by Alex Amit
“What did you ask?”
“Where did you live in Strasbourg?” He raises his eyes from the notebook, looking at me.
“Rue de Barr, I think, I was a little girl. It was by the river. We went to the river on Sundays.” Never be too confident in yourself. You are not a notebook of information in which everything is precisely written as it happened. They always suspect someone who knows all the answers accurately, as if memorizing them. Philip told me that, in the old warehouse south of town, and I think that was the moment I started to trust him.
“Is it close to the river?” The tall one keeps looking at me while his friend examines my tremors with his hand hidden in his coat pocket. What does he have there?
“I think so. Dad used to carry me on his shoulders. I remember there was a playground next to a slide.”
“Are you cold?”
“Yes, I do not have a warm coat like yours.” If you feel they are starting to suspect you, show some aggression, but not too much, people who feel guilty do not tend to be aggressive. Philip put me in front of the wall and approached me, role-playing with me, and I smelled his body odor for the first time, mixed with the smell of gun oil and the printing ink from his fingers.
“Do you speak German?” The other man asks me in their language.
“Yes, certainly, from childhood,” I answer them in German.
“So why didn’t you answer us from the beginning in German?”
“Because you approached me in French.”
“And why are you not in Germany, with all those now helping the homeland?”
“I help here, selling delicious food at a boulangerie to soldiers who come tired from the front lines. I know how hard it is for them, especially those who fought the Communist monster that wants to destroy us.” If you run out of ideas, invent, Philip briefed me, and I sat fearfully in front of him and thought there was no way I could ever invent anything.
“And what’s in your bag?” He takes my bag without asking.
“A notebook. I draw sometimes.”
He lets the other man hold my certificate while carefully examining the notebook, flipping through the pages, and reading the titles.
“Do you like Normandy?”
“Yes, very much, but we cannot go there now.” Be careful not to slip, providing them a piece of information they may check and verify that you are lying to them, like places you have been to or dates. Make sure you stay as general as you can. Philip remained standing close to me, but since then, because of me, everything was ruined.
The short man gives one last look at the diary before closing it and returning it to me.
“Have a good day, Frau Otin.”
“You too.”
I start walking away, trying to keep calm without looking back, as if nothing had happened, but after a few steps, he calls me again, and I stop, turning back to him, filling the pain in my stomach.
“Frau Otin?”
“Yes?”
“I enjoy strolling the beaches of Normandy.”
“The Strasbourg River of my childhood is more magical.”
What do they know about Normandy? Why did he say that?
“How are you? Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything is fine.” My trembling hand looks for the pack of cigarettes in my bag.
“How was the road here?”
“Nothing special. The same Gestapo men standing on the steps of the metro, examining the people, it’s cold to stand like that in the snow for so many hours.”
“I worry about you more every time.”
“You do not have to worry about me. I know how to get along.” I take the matchbox out of my bag, trying to light a cigarette, but my fingers are shaking, and the match is broken, so is the next one. Philip takes the matchbox out of my hands, and gives me a lit match. I inhale the smoke with a look of relief.
“You started smoking?”
“Yes, such an obscene habit.” I blow the smoke up, lean back, and look at him.
“I hope you do not smoke next to Ernest. I don’t think he would like a woman smoking. It is not feminine.”
Is that what interests him? What Herr Ernest will say?
“I manage Herr Ernest. Don’t worry about Herr Ernest. Monique knows how to take care of Monique.”
Philip examines me, watching with his dark eyes, searching for what to say. It’s cold in the basement, and we’re both wrapped up in our coats like we’ll soon be out of here. Philip notices my eyes looking at his torn gloves, and he folds his arms, trying to hide them, and I want to take off my new leather gloves, another gift from Oberst Ernest. I inhale again. The heat of the cigarette smoke in my throat provides me some comfort.
“You have changed,” he says.
I inhale the cigarette again and look at him. I so want to hug his body and promise him I’ve stayed the same, me and all my thoughts at night. I want to move this distant table that has been standing between us for so long and rest my head on his shoulder, whispering for him to hug me. But I know it’s too late, I’m with Herr Ernest, and he has his resistance and maybe a cabaret girl he shares his nights with, getting into her panties like all men.
“Yeah, I’ve changed, but we did not come here to talk about me, we came to talk about the Germans and the material I have to tell you, didn’t we? So let’s start.”
And he keeps looking at me in silence as I describe all the information I can remember, sketching out a new defense plan I was able to see one night.
“This is important information. I will pass it on.”
“Excellent.”
“You’re doing a great job.”
“Excellent.” What am I risking myself for, bringing them all this stuff? Why don’t they do something with it? What are they waiting for? For them to catch and torture me? For Herr Oberst Ernest to find out who I am? Why aren’t they already invading and winning this war?
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” I stand up from the small table, lighting another cigarette. Suddenly this basement feels too suffocating for both of us.
“You look angry.” Philip gets up with me, trying to get closer, but I walk away from him, blowing the grey smoke in his direction.
