Hello all still out there reading this, I know there's a few of you at least and that's enough for me. I hope you enjoy this epic of a chapter and find as much wicked delight in our main character's plight as I had in writing it. I am obsessed with writing about these two, so apologies for the lack of brevity. As is their pattern: one step forward, two steps back.
Please let me know what you think!
"To guide someone
through the halls of hell
is not the same as love." - Gregory Orr
I convinced myself I must go about my days as though nothing had happened. I cover the bruises on my face with powder, it wasn't perfect but it was better than the reality.
At the bookshop I greet Marquis and Stephanie and if they notice my bruising they don't make a point to say anything about it. We'd long since forgone asking each other questions of that nature. Sometimes admitting where the bruises and scrapes originated hurt more than actually getting the wounds.
I see him in everything I do. When I put my shoes on in the morning I remember how he knelt at my feet with the heels I had left in his office that night in his hands. How he slipped them onto my bare feet, cradling my ankle and making an act of service something inexcusably erotic.
In the sky on my walks home I am reminded of the time in darkness we spent. I wondered if he looked up into the light and thought of me as well. Then I scolded myself for drudging up what I kept trying to bury.
Upon Dieter's conditions I was to find him if I had woken that next morning with the same feelings that had culminated the night before. I, however, refused to be told what to do, when to do it. Life, as of late, had been lacking in control—so where I saw chance for my own authority to rein, I must take it without apology. Even if I wanted the exact opposite so much I frequently grew sick at the thought of being touched by anyone else but him again. But I must remain strong, I must keep a firm grip on myself, lest I disappear completely.
It had always been a game. He told me I had the control, but with that same breath he controlled my liberty with his express permission. Of course it was all a game. How could I think this would be anything different?
As the sickness grew my evenings were full of contradictory thought as I am reminded—incessantly—of those hushed, lip bruising words of affection we shared. Were those real? They felt so real.
The bruising healed eventually, weeks, and with the fading my life started to become familiar again. I spent time with my shopkeepers, re-catalogued the shop, and started notes on a translation of Tolstoy. This was a project I had dreamt up years ago, and had a war not been waging outside I might have been happy.
Stephanie would poke at my personal life, asking all the wrong questions in some attempt to play matchmaker once again. I had no heart to deny her, but also no heart to accept any offer with confidence. This was not the time to devote myself to anyone else, and I was certain no one else would want me once they broached that veil anyway.
When this thought entered my mind I was shelving new volumes of Dickens, thick leather bound tomes that took nearly the entirety of the top shelves on the back wall. I never much cared for Dickens but I imagined he would be laughing at me given preview to my inner most thoughts. There were so many out there with deeper, more violent, more pressing issues in their lives than what consumed mine from day to day.
But it was all about self-preservation.
I balanced obsessive thinking with obsessive drinking with progressive departure from the resistance. If only day by day, I offered myself less—and as a result, saved myself day by day.
Marquis would never confront me about my absences from the bi-weekly meetings for the Resistance because I still offered my shop as haven to those who needed it. But I could not bare the responsibility of another life in my hands, because I could not weather my own life as I had done so well before. Nothing was as easy as it was before, and it was never easy.
The German presence in Paris was getting worse by the week, more homes were being vacated for the country, and word from the country suggested nothing short of the same thing; trails of entire towns migrating further and further South. Hope, like homes, were abandoned—and if they were not abandoned, they were taken. This is what I feared, that one day I would wake up and find myself no longer in possession of anything, robbed of identity fully and the plight of the Germans would soon become permanent.
In my own thoughts I pledged my resistance as I pledged my love for a man I had not seen in two months now. Time passed and without contradiction, my feelings only grew stronger and deepened like roots into the molten core of my body until that love is seen in everything I do; I resent myself for remaining silent as my shop is ransacked on a weekly basis but I let it play out without interruption—I could not resent my own exhaustion. My experience of arrests, abuse, detention, and unseemly potentialities were enough for one life time. I was tired.
This is what I repeated to make myself feel better. It doesn't work. It doesn't work because here I find myself in September 1941, just blocks away from 84 Avenue Foch, at a cafe on the corner of Ave de Malakoff; I in my best blue blouse waiting for a man in maroon with a package postmarked for the French Resistance, return address: 42 Downing Street.
A favor for Jean, for the Resistance;
"We have no else who can do it, Alma—this is the last time."
