How can I hold back my soul from touching yours?

- Rainer Marie Rilke

A month passed. A long and arduous month of harboring refugee families and pretending on the outside my life hadn't changed when I met Dieter.

In the evenings when I was alone, I thought of nothing but him and the way he looked at me. Trying every night to work out what he was trying to tell me with his eyes, with words unspoken.

Some nights I would curl up in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine, close my eyes and think about the first time he touched me. How he had dabbed the blood from my face just as I had to his face after the bomb.

What weight does a gentle touch hold? Is it a heavier weight because Dieter is a Nazi—a breed whose characteristics would never be described as gentle even in bed?

I had been on two dates since and could think of nothing other than what it would be like to sit across the table from Dieter and talk to him when the threat of death wasn't hanging over us. These dates with random men set up by my shop assistant Stephanie, and—yet again—made me feel lonelier than ever.

And so it was tonight, sitting across from Martin Perrier, the barista from the cafe down the road.

"He's such a sweet guy," Stephanie had said, "And you're such a nice person, you already have that in common."

My eye roll lasted until I had to meet this Martin at La Coupole, a restaurant I hadn't set foot in since the occupation. La Coupole was one of the restaurants which was known to be frequented by German soldiers, and when we walked in it was no surprise to see the majority of patrons donning black, grey, and green nazi uniforms.

Martin pulled the chair out for me while he took up the booth—I had never been more thankful to look at a wall in my life.

The date started with idle chat, which was always boring to me. I didn't care how many siblings they had, or what their favorite primary school subject was. Nor did I care to share any of that information about myself either. So we resided to chat about the appetizer and the wine that had just been served.

After a few sips I excused myself for the restroom.

Inside the dark restroom I leaned against the sink and scorned myself for getting so dressed up. There was a hope in me before each of these dates—that something special would happen, that I would finally find someone that could see me, understand me.

So I would get dressed in my finest dress which was black and used to fit me perfectly, but now hung loose around my hips and chest. I had lost considerable weight in the last several months due to rationing and reasonably—stress. I would pull my hair back loosely in a black ribbon and on my lips I would wear the last little bit of rouge I had remaining. It was just a shy shade or two off of blood.

But now I felt ridiculous and knew I had certainly given Martin the wrong impression showing up like this. Annoyed by myself I pulled the ribbon out of my hair bitterly.

After washing my hands I regrettably made my way out of the bathroom. But paused in the hallway, second guessing myself.

"Damn the ribbon," I said to myself, might as well put my hair back up—Martin would question me otherwise. As I walked down the hall back to the dining room, tying my hair back, I passed by a tall Nazi in a black uniform, who knocked their shoulder into my elbow.

I turned to give the bastard a glare but froze.

The Nazi which I had run into had turned around as well, and appeared with the face I recalled in my dreams every night for the past month.

Dieter was silent, his mouth slightly open. My eyes fell to his feet and migrated up, I took him in with a speed that reflected the pausing of time. When I looked back into his eyes, he took a small step forward, which I mirrored. He looked the same, only now with a small scar on his forehead.

There was a moment of pause. The chatter from the dining room faded and mixed together in white noise, but the hall to the restrooms were quiet—secluded. I held myself in place, a tingle of anticipation burgeoned throughout my body like little sprouts budding out of my pores. The hallway was dark, only a small light over head that cast a dramatic shadow over our faces. And in the darkness I noticed Dieter's eyes grow dark just like before.

Dieter moved first, he stuck out his arm and pulled the loose ribbon. The tips of his fingers that grazed my neck briefly felt like little knives cutting through my skin.

My hair to fell around my shoulders.

"It looks better down." He said, twisting the black ribbon around his fingers. His voice was deeper than I remembered.

I was still frozen, our eyes only breaking contact in blinks. My mind was blank—everything I had wanted to say to him over the last month was gone in a second after he touched me.

"Excuse me." Someone said behind me and I quickly stepped aside. Whatever sudden spell I'd been in was broken, if only for that moment. I looked back up at Dieter and nodded, before turning around and returning for the table.

"There you are!" Martin exclaimed, mouth full of salad. "I was worried you'd gotten lost."

"I'm sorry, just got a bit distracted by someone in the restroom." I made the excuse and saw sadly; my awaiting and thoroughly wilted salad. In favor of more alcohol I poured myself another glass of wine and took a large gulp. And another. I was both hot and cold, like I was oscillating in and out of seasons.

As I set the glass down I saw Dieter stride past our table, definitely closer than he needed to. My eyes followed as I shifted at the hip subtly to see where he sat. Which was directly across the dining room, in a seat that faced me. He looked up at me and I turned back to Martin, who had just finished his salad and was smiling.

