The Girl Under the Flag: Monique - The Story of a Jewish Heroine Who Never Gave Up (WW2 Girls)

by Alex Amit

  “We have to be patient. We have no other choice. I promise you they will come, is everything fine? I’m worried about you.” Philip puts down the pencil with which he marked what I said, never letting me write. If someone gets their hands on the map, it could be a death sentence for me.

  “No, you are not,” I snatch the pencil and begin to fill in the map of the beach with the barrier lines. Perhaps my time has come.

  “What are you doing?” Philip tries to stop me, holding my hand.

  “No, you are not,” I shout and scratch his hand, continuing to write, even though I no longer know what.

  “What am I not?” His hands grip me tightly, and I can hear the creaking of the wooden table and chairs on the floor of the damp basement space.

  “You are not worried about me at all. It’s the telegrams you care about, that’s all I’m worth for you. He’s making me a Christmas tree and talking to me about Germany and family, and you are interested in telegrams. You didn’t even ask our Communist friends what happened to my family.”

  “They are in Auschwitz. Your Ernest and his friends sent them to Auschwitz,” he shouts back at me, looking at me with anger and hatred.

  “I know they arrived at the Auschwitz camp.”

  “No one comes back from Auschwitz, and more and more trains with people are going there. Do you understand what that means?” I can hear his shouts echo in me from the walls closing around, unable to believe what he is telling me.

  “So why didn’t you tell me when you knew?” My breathing is heavy. I have to sit down, inhale. This basement is suffocating me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “How could I tell you such a thing?” He tries to hug me while his voice breaks. “How could I tell you?”

  I can’t be here anymore. Where’s the door outside? I have to breathe, where are the stairs?

  “Who will want me?” I’ve been left alone, let me get out of here, don’t touch me. My hands push him. Please, stop staring at my tears running down my cheeks over Mom and Dad and Jacob and the name that makes me sick of Auschwitz, and Herr Oberst Ernest, and me, for all I did when they were no more. I feel sick.

  “I want you.”

  “No one will want me, don’t you understand?” I try to fight him off. I have no more Mom and Dad.

  “I will want you, it will end one day, and I will study at the Sorbonne as I once did, and we will all return as we once were.” He insists on hugging me.

  “The past is dead, gone, even you once said it,” I shout at him and cry, “no one can fix it.”

  “But I still want you.” He refuses to release me.

  “I do not want to see you anymore. Find yourself a replacement, someone whose fingers have no stains of paint and the smell of gun oil.” I get up from the hard floor and search for the stairs.

  “Please, don’t go.”

  “Don’t you understand? I do not want to see you anymore, ever. Get out of my life. I’m like the rats in the Nazi movies, everyone I touch dies or leaves. I spread diseases. I slept with a German officer; you will never marry me. I am an infected Jew.”

  V

  To Live

  March 1944

  Telegram V

  Secret

  3/5/1944

  From: Western Front Wehrmacht Command

  To: Army Group France

  Subject: Preparations for an attack in the West

  Background: Army units subordinate to the Western Front must be on alert for an American-British invasion attempt on French shores.

  General: France’s citizens are expected to show signs of ingratitude towards the German army and may attempt to provoke rebellion in anticipation of the coming liberation. Army units must impose severe discipline on the population and search for ungrateful civilians.

  Tasks:

  Army officers should be alert to treason attempts by locals.

  It is the army officers’ responsibility to instill the German army’s power in the local population.

  SS. Telegram 93

  The Sewing box

  “My dear, I lost a button on my uniform. Will you sew it back on for me?”

  “Certainly, my dear.” Herr Ernest hands me his grey-green shirt, the one with the black iron cross, and remains in a white tank top. Carefully I take the metal button from his hand and walk to the bedroom, searching for a sewing kit. We have not met since that time in the basement three months ago.

  It’s better for me that way, trying not to think about him anymore. I even stopped wandering the streets aimlessly, smoking, looking to punish myself, strolling without direction until the curfew hour. The sketchbook pages are full of new intelligence, hidden in code names among all the flower drawings. But all the information I received didn’t change anything, and even if I wanted to contact him, I don’t know how. It’s better for me, without looking at his fingers or remembering the smell of his shirt.

  “Darling? Did you find a sewing kit?” Herr Ernest’s voice coming from the study takes me back to reality, and I sit down by the bed, opening the dresser drawers one by one, searching for a sewing kit. I remember seeing one when we moved here, along with the few things that were left in the apartment.

  The wooden box is hidden in the third drawer, between white tablecloths. It is made of mahogany wood, and I place it on my lap, looking in the small drawers for a green-grey thread, comparing the small spools to the shirt spread out on the bed. Another drawer opens, and another, as I rummage through with my fingers, pulling from the bottom, and suddenly I notice them and freeze.

  Like a snake bite, I quickly close the box. The sound seems to shake the whole room.

  “Is there a thread in the right color?”

  “I found something similar.” My voice is shaking. Did he notice?

  Slowly, carefully, I open the small wooden drawers again, gently pulling the spools and trying to peek, quietly praying that I am wrong, but they are there, in the bottom drawer, under some burgundy spools of thread.