This was the situation. I knew this would never be the end of it. Unless this specific task ended the war today—it would never end.
The waiter sat a porcelain cup and saucer in front of me and I thanked him. The coffee is not good but it was warm and I couldn't ask for much more than that. If I was here on any other day I might even enjoy it, paired with the bright sun and the mild temperature attached to the breeze, it would be a picture comfort. But not today.
This part of the city is crawling with Nazis, the locals are few and far between but if the locals are anywhere they are at cafes like this one. Cafes might as well be Switzerland at this point. Take away liberties, take away land, but don't take away the French's leisure. Locals and soldiers alike dine the quick service of coffee and pastries and for a moment the world might seem normal. But only for a moment.
"What exceptional weather we're having today," I heard from a man who stopped just beside my table. Maroon suit jacket, maroon shoes.
"Yes, though I rather prefer late Spring. Paris truly shines in late Spring."
The man offered a handsome smile and gestured to the chair in front of me.
"You're ages late," I tell him and he glanced around in a hardly subtle act of acute paranoia.
"Are you aware of where we are? I had to be cautious."
"Anywhere you go in Paris you are surrounded—welcome to la vie paradis."
The waiter took the Englishman's order, a coffee; no sugar no cream, and when the waiter departed a newspaper was set to rest on the table between us.
"I think you'll find the culture section rather engaging today."
I opened the paper and a small, but thick envelope was nestled in the leaflets. Pretending to read the headlines I nodded.
"I haven't been to the cinema in years, perhaps I'll go today," I said.
"As good a day as any. I might take advantage of this week's marquee myself, or perhaps we could go together."
At this point, with the package exchanged, the Englishman was meant to leave. However, by the sincerity in his smile it did not look like he was planning to depart anytime soon.
This could present a problem. Staying at the cafe for too much longer would rouse suspicion, I had already finished my coffee several minutes prior and had not ordered another. Leaving said cafe with an Englishman in possession of massive puppy dog eyes would garner remembrance. So, as subtly as I could I smile but I take certain care in letting him see the smile fall.
"I must be going, but thank you for the paper."
I stood but he followed suit.
"Let me at least walk you to your next destination? The salon, isn't it?"
"I appreciate the offer, however I—"
There.
There across the street—there he stood; cigarette dangling from his lips, full uniform, flanked by his trusty valet, an air of volatile nonchalance. He did not seem to notice me, at least I think he didn't—as he stood still, listening intently to the other man. My throat closed but my lungs—they wanted to scream.
"You were saying?" The Englishman cut into my line of vision and broke the brief but immersive hypnosis.
"Um yes, I was saying I—"
Dieter and the valet started to cross the street straight for the cafe.
I continued, hurried—"Yes, actually I'd love to walk with you."
I pulled us in the opposite direction.
"Wait, my hat—"
"Leave it."
But he returned vulnerable to the table and Dieter approached with a determined step. Surprisingly he still had not spotted me as he was intent on the Englishman who remained oblivious as he adjusted his hat and took in the view of the building. As he turned back to me, Dieter and the valet approached him.
I don't stay long enough to see what happened.
I turned, paper clutched to my chest, with little confidence in my skill to remain calm. I walked down the street and turned the corner. If I ran, someone would notice, if I don't run—I could be caught. What could I do?
I tossed the paper and the package into a garbage tin. If I made it out alive I would be able to return to it. If I got caught then at least I would not be caught with intelligence.
Perhaps I got lucky and they truly did not see me. And perhaps I would get lucky and the Englishman would not give me away. But I was never lucky.
"You seem to be in a hurry, madame."
I turned to the valet, mean-eyed and determined.
"That is an understatement—I am late for an appointment."
"What sort of appointment?"
"The sort of appointment that would make a boy like you blush. So if you'll excuse me—" I turned but his hand found my arm.
"Heinrich!" I heard from behind and my heart starting punching it's way through my ribs in search of this sound; his voice, his mask—the Nazi Sturmbannführer's voice, it brought white hot chills through my entire body, it made me want to fall to my knees. When he approached the valet, Heinrich, his eyes landed on me but suddenly it was as though I had become invisible.
There is no recognition in his gaze, no emotion, no acknowledgement. Did he…not recognize me?
"The Englishman said a woman with dark blonde hair in a blue top." Heinrich pulled my arm and pinched the fabric of my sleeve. I gasped at his grip and had I been innocent I would have been appalled by this treatment.
