Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “Let me show you why you gentlemen dine at my café instead of the hundreds of others in Paris,” Josephine said.

  “Hannah,” Oberführer Köning called.

  Hannah was at a nearby table, and even it was an order, she wanted to finish waiting on the two elderly French women. When she finished jotting down their order, she walked over to Köning’s table. If Josephine was able to subdue hate and rage—extremely volatile emotions—Hannah could stifle her fear.

  “Yes, Oberführer Köning?” Hannah said in German.

  “What do you recommend from your aunt’s menu?” Oberführer Köning asked.

  “Croissant avec pomme,” Hannah answered in her best French.

  “Shall we make this interesting, Josephine?” Oberführer Köning asked.

  “I did not think you to be a gambling man, Oberführer Köning,” Josephine said.

  “I am always up for a good wager if the reward is worth the risk. We shall try the croissant avec pomme. If we are in agreement it is good, I shall give you the cream and butter you desire,” Oberführer Köning said.

  “And, if by some strange miracle, you do not?” Josephine asked.

  Köning had all the power in choosing, and he could lie to get what he wanted.

  Hannah scrunched her toes to hide her nerves.

  “The meal is on you,” Oberführer Köning said.

  Hannah relaxed her toes and smiled.

  “Five croissants avec pommes, Hannah,” Josephine ordered.

  Hannah disappeared into the kitchen and passed along the order slip. She went around the café and refilled the cups of coffee for its patrons. The kitchen was packed elbow-to-elbow with waitresses and cooks, and Hannah waited as Frank put the finishing touches on the croissant. The smell of melted butter and cinnamon apple filling her nostrils was enough to make her salivate.

  “Smells delicious, Frank,” Hannah said.

  “Good. I made one for you too,” Frank said.

  “You are the best,” Hannah said.

  She grabbed the tray of food and carefully pushed open the swing door with her foot.

  “I do not want to be accused of playing favorites, so I will let you decide which croissant is yours, but I will start with Oberführer Köning,” Hannah said.

  The German officers laughed, but Hauptscharführer Voight’s was hardly genuine. Hannah was selling her status as Josephine’s niece extremely well, and the fact was not missed by Josephine. Oberführer Köning grabbed the largest croissant, and they went in rank until Hauptscharführer Voigt was left with the runt of the litter.

  “Somebody needs to suck hind tit, Voigt,” Untersturmführer Engel said.

  Oberführer Köning grabbed his fork and, like a surgeon, sliced the croissant to ensure his first bite would contain equal amounts of croissant, apple, and cream. He closed his eyes as he chewed. The other officers were less delicate with theirs and ate two bites to his one.

  “The verdict?” Josephine asked.

  “Butter and milk used in this?” Oberführer Köning asked.

  “Of course,” Josephine said.

  “There is a shipment arriving tomorrow. I will see to it that you receive ten times your allotted ration,” Oberführer Köning said.

  “I underestimated you. I thought you would not pass up the chance for a free meal,” Josephine said.

  She wiped a bit of cream from his lip. Her touch caused his face to redden.

  “An excellent choice, Hannah. Thank you,” Oberführer Köning said.

  Hannah and Josephine left the officers, granting them privacy to finish their meal and conversation. The rest of the day went by much like the last week had.

  The “Givre Strudel” was loved by Parisians and had the German stamp of approval, and when wealthy citizens from Germany visited Paris, it was the “Givre Strudel” where they ate breakfast and lunch. When one table vacated, there were two or more parties trying to swoop in and claim it. Thanks to the heavy and fatty foods of the café, Hannah was returning to her normal, albeit petite frame. While she would wait for Frank to finish adding the final touches to his creations, he would tell Hannah about Stephanie, his four-year-old daughter. He would bring her home something every night. Josephine had to disappear into her office just before closing. If not, the customers would stay all night. If the patrons were able to vote for a new president, the name Josephine Moreau would flood the ballots.

  The last customers left the café shortly after seven that night. Hannah shut the door and locked it, but unlocked it seconds later. Durand knocked only once and smiled when she opened the unlocked door. Nearly every night, she would lock the door, walk away, and then he would knock.