  I send my fingers out, touch them, pull the spools aside, expose them to the warm air in the room, gently feeling the yellow cloth with my fingertips, and drawing the outline of the letters ‘Juif’ in the center of the Star of David.

  “My dear, I’m in a hurry. I have an appointment.”

  “I just found it. I’m sewing it right now. I almost forgot how to sew.”

  “A good woman never forgets,” his voice came from the study.

  My trembling hands fail again and again to insert the grey thread into the eye of the needle. It is pushed aside with each tremor, refusing to lock itself, and the tears are interrupting it as well.

  “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  My fingers sew quickly, pushing the needle firmly into the stiff, rough cloth, ignoring the pain of stabbing it into the shirt, loop after loop, non-stop, like an emotionless machine. Still, in the middle of sewing, I can’t anymore. I toss the shirt aside, gripping the wooden box and pouring all its contents onto the bed with a great noise, not thinking what will happen if Herr Ernest loses his patience and comes to find the source of the noise. My fingers rummage through the box, checking to see if there is anything left in the empty wooden cells, but there is almost nothing else there. Just the two yellow badges and one light brown photo of a family by the sea. A father and mother and two children sitting on the small stones, and on the other side, it is written in pencil: “Us, June 5th, 1939, the hotel in Nice.”

  “Were you crying?” he asks as I stand at the study entrance, handing him the ironed uniform with the button back in place.

  “No, I just rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t get the thread into the needle.”

  “Well, thank you very much. Too bad it took you so long. I have to leave now. The driver is already waiting outside.”

  “Will we meet in the evening?”

  “Yes, Please wait for me.” He reviews himself in the hall mirror, making sure the button is back in place. His presence in the small entrance hall is too dense for me, but befo
re I can breathe, I have to wait until I hear the door slam shut behind him and the sound of his footsteps moving down the stairwell. I must go out and feel some air that is not in this apartment, a place that does not have a German officer’s presence and the smell of eau de cologne.

  But I can’t return the yellow badges in my pocket to their hiding place in the sewing box, nor the light brown photo.

  “May a loving man give you a flower,” my lips whisper as I pretend to place a flower on her grave, my hand empty. I couldn’t find any flowers. The older woman wasn’t standing on the corner, and I do not know what happened to her. Maybe she did not survive the winter, or perhaps she went looking for loving couples in another place. Who would buy flowers when there was no money for food, and the German soldiers were at the front?

  The square overlooking the Eiffel is also deserted. The smiling German soldiers and the French girls like me, hanging on their arms, have gone. Only a few army trucks pass through the square in a slow drive, rushing to their destination on the western front, not stopping to buy flowers for anyone.

  The cemetery is quiet, and I clean the stone with my hand, brushing it as hard as I can even though the winter rain has washed it clean.

  “Sorry I haven’t been here for a long time. I’ll tell you everything,” my lips start mumbling as I try to stop my tears, but I cannot tell her. I can’t say the words out loud. Even the yellow badge hiding in my dress pocket does not give me enough courage.

  “Exalted and hallowed be His great Name,” my lips mumble the prayer to the souls of Mom and Dad and Jacob, and I do not know more than these words. I do not know if I am allowed to pray because I am a woman, and it is not acceptable, and I’m committing a great sin, as Dad used to tell me when I refused to light candles on Friday night, yelling at him that I was French and did not want to be Jewish, but I do not care.

  My lips repeat the few words I do know in a whisper, over and over, as I hold the yellow badge firmly in my fists, my eyes closed.

  “Sorry, Claudine, I have not visited you in so long. I will come more,” I apologize before I walk away from the grave. For a moment, my gaze is turned back as I struggle with the urge to leave the yellow badge on the stone, but it’s too dangerous. I must return it to its hiding place.

  I have to see someone I’m running away from; maybe she will agree to take me back.

  What if she refuses to open the door for me? I stop at the avenue and look around. Maybe I should stay here? Between the cafés I’m already familiar with?

  The German laughter from last spring has disappeared, and only a few soldiers are sitting at the empty tables, served by bored waiters. Maybe I’ll sit for a few minutes? Perhaps it’s not a good idea to go to her?

  What could I tell her? After I ran away from her without saying goodbye? Packing my few belongings and disappearing from her life without explaining, I have not even called her since, even though her luxurious apartment has a telephone. I tried to pick up the phone and ask for her several times, but once I heard the operator’s voice asking me for the number, I slammed the black tube back into place.

  I have to hurry, Oberst Ernest will come soon, and he doesn’t like to wait for me. Recently, his green eyes have become cold, and his voice sounds sharp, making me even more nervous. I quickly cross the boulevard, looking away from the Arc de Triumph and the Nazi flag flying overhead.

  The narrow streets have not changed as I walk through them; even the large metal door at the entrance remains as it was. What will she say to me? Maybe I’ll go back and return another day?

  My fists clenched, and my nails pressing hard into the palms of my hands, I wait by the door after ringing the bell. My stomach hurts.

  She’s not there. I can go now, at least I tried. But the door opens, and she is standing and looking at me.