When Dieter looked at Heinrich's fist clinching my arm, his jaw clinched and I was suddenly keyed into his mind. He was still in there, he has to be.
Look at me. Look at what he's doing to me.
"No, he said green. Leave the woman be."
Heinrich dropped my arm and Dieter stole one, just one, brief glimpse and I was sick once again—all over again, fully and irrevocably done for. All the work I put into convincing myself I did not need nor want him, vanished with one paltry acknowledgement. My narrow mind suffered again consumed by the fantasy.
I do not feel sorry for the Englishman. Had he left when I told him to, he might still be alive. At least that is what I assumed happened to him—knowing the Gestapo, knowing Dieter.
I delivered the package to the Resistance and I walked home by the dim light of dusk. My mind raced quicker than my feet with deeply unsettling and anxious ramblings: As of this moment it would be apt to accept that Dieter is now certain of my association to the Resistance, if he was not tuned to that truth already. How can one go on if one can never recover from such division? This suffering had to end, or it must change.
Leave Paris.
No, the process to leave the city was far too arduous and who knew who was watching me. The unsettling feeling of being watched was almost constant these days, especially when I left the safety of my home. Even in my shop I felt surveilled to the point of utter paranoia and disfunction. It started with a prickle at the back of the neck, then it was all consuming. My flesh crawled and I wanted to take a potato peeler to my skin just to see how deep the delusions went.
This was my life now. Whether I was being watched or not, I must always act like it. I was not safe, I would never be safe—and that was this life.
It was quiet in Montmartre and there was no moon at all. The echo of my heels followed my steps and for several block was the only sound I heard. For once there was a minor moment of peace.
My keys are buried, as usual, at the bottom of my purse and it took a heavy lure to dig them out. As I search the skin on my neck started to prickle and the silence was heavier now than it was before. I look around but see no one. Still the feeling remained.
Then, across the street on the corner, in the shadows the glint of silver on the bill of a hat caught the corner of my eye before it disappeared all together. I watched the shadowed street for several moments.
I didn't know if it was him for absolute certainty but there was a limited amount of shadows one was capable of having and with no moon in sight I could not create my own. It was Dieter.
I turned my back to him and unlock the door. Inside the corridor I hesitated to shut the door completely, and decided to leave the latch resting on the door jam. I don't know why I did this. But I did it anyway.
On the forth floor I heard the door open and when I reached my flat I left that door open too.
Piece by piece I removed my clothes. Dieter will see a trail of crumbs that will lead him to the bedroom, where he will then find me quietly tucked into bed—having not eaten dinner, exhausted and above all, numb to all roads our future may take.
I was not afraid when I heard my front door open nor when the lock turned over. Another moment passed and Dieter was in the doorway of my bedroom, cast in the softest light from the window. I could almost mistake him for a coat rack, the slight shape of a man with the stillness of a demon to haunt my dreams and I was just tired enough not to convince myself otherwise.
The breath gave away his humanity. Gave away his stoic confidence and traded it for a mind filled with uncertainty and disquiet agony.
The bed dipped opposite me and I turned to see traces of his silhouette, like a painting, in less than precise form.
"What is this, Alma?" His voice was quiet, the timbre of it almost sounded rhetorical, as though there was no expectation to comment not because we both knew the answer but because we both knew there wasn't one.
"Are you here to arrest me?"
"No," came his instant response. The haste brought a mild comfort.
"Did you kill the Englishman?"
"Would you care either way?"
"I like to think I would."
A smile in his silence and then, "No, I didn't kill him."
"But he won't have long," I read between lines and got a hum in response.
There's another silence between us before Dieter opened the window. A bitter wind filtered in and his seat is taken again.
I remained under the blankets, torn between the two hearts I seemed to have sprouted to cope with this life. I wanted to drag him to me, I wanted to push him out of that window, I wanted to throw myself out behind him.
I wanted him, I wanted him out of my life.
"You didn't come to find me," he said with very little detectable sadness. Only the fact of it.
"You've been following me."
How else would he know I hadn't even tried to find him? Who else could cause me such unease but him?
"I had to make sure you—" Dieter took his hat off and ran his hand through his hair, his silhouette tarnished by disarray. The next part of his sentiment was whispered in German and I nearly seduced myself into thinking I hadn't heard it. "Why was it easier to talk to you when I wasn't in love with you?"
I started to sit up but he told me to stay down, and I listened astonished. Had he meant for me to hear that? That…admission laced with such grief?