  “Good evening, Hannah,” Durand said.

  “Josephine, Durand is here,” Hannah called.

  “A few minutes,” Josephine shouted from her office.

  “Hannah, I wanted to apologize again. Can I ask you about that tattoo on your arm?” Durand asked.

  Her right hand instinctively went to the tattoo. It was like a scar—a scar she was very conscious of.

  “You said you received that at Auschwitz in Southern Poland?” Durand asked.

  “Yes, in Oświęcim,” Hannah said.

  “We receive some information from the English on certain occasions. I wanted to tell you I have passed this information on to my contact in the British Intelligence Agency,” Durand said.

  The idea of the British discovering such atrocities and putting an end to them was a warming feeling. She would love to see the British and American troops storming under the Arbeit Macht Freit sign hanging over the camp entrance and liberating the unfortunate souls.

  “Thank you,” Hannah said.

  Durand offered Hannah a seat, and after she sat, he took the seat across from her. His left leg protruded from underneath the table and was completely outstretched.

  “It wasn’t easy for me to see France fall and fall so quickly. Six weeks, Hannah. I fought in the Great War. Months of fighting to capture one trench to the next. And the Germans took the whole country in six weeks. I wanted to enlist, but I took shrapnel to my left leg during the Great War,” Durand said, nodding in the direction of the aforementioned leg.

  In addition to the pain it caused, he had no dexterity and would not be able to do any of the running, crawling, and crouching the duties of a soldier required.

  “I want to fight in whatever way I can. The Americans fight in the Pacific and the British in North Africa, but they will look to open a second front. It is our job to raise as much hell as we can until they do,” Durand said.

  The swing door was hit open, and Josephine came through, delicately balancing three cups of coffee in her hand. Durand grabbed two of them and placed one in front of Hannah.

  “Some big news today—there is a shipment coming tomorrow,” Josephine said.

  “Good work, Josephine,” Durand commented.

  “Thank Hannah. She helped, even if it was by accident,” Josephine said.

  “The Maquis thanks you, Hannah,” Durand said, raising his glass to her and taking a sip of his watered-down imitation coffee and puckering his lips. “I hope coffee is on it.”

  “What will you do? How will you find the shipment?” Hannah asked.

  “We send men to scout the streets. There are only handfuls the Germans use. We will find it and give the people of France their food back,” Durand said.

  All three took sips from their cups. The silence was still uncomfortable.

  “You are married with children?” Hannah asked.

  “Yes, I am,” Durand answered.

  “Why do you risk your life and their lives? Believe me, Mr. Durand, the Nazis won’t just kill you but your whole family,” Hannah said.

  She did not mean for it to sound so cold and cruel but only as a warning. It was how the Nazis made their subjects submit to their will.

  “My son fought for France. He was one of the hundreds of thousands who were able to escape Dunkirk, thanks to the kindness o
f French and British alike. Fishermen braved the bombing and downfall of machine gunfire to do their part. Josephine transmitted secret messages that allowed for such a thing to happen. Thanks to their heroism, my son is alive, married, and expecting his first child,” Durand said.

  Hannah considered it. She was alive because Eleanor had sacrificed her life to let Hannah take her spot on the train. If she could help in any way to limit the power of such hate and discrimination, she felt obliged to do so.

  “I will pass information that I get. But I will not push for it. I have no desire to return to Auschwitz,” Hannah said.

  Her fingers were wrapped around the hot cup of coffee, and she was both relieved and nervous about what she had said. Durand placed his hands gingerly on hers.

  “That will never happen. You are staying with Josephine. She knows how to get hold of me,” Durand said.

  “How can I trust you? Why should I trust you?” Hannah asked.

  He could not expect her to ignore the fact he had pointed a gun at her.

  “It is something that I must earn,” Durand said.

  A moment of silence descended. All three took a sip of their coffee. After they finished their cups, Hannah took them into the kitchen and washed them as Durand and Josephine went over the details of the next day’s attack on the shipment.

