Hello again and so soon-I hope you enjoy this chapter. We're heading deeper into our story with the introduction of several familiar faces. Yet another without our dear Dieter, but I promise the wait is worth it, I promise. Please let me know what you think, your reviews are a tremendous and true light in the darkness of life.
Content Warning: Brief Sexuality
"I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes." ― Vladimir Nabokov
1 October
1941
The day started simply, as all days in early Fall seemed to start; cold, wet, and alone. It was unusually cold for this time of year. The radiator had ceased operating a month ago and as a result my mornings were spent knocking the ice from my joints—at least this is what it felt like. Tea would bring warmth, layers helped too. I spared the firewood I had for only special occasions. It was because of this bitter cold I so often invited Jean into my bed, we kept each other warm and for a time it was enough.
My birthday came and went, I gave it very little recognition other than a vague awareness that I had surpassed twenty-eight. This was my second birthday under the German occupation, perhaps there was triumph in that; I was not dead yet.
This morning Jean had not been at my side to distract me from the cold nor was he there to distract me from spiraling down into my own emptiness, again. I sat at my lonely dining table in my lonely living room with a mug in hand and remembered the first day the war against the axis powers was announced. I felt very alone that day as well, so not much had changed.
The steady memory of Dieter and his hands were my only solace. I needed him but it had been so long that I could not parse through exactly what I needed. Did I imagine his attention as deeper than it actually was? Did I romanticize our time together, transformed it into something it was not—into something it would never be?
Stephanie stopped by for a short while in the morning, before her shift at the shop. She did this occasionally if there was gossip to share; innocent or otherwise, and she liked to practice her English in private. I didn't mind it usually and it was nice to have someone to talk to, if only with a guarded lip. As much as I adored her, Stephanie—shockingly—was not a woman who practiced restraint when it came to gossip and no friendship was sacred. It wasn't a malicious habit, just a compulsive one. Many Frenchwomen were like this.
"And you heard about Marie? Marie from the 20th who works with Gaston at the button factory?"
"No, no—I haven't spoken to her in ages." I bit into a bitter square of toffee Stephanie had used all her ration cards to indulge and drank my weak tea. Sugar was starting to become scarce and the French didn't quite know what to make of it.
"Well good luck trying to catch her if you want to catch up, I hear she's sleeping with a Gestapo. Got her put up at the Ritz and everything! Hardly anyone has seen her for weeks."
I took a calculated and instant breath. "The Ritz? That's rather out of character for Marie, don't you think?"
"War turns us one way or another, doesn't it?" Stephanie mused. "I say whatever we find comfort in, take advantage of it before it's ripped from our hands."
This was a common attitude amongst women my age, wasn't it? I was not weak for falling in love with Dieter, merely a displaced woman taking advantage of love during war because—where else could I find it?
"And the consequences of finding comfort while others suffer?" I asked.
Stephanie heaved a sigh. "Tak tak—we are all looking for comfort, I would never demonize someone for finding it for themselves."
It was a strange approach I had not expected. Whether Marie was public with her affair or not, the word got out and it was clear not everyone would have the same open minded laissez-faire approach as a homegrown Parisienne. We are all victim to the word of others and judgement would undoubtedly be served. But there was something of worth to her statement. To find comfort and indulge in however much we are offered. It was downright hedonistic, especially during the time of war. It was desecration of a certain modiste order; betrayal of community for selfish gain.
But was this truly my community? If someone else saw comfort in their periphery would they also not hoard it for themselves? Would I judge them for it? Would I horde it for myself? Must I judge others for actions I would take myself if given the chance? Is the judgement then borne from jealousy, that I must judge because I was not privileged to this same blessing? Was this jealousy for Marie?
This is as uncertain as it had been the day this all started.
I kissed Stephanie's cheeks as I saw her out and she hesitated at the door.
"Alma, I know you are my boss and everything and because of that know that I speak with this thought in mind and know that I care about you—Jean-Pierre is…"
"You may say whatever is on your mind," I said.
"He is taken with you. Do you love him?"
"I don't think I love anyone, Stephanie."
Then she eyed me, searching perhaps for the truth in my statement—if there was any. I didn't even know if it was true. But eventually Stephanie would nod and turn to leave.