"You should sleep, Alma."
"And you?" I asked but of course there is no answer, so then I asked, "Will you stay?"
Dieter remained still, gazing out of the window.
The antelucan hour had breathed a deep, cold breeze between our bodies, hours and hours unspoken, skin untouched, separated by consciousness—sensibility, civility; whatever this apprehension bloomed from it was successful in keeping us apart. But despite this I do not tell him to leave and he makes no effort until the bird song filtered from the trees. Dieter left just before the sun rose.
This had been the most time we had spent together and I knew after this—despite staying an arms length apart—we would never be free of each other. This was my only certainty.
I woke suddenly to a car horn and my entire body shuttered cold from the shock. For a brief moment I thought last night had been a dream. But there is an indention on the bed opposite me, where the sheets were ruffled just so, and the window remained open and this was evidence enough.
I go about my morning. Like any normal morning, with coffee and toast for breakfast to tide me over until dinner. I was deeply tempted to open a bottle of wine, but it was 11am and I had to at least try to do something with my day.
Mug in hand I stepped through my flat, attempting to inspect it through the lens of a stranger. I imagined Dieter was mildly curious about where I spent most of my days—like I would be in his home, I imagined he nosed around. It was then I remembered that I had shed my clothes throughout the apartment the night before, and now the garments were mysteriously no where in sight.
Upon deeper investigation I found each item—even the socks—folded neatly in a stack in the middle of my dinner table with a note on top.
We need to talk. Meet me tonight at the steps of Butte hill twenty minutes prior to curfew. If you decide not to, leave a candle in your bedroom balcony so that I may see it when I walk by. If you wish it, I will leave you be. Please don't be late if you chose me. I was not an impatient man until I met you. - D.H.
I trace his initials with the tip of my finger, the delicate arches and effort was evident of his decorum, another piece to his puzzle. It was risky, this offer to meet in public. He could have very well asked to meet back at my apartment, though it was a kind respect that there was not an implication that is where we would end the evening. But it wasn't an impossibility.
I think for a long while. This is what I did most days and I was certain my mind would rebel eventually from exhaustion, but this game—this ridiculous game we had thrilled me, terrified me, and exhausted me all the same.
I took my neatly folded clothes and returned them to their respective drawers. Except not everything was present. My tights had mysteriously disappeared. It was no stroke of detective genius to figure out who had snatched it. In the very least, if we come to a mutual departure—he'll have something very special to remember me by. Though I believed at this point his tokens totaled two, if he bothered to keep the ribbon that he took from my hair in the restaurant. Tokens of devastation, I'll call them. One item of mine for each time he split me open and sewed me back up crooked and unrecognizable than before. A patchwork woman, a child's husk to play with.
"Why was it easier to talk to you when I wasn't in love with you?"
Could he not bare to look at me now that we broached this subject of trademarking what our feelings truly were—downgrading them to just a word. This word, love. God this word exhausted me more than anything else. But was this how I felt too? Did I love him? I didn't even know him. He didn't even know me.
I go for a long walk, in some terse attempt at enlightenment, for the chance at a spark of insight into this pit of disorientation. Though it ultimately was a procrastination tactic, to put off the inevitable decision I must make, though I cannot make an uninformed decision it is becoming clear I must step blindly. Again, the choice is mine and Dieter has handed me the yoke. I do not know whether to dip or to soar.
Except I do know. This blind propulsion edges me closer to him—to risk. I know this must end, there is no future in it—there is only impulse and indulgence and little else. Moral ethics aside, only heartbreak would result. And yet, what good is it to curate my future only to suffer in the present. What form of harm could indulgence really take?
It was simple then, as it should be, I will go.
I dress simply, in a black dress—sans tights—with my hair pulled low at the base of my neck in a ribbon. A new ribbon, blue this time. My nerves dress me down, fingers twist and fiddle with my hem as I wait for the stroke of 7:30. The walk to Butte hill is a short one, less than five minutes, and I wanted to be early—but not too early.
I arrive with five minutes to spare and only a few people are around—pressing the curfew's limit to its farthest edge. Dieter is not here and I cannot tell if I am surprised or slightly hurt that he would not be as proactive about this as I was. He was, after all, the one who planned it.
When my watch stroke twenty to eight I felt foolish. Utterly foolish and tricked like a naive child. I sat on a bench occupied by another man facing the opposite direction—we did not make eye contact. The bench was stone and cold through my dress but calming. Should I wait until 8? Or cut any loss I may already have and leave it alone?