  The entire next day, Hannah was filled with a nervous energy, which she did her best to conceal. She asked Josephine every twenty minutes if she had heard how it had gone. But Hannah did not need to ask Josephine. Oberführer Köning and the other German officers had been disrupted during their meal, and they had hurried out of the café. Hannah nearly broke out in a smile. It was a smile returned by Durand that night.

  “Care to brew a proper pot?” Durand asked when Josephine opened the door. He held out a can of coffee with both hands. As Josephine brewed the pot, Hannah interrogated Durand about the heist. He answered each question truthfully and in great detail.

  “Are they all dead?” Hannah asked.

  “Some ran,” Durand said.

  She prayed Wilhelm was not among them. She had no idea where he was, and each German killed could be him. It was hopeless to try and describe him to Durand, and her photographs were in the Kanada building at Auschwitz or had been burned.

  Josephine returned with the pot of coffee in one hand and three cups in the other. She added cream, sugar, and chocolate. It was the best coffee of Hannah’s life.

  Durand returned every night that week, and the three enjoyed coffee and conversation. Durand liked his coffee black, and Josephine liked hers with two spoonsful of sugar and a dash of cream. Coffee had become something of an addictive comfort, and Hannah grew to like hers with a spoonful of sugar and a fourth of a cup of cream until the black roasted coffee turned caramel in color. But, by far, her favorite was when Josephine added whipped cream and chocolate.

  “I hear you like to paint, Hannah,” Durand said during a late-night cup.

  “I do. But I haven’t done it in so long,” Hannah replied.

  “Durand is quite the artist himself,” Josephine said.

  “Are you?” Hannah asked.

  “Many years ago, when I returned home from the war, it seemed to give me peace. Fields, forests, sunrises, and sunsets—that is the hopeless romantic Frenchman in me, I guess,” Durand said.

  Hannah knew exactly what he was talking about, for she felt the same way about painting, drawing, and photography. There was something intrinsically relaxing about nature. While cities like Paris, Berlin, and New York had become cities of steel, there were places that looked no different than they had thousands of years ago. Hannah loved the big city, but the majesty of a grassy field, the leaves on a tree blowing in a soft wind, and a nighttime canvas of stars were never lost on her.

  “Wilhelm had bought me a camera. But I lost it at Auschwitz,” Hannah said.

  It was the first time she had mentioned Wilhelm to either of them and to anyone since Eleanor and Trugnowski.

  “Who is Wilhelm?” Josephine asked.

  “He is my husband. Wilhelm Schreiber,” Hannah said.

  “I was not aware you were married. Is he in Germany?” Durand asked.

  “I don’t know. He was drafted. He left Christmas day 1939. Things were getting perilous for us Jews, so I left to stay with his father. But I returned to find my parents, and I was caught and forced on a train,” Hannah said.

  “Did he know you were a Jew?” Josephine asked.

  “Yes. He did not care. He loved me,” Hannah said.

  She had not intended to utter the word “loved.” She had wanted to say “loves.” But, subconsciously, she had used the past tense. It was another way her ordeal at Auschwitz had taken positive human emotions, like optimism and hope, from each person. Or, like Josephine, was she accepting a truth deep down she knew?

  “He loves you still,” Durand said.

  Josephine could not offer such compassionate words, for she had been in the same situation as Hannah.

  “I can’t believe it’s been almost three years since the day I saw him,” Hannah said.

  When Hannah had arrived in Paris and Josephine had told her it was April 1942, she could hardly believe it. It had seemed unbelievable she had survived for so long in a camp that had perfected the art of mass killing.

  That night, Hannah did not sleep for more than half a dozen ten-minute naps. Her mind was on Wilhelm. She visualized every dance, every kiss, and every embrace the two had shared. She had thought about asking the German officers for information on Wilhelm, but even if they knew him, new questions would be asked and only endanger them both. It would not take long before Hannah Smith was exposed for being Hannah Goldschmidt—the runaway Jew.

