"-Unless I am myself, I am nobody."

-Virginia Woolf

The next day I moved between my bedroom, my couch, the balcony and back to the bedroom countless times. I tried to find something to keep my mind off the events of the night before. It was a difficult task to be sure, as my mind fluttered in and out of consciousness I retained less and less control on my thoughts.

There was a feeling I've heard of before, exhibited by people who experienced fantastic or confusing things beyond their own reality. A feeling that started with tingles, fuzziness in the head, where your mind separated itself from your body.

I saw myself experiencing the changes of doubt and confusion—undertaking obsessive habits. It wasn't until the sun started to set—I came out of it. I glanced at the clock and gasped. Nearly nine p.m.

"Shit." I jumped up out of bed and quickly dressed.

I slipped my coat on over my robe and tied the laces of my boots. Then I paused at the barricade I had made in front of the door when I had first gotten home. Mumbling curses under my breath I pulled the couch and chairs away with scrapes and loud scratches across the floor.

Finally when I had freed the front door I yanked it open and was immediately met with the Gestapo Major Dieter Hellstrom himself.

"What…"

Dieter stepped forward, grasping my robe by the collar and my mind went blank with a fear mixed with what could only be arousal.

"Is this what you wanted?" He muttered in German, his voice resonating and vibrating the base of his throat. "Thinking of me when like this when you should be terrified of my very image…"

He pushed me against the wall and slowly untied my robe. I was completely bare to him and just as he bent down to kiss me—

I woke up with a sharp gasp that echoed in the pits of my lungs and absolutely covered in sweat. I was back in her bed and the sun was just setting. I paused, waiting for any sound of Nazi footsteps in the apartment. And nothing, no Dieter Hellstrom. With a heavy sigh of relief my head fell back to my pillow, my heart still racing.

"What the fuck?" I mumbled to myself.

I sat next to Marquis, one of my two shop helpers, in the old abandoned cafe which the French Resistance had been using as headquarters since last month. When I sat down next to him, his dark eyes grew wide.

"I don't want to talk about it." I interrupted him, muttering in French. I knew I looked horrible. I knew my nose was probably broken and my jaw was littered with bruises. But I couldn't dwell on that now.

Marquis slipped me his flask and I took a quick swig.

"Gin helps numb pain." He said, softly. I brushed my shoulder against his.

"Thank you."

The meeting started shortly after.

We were hashing out details of a few new plans, some possible bomb plants, family assistances, and the like.

But my attention couldn't be farther away. I had a bad habit of biting my nails, and now a bad habit of fidgeting as well.

My dream—the shocking, startling thing in which my mind played out ruthlessly in my unconscious. The scene in which my mind felt necessary to bring to my attention. To torture me.

Why had I dreamt that? That's not how I felt. I felt dirty. I was a traitor for even thinking such things, especially with a Nazi like Dieter Hellstrom. Even thinking his name felt dirty.

But I couldn't help but think of him. The meeting was no where near finished and try as I might have, there was no silencing my thoughts.

Why? Why had he let me go?

I had experienced the cruelty of the Gestapo, being beaten by them myself and known countless others. They were pure hate and the embodiment of evil in the dying corpse of this world. And never before had I experienced an iota of kindness from a Nazi before Dieter. In fact, a Nazi was the pure antithesis of kindness. But could it even be defined as kindness? What he did?

What exactly had he done for me? Did he smuggle me out? Or was my release conditional upon his observation and evaluation?

I was released from custody fairly quickly after Dieter had entered that room. What did that mean? I imagined to be released from Nazi custody required a lot more than skipping out the back entrance while no guards were around was involved. Due process as it were, if they even adhered to the concept.

What did Dieter see in me that the others did not?

My mind was full of nothing but questions, so much so that I was silent as the resistance's appointed commander Jean, addressed me.

"Alma." Marquis muttered as he nudged my shoulder.

"Hmm?" She looked at Marquis then noticed the silence in the room. "I'm sorry, Jean, what did you say?"

Jean—black hair, thick mustache—pinched the bridge of his nose, "I said we may have a lead on another family that will need a safe place to hang low. Is the bookshop still available?"

My vision ran white, blood cold. Never mind it being available—was it safe? Was it safe now that a Gestapo Nazi knew my name, my address, my—everything?

"Y—yes, I believe so. I will just need to fix things up a bit from the last one I had—the Dreyfus girl." I said, hardly capable of stringing a thought together, much less a sentence. But Jean seemed satisfied.

"Let me know as soon as possible, we need to get the family into Spain by the end of the month at the very latest. They're called the Galinski's."

I nodded, mind still running wild. I had to find out if I was still in the Gestapo's radar, I had to find out if I was safe so the families I harbor will be safe. This was not about me. But I had to find out why he fucking let me go.