  “My girl, you have grown so much.” I hear her voice as her hands wrap around me warmly, and I let the tears come out.

  “I’m a Jew,” I sob in the stairwell.

  “Shhh… shhh… it’s okay… be careful that no one hears.” She pulls me inside, and closes the door behind us.

  “I am a Jew, and they sent my parents to a place called Auschwitz in the east, and probably killed them.” I can’t stop whimpering and crying.

  “It’s okay, my girl, it’s okay,” she continues embracing me. “They’re watching over you from above, hugging you from there.”

  “I miss them so much, and I’m with a German officer. I live with him. I’m so ashamed. He brings me food.” My face is red and wet from the tears, and my body is shaking and whimpering, vomiting out all the shame I’ve carried inside for so long.

  “Shhh… shhh… it’s okay.” Her hands continue to stroke my hair, trying to calm me down.

  “I just wanted to stay alive and look where I ended up…” My voice choked.

  “Shhh… my beautiful girl… no one wants to die…” She continues to hug me as I calm down, and only my breaths are heard inside the luxurious guest room.

  “Shall I make us a cup of tea? Or coffee? I think I even have some real coffee left.”

  “What will I do?” I ask her sometime later, as we sit in her living room, sipping the tea she made for us. Now and then, I still have to wipe away a tear, but I am not shaking anymore.

  “Move on, just keep moving on. You have to stay alive.”

  “I cannot live like this. I can’t go back to him.”

  “Can you leave him?”

  “They will catch me and kill me.”

  “So you must go back, for yourself, for your parents who are watching you from above, for Claudine, for Philip, for all the people who care about you. You are not alone. Even if sometimes you feel you have no one, you must live for them.”

  “How will I do that?”

  “Just keep moving on the best you can, the liberation will arrive, the Americans will come.”

  “I no longer believe they will ever invade. The Germans always win in the end.”

  “The war will be over, you must believe, if not for you, for them.”

  “And what about you? Do you believe the war will end?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard for me too, but then I imagine what he would do or say,” she smiles at me sadly and looks at the man in the picture above the fireplace, “so yeah, I probably keep living for him.”

  We say goodbye with a warm hug, and I hurry home, knowing I’m late and that Oberst Ernest will be angry with me. Why did she mention Philip? How does she know about him? But I do not have time to think about it; he sent me to her house, and Lizette surely heard about him. I have to hurry, Herr Ernest is waiting for me.

  “I need to move on. The war will end soon,” my lips repeatedly whisper as I speed up my steps. The apartment is already close.

  “Where were you?” He looks up from the documents placed in front of him, lying on the massive oak desk in his study, the room I am not allowed to enter.

  “I was delayed. I apologize.”

  “I’m waiting for you, we’d made plans to go to a show, and I came especially.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “I have a lot of work to do. War is not a distant concept. It is approaching us. You have to understand that.”

  I silently dress, not wanting him to be angrier at me than he is already. The drive to the theater passes silently with his gloved hand resting on my thigh.

  “It is always such a pleasure to again meet the French mademoiselle who speaks perfect German,” the senior officer smiles at me in his black uniform with a skull on his visored hat, as we stand at the theater hall entrance.

  “Germany above all,” I answer him in perfect German.

  “I am always happy to meet a loyal French citizen.”

  “I hope not in the building on Avenue Foch,” another officer joins, and everyone around laughs, but Herr Ernest says nothing.

  “Where are you going?” Oberst Ernest asks me when I turn my back and start walking.

  “To the ladies’
room.”

  Don’t be afraid of him. He is just flirting with you. He knows nothing. I wash my face with cold water, but it doesn’t help. I have to go back. They are waiting for me.

  “Sorry, I had a nauseous moment.” I return to the group of officers again, hoping Herr Ernest won’t smell the cigarette I smoked in the restroom.

  “We hope you are not cooking us a little German kid,” an armored officer winks at me, and I get close to Herr Ernest, holding his arm.

  “Well, about that, you’d have to ask my Herr Ernest.” I smile a perfect red lipstick smile at the officer. Even though everybody is laughing, Herr Ernest is looking at me with his green eyes and not smiling.

  I’m not pregnant. Anaïs already taught me how to be careful, when I still had to learn what to do. “Take this, it’s for you, so you won’t have to donate a child to the Führer.” She placed a pack of rubbers in my hands, explaining to me how to use them as I blushed and hurried to hide them in my bag. “I’m just making sure you don’t come to me later, asking for my help.” She laughed and lit a cigarette for herself, then, before I started to smoke.

  “Here’s to German women who devote their wombs to the Fatherland.” I fake a smile.

  “Here’s to German women.” The officers around me agree, smelling of cologne, and even Herr Ernest raises his glass.

  “Let’s go inside.” Herr Ernest holds my arm as the announcer rings the bell, and we all head to our seats.

  “I look forward to our next meeting,” the black-uniformed officer kisses my hand politely as I tightly hold Oberst Ernest’s arm, waiting for the lights to go out.

  Soon the war will be over. Lizette promised me that. But I have not seen Philip since I shouted at him in the basement.