"I'll meet you at the shop later."
There are birds wistfully singing when I finally leave my flat for the day. This bothers me but I can't put my finger on why. Perhaps only because I find it irritating that despite the horrors of the world the birds still sing. That it reminds me of just how horrific the world truly is; the violence, the oppression, the hate. Do the birds sing out of love? Or necessity?
My walk is cut short. My shoulders are bumped by soldiers and I'm reminded that I am not a singing bird but a plucked chicken. Helpless. Naked amongst hungry foxes. Could the prey be delusional enough to fall for the predator?
Stop it. Stop it this instant, stay in your coop, do not return to the den. I tell myself not to think of him. I tell myself to repeat those hissed words from the backseat of that car. I stay on my side, he'll stay on his.
It should have been easy.
And yet, through the flurry of soldiers I see him; a tall man, uniformed in black turning the corner with posture as rigid as a building. It was easier to follow than to stay planted. Was this my fox?
After a mile I forget my metaphors, set on figuring out whether it was Dieter, or my imagination. Was he leading me somewhere? If he was would he not look back, just to make sure I was there? Or did he trust that I would follow? Like a lamb behind its mother? To the slaughter?
Another corner turned and I'm met with desertion. Not a single soul in sight, not even a leaf.
I very quickly realize I've lost myself in a small village outside of the city center. Less populated but quite charming. It begins to rain, much to my luck—but I find a small inn and the basement bar is where I take refuge away from the storm.
The bartender looked surprised to see me as I step down the wrought-iron spiral staircase. Exceptionally surprised, as he polished a glass his hands pause and his cigarette droops rather comically from his bottom lip. He recomposes himself after a moment and I slide up to the bar.
"Pastis?" I ask.
"Oui…" he responds slowly and without looking he pulls a glass and the bottle from under the bar. As he pours he glances around. "Are you here alone, or meeting someone?"
"No, alone." I smile softly.
"Ma chérie, you should have your drink and go before the shift change."
"Shift change?"
I glance around and the bar is mostly empty save for a couple in the back corner by the record player.
"Soldats," he mutters softly and returns to polishing glasses. I sip the bitter pastis and adjust myself on my stool.
"Well they'll just have to drink around me."
The bartender pauses, a surprised sort of awe in his growing smile.
"Cigarette?" He offers and I gladly accept. "Are you from Paris?"
"No, English but I've been here since '35."
"Ah, bad timing."
"Oui, the first year was not so bad." I laugh, "and you?"
"Born and raised about fifty yards from here. Inherited the bar and the inn from my father."
"I see, and Lousianne?"
"My mother. I'm Eric."
I shake his hand, and it's uncommonly soft. I assume from constantly working those glasses he unintentionally polished his own hands. A fine line between care and callous.
In this moment I'm not certain what comes over me. It's like a flick of a match, the cock of a gun—but suddenly I am taken by how green Eric's eyes are, how soft his cheeks look despite his weathered three day old beard hiding scars on his jaw like a woman would with makeup.
Soldiers file in as the clock strikes 8pm. Eric and his barmaid Matilda serve them in an eerie politeness. The Germans are relatively civil, I imagine only because Eric speaks fluent German—expertly I add—and because of that they are prone to feel all the more welcome and safe.
I despised establishments such as these. But I understood them. I understood Eric did what he had to do to keep his bar, his livelihood, afloat.
I am on my third pastis when I feel a hand at my waist swivel me around and I land nose to nose with a sweaty German boy.
"Can I help you?" I ask in French.
"Oui oui err Um ère partie—" he stumbles in French so I cut him off in German.
"Err on the side of your own kind, you must have me mistaken for a whore with low standards."
Eric snorts and the German soldier glows red before turning on his heal like a sad puppy.
I don't even have to ask for another round, Erich has already poured one for me and himself.
I eye him and with a tilt of my head and the pastis as courage I ask, "When are you finished here, Eric?"
His eyebrows rise above his forehead and he glances around, then a laugh.
"Are you joking? You'll chew me up and spit me out."
I lean in and whisper, "I know, but doesn't that sound like fun?"
