Trigger warning: Violence/Allusion to Sexual Violence
Audrey Loewe intensely watched the clock in the kitchen, eyes trained on the black ticking hand, the barely perceptible movement of the thicker lines.
4.50 am
She let her eyes close only for a moment, hands resting in her lap as she sat at the oak table.
5 am wasn't safe. The clock could be wrong. Knocked back in time by an imperceptible force. She may still end up laying footsteps during curfew, leaving herself vulnerable to unwanted attention.
No no, better to wait until 5.05 am.
Certainly safe at 5.05 am.
Audrey Loewe could be described by a few words. Those words had been thrown around by her godmother and her godmother's son during last night's dinner.
Marion's choice words had been 'kind, careful, considered, hurt'.
Arthur's had been 'calculating, cold, self-preserving, righteous'.
As all arguments begin it had seemed benign. The apartment currently held four other young adults, 2 women and 2 men, who were sleeping on the floor of Arthur's room. During dinner, the four had been speaking in low tones in the living room, and Audrey had simply looked agitated at her stew.
That had commenced the argument, to which Audrey had contributed only five words: "You know how I feel."
Marion treated the orphaned Audrey as her own, and Audrey knew the argument wasn't really about the young people in the other room. It was about Arthur's jealousy and his frustration with Audrey.
Why wasn't she more militant? Why didn't she support the cause in more proactive ways? Why didn't she care?
Marion had fired back that Audrey 'did care', and that she had 'been through enough' and that she was 'always welcome under this roof'.
Audrey also knew the argument had come from fear.
Marion was a widow with a rounded body, ageing face, and kind, maternal heart and hands.
But her mind was failing.
It began as a dribble. Silly mistakes, slipping thoughts. Words that didn't fit in place. Memories misplaced, others overlapping.
Audrey had noticed it first during her typical weekend visit two months prior. Forgetting to put potatoes in the stew. Marion had laughed at it, but there was fear in her gaze. Fear that she should have remembered, should have known.
Then last night she had called Audrey by her dead mother's name. 'Anna, please get your plate.'. There had been a frozen silence, and Arthur had then laughed it all away, shaking his head as though they were all sharing the joke.
Audrey had not.
They'd argued once Marion retired to bed, Audrey hissing at him in the recesses of the living room. That it was a worry, that they needed to do something. Arthur had snapped back that it was fine. Audrey worried too much.
Audrey had argued that it was Marion's home and it wasn't safe to be discussing anything within those walls. Especially not resistance. Especially not rebellion. They couldn't put this kind, older woman at risk like that. It wasn't fair on her.
"Your parents died for this," Arthur had whispered, eyes ablaze and indignant. "You think they died for nothing?"
Audrey had slapped him so hard her palm had stung.
Arthur had gone to bed and she had sat in silence in the kitchen, mind unable to rest.
So, in the cool recesses of Sunday morning silence, she delicately laid out her day. She would attend mass at Notre Dame, collect her rations, and return to her shoebox room in the 18th arrondissement. She'd have a nap, collect herself, ready herself for another week of exhaustion. Everything was exhausting under the German occupation. Every breath, every blink, every thought was being collected or controlled. She yearned for freedom, but it had been four long years since she had felt freedom. Sometimes she considered she may never feel it again. At twenty-two years old she felt both the oldest woman she had ever met and the youngest. Her face was still that of a teenager, her tiny and diminutive form having her often mistaken at a distance for a teenager. It was the unmistakable iron of her eyes that let people know she was beyond those years. Eyes that had seen.
Her eyes open once more, and she looked up, her eyes focused on the clock once more.
5.05 am.
She swiftly picked up her handbag, coat already on her form as she silently slipped out the front door, making sure to keep her footsteps silent on the stairs. It was funny the ways the body could learn to move under the constant gaze. It could learn ways of moving that seemed impossible. Silent steps, moving only in shadows. Working in ways to be undetectable.
She was sure she'd be more shadow than a woman by the end of this occupation. She stepped silently onto the street, slipping through a crack in the front door of the fashionable building. Eyes downcast, heart once again hardening to survive yet another day under occupation.
"Fräulein!"