"It is a beautiful night tonight."
I straighten at the voice across the bench and turn to see a man in what can only be described as distinctly civilian clothing.
My chest swelled.
"You did not recognize me," Dieter said with a gentle laugh but he was more frightening out of his uniform than within it, without he was untethered—unchecked. Dangerous.
"No, no I did not."
Dieter circled the bench. He held out a hand and I stood to meet him. I looked into his eyes, shrouded by a wide brimmed hat, down to his neck donning a crooked black tie with cream paisley print. I took the chance to straighten it, and since I was already there I let my hand linger as I flatten it to his chest.
"You don't look like the man I know…" I pondered, grazing the rough wool of his jacket. "But he must still be in here, hidden under all this—Ah, there he is."
A diminutive tether—a pin signifying his allegiance to Germany, bestowed by Hitler himself, nestled under his lapel close to his heart.
Dieter ushered my hands away with a gentle grip. He took me in with his eyes down to my flats and up again. Then, like before, he tugged at the ribbon but did not pull it out.
"Your note said we needed to talk," I said.
Dieter nodded and offered his arm. I was hesitant to take it, to be close to him. And so I don't. Instead I take the first step in what I anticipated to be a very long walk.
When he remained planted I turn expectantly. Almost bitterly he slid his hands into his pockets and fell into step with me. Playing ground leveled.
"It is not a beautiful night," I countered, "It is this transitionary weather, hot in the day—cold in the evenings. Makes it impossible to make a decision on what to wear."
"You may have my coat if you are too cold." It is a soft offering but one I decline.
"No thank you, I think I'd still like to feel the wind on my skin tonight."
We are silent for another few steps. I am nervous and I know it's obvious but I can't help the fiddle in my fingers—a nervous habit I've had since I was a child. Dieter noticed this and took my hand. I stop for a moment but he pulled me forward. I allow it, because as my hand slid into his—fingers laced, puzzled together—I was grounded once again.
"I like you in this dress, in black."
"Yes, I know you do."
Dieter looked away from me with a bitten lip.
"I can't stop thinking about that night, Dieter. What we did…what I said."
"Is this what troubles you?"
I pulled Dieter to a stop and pick at his lapel. "It's this, Dieter—Perhaps I still don't know whether it is the uniform I want, or you. Just as you said."
"I don't think that's true anymore, Alma. I think you know exactly what you want." Dieter said as he traced a soft finger along my chin while I traced the swastika and in doing so made me ever conscious of how public we were. How the clock had struck past curfew, how the city had gone dark, how the danger predicted itself like cycles of the moon.
"It is okay, as long as I am here you are safe," Dieter quelled my worries. Part of me wondered if he could read my mind. Part of me wondered if he even believed what he was saying. One man could not stop fate.
"Am I?" I asked the sullen quip of a smile he offered but I could see through it, worried like before. If I was truly safe we would be meeting at a cafe or a bar—not under the shroud of darkness.
"This is not how I think of you, safety here or there…" Dieter's thought trailed off as he looked down the road.
"What do you think, Dieter—when you look at me?" I asked, pulling his attention to the frontlines.
"I see an innocent woman," he said.
I nearly laugh. "Surely you know that is not quite true."
Dieter tugged at my ribbon once again and said rather coy, "You like the mask of an innocent woman—this is what I have learned. So when I look at you with this knowledge, I see so much more."
"Like what?" I urged pressing him back into the shadows of a doorway.
"Someone who is alone in this world—despite best efforts from failed romantic partners. A particular woman who does not settle." Dieter licked his lips, all while his fingers ghost over my cheeks, my temples, my jaw, my lips. "A strong woman on the outside, but…breakable on the inside. I wonder if I could break you, Alma."
A sound escaped my throat that I had not expected to make. A sound that made Dieter's pupils bloom.
"You cannot say things like that to me."
"And why not?"
I took a heavy step closer and he receded further to the wall until his back hits it and we were at an impasse of movement. I seemed to have the upper hand.
And then I don't.
A group of six soldiers marched down the road and we pressed further into the shadows away from inquisition. My heart pounded and my heavy breath mixed with Dieter's sharp and mild exhales; it calmed me long enough to rationalize the possibility of death within a split second. In his orbit I remained intact.