Eric and I meet in his room, the innkeepers flat—on the corner of the top floor. Our limbs mingle and our bones awkwardly cut into each other but he is sweet and gentle when he makes the effort. So when he asks if he can call me Matilda after I ask if I can call him Dieter, I do not judge him.
He is not Dieter but I am also not the sweet French barmaid far too young for his forty and three years; so our depravity is balanced, dangling above something like Hell and inferno. In short, our fucking lasts maybe ten minutes and by the end of it we are both spent.
It is raining again when I finally fall asleep. And when I wake up Eric is gone but has left me a generous plate of bread and cheese at the foot of the bed.
"Alma!" Marquis greets me with a gentle kiss when I enter the bookshop and I notice there are even a few customers.
"Good morning, my love—" I laugh, "Have we started offering sugar by the kilo? Why are there so many people here on a Monday morning?"
A voice juts out, "Why indeed, Alma—"
I turn to find Jean, toying with his mustache, leaning against the military history section.
"Jean—hello."
Jean gestures to the back office and I follow, trying to keep my head up. It was difficult not to feel the sudden anxiety that came with Jean's serious tone.
I close the door behind me and pull the shade and when I turn Jean's arm is around my waist pulling me into his hips. He is hard already and the feeling of abject dread curdles deep in my stomach and it makes me want to vomit. He slots his mouth on mine but I gently usher his head back like he was an eager pet.
"I've missed you," he whines, "I tried to see you at your flat but you would not answer the door. Tell me whose bed you have been warming." Jean's coarse hands grip my jaw and I am suddenly unable to escape him. After my silence he continues with a hard, and short tone, "Not away on any of my orders, yes?"
"No. No not on your orders."
"You follow my orders, Alma."
I was not scared of Jean but he had never been this possessive before. It was odd and if I didn't know that what I had done last night was completely and utterly my own secret I would suggest Jean knew. Perhaps he did know, on a primal level—that I had been taken by another, willingly, and had not returned to his side. Maybe he could smell it on me.
Jean presses his weight into me and I land hard against the wall. His dark eyes were serious and wild, driven by distrust and lust—if there even was a distinction.
"I follow my own orders, Jean," I risk.
"The hell you do." Jean pinches my cheek like a fish on a hook and uses his other hand to open my mouth. His fingernails graze the back of my throat as he holds my tongue down like a dog. I try not to gag. "If you are out of contact for more than 12 hours again I will have no choice but to assume treason against the Resistance."
He stares me down and I continue to fight my gag reflex in favor of holding my own in this confrontation despite clearly being subdued.
Jean takes his hand from my jaw to cup my center through my dress and the sensitivity sky rockets a chill throughout my limbs where my gasps misconstrue discomfort for pleasure. Jean pumps his fingers in and out of my mouth and for a moment I don't know what to do. For a moment I think I could pretend, let Jean take advantage of me while I pretend he is Dieter, or even the man from the bar last night, god—or even sweet Anna—though he is not as gentle or consensually aggressive, not as loving or devout. For a moment I think this possible, until there's a knock at the door.
"Alma! Someone here for you!" Marquis calls from behind the door.
"What for?" I manage.
"Looking for a translation of Dickinson!"
I take Jean by the wrist and pull his fingers out of my mouth and push him back just a step.
"Be there in a moment!" I respond and nearly delight in Jean's tense posture. Like a child getting caught with his hands in the cookie jar. I take a step toward him and he takes one back to maintain our buffer. Coward. "You touch me like that again and I will tell your wife just how deep your devotion to the resistance roots."
Jean's teeth grit but his silence conveys understanding.
As I open the door it's pressed back and Jean's pensive brow deepens as he leans in so close I can smell his meal from the previous night on his mustache.
"We have word of the LaPadites. They'll be in city tomorrow afternoon."
"I will be ready for them."
"They need passage to Spain. It will be simple enough. Do you still have your contact?"
I nod and our conversation concludes tense and unresolved, but that was how it must be—I didn't even owe him that.
It was not simple. The LaPadite family was comprised of a father and his three teenage daughters and they were not seeking escape because they were Jewish, they were seeking escape because they had hid a Jewish family and gave them up under pressure. It was not an uncommon story but the shame was unique all it's own, or so I would imagine.
