't happy with their country being invaded and occupied by foreign soldiers; even more so with the constant display of Swastikas above every café, shop and restaurant, the owners of most of which complained feverently about being forced to the display the obnoxious item.

"I thought it would be you," a man's voice said form behind her.

She turned around. Albert Foiret was standing in the doorway attired in his usual dress-shirt and waistcoat, having not had the chance to change after the lunch service.

"Hello, Albert," she greeted. "How's the restaurant doing?"

"It's been busy," he replied, closing the door behind her.

"I can see why, this is a nice place to be," she said wandering into the other room.

It was true, the Candide was a pleasant place to be, it always was. The décor, an attractive mix of wallpaper and wood panelling, set of by white table cloths and shining floor tiles, somehow gave the air of luxury without being too ostentation.

"Hi, Monique," she said. Monique paused and turned around, cloth in one hand and a glass in the other.

"Hello Ella, how has work been recently?" Monique asked.

Monique asked the same question every week, with sometimes a variation in the words used.

"It was fine," she replied, removing her coat and dumping it over the back of one of the dining chairs.

"Have you thought about the job?" Monique asked, replacing some newly dried glasses on the shelves behind the bar.

She sat down at the piano and played a few bars of Sur le pont d'Avignon. Monique had offered her a part-time job as a waitress, a few weeks ago. Apparently, their former waitress had to be let go after she had been less that discreet in her 'activities', and now they were one short.

"Monique…" she started.

"Jacques has got mice in his cellar again," Albert said, walking into the room.

Jacques Bardot was a friend of Albert's and owned a local bakery, and a good one at that.

"Does he need any help getting rid of them?" Monique asked, frowning.

"No, Alain is going over there tomorrow," Albert replied.

The telephone on the behind the bar started ringing, Monique leaned over. "Restaurant Candide," she said. After a few moments her face dropped, "are you sure? No, it's okay. I hope you feel better soon."

"Something wrong?" Albert asked once Monique had hung up the phone.

"Simone is not feeling well and can't make it tonight," Monique answered.

Albert frowned, "that's a shame," he said. "We'll have to find someone to cover her."

Monique turned around and looked at her directly. "Ella?" she asked.

She searched her mind for an excuse, knowing that she was stuck between her conscience and her need for some rest. Finding none, she threw her hands up in defeat, "alright Monique, I'll accept your offer. But only until you find someone permanent."

Monique smiled at her in victory. Why did she have to be friends with someone as just stubborn as she was.

A/N-So, was it worth the wait? If it was, please leave a review below. See you all later. AM