"Martin, darling, would you mind switching seats with me? I think I'm catching a draft from the door." I asked, miming a shiver in my shoulders.

"Oh, certainly." Martin stood and I shifted from the chair to the booth side of the table. "Do you want my jacket?"

"Hmm? Oh no, I'm just fine right here. Perfect." I said as I looked past Martin to gauge Dieter's reaction. When he understood what I had done, he grew a smile that could almost be considered smug, but he hid it well from the other Gestapo officers he dined with.

Our entrees arrived at the perfect time, and I felt as though I was dining with Dieter from across the room for the very first time.

As the evening went on, I would spare every glance I could for Dieter. He would always be watching me, leaning back in his seat with the focused gaze of a docile—resting— lion, a content smile on his face. Martin would patter on about this and that, to which I would nod when it was appropriate.

Soon we shared a small dessert of strawberries and creme which I ate very little of while Martin practically licked the plate. Had I not seen Dieter, I was still certain I wouldn't have gone on more than this one date with Martin. Gluttony was not a trait I admired in the time of war.

As we stood, Martin slipped my coat around my shoulders. I saw Dieter shift in his seat, eyes narrow with his cigarette hanging between his parted lips.

I thanked Martin with a nod and followed him to the door. With one last spare glance I looked back at Dieter, but found that he was missing from his seat.

"Nice evening, isn't it?" Martin said, breathing in the air and looking up.

"Yes, it is quite lovely." I replied softly, my tone automatic and I couldn't be bothered to try harder. The temperature outside truly had risen while we were inside. The mid-Spring evening was now warm, balmy even, and without the slightest breeze. Delightful.

The door behind was opened and I turned to see Dieter walk out. He didn't look at me. I watched him step to the side and light a cigarette. To anyone else it would have looked like he was minding his own business and had just come outside for a smoke in the fresh air. However to me, Dieter following us out meant something so much more.

I turned back to Martin.

"Would you like to go for a walk, my dear?" Martin held his hand out.

"Actually, Martin, I had a really lovely time but I don't think it's wise for me to get committed to anyone at the moment. You understand, don't you?" I tried to let him off easy, fighting the ridiculous urge to look back at Dieter. Martin sighed and his hand dropped.

"As you wish, my dear." He said sadly and stepped away but paused. "Was there anything I could have done?"

I took at brief glance at Dieter and looked back at Martin.

"No, I just don't think you're the person I need right now." I said softly. If I had turned around again, I knew I would have seen the smug smirk dance across Dieter's lips at my words.

Martin nodded sadly again and left, dejected down the road.

I sighed and looked at the sky. It really was a lovely night out. My heart beat softly and I felt calm for the first time in months.

The heels of Dieter's shoes tapped on the sidewalk as he stepped up to the curb next to me. I looked over at him, but he was looking out to the street. He stayed several feet away from me. To anyone offering a spare glance from afar would have no idea we knew each other. Dieter's distance was purposeful.

I watched him take a puff of his cigarette and my gaze wandered down his uniform; his broad shoulders, the one hand in pocket creating a relaxed angle in his posture, his perfectly shined shoes. Perfect.

Rosy, I tore my eyes away and dug into my purse for a cigarette. I stuck one between my lips and searched for a matchbook. I sighed, must've left it at home.

Dieter dug into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He ignited the little flame and held it out. I took two steps toward him.

"Thank you." I said in German and returned to my original spot.

Dieter smirked to himself, continuing in his native language quietly. "I knew you spoke German."

I didn't say a word, but a small twitch played at the corner of my lips. We smoked in silence, listening to the bustle blur of Paris at night. The awning of the restaurant was dotted with little buzzing yellow lights, like little bees above.

Eventually I looked at Dieter to see that he was looking at me too. After a moment he started to say something when a group of rowdy German soldiers passed by. Dieter straightened and watched them. His eyes shifted back to me then back to the soldiers.

He stamped his cigarette out with his shoe before he was finished and nodded.

"Good evening, fräulein." He said, his voice low. I blinked as he walked back into the restaurant.

I felt sick to my stomach, watching him leave. I knew those soldiers knocked some sense of reality back to him, just as they had me. But I couldn't help the disappointment that sprouted like a flower already wilted.

After I finished my cigarette I started my slow walk home. Each step further away from the restaurant felt like needles in my heels. Every thought that passed through my head; how I wanted him to touch me again, to look at me, to talk to me—I knew they were all wrong. I wasn't supposed to feel these things for someone I was supposed to hate. But despite all the negatives, that only made the feelings stronger. The yearnings...stronger.