She certainly wasn't happy that she was an invalid, but she was comfortable.
Oscar took care of every whim, every ache, every concern, doting on every need. This was a man that Audrey couldn't have dreamed of. He was sweet and soft, caring without expecting a reward. He softly kissed her head at every chance he got, making sure she was fed and rested. He cleaned the wound on her head and her hand, he massaged her aching muscles, and he made her laugh, letting her head empty of fear and worry.
She loved looking at him when he rested, exhausted from work, asleep atop the covers of her bed as she lay beside him, eyes shining in the dark to look upon him. She didn't feel that she owned him, nor did she think he was a soulmate. He was a short-term love which she was grateful for. Their worlds were too different, and Oscar in all of his privilege would never understand her truly in the way she needed to be understood.
But at that moment it didn't matter.
It didn't matter when his hands were roaming her body, coaxing soft moans against clean sheets.
It didn't matter when her head lay in his lap, his fingers playing languidly with her hair.
It didn't matter when he curled his arm over her waist while she slept, nose buried into the space behind her ear.
He made her feel warm and domestic and safe. She let her worries lay away from her as she curled into her life in her apartment, still too bruised for work, but well enough to enjoy his company.
She let herself forget the Basterd's and the papers.
She let herself be the version of Audrey that she felt she was probably going to be, before that fateful night in the snow.
A young woman who was funny and sweet, who could love freely and make a home where ever her feet lay.
It had ended the night the door had been knocked upon.
He had brought her a Jazz record, playing it in the living room and dancing with her, teasing her gently for her still timid movement, his feet fluttering across the floor with ease. She had laughed brightly at his movement, each burst of laughter smothered by a sweet kiss by him, a funny comment whispered to her lips.
The knock on the door had been innocuous but she knew it was not. He had turned the record off and sat her on the sofa, kissing her softly once more as he got the door, unbothered by the puncture in her picture-perfect fantasy. Oscar thought it was nothing.
But she knew it wasn't nothing.
She heard his voice float in, familiar and friendly as always. She closed her eyes, exhausted again that it was all going to continue. Life can't stop forever, no matter how badly one wants it to.
She turned her head easily, blonde hair feathering about her face as he walked into the doorway, smiling warmly at her, his hands clapping in front of him as he took in the view of her.
She looked much better, she was sure. The swelling was all gone, her lip slowly healed, her features no longer morphed by stretched skin. When she had complained that she felt ugly, Oscar had whispered to her that her bruises reminded him of watercolour, brush strokes of blue, purple and black. The only thing she couldn't forgive was the thick black and purple bruise about her throat, looking like a grotesque velvet ribbon, tightly twirling across her neck.
"Bonsoir Colonel Landa," she said, keeping her expression indifferent, her eyes polite. "How may I assist you?"
"Bonsoir Audrey," he said, his teeth showing as he smiled warmly at her. "You are looking much better."
She didn't say thank you. She knew how this worked. He wanted his victim to run their tongues, let the words twist themselves into solid form, into the shackles he'd cuff them with, the rope he'd hang them with. She wouldn't do it, not anymore. She had shown her hand at the hotel when she had slapped him, her emotions free and his to play with.
That lack of judgement, that slip of character, that had nearly killed her.
"I am here for the hole in the wall," he said, a smile crossing his features once more.
"I will show you-" Oscar began but Landa's hand held up, his palm facing Audrey.
"Ah ah ah," he tutted, smiling wolfishly. "I asked Madmoiselle Loewe."
"Of course," she said smoothly, struggling upwards, her sore ankle, her bruised and fractured ribs, still not cooperating with her. She hated with a burning passion the 'ah ah ah' noise that Landa spat out with such friendly disposition. She hated that he played dumb, as though he did not know how terrifyingly monstrous he was.