“I’m not angry. I’m doing my job excellently. Even you say that.”
“So why are you so distant from me?”
“Because I’m already tired and because you chose.”
“What did I choose?”
“To send me to him.”
“Because I had no choice.”
“So I’m with him, and everything’s fine.”
“You must go on. There is no other choice.” He tries to get closer again, but I don’t want him to, feeling the basement wall scratching my back.
“I’m getting along great.” The cigarette is tossed on the floor, and I crush it with my shoe. The air here is compressed and damp. “I deliver good information, and you keep me alive, a great deal.”
Philip pauses, furiously looking at me. “Do not forget who you are.”
But I’m tired of everyone trying to explain to me who I am. I don’t know who I am anymore, who I’ll be when it’s all over, and how it will end. I’m not able to change anything anyway.
“Besides, you can ask your fellow Communists to take down the sign that forbids Jews from entering the Tuileries Gardens. It bothers me on my trips with Oberst Ernest, and there are no Jews left in Paris anymore.”
Philip looks at me angrily, and for a moment I think I’ve gone too far, and he will hit me, but he just balls his fists, approaching me and holding my body, biting my lips tightly and making me stop breathing. His hands grab me as he continues to kiss my lips, trying to spread them with his tongue, and for one moment, I allow him to, no longer able to stop myself.
“Merry Christmas.” I push him away from me, scratching his neck with my fingers, and escape, knowing that if I stay another moment, I will never be able to return to my apartment in the Eighth arrondissement.
Tonight Philip will probably go out with his cabaret dancer and leave me alone with Oberst Ernest.
At least I can look for the little girl in the alley, giving her two cans of meat that I kept especially for her, for the new year.
The snow that has fallen in the last two days has painted the city white, covering the quiet streets in white shrouds. Only a few people are walking in the cold, leaving deep grey footprints in the snow. But most of them remain in their homes as they try to heat the small apartments with some old newspapers or some firewood purchased on the black market, in exchange for ration slips for flour and oil. Some German army truck crosses the boulevard at a slow pace, leaving black streaks on the road as it melts the snow, but the rest of the vehicles disappeared from the streets months ago. There is no fuel. Even the big market has returned to using traditional wooden carts, harnessed to tired horses.
“Merry Christmas,” Simone greets us as we wrap ourselves in coats and huddle near the back door of the boulangerie. She even allows herself a moment of sentimentality and hugs us before we head out into the wet and white streets. I have to hurry home. Herr Ernest has informed me he will be coming today.
My cold fingers dig in my bag, searching for the apartment key when I hear a noise from inside, and I freeze.
Is Oberst Ernest early? Are they waiting for me inside? What should I do?
My feet quickly carry me down the stairs as I run out to the street, almost slipping and falling on the wet marble stairs at the building entrance. Panting in the cold air, I keep running to the street corner, ignoring my footprints left behind in the snow. Where shall I go now?
The street is empty, no black car is waiting to pick me up, and I can’t see car tire tracks in the snow on the road. Only my steps seem so visible to anyone who wants to chase after me. What should I do? One woman strolls at a distance, bent over, carrying a bundle of wood or rags on her back. She doesn’t seem to be one of them. Could I be wrong? Maybe Herr Ernest is in the apartment waiting for me. Shall I wait for him to arrive?
The street is getting dark as I stand and rub my palms together, trying to move a little and ignoring an older man passing by. He is probably wondering why a woman is waiting like this on a street corner when it’s snowing outside. My feet hurt from the cold, but I try to keep on walking, trying to hide from passing cars that might be looking for me. I can’t bear it anymore.
I have nowhere else to go. How much longer will I live in such fear?
Slowly I climb the wooden stairs, carefully open the door, release the key, and hold it between my aching fingers, ready to fight as much as I can or turn around and escape. The house is warm and cozy.
“Where have you been? You’re freezing.” He walks over to me, helping me remove my coat. “What took you so long? I sent my driver into the street looking for you. I brought us a Christmas tree to celebrate, like in the homeland. Are you okay? Why are you so quiet?”
“I’m cold.” Just taking off my shoes and wet socks, and warming up a little by the fireplace, that’s all I want now.
At the end of the living room the tree stands proudly, and Herr Ernest goes around it slowly, placing string lights and silver orbs that twinkle cheerfully. It’s nice to watch the fire burning in the fireplace, concentrating on the flames that light up the walls and the hunter painting that Herr Ernest bought, a man shooting a running fox, and Mom lights candles. We all sing Hanukkah songs, laughing at Jacob who can’t manage the strange Hebrew words, and I whisper the words quietly because I’m ashamed they’ll discover who I am, and Dad is touching my shoulder: “Monique, Monique.”
“Monique.” Herr Ernest whispers to me, gently touching my shoulders, and my eyes look around, trying to figure out where I am and who this man is with the cropped yellow hair and green eyes. “It seems you fell asleep.” He looks at me.
“Did I say something?” I straighten up in an armchair in front of the fireplace.