Audrey's stomach sunk at the language she had heard, her eyes cast up to see them in their pristine uniform. Not just one. Dozens. All in varying regalia, all smiling with easy cruelty which burned her skin. The one who had spoken to her stood in his SS uniform, a cigarette hanging from his lips. They were all lit by the headlights of the cars behind them. Stood in easy silence in pre-dawn Paris.
"Hallo," she said calmly, allowing no emotion to reach her features.
She attempted to continue walking but he stepped into her way, a hand raised to stop her.
"Did you just exit apartment twelve?" He asked.
"Nein," she said with an easy naturalness. Expressionless.
He smirked lightly at her, flicking his cigarette onto the road below him.
His hand hit her her shoulder, thumb dug to her collarbone, as he thrust her into the wall behind her. She felt the breath rush from her body at the sting of the bricks burned into the back of her.
"You verdammt French," he chuckled darkly, his hand squeezing into her skin. "Why can't you just behave?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said as evenly, confusion lacing her words. Her eyes drifted to the side to see the Nazi's storm into the apartment building, thunderous footsteps followed by muffled screams and yells.
"We have a saying in Deutschland," he replied with a nasty smirk. "If it looks like a dog, barks like a dog, it's probably a bitch."
Two younger soldiers chuckled darkly behind him, sharing a thin cigarette between them.
"I am just visiting my godmother," she begun earnestly. "She is unwell. She needs help-"
"Shut up," he snapped. He begun to speak in sharp and quick German behind him, mobilising his soldiers with a wave of his free hand as the young people from Arthur's apartment began to be torn from the building, all screaming and yelling, cuffed and dragged by the uniformed men.
Arthur was one of the last, a fresh bloody lip smearing across his chin.
Audrey stared at him, eyes willingly unseeing. Glassy. A flicker of emotion would have her killed.
"Do you know him?" The blue-eyed officer asked. She shook her head, blinking up at the officer.
The slap that hit her mouth caused her to gasp, her head snapping as fresh blood slipped from the newly split corner of her mouth. Her hand came up to gently touch her new wound, timidly looking back up.
"Liar," the German said with a nasty smile. The young germans behind him sniggered.
"Do you know her?" He barked at Arthur. Arthur shook his head.
"Nein," Arthur said simply. The man smiled and released Audrey, smiling amiably as he unclipped his pistol.
"You are sure?" He asked. Arthur nodded, holding his blue-eyed gaze.
The shot was so quick that Audrey didn't have time to look away. Arthur's knees greet the ground as his body crumpled, his head crunching the ground as blood poured from between his eyes.
Audrey felt the bile crawl up, the closest thing she had in this world to a brother, bleeding in death on the sidewalk. She couldn't move her eyes from him, baring unbearable witness to this murder.
She only looked up when she heard Marion scream, two young soldiers pulling the grief-stricken mother away from her son.
Audrey body moved without her permission. She lunged forward towards Marion, only to be thrown back against the brickwork, the blue-eyed officer's hand vice-like to her neck.
"You don't know him," he said simply, a cruel amusement dancing in his expression.
Audrey's hand wrapped his wrists, scratching at clawing at it, trying to free herself.
He slapped her once more, snapping 'stop', causing her head to jerk violently, the sting burning on her eye.
To Audrey's surprise, she did not.
Instead, her hands reached forward, scratching blindly at his face. She felt the flesh lift beneath her nails, followed by a strangled roar by him. He let go of her and she seized her opportunity, scrambling from him as she rushed in the opposite direction of her dead friend.
The young soldier caught her by her hair, dragging her back with a swift tug. She tumbled, palms scraped across the asphalt. There was a cackle of laughter by the soldiers, followed by a swift kick to her side. Audrey gasped out, blood caking around her mouth as she curled into herself.
"She's pretty," she heard one of them say, a laugh rippling through the gang of three as the other uniformed men continued to drag her fellow Parisians into nearby cars and trucks.
"She's too skinny," one complained.
"Doesn't matter," said the third.
She felt her body be lifted once more by the root of her hair, her hands coming up to snatch at the wrist of the man holding her. She glanced up to see the young soldier open a nearby car door, before looking up to see the blue-eyed man looking at her with a distinct smile, a cold leer, and a burning gaze that turned her stomach to ice.
"Let go," she said sharply, eyes turning wild as he continued to drag her towards the car.