She stood uneasily, walking over to him and dipping past him, heading straight to Arthur's room. She struggled down once more, flicking her hand at Oscar when he attempted to assist her. Landa watched pleasantly, looking almost serene as she fiddled with the sideboard before finally tugging it loose. She let out a small cough as a rush of dust spread forward, sitting back on her heels as she looked back at Landa expertly. He crouched down beside her, fishing a flashlight from his belt and shining it into the hole. A gloved hand delved in, feeling the space for lumps and bumps, clues of what it may or may not have held. He kept her face in his peripheral vision at all times, awaiting a response.
Stoic as always, Audrey stared on as though she were watching paint dry.
"Ah," he sighed after satisfying his curiosity. "You are correct Audrey, it is certainly a hole in the wall."
She let a smile twitch her face, her eyes drifting up at him as he flourished his handkerchief, using it to rub the dust of his gloves.
"What did she say was in it?" Landa asked, voice conversational, his eyes gliding to Oscar.
"Nothing," Oscar answered, his voice cool. Audrey internally flinched, it was too cool. Landa would be able to tell.
"Nothing?" Landa replied. "Then why did you come to the house?"
"Because it was an excuse to see Audrey," Oscar said. That at least sounded plausible, his voice held the right amount of worried, embarrassed, and genuine.
But the way he had said 'nothing' stuck in Audrey's mind.
"Ah, a romantic, like myself," Landa teased, standing easily. Audrey struggled upwards and Oscar stepped forward but Landa once again let out an 'ah ah ah'. Audrey involuntarily pulled a face of irritation and Landa chuckled. He held his hand to her and she reluctantly took it, feeling his other hand wrap around her elbow as she struggled to a stand.
"Still not fully healed I see Audrey," he cooed, frowning at her. The concern never reached his eyes, instead, they continued to search hers for secrets.
"Non," she agreed, letting go of his grip as soon as she steadied herself. He did not let go, holding on for a beat of a second too long. She felt hateful for a moment but kept her cool, her head dropping down in an attempt to disguise her anger.
"You did say I could come at my convenience," he teased her, tilting his head down to catch her gaze.
"I did," she said, glancing up at him with a small sigh.
He twitched a smile at her, all but forgetting Oscar's presence as his full attention bore on to her.
"We still haven't found Sturmbannführer Klutch," Landa said in German, gaze keenly awaiting a response.
"Bitte tell me when you do, Herr Landa," Audrey responded. Her eyes held his with such lack of hesitation, such readiness to be explored and seen he had felt his whole mouth jerk into a foxlike smile.
He tutted loudly once more.
"Ah Audrey," he cooed in French once more. "You never tire me."
She didn't respond, her expression impassive, but with a burn of rage hidden in her crystalline eyes.
"Au revoir Audrey," he said warmly, before glancing back with a nod of his head. "Doctor Clément."
He showed himself out, slamming the door shut as he went.
They had stood in silence for a long moment, Audrey's mind ticking over the conversation.
"What was he-"
She interrupted him with a shake of her head.
"Oscar please," she murmured, hands coming to worry her temples. A throbbing headache engulfed her as the way that Oscar had said 'nothing' echoed about in her mind, causing all manner of horror to be produced, each new idea engulfing her with fear and sickness.
She had fallen asleep that night with a restlessness that Oscar had never seen be her, her unknown German exchange plaguing him till the early dawn light.
It had been three days later she had returned to work. She was honestly grateful for the distraction. Landa's visit had punctured the fantasy and life was quickly draining from it. She could feel distrust from Oscar because he knew she hid things. He just didn't know what.
He didn't know that it was Jewish blood. He thought it was something more salacious. He wouldn't say that to her of course, but she could tell. It always happened. Whenever she took a lover there would be a golden period, until they tried to know her. Until they realised she had secrets that she would never share.
It was on her fourth day back that Audrey's morning had been interrupted by a squeal from Nannette. The fresh-faced teenager who had recently commenced work at Mousier Brodeur's atelier. Madame Halphen, the Première D'Atelier, quickly hushed the young girl, an exasperated look crossing her face.
"Madame Halphen," Nanette cried, eyes wild with excitement. "He is coming up the stairs!"