“No, you just mumbled something strange.” He continues to examine me. “Look, I made us a Christmas tree, to feel like home.”
“It’s beautiful. The most beautiful I’ve ever had.”
“I also brought you a present.” He points to the box under the tree.
“I’m so sorry. I did not buy you anything. I thought you would return to your family in Germany.” I’m looking for a reason. “Do you have family in Germany?”
“I’m an army man. My home is where my boots are.” He walks to the Christmas tree and brings my present. “Merry Christmas.”
My fingers gently remove the colored ribbon and peel off the paper, grabbing the cardboard box and opening it.
In horror, I examine the brown leather case inside the box, looking at the black metal box with the golden buttons and lens. My fingernails gently scrape the iron eagle engraved on the camera body, holding a swastika with its claws.
“What is it?” I’m looking at him.
“It’s a camera. It’s your present, the best on the market thanks to our Führer, a Leica camera.”
Even if I wanted to get up and run away, I couldn’t. My feet are paralyzed. Why did he buy it for me?
“Why?”
“Because it suits you,” he is not smiling at me, “you love to draw, and I thought of giving you a present, you should have thanked me for your present.”
“I’m sorry.” My legs manage to carry me as I stand and approach him, trying to lift my arms and hug his shoulders. “You just surprised me, and I’ve never had a camera, what do you do with it? Can you show me?”
And Oberst Ernest relents and sits down in the armchair, begins to explain to me how to hold the camera and how to aim and which buttons to press to shoot or pull out the film.
And all that time, I’m kneeling at his feet on the carpet in the living room, asking questions, and making myself interested while trying to warm myself and looking at his fingers holding the metal box. What does he know about me, and how long will I be able to hide myself?
“Next summer, I’ll take a few days off from the army, and we’ll drive to the beach, maybe to the south of France, and then you can take a picture of us.” He looks at me.
“Please pour me some wine,” I ask.
“Will you make us dinner? I brought groceries. They’re in the kitchen.” He strokes my hair as I kneel on the carpet.
“What did you bring?”
“Some things for the holiday.” He continues to stroke my hair. “Too bad you don’t have pure German blood.”
I look up at him questioningly.
“In order to have a legal spouse, an officer in my position must find a German woman with certificates.”
“And what about me?”
“After we win the war, you could come with me to Berlin.”
My lips are silent as I rest my head on his knee, thinking what to say that would fit, wondering what he would think of my racial purity.
“Merry Christmas.” I kiss his knee, feeling the rough pants on my lips. I have to get up and make dinner, and then I can drink the wine he brought. Tonight he will probably let me drink as much as I want to.
“See you tomorrow, and watch out for the snow,” Simone says goodbye a few days after the new year, and I’m starting my way to the apartment by foot, blowing on my frozen fingers. The metro is not working.
When will this snow end? Maybe it would have been better for the snow to last forever and paint this grey city white. No one will wrap me in white. I will never wear a white dress. I will not even be like the same French woman I saw a few months ago, who married a German officer in the church of La Madeleine. I’d passed by and glanced at them for a moment. All his fellow officers stood in two straight rows on the steps, creating a passage of applause for them while the hem of her white dress disappeared in the church. Even Herr Ernest doesn’t want me, and if he knew who I was, he would have killed me already.
I’m looking at the boy near the newsstand. He is shaking and waiting for me in the snow. What’s the point of all thi
s? The war will never end.
In the end, the Germans will defeat all of us, the Russians, the Americans, the resistance, me, I know that. The maps of the beaches I see at night, while waiting to be caught, tell me this. The never-ending lines of German soldiers in the boulangerie tell me this, even the food and wine Herr Ernest brings me every time he comes tell me that.
“Cigarette pack, please.” I stand at the stall, moving from foot to foot to keep warm while the seller looks sideways nervously.
“The price has gone up. Are you paying in Francs or Reichsmark?”
“Whichever suits you,” I pull my wallet out of the bag and pay him in silence, then start walking towards the bridge, lighting a cigarette to warm up a bit.
The soles of my shoes are already worn, and the cold from the pavement freezes my feet, but I hide it from Oberst Ernest, not wanting him to rush and buy me a new pair or to put German money on the dresser again.
By the bridge, I pass a hunched family, wrapped in old coats and torn blankets. Where is my family? How come I haven’t heard yet from Mom and Dad and Jacob? At least they do not know where I ended up and what I had to do to survive. Mom would yell at me, and Dad would shut up, but the look in his eyes would tell me how disappointed he was in me.
“What’s the point?” I crush the cigarette with the tip of my shoes, and after a few minutes I light another one, my fingers shaking from the cold. The only white dress I’ll be wearing will be the snow that will cover my grave, like Claudine’s. I should start getting used to it from now on, and I stand in the cold before entering the alley, letting the snowflakes fall on my hair.
We have not met for so long. What does it matter what he says?
“They are building new barriers here and here.” My fingers show him the places on the crumpled map he pulled out of his coat pocket, carefully flattening it with his fingers. “If your American friends do not hurry, they will have no place to invade.”