"Nein," he said. "Try to relax fräulein, it will make it easier-"
"Let go!" she shrieked, fighting desperately against the soldier's grasp. She felt one of the young soldiers come to roughly pull off her coat, tossing it across the road with a loud laugh. "Let go, let go!"
"You'd think cutting out a tongue would quiet up a woman," the blue-eyed man said with a harsh chortle. "This does a better job."
Audrey kicked against the car, her heel scratching the paint as she flung herself backwards. She looked up, eyes frenetic as she scrambled away, kicking and scratching and shouting. She was free but only for a heartbeat. The leader, his blue eyes amused wrapped his fingers to her dress, tugging her towards the car.
"Calm down," the blue-eyed man snapped, irritated that she would dare disobey. His hand coming to cover her mouth. She bit him, teeth sinking into flesh, drawing blood. He roared out in pain, dropping her. She hit the dark road with a thud, scrambling backwards and away. Stars filled her eyes as the cool night air seeped through her blue dress, ripped at the collar. She was so panicked, so blinded, that she ran into him at full force, falling backwards as his hands reached out to grab her arms.
She looked up to see yet another uniformed man, his hair neatly groomed, his leather coat shining against the streetlight.
She threw herself back, but his grip was too firm.
"Standartenführer Landa, do not unhand her!" The blue-eyed man shouted, rushing forward, the two young soldiers rushing behind him.
"Jésus Christ," she cursed, eyes wild as she struggled against the new man. He looked at her with equal parts disinterest and bemusement.
"What has happened to her Sturmbannführer Hellstrom?" Landa called, taking in her bleeding lip and swollen eye.
"You know how these French can be," Hellstrom called back genially, his blue eyes sparkling as he smiled at his superior officer. "A bit of fight in them."
"Fight? What is she?" Landa asked in amusement. "Five foot one, eighty pounds?"
"She has fight in her sir," Dieter responded, flashing his bleeding palm at his fellow officer, before wrapping it in a handkerchief.
"Is this true?" Landa asked in French. She looked between Hellstrom to Landa, suspiciously taking him in, his hands softly gripping her forearms.
"Don't let him rape me," she whispered hotly in French. "S'il vous plaît."
Landa's eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise.
"Rape?" Landa called in German. She saw a nervous smile reach Hellstrom's face. He shook his head, looking amiably at their captive.
"Nein," he grinned. "Nein, she misunderstands-"
"S'il vous plaît," Audrey interrupted quickly in French. "Don't, I am begging you-"
"Shut up," Hellstrom spat at her.
"I'll deal with her," Landa said smoothly. "Thank you Sturmbannführer Hellstrom."
Hellstrom's mouth opened but he had no response. Instead, he snapped a heil, the young soldiers behind him copying with anxious eyes, all turning to leave their fugitive alone with the Standartenführer.
Landa let go of her and she stepped back with a smooth step, her hand coming to her lip to tentatively investigate the damage. Landa whistled at one of a fresh young solider, who turned and glanced the pair.
"Go get her coat," Landa commanded with a flick of his hand. He jogged and returned with the grey wool coat, gingerly handing it to her. She snatched it and shrugged it on, her hand returning to worry her face.
"So, you are Free France?" Landa asked casually. Audrey shook her head, forcefully pushing the back of her hand against the cut on her lip. He offered her handkerchief and she took it, pressing it to the bleeding corner of her mouth.
"It's my godmother's home," she said evenly. "She's unwell. I've been checking on her."
"Unwell?"
"Her mind…" Audrey elaborated vaguely, eyes searching for Marion in the crowd. "Somedays she can't remember things that she should."
"And who are you?" Landa asked, a bemused grin reaching his face, eyebrows raised in patient anticipation.
"Audrey Loewe," she said, still distracted.
"Quite a German name," Landa said, the same friendly tone hitting his French.
"I'm from Luxembourg. My father was German."
"Was?"
"He's since passed," Audrey offered tersely. "As has my mother."
"The proverbial orphan," Landa said with a pouting frown. "Shame."
She didn't know how to respond. Her gaze returned to him and she watched carefully, eyes scouring his intimidating uniform for clues.
"Ah!" he said with a small clap of his hands. "I should introduce myself properly. I am Colonel Hans Landa of the SS."