"Who is?" She scolded, irritated by the girl's teenage charm. Audrey felt a little smile tug at her lips, the girl's expression, young and innocent, an uncommon sight in war-torn Paris.
"Fredrick Zoller!" Nanette squealed. A ripple of excitement rushed across the room but Audrey frowned.
She had meant to ask Oscar where he knew the name for but had forgotten too, instead, she had fallen into the steady schedule of intimacy and loving care. Audrey let a small scowl reach her face, the inevitable reach of the Nazi Party already trickling back into every inch of her world.
"Fredrick Zoller!" the girls whispered to one another, all equally thrilled at the idea that the celebrity would attend their workshop. Audrey attended to her work instead, carefully stitching the coat of a wealthy patron, her eyes trained carefully on the fabric in front of her.
"Ah, Private Zoller!" Monsieur Broduer called out, the same cloying tone once again hitting his words.
"Bonjour Monsieur Brodeur," Zoller called, his voice as friendly as Audrey remembered. "It is a pleasure to meet in person."
"The pleasure is all mine," Monsieur Brodeur called out. "Do you have your jacket?"
"Oui," Fredrick responded.
"Well, given that your French is so wonderful, you should be seen by our fantastic Première D'Atelier, Madame Adaline Halphen-"
"Although I am sure she is wonderful," Zoller interrupted politely. "I have been recommended Audrey Loewe by a very important officer. He says you cannot even see she has completed the work, that is how subtle and ingenious she is."
"Ah, Mademoiselle Loewe," Monsieur Brodeur agreed, his hands clapping together. "She speaks wonderful German."
She heard their footsteps approaching but she kept her head low, her mind focused on the work in front of her.
"Good timing Private Zoller," Monsieur Brodeur praised. "She has just returned to us. Audrey!"
Audrey looked up slowly, her hands still holding the thread and needle against the black dress coat. Zoller smiled at her, disposition cheerful and bubbly, waving at her briefly.
"Bonjour Private Zoller-"
"German Audrey," Monsieur Brodeur interrupted. She blinked in surprise, opening her mouth to argue.
"Non, I love the opportunity to practice my French," Zoller interrupted, holding his hand in the air to silence herself and Monsieur Brodeur. "I am in Paris after all. S'il vous plaît, I would prefer she speak French, is that agreeable to you Madmoiselle Loewe?"
"Oui, of course," she said, smiling tightly at her boss who looked flustered for a moment.
"Whatever you prefer Private Zoller," he said in a discomposed voice. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Non," Zoller said calmly. "Merci."
Monsieur Brodeur had bowed quickly, stumbling back as he left Zoller in the presence of his young seamstress.
Audrey stood slowly, carefully placing her needle and thread down and meticulously laying the garment on the table in front of her.
"How may I assist you this morning Private Zoller?" She asked smoothly, smiling politely.
She watched him carefully remove a pristine white jacket from a garment bag. She observed it as he held it up, head tilting slightly to take it in.
She had never seen a summer white tunic up close. She'd seen the dress uniform in pictures, but to see it up close, the pristine white fabric not showing an inch of the blood she knew the Nazi's held all over their hands. The casualness of it placed in front of her, made her blood fizz with rage. She hid it though, instead, turning a calm gaze to Zoller's face once more with an inquisitive expression.
"I feel it doesn't quite fit," he explained. "And I would like it to look perfect."
"Of course," she agreed, smiling graciously once more. "Will you wear it for me?"
He nodded, slipping out of his brown uniform and shrugging on the white jacket. She saw the glance of a gun on his hip and held her nerve, watching, instead, the way the white fabric rippled across his body. He was right. It was fitted, but not precise. A pinch of fabric here and there, the tightening of one or two buttons, and it would be tailored to perfection.
"Very easy," she assured him, looking at him attentively. "Do you mind?"
