Disclaimer: All characters and themes are the product of Quentin Tarantino's genius. Any others not native to the film are my own creations that are not set out to improve upon or change an already stunning production. I only intend to quench my need for an extended version of the character's lives. The basterds originally come to France in the spring of 1944. I have brought them a little earlier. The original film remains truthful.

This is my first fan-fic Narrative.

15th September 1942

Shosanna rubbed her finger tips together feeling the roughness they had developed over the short time she had been operating the projectors. She had already learned how to run an entire film without a gap or mistake whilst eating cake and drinking coffee with Marcel. Marcel had stood by her side every second making sure she made not one slip or late transition. His puppy love had subsided and instead harboured a genuine affection for her deep in his heart which would stay with him whether it was returned or not. This however, was likely for Shosanna saw in Marcel all hope in the world and to see him, touch him, talk to him breathed new life into her soul every day. The curse of her family and the anger she felt dissolved in every minute she was with him. He taught her how to think like a woman, not because he was man but because he was a friend. All she could tell from the future was that he would be part of hers because their love for eachother was not made up of the sneaking into corners sharing a lustful kiss or telling eachother how beautiful they were. Their love was the deep water that ran beneath the earth, an undying bond solidifying their happiness. They would find comfort in just being in the same room showing films together, eating their meals, such trivial things that most people in the world took for granted. They filmed each other on the old cameras in the attic, playing like children acting out Macbeth over and over until Shosanna became the lady dying in madness and he Macduff, conquering all the evil in the world. They destroyed the hate that so many posessed for both of them. Marcel's rich skin was seen as something disgusting and wrong as if he had chosen to be different, purposely trying to offend those above him. She was a Jew as gentle as a butterfly and as kind as a saint but head strong like the Fuhrer himself. What ever did they do to deserve the punishment of alienation and even death? In a world so beautiful and rich, they could not understand why it could not be shared. Ada and Jean-Pierre watched them blissfully admiring their devotion to the other. Like light and dark, they needed eachother to survive. No sun without moon or earth without stars. The way they moved held some force of gravity that kept them together, magnetised.

They fought over silly things like who should have to box the films and who might sweep the theatre. Marcel would throw his hands into the air, his speech sarcastic and sharp. Sweat would bead upon his skin with frustration because Shosanna was relentless. She had an inability to back down when her mood took her to these violent places and it was only Marcel that could bring it out in her. The gentle Shosanna was a mouse inside her that hid from the raging bull that Marcell unleashed. She purged everything she had onto him and he always gave into her. He spoiled her with his devotion as she unknowingly manipulated his words to bend her way but if he cried she would melt back into her timid self. The two had such a physical effect on one another that no arguement could ever break their bond. That however, only intensified their fights as the knew nothing would really change. Of course many a time Ada would threaten to cast them both out if they shouted so loudly again only to make them laugh as the slunk back into the projection room to make fun of Ada's triple lined brow and thick bottom lip that jutted in her anger. They never confessed to eachother how they felt at first because both knew the pain of loss and could never make what they had real for fear of losing eachother but words are not needed when you are able to stare into the eyes of someone annd feel their soul hold your own by the hand and watch them dance together to the sweet music of silence. To be able to look into another's eyes and feel no awkward repel, sitting in silence just waiting for a blink to start the music all over again. No, Marcel and Shosanna did not need to confess their love to anyone, least of all themselves as it took true form in plain sight in the attic, the projection room in their dreams.

Ada named Shosanna Emmanuelle after her sister who had died at birth. A silent baby with white wisps of hair lost its life in her mother's arms and Shosanna being so deathly quiet most of the day haunted Ada but caused her to bond with her. Ada would often call Shosanna, Emmanuelle despite Shosanna's discomfort as it made her feel trapped and reminded her of being a fugitive but she let Ada none the less as she needed the fantasy of having a sister to keep her from crying and grieving over and over. Jean-Pierre bought Shosanna many trinkets; little horses made of wood, thimbles painted white, bells and ribbons that Shosanna fashioned into chimes that glistened in the light. Sometimes he would hold her tightly for minutes at a time, crying into her hair whispering songs of battlembering his time in the trenches of the Great War. Shosanna was not upset by this but related to his troubled mind holding him tighter at every sob as if to try to squeeze out all of the hurt thier bodies had become so waterlogged with. The fit together as a perfect family, old and young, black and white, Jew and Christian. They represented what the world could be resonating the golden glow of contentment.