When the sounds of their boots echo in the distance I found myself still in Dieter's clutches, one arm caged me against the wall while the other gripped the fabric of my dress so tightly at my side I am nearly constricted of all breath. All I can see is the distant pearl of the moon in his eye. He was waiting for something. Anything. Permission?
"What is it that you wanted tonight? To put me in a position to admonish my agency? Did you want me to devote myself to you? To worship you as my savior?"
"Is there little else you think of me?" He bit in response and his hold no less loosened.
"I don't know Dieter, I don't know you—I know nothing but fear."
"Do you fear me?"
"No, I fear this." I pressed into his chest where the pin was hidden, "And I fear who you are when you wear it."
"And if I don't wear it? What do you fear then?"
It was simple, "Then I fear nothing."
Dieter then did something quite extraordinary. He released me and used that hand to pluck the pin from his coat; in a brief but certain movement, he pressed it into my palm.
"When I am with you that is not me."
"And when you are without me? What are you then?"
A light flicked on from behind the door and through the glass our dark gazes are illuminated. The latches on the door started to rattle and Dieter, with a frustrated curse under his breath, pulled the both of us out into the street.
We walked in silence, the tension that had been built up just moments ago had been shattered into a million pieces. I knew no longer what to say or what to do and I was desperate for a word from him but he remained silent, cautious eyes searching the street ahead and behind us. Perhaps he suddenly realized none of this was worth it, that I was not worth the worry, the inevitable heartbreak. I didn't even know if it was worth it for me either.
Another several moments were spent in silence. I pulled us onto Villa Léandre, the street that deadened, the street that prefaced mine to the East, a dark and empty street of vacant pitched-roof houses and over-grown hedges.
"We will be alone here," I said, pulling his sleeve. My grip slipped and turned to fold into his hand, which he held in an unbreakable embrace.
"Are you certain?" Dieter asked.
"Yes, the families vacated months ago to Leon, to Marseilles. Anyone who remains here are doing so in the walls, the attics," I said with pointed purpose, watching Dieter gaze up to the windows of the attics but his face showed no sign of concern or malice. When his gaze returned to me, however, I suddenly became a casualty on my own agony. His eyes were soft, his normally angular jaw was at ease as he smiled softly. He pulled the ribbon from my hair, twirling it around his fingers as my hair fell past my shoulders, locks weighing heavier than before. I was quick to snatch the end of it. The look of his amusement was delectable, addictive. I took this chance to pull him with me as I back to the gate of one of the houses. The iron dug into my skin, stopping our dance full-stop, and he descended upon me like a snake would its prey.
We are still, cherishing this moment of privacy. I could hardly believe my position, my submission, my sudden eagerness to shed every scrap of fabric, every swath of skin and flesh, just to be closer to him.
More soldiers pass by at the entrance of the street, they are quiet but their presence was deafening.
I repeated my question, "What are you when you are without me, Dieter?"
The question gave his burning gaze pause. Dieter's lips graze mine. The touch is hesitant. We were both simultaneously met with the reality of this, the heaviness of my heart collides with the sharpness of his breath into one whole purpose—it is one truth which we have now proven.
"Then I—" He stopped himself before he held my jaw in his hands, to hold my head still long enough to search my eyes, "then I am nothing, Alma."
Our eyes remain connected and it is suddenly the most dangerous thing in the world. His own response seemed to give him pause, as though he was surprised—confused, rather—by his own answer. Was it true? Or was it the heat of the moment?
Dieter kissed my forehead and I wanted to collapse into his sweet and loving arms but then I blink and suddenly he is gone, having left me with a wet and lingering kiss that chilled my body with the same breeze that took him away. His retreating back signified nothing but restraint.
There was no sleep to be had that night and the next morning I sit at the front desk of my bookshop, knees bouncing and heart leaping at every sound. My normally poised disposition was struck by severe unrest and anxiety. Of course this had to be his intention, to make me suffer for my own feelings—for the feelings he most certainly shared.
"And then there was this explosion—"
"No!"
"Yes! Marcel and I did not know what to do so we just ran—"
I caught snippets of conversations between Marquis and Stephanie as they shelved books and kept the shop tidy throughout the morning. It was a normal day to them, nothing out of the ordinary to consume their minds but the ever present threat of the Germans. It was starting to become commonplace, unfortunately, as humans are adaptable creatures. Could one actively oppose yet coexist with evil? It all felt contradictory, unnatural. And I with my stubborn Nazi problem, our existences remained suspended—neither growing or diminishing, just…remaining.