  Hannah celebrated Hanukkah in silence that year. Josephine did not care if she practiced it in her apartment, but Hannah was determined not to sacrifice Josephine’s wellbeing for it. Her faith was resolute in her heart and mind where it would always be safe.

  The “Givre Strudel” was only half-filled for the first time since Hannah had worked there. The German officers had flown back to Germany to celebrate the holiday. Durand had stopped by early that day. He said he would be returning to his home in Sevres—a city located thirty miles southwest of Paris.

  “I would like to extend to you an invitation to spend the holidays with my family and me. Josephine is invited, of course,” Durand said.

  “Are you sure?” Hannah asked.

  Durand smiled. “I believe so. Allow me to think on it once again,” he said as he rubbed his chin, “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Can I talk with Josephine first?” Hannah asked.

  “Hannah, my dear, you are a woman. You do not need to ask me or anyone else for permission,” Durand said.

  Durand, like Wilhelm, viewed women as their equals, and being a gentleman had nothing to do with it. Hannah admittedly hadn’t liked Durand early on, but that was understandable, given that he was about to shoot her for being a German spy. No, it had nothing to do with manners and holding open doors. It was his complete trust in Josephine and the partnership the two shared. He took in every bit of advice she had to offer and allowed her to call the shots. If she worried the information she had been given was too personal or too risky or obvious, she would tell Durand to not act on it and he would listen. The Germans constantly tested the French to see who had become obedient and who had not. Sometimes, the information obtained was too easy to be true, and it was. It was leaked so that the Germans knew who the rats were.

  Hannah walked through the kitchen swing door. The kitchen, which was usually packed elbow-to-elbow, filled with sizzling and searing and waves of heat, was empty, silent, and cold. Josephine was in her office and on her fourth glass of wine.

  “Are you alright?” Hannah asked.

  The vibrant blue and green of Josephine’s eyes had faded, and the whites had turned red from crying.

  “I am fine,” she said, sniffing back her runny nose.

  “Radley has
invited us to his home for the holidays,” Hannah said.

  “I know. You should go,” Josephine said.

  “You won’t?” Hannah asked.

  “No. I will spend Christmas in the same place I have for the last twenty-one years,” Josephine said.

  “I will stay with you. You shouldn’t be alone,” Hannah said.

  “Go, Hannah. I am not alone,” Josephine said, raising the bottle of wine on her desk.

  Wine would always be synonymous with Hauser. What type of fine wine would be drunk at the table on Christmas?

  “I know how hard it is around this time,” Hannah said.

  “It always feels like ‘it is around this time,’” Josephine said.

  It was true. There was not a day that passed when Hannah did not think about her parents and Wilhelm. Feelings of melancholy and nostalgia attacked without warning as if they were some kind of poisonous gas that had been inhaled. There was no antidote except letting it run its course.

  “Since it happened, not a day has gone by when I have not thought about the twenty-ninth of October,” Josephine said.

  Although the date’s significance was unknown to Hannah, she guessed it was the date of the death of either Mathis and Adam or that of Noah and Leo’s disappearance. But it was none of those.

  “The Stock Market Crash happened in America that day. Two weeks earlier, we had decided to leave Paris to live in Chicago. But the country started drowning in debt and starvation. The job Mathis had lined up was gone. So, we stayed. If we would have left for America, my husband would still be here and my three sweet boys,” Josephine said, wiping her runny nose with a red handkerchief.

  Life was a series of moments shaped by fate and chance.

  “My boys loved Christmas, Hannah. When they snuck off to bed, Mathis and I would lay the presents under the tree. We would take the plate full of cookies for Father Christmas, pour a glass of Christmas wine, and sit on the couch. We would look at the tree lights and drink and eat,” Josephine said. She wore the glistening tears in her eyes proudly. For the first time since Hannah had known her, Josephine Moreau’s tears left her eyes, but only four of them—a tear for each of her beloved men. “The boys would rush to wake us in the morning and had such excited smiles on their faces. What kills me is imagining the horror on their faces when they realized they would die. That my promises—that I would always keep them safe—were empty,” Josephine said.