I met them the next day and hid them in my shop for the evening. In the early morning we would hitch a ride out of the city in a milk truck with a false bottom full of chicory spices to throw off our scent to the dogs.
In Limoges we are dropped off in the woods where we then pose as a family migrating along the South road. We did this for several days before we hit Toulouse. Here we hitched a train to Narbonne with intentions to meet my contact in Béziers.
"Why are heading East if we are going South, papa?" One daughter, Julie, asked her father quietly as we walked through a gentle wood that dusk.
"I'm certain Mademoiselle Antony knows what she is doing," Perrier assured Julie and they were quiet again. The oldest daughter, Charlotte, had taken a particular kindness to me and walked at my side for most of the trip.
"Do you actually know what you are doing?" She asks in a quiet but coy way.
I smiled softly, trying to assure her and simultaneously assure myself. I did know what I was doing indeed, however chance was a fickle partner.
"My contact is just outside of Béziers, I took us south first because it was quicker. Plus it is easier to dredge the forest from this direction when you are on foot. The forest is far more kind to travelers than the blockades."
"Is your contact the one that will get us into Spain?"
"Ouais—Gerald and Gillian Marquez. They speak fluent French and Spanish, they are dear friends of mine and deeply kind. They have helped me before."
"How many times before?"
"Several times, Charlotte."
"How many—exactly?"
"Charlotte," her father warned from behind as though she were still a child. In many cases, she still was. They all were.
"It is okay, Perrier. You will be the sixth family I and the Marquez' have evacuated from France into Spain. Since 1939."
"Impressive," Suzanne muttered quietly. She was the youngest, and the most easily impressed.
I take out my compass and keep us pointed Northeast. Another 45 minutes and we come across the small hut that belonged to the Marquez family. The central light is so dim I must light several candles before the cabin alights with a warm glow and we can find our way about the dust and the rusty mousetraps.
I pull the thick curtains tight, effectively sealing off any light from escaping. "We are to wait here until tomorrow night. Rest, eat, and—"
"Relax?" Perrier smirked as the girls fell into the bunks in corner. Perrier sits as I light another candle and search the cupboards. Some rations and cans, good enough for the modest family. After we eat and the girls get ready for bed I remain at the table and have a cigarette with Perrier. He was very soft spoken but deeply intelligent. Over the light of the last candle his downcast blue eyes blink slowly.
"Do you know much Spanish?" I asked.
"No, just French and English."
I switched to English, "You've known English this whole time?"
"Oui, but the girls do not. I…don't like speaking it much. I hope you understand."
"Oui, of course. You will learn Spanish is little time at all. Its base is Latin."
He rolls another cigarette and I can practically taste his misery. His sunken posture was one thing but the openness which he shares with the world, an open hand to the ghosts from his past to hold, tears me apart.
I hesitantly lay my hand over his and this brings his eyes to mine in surprise.
"You can relax, you are quite safe here. The French government doesn't even know this cabin exists. We've already crossed the hard bit."
Perrier nods and turns his hand to hold mine and we share this embrace for a while.
"The man who I…the Gestapo who came to our home preferred English over French. Now the language makes me sick."
"I understand." Then, I consider the worst possible option and my mouth went dry. "May I ask—this German who preferred English, do you remember his rank?"
"Oui. Colonel, Hans Landa."
"The Jew Hunter." I nod calmly, as though I was not relieved to hear that it was not Dieter. I didn't have any reason to believe it was other than the English detail but nothing was impossible. "Perrier you stood no chance against that—man. If he could be called that. He has earned his vile title, twofold."
"It was like a game to him."
"It is like a game to all of them, and we are their pawns."
"And you are okay with this? Returning to play the role of the pawn?"
"If I'm able to, yes. I know how they work, how they hunt. As long as I am able to think like a German I ought to do something about it."
Perrier smirks, "You sound like him, oddly. Landa. He said something similar but with Jews and hiding."
"I feel sick to my stomach," I hold myself and watch the flame shiver around Perrier's smoke.
