Only a Paper Moon [ Band of Brothers ] 3

[1] The Victims of Ourselves

[ 1 ]

THE VICTIMS OF OURSELVES

September 1943 | ‎Hautes-Alpes, France

The day the Germans marched into Paris had been one of the worst days of Marc's life. He remembered it well. Bernadette had worn blue, the most beautiful dress they could afford. Not one to be outdone by their youngest, Adélaïde had put on her finest pink dress and hat. He and Robert had both gone to their parents' flat for