The name snagged a memory of Audrey's and her eyes swelled with recognition. He offered a hand forward to shake hers, but she couldn't move, eyes still in shock that someone so infamous was smiling so amiably at her.
"Oh," he smiled, looking deeply amused. He dropped his hand. "You've heard of me?"
She nodded slowly. A cunning grin caught his mouth as he let out a small huff of laughter.
"My reputation proceeds me, of course," he said.
"Everyone in France has heard of you," she responded, voice calm. He nodded in agreement, drinking her in.
"I think you should head home Mademoiselle Loewe," he tutted. "I am sure you have a busy Sunday planned."
She blinked in shock, sure there would be handcuffs on her wrists. She looked away once again, eyes sharply searching the gaps between the swarming Germans.
"What about Marion?" She asked impulsively, unable to withhold the thought.
Landa considered this, eyes trained on the young woman with keen regard.
"If her mind is as afflicted as you say," he told her with a shrug. "We shall set her free, she will be no use to us alive or dead."
Audrey nodded in agreement. Landa raised a hand and shooed her as though she were a stray cat, grinning at her as she passed back the blood-splattered handkerchief.
"Think of it as a gift," he said easily, clicking to summon a young soldier who opened a leather planner and held it out to his commander. Landa pulled a fresh and small white calling card, passing it to Audrey with a flick of his wrists. She held it, eyes trained on the infamous Nazi.
"Off you go," he said in a sing-song voice, smiling benevolently at her.
She left without looking back, her heels clicking against the street.
Landa watched her blond hair flow as she rushed off into the dawn, a new smirk hitting his lips.
Audrey Loewe was a thin red string that connected several Free France activities across the city of Paris. A blonde woman who appeared again and again in reports but was never arrested. Almost always let go by inexperienced officers, all reporting her as harmless or a spectator. Hans could read between the lines. She knew how to flirt, to charm, to escape.
He had glanced across the pictures earlier that day of her mother and father, juxtaposed by the violent death they both met, documented in cold and clinical black ink. In the Winter of 1940, Audrey's father had been beaten to death and her mother shot in the head as she wept over her husband's body. Teenage Audrey Loewe had been spared, simply because the gun had jammed, and Sturmbannführer Wilhelm Klutch of the SS had lost his patience and screamed her into the snowy forest nearby her home. The Loewe's had been hiding their Jewish neighbours, ferrying them to Spain with their own funds. The wealthy couple that had worked beneath the Nazi occupation for at least three months before the SS had found them, murdering them both in cold blood in the snow. Hans imagined his new acquaintance, covered in her parent's blood, stumbling through the snowing night, tears cutting through the dried blood pressed to her skin.
Hans on occasion had let young women escape. Why he had done this he honestly didn't know. He imagined it was similar to when a cat frees a mouse, just a moment of curiosity rather than compassion. He imagined Klutch thought she would freeze to death, little Audrey Loewe, but no. She had snuck back into the house, taken her papers and some cash, and crossed to Paris all by herself.
And there she stood, right in front of Hans Landa, walking away from him against the cool autumn air, the clip of her heels still reaching his ears.
There wasn't much more about her. Her father Gabriel Loewe's family was established and important. Luxembourgish natives. Her mother was Russian, and since he had married her in Moscow, there was no background information on Anna Milt. The entire Nazi party relied on meticulously records, and a lack of records on anyone was always a problem.
He had one photo of Audrey, taken for her papers. Her sunken but pretty face looked out, her eyes numb against the flash of the camera. He pulled it from his coat pocket, eyes falling from the back of her head to once again glanced down at the woman who appeared to be smoke. Present but untouchable.
Hans smiled to himself, flicking the corner of the picture with a theatrical flourish. Paris had been tedious at best, exhaustingly boring at worst. Just trips to the countryside with varying success. He always met his 'count'. No one could find someone the way that he could. He put himself against the great detectives of fiction, Poirot, Sherlock, his skills were unparalleled. It had led to a comfortable life, one he was sure would continue once the war was done. Perhaps a cabinet position or some coveted position within the Austrian police force.
But Hans didn't like comfortable. He liked exciting. He liked the hunt.
So, to watch her walk away, her steps uneven as she disappeared into the Paris night, he finally felt a flash of excitement. A feeling he had yearned for since stepping into the city of lights.
He doubted it was the last time he would lay eyes on Audrey Loewe.