"The sickness will knot in your stomach eventually. You are different than him though. Than them." He holds his hand out again and I take it. For a moment he toys with my fingers and I think briefly of Dieter and wondered if he would do the same. How calm he would be in a situation such as this. "This makes it easier; when you accept you will never be cured of it. You learn to live with it."
I thought about this as I rested that evening, listening to the soft breaths of the family LaPedite. I thought of accepting my life without Dieter in it, as much as it wrecked me—ruined me to think about, I could learn to live with the wreckage. If I must.
The next afternoon we try to relax and I make certain the family is well rested throughout the day so they may start their trek into Spain with high energy over night.
Around midday I start to get anxious. The Marquez' were expected nearly an hour ago and they were never late. Of course I did not tell Perrier this, it would only worry him more.
As dusk starts to pull the sun's light from the curtains there is a heavy knock on the door. Immediately I jump in front of the family with my gun. Perrier is no fool and quickly understands, ushering his daughters to the edge of the wall out of sight.
"It is our code but the hand is too heavy," I whisper.
The knock again but was this time accompanied by a booming voice.
"Oi! I know you're in there!"
Perrier and I share a glance and he grabs a knife from the counter. It wouldn't help but the intention was appreciated. I double check the shotgun.
"Oi! Antony! Open the damn door!" It didn't register until now that the voice behind the door was speaking English. And in an English accent.
I fling the door open and aim the gun at the man; he who was clothed heavily in tailored tweed with a bowler hat and a walking stick.
"Bloody hell—" he rattles under the barrel of the shotgun.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?"
"Hello—pleasure to meet ya!" He peers in and takes stock of the family. And Perrier's knife in hand. "Name's Philmore—the Marquez' they're none too available at the privy moment so you lot got me instead." His smile is toothy and golden and it endears me to him no less. "Care to aim that shotgun somewhere else, sweetheart?"
"How can I believe you, hmm? How have I never heard of you before?" I ask.
"You in the business of giving your secret contact's information out for free?"
I think about it for a several moments and then finally Charlotte speaks up.
"Je le cois."
"What she say?" the Philmore man mutters.
"You don't even speak French? Fuckssake."
"Ain't need to till now—and I know meself plenty o' Espania."
I lower the gun and as I reach to pull him in I complain, "Christ you barely speak English as it is." I thrust the gun toward Charlotte who watches me wide eyed, "—since you trust him I want you to hold the gun."
"Me?"
"I know you'll use it the moment he betrays himself."
"Oui, of course."
Philmore takes a seat at the table and reaches into his jacket. He produces a bundle of papers tied in twine.
"Read for yourself. Got instructions on where to go, how to know it was you—if it was them too. You're a lot smaller than I thought you'd be."
Despite his commentary, he was telling the truth, the letters corroborated his story. So I tossed them into the fire.
"Blimey, I hadn't even read the last bit o' those, now how am I gonna—"
"I'm coming with you. I can't leave them in your custody in good conscious." I glance at Perrier and a butterfly of a smirk tilts his mustache.
"Awright, more the merrier I suppose."
"Not usually in these situations, and I will be certain to express how ill-advised all of this is to Gerald when I see him."
"Good luck with that," Philmore lit a cigarette. "He's dead."
I fall to my seat, "Gillian too I suppose then?"
"Gestapo, just east of the border. I am their back up."
"What were you to them to earn that responsibility?"
"MI6–at your service, senorita."
"Good god. You Churchill spawns, you're everywhere aren't you?"
"Suspected you meself—you tellin me you got a cunty posh accent like that and you takin' orders from them frogs?"
"I am choosing to ignore the insult. I follow my own orders, not the Resistance."
"Ah, I see. So you're a mercenary."
"Hardly. But this is besides the point. We need to leave, everyone start getting ready-I will join you on your journey into Spain."
When we set off the sun has nearly set and we take on the woods in silence. That is until Perrier slows his speed and walks with me at the end.
"Thank you for this, I don't know what I would have done if you were not joining us with this…man."
"I could not entrust refugees with someone I had never met before. Not in my nature to accept chance for its mercilessness. Not without a fight that is."
"See—what did I say? You are different. Different than them."
"Thank you Perrier. Perhaps I just need to hear it more."