The bell above the door jingled and I was met with Jean and the antique book dealer, Theo, from down the avenue. They entered the shop breathless, with a wet sparkle of fear in their eyes and a tinge of smoke on their tail.
"What's happened?" I jumped up.
"Go look for yourself," Jean breathed out.
Outside and down the street there were voices grew louder and the smell of fire resonated in the wind. Marquis and I cautiously venture further around the corner and see a mound like a mountain of leather bound books and gilded pages burning in the center of the cobblestone, one hundred—two hundred year old books up in flames like nothing more than kindling. Gestapo flanked the growing pile as books were hauled out from the shop by the crateful.
Marquis and I gasped but we could not look away.
"We have to do something," I said.
"Like what? Throw ourselves in the fire in protest?"
I ignored Marquis' sarcasm and stepped toward the closest Gestapo.
"Excuse me," I say in German and at the inflection the officer turned. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Stay back!" he ordered but this would not do.
"No, I'm asking you to tell me why you think this is somehow serving your Reich—by burning first editions of Dumas and Voltaire?"
"I will not order you again," his rifle is pointed at my chest but I make no move to be intimidated. My anger rose far higher than my sense of self-preservation ever could.
"Alma," Marquis nudged me back.
"Listen to your negro, fotze."
At this statement I could barely focus and pressed my chest into the barrel of his gun, "What did you just say to me, Nazischwein?"
The nazi, suddenly red-faced, pushed me back several paces with the barrel of his rifle. In response, I take hold of the shaft and refuse to let go.
"Alma!" Marquis grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
"Acker—what is the meaning of this?"
The three of us paused, for three very different reasons. The nazi paused at the command of his superior, Marquis paused his rescue of me in the sudden fear of the unknown, and I—I paused at the voice of the man who in a split second instilled so much anger out of me I couldn't see straight.
I turned to Dieter and in quick succession the shock, confusion, and realization passed through his face and settled on contempt.
"This is vile, Sturmbannführer. Immoral." I hold back no bite in my address to his rank, the uniform suddenly revolted me and in this revulsion I was no longer afraid of it. And because I no longer feared it—because I no longer had to wonder whether I was safe under Dieter's hand, he would not harm me—and because he didn't have the gall, I opposed him as my equal.
I am surprised by his response.
"You are correct, Mademoiselle," Dieter responded in French with a brief glance to Marquis. "This immorality should come as no surprise."
I continue in French, "And yet you Nazi pigs always find new ways to disgust me—to disgust all of us. Your special brand by which you continue to deliver."
Dieter's jaw clinched and I could feel Marquis pulling at my sleeve again. I step up to Dieter close enough so even the smoke could not obstruct our gaze and find an unwavering glare in him. He was doing his job, and I—a resistor—was doing mine. This became clear.
"Sturmbannführer, should we take her in?" the officer suggested but there was no breakage. Like children in a staring contest whoever broke first would lose.
"Acker—cease the raid. Let's move on," Dieter ordered with a sharp tilt and a smug smirk, as if instead to say—'your move.'
Then he turned his back to me but I could not allow him the last word.
"Quite right! Sturmbannführer Willenlos, or even better Sturmbannführer ohne Ruckgrat!"
His retreating back stilled and the officer at his side turned. Just as he was about to speak Dieter nodded him off with what sounded like a simple "ignore her—harmless—"
Dieter took another step and Marquis pushed me back. My anger seethed with the burning embers of the fire and yet, I still needed it to be heard.
"The back of a coward always retreats! Vive la France under Nazi rule, a nation of curs!" I yelled in French and this brought him to a deadly pause.
"Alma, are you completely daft? What has gotten into you?" Marquis asked in rushed whispers but I saw no sense in responding, I only beckoned at Dieter's call—who had turned and marched toward me. In one swift movement I was plucked from Marquis, elbow in Dieter's gloved thousand pound grip, and drug past the fire with little regard to my endurance. Then I was shoved into the backseat of a black Mercedes and locked in by myself.
"Hey!" I slammed my fists on the window only to see Dieter's smirk before he returned to order his men around. I searched for Marquis in the sea of uniforms and flames but I no longer saw him, I prayed he had more sense than me and retreated for his own safety.
When Dieter returned I did not know who I was more upset with, him or myself. I was certainly a fool, but he made me a fool. He made me insane.