"Of course not, please," he said, gesturing down his jacket. She carefully matched thread to the fabric, eyes focused upon her work as she pinched different creases, carefully pulling and preening the material. The intensity of her gaze made him smile. Zoller liked an intense woman. Zoller watched her bruised yet beautiful face fiercely focus on his jacket, fingers carefully adjusting and readjusting the white material. He let her work in silence for several minutes, stood in front of the cool morning light filtering in through the nearby window.
"How long have you been a seamstress?" he asked her, breaking the silence.
"Four years," she answered. He watched her carefully pin the side of the jacket, adjusting and readjusting the hem once more.
"Do you like it?" He asked.
"Oui," she answered.
"How is Doctor Clément?" He asked. She paused and looked up, confession and bemusement crossing her features.
"He's well," she said slowly, a little smile catching her mouth. "He drove me to work this morning."
"He seems lovely," Zoller agreed, noting the bemused shake of her head she gave him.
"Have you been seeing him long?" he asked, conversational once more.
"Non," she said. "Only a few weeks."
"Ah, very new," Zoller said, sounding pleased with the discovery.
"But he has taken excellent care of me," Audrey continued. "He is very sweet."
"Do a lot of French women like sweet men?" Zoller asked.
"I wouldn't know," Audrey said, carefully unpicking part of the hem at the bottom of his jacket before pinning it once more. "I am from Luxembourg."
"Ah!" Zoller said, grinning boyishly at her. "I thought I detected an accent! You speak Luxembourgish then?"
"Oui," she answered.
"And German, and English, and Russian!" Monsieur Brodeur called from across the room, abandoning his busy work momentarily.
Zoller let out an impressed whistle and Audrey walked behind him to check the back of the jacket, a finger carefully running down the seam on his spine.
"I consider myself very proficient at languages, but even I don't speak so many," he said, glancing back to see her. She gently touched the back of his head, silently encouraging him to continue to look forward.
"Merci Private Zoller," she said distractedly.
"Fredrick," he corrected. She didn't respond, instead, she continued to work silently behind him.
"And which do you like the most?" He asked, unwilling to give up on the conversation with her.
"Russian," she answered honestly. "It is what my mother spoke."
"Oh, is she no longer with us?" He asked sadly.
"Non," she said. "Neither is my father."
"I am sorry to hear this," he said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. She quietly furrowed her brow, surprised as to why Landa wouldn't have already shared this with Fredrick Zoller. She wondered instead if Hans Landa was trying to get her to spill a secret to an unknowing spy. Fredrick would be a good choice. Handsome and sweet, she could easily see other women falling into this honey pot. She tutted quietly to herself that Hans Landa would think her so stupid.
"It's fine," she said dismissively, not wanting to continue the conversation down such a tedious route. "What language is your favourite to speak?"
"German of course," he said, laughing at the question. "But then French, then English."
"Ah, English," she chuckled, leaning around him to snatch a few more pins from her table. She carefully pinned the back of his jacket, delicately flipping the hem back and forth to check her work. "Piece of cake."
He laughed at her truly American saying, glancing back again. She gently touched the back of his head once more and he looked forward, grinning again with adolescent charm.
She returned to the front of him, gesturing him to sit on the nearby tall stool. He did as she asked, her hands careful to guide the hem and protect her pin work.
"May I enquire what event the jacket is for Private Zoller?" She queried casually, her attention turning towards the buttons that ran the front of him.
"It's for a film premier," he told her, sounding boastful.
"Oh la la," she teased, a small smile twitching her lips. "Très exciting Monsieur Zoller."
"It's a movie about me, and my exploits in Italy," he said. She glanced back to see that the other seamstresses had grown silent, now all watching the interaction with keen interest.
Audrey stood back with a sigh, looking up innocently at him.
"Monsieur Zoller, I must admit to you, that I do not know what you did in Italy," she said with a shrug.
He chuckled with a boyish grin.
"In fact," she continued, teasingly smiling at him. "I do not know who you are."
"Well…" he said calmly, a small smile inching his face. "I was alone in a bell tower in a walled-off city. It was myself and a thousand rounds of ammo in a bird's nest, against three hundred enemy soldiers."
"How did you fit?" Audrey asked curiously, rethreading a needle with pristine white thread as he spoke. He let out a puff of laughter, smiling warmly at her.
"Ah, non, Madmoiselle Loewe, it is what a sniper would call a bell tower," he corrected warmly. "Very tall, offering a three hundred and sixty-degree view of the surrounds. Very advantageous for marksmanship."
"Oh," Audrey said, laughing at her own ignorance for a moment. "Forgive me, please continue Monsieur Zoller. How many men did your marksmanship take care of?"
"Sixty-eight," Zoller said calmly.
"Oh la la," she whispered to herself, eyebrows jumping in awe at such a number, she returned her hands to his jacket, carefully adjusting one of the grand buttons, continue to stitch it skilfully in place.
"The first day."
She paused, face close to his as she looked up slowly, blinking once in shock.
"One hundred and fifty, the second," he continued, his face calm but serious. She blinked once more. "Twenty-two on the third."
She was still, listening intently, as was the rest of the workroom.
"On the fourth day the exited the city," he said with a wave of his hand.
She leant back, abandoning her work to stare at him, eyes filled with shock at such a tale.
She was sure, quietly, that he had had a lot of practice telling the story, but alas it was still terribly impressive, even if it were the story of a Nazi.
"Oh my Fredrick," she whispered quietly, a small sad quality catching her gaze.
"Naturally my war story received a lot of attention in Germany," he continued, ignoring her sympathy. He leant in, glancing to the rest of the workroom "… that's why they recognise me."
"Ah," she said quietly, nodding as she glanced back at her colleagues.
"They call me the German sergeant York," he whispered.
"I don't know who that is," Audrey confided, causing a fresh smile to hit his face.
"This is what your movie is about?" She asked conversationally, returning her hands to her work. She carefully adjusted the button after a quick few stitches, finishing the work with a small flourish. She looked up when he hadn't answered, smiling softly at him. "Who plays you, Fredrick?"
"Ah, I do," he said, grinning boyishly at her once more, but with a hint of embarrassment.
"You mean, I am sewing the jacket of a movie star?" she teased, grinning gently. She let out a small whimper as she felt the skin of her lip move, hurting her once more.
"Are you ok Mademoiselle?" He muttered, brows drawing in concern.
"I'm ok," she whispered. She gingerly checked to make sure she had not drawn blood, feeling relieved to see her fingers were clean.
"Are you even well enough to be at work?" Zoller asked quietly. She nodded, glancing up at him.
"Just tender," she said, smiling once more. "What is your movie called?"
He leant back as she stood close once more, beginning to fiddle with the lapel on his shoulder. Her face was close to his and he looked at her unashamedly, her eyes downcast as she focused on her work. Landa was right. She looked exactly like a blonde-haired version of Gene Tierney. Despite the bruising on her jaw, temple, neck, and cheek, she was genuinely gorgeous. Her crystalline blue eyes looked up at him and he gave her a fresh smile.
"Nation's Pride," he answered.
"Oh la la," she said once more, a small smile biting at her lip as she returned to her work. Sat on the tall stool he was still taller than her and it tickled him. "Do you play yourself, in a movie about yourself?"
"I know," he said quietly, a fresh smile hitting his face. She fiddled delicately with the label, moving to adjust the collar. "Comical?"
"Non," she said softly, running her finger down the buttons of his jacket. "Very German."
It made him laugh aloud, nodding softly.
"I think we can take it in half an inch," she said, looking up at him. "We can have it fit a bit more like a movie star."
"If you say so Madmoiselle Loewe," he said. "I trust you."
"You should," she said with a small quirk of her eyebrow. "I am très fantastique with a needle and thread."
Zoller smiled upon her, impressed by her wit and charm. Landa had described her as cold but she was the opposite. She was tough. She was strong. She was funny. She was warm.
And he wanted her.
If he hadn't let three hundred men stand between him and what he wanted in Italy, he sure as hell wouldn't let one man in Paris stop him.