"I will tell you again whenever you like," Perrier jokes softly and I take the last bit of sunlight to hold his gaze.
"Thank you, Monsieur LaPadite."
We walk for the entire night. Philmore is mostly silent, and it was likely a good thing he didn't speak French—that way the girls would not have to suffer his stories, as I'm certain a man like him had many of.
After our last break and the dawn of the day breaks with a gentle pink grapefruit sort of glow. We are an hour outside of the border, then another to the hide out in Village Despoblat de Périllos.
"Oi Antony!" Philmore calls for me despite how close I walk behind him. "I won't be able to get you outta the country if you decide to cross the boarder with us. My guy in to the country is different than the Marquez' and after today he's getting shipped to the front."
"I understand," I glance back at Perrier who has his arm around Suzanne's shoulders. I think in another life I would have liked to have this many daughters, perhaps in another life I would even like to be married to a dairy farmer like Perrier. But I wasn't in that life.
At the border I bid farewell to the girls and leave the gun with Charlotte's white knuckles.
Perrier pulls me aside and he is avoidant but determined with his words. "You will be safe on your trip back?"
"I will. I have a pass that will get me on a train back to Paris in two days. At least that was the plan." It was a lie but it would do him no good to worry about me.
"I see. And you are certain you wish to return?"
"All games must end, as long as someone keeps playing."
The words resonated far beyond my intention of simply recalling our conversation from the night before. Perrier nods and offers his hand.
"Thank you for keeping my family safe."
"You're welcome. Don't make it all for naught, alright?"
Soon I am alone and the family is nothing but four small specks across the field. I checked my watch and sighed. 9:15am and I have officially missed my train back to Paris.
I decide not to return to the cabin but walk in the direction of Paris, sleep when I can and make the rest of my rations last. It would take me at least a week on foot with very little sleep to make it back home.
Three days pass and I arrive in Avignon with hopes of either purchasing a train ticket or hitching a ride on a transport train. Whichever I happened upon first.
Last minute tickets flirted their way into the right pocket if one knew their way around a French depot, and as luck would have it I found myself with a first class ticket just as the train was leaving the station.
Though the trip would take nearly a day I only intended to stay for part of it. Sleep, eat, clean myself and jump off at a slow crossings outside of Paris and take the underground tunnel, grand reseau sud, into the 18th.
The woman who's ticket I had stolen must have merely hopped off the train—for something important, I hope—when I slipped the ticket from her billfold. She had left her suitcase, two shower tokens, and an uncorked bottle of wine on ice in her first class cabin. By the looks of it she must have been a model, or a woman of particularly decadent taste—her suitcase was full of beautiful dresses and I in my shabbiness inherited from three days in the French wilderness found myself eager to shower, just to try one of them on. I had hours to myself, at least, and the first thing I do is shower. It felt like I had all the time in the world.
Except, I don't even make it past twelve hours on the train before it stops unexpectedly outside of Valence in a village called Charmes-sur-Rhônes.
Unexpected stops only meant one thing at this point in the war. We were being searched.
Quickly I slipped out of the robe into one of the woman's golden dresses and quickly uncorked her wine. I heard the doors in the cabin adjacent to mine slide open to gasps and mumbled but stern German coated French.
I take the bottle and hold a glass under it and pause. When I hear the footsteps approach my cabin and the door slides open I feign a gasp and spill the wine all over the table which unfortunately had the ticket with her name printed on it directly beneath and it unfortunately took the brunt of the stain.
"Mademoiselle—identification and ticket s'il vous plaît."
"Oui oui—but my ticket I am sorry but you startled me—"
The officer looked annoyed and gestured, "Just the papers is fine—we are just looking for runaway Jews—you should know this by now."
"Yes, yes of course."
I dig though my bag knowing full well I travelled without any papers which I am now understanding was poor judgment on my part to not at least pack a fabricated one in its place.
I rummage around before the door of the train slides open at the end of the cart. When it slams shut the soldiers in the walk way freeze—bringing the main officer's attention to sieg heil.
"Colonel Landa!"
"At ease, Private," came a gentle Austrian melodic intonation and in the twist of an instant my entire body trembles.
I can't help it.
Fear runs quicker than rationality.