"Are you settled now?" He asked, climbing into the back seat with me. Currently no driver occupied the front seat.
"I don't know—are you going to continue to treat me like a caged animal?"
"Perhaps I will until you stop acting like one."
I heaved out a frustrated sigh and averted my gaze out the window to my right. At my left, Dieter turned to me. It was quite amusing to see such a tall man maneuver and contort himself in the backseat of a car just to gain my eye.
"If you had been anyone else saying those things to me I would've had shoot you, you do realize that, yes?"
Of course I knew it.
"Why didn't you?"
"You know why."
"Do I? All I know is what it's like to be ripped open at the heart and left alone in the cold."
Dieter nodded slowly, as though he had not known what this was about until this moment. Perhaps he was just as foolish as me.
"Burning books is low, even for you," I said.
"It got your attention, did it not?"
I seethed at how easily he got to me. How well he was at controlling my emotions.
"You realize you've ruined a good man's livelihood just to get my attention? How many times must I admonish myself to convince you that I—" a breath, "the further you push me, the further away I am tempted to stay."
Dieter was quiet then, contemplative.
"I don't understand anything anymore. Even the Nazi occupation of Paris, absurd and doomed to fail, makes more sense than this," I continued, settling into the leather of the seat, defeated and exhausted. Dieter's eyes were on me and I could feel the desire radiating from his skin. The heat between us sweltered. "This must be so clear for you, getting off on torturing me, manipulating me—"
Dieter's hand grazed my forearm and my breath hitched at the pads of his fingers. Our heat is shared. He avoided my eye as his hand grasped my elbow, and then I see he was wiping soot from my skin—his gaze now focused. It was a small act, unnecessary and gentle and bordering inappropriate. At any point his driver could appear and see what was very clearly a loving embrace.
"Dieter," I said softly, glancing through the back window. There was only a group of three nazis left around the smoldering embers of the books and when I returned my gaze was struck by his. "Do you still find it so difficult to speak to me?"
Dieter's eyes shot away, a flash of uncertainty in the haste, "I didn't mean for you to hear that."
"But did you mean it?"
"I don't—" Dieter paused and continued in German which I assumed was easier for him when speaking so vulnerably, "I don't know what I was trying to say."
"I only care if it's true," I said.
"And if it is?"
"If it is true I need you to say it. Or admit it, however you choose to define it I need to hear the words—"
"I am afraid, Alma. Afraid that I cannot protect you."
"This is what paralyzes you? I'm not asking you to protect me."
"You don't have to. You don't have to ask me, Alma. I cannot help it. You put yourself in the worst situations and for what?"
"No," I stop him, "No tell me truthfully."
Dieter looked away because he knew I could see through him. Whether through his heavy eyes that bore holes in whatever they land on or his body language, shaking hands, the angle of his feet toward me—I could see through it all simply because he hid nothing from me.
"You could die tomorrow and it would be my fault," Dieter said. I attempt to counter but he continued in German, "We will all be victims of the Reich, you and I included."
There was a sudden heavy knock on the window and for a brief moment Dieter's grip on my arm squeezed so tight I thought he might pinch the limb off entirely.
Dieter exited the vehicle and chatted with the driver for several moments. I could not make out what was being said, just as much as I could make out what Dieter had been trying to tell me. Was he insisting that because this was doomed to begin with, there was no use pursuing it? But if we are all to be victims, shouldn't we at least try to survive—to live while we can?
The door was opened at my side and a gloved hand pulled me out just as the driver hopped behind the wheel. When the doors closed Dieter and I were alone.
"You are free to go, Mademoiselle. But if I find you continue to be a nuisance I will have no choice but to treat you like one. Understood?"
His voice was sharp, quick, no-nonsense, no emotion. I nodded and he looked past me in lieu of facing me.
"Thank you, Sturmbannführer. I will try to behave myself."
Dieter clinched his jaw and let out a breath, such a playful response was seemingly unexpected.
"I have my side and you have yours, Mademoiselle. We would be smart to…keep it that way," came his last response in French.
I understood and with all the restraint built within me I left him without another word, neither in favor or opposition. A bitter conclusion but the right words I needed to make my decision.
I would not tempt my soul again.
I would remain on my side, where I belonged—and he would remain on his, where he belonged—and we would forever be separate, even if I would rather carve my heart from my chest and bleed myself dry if I knew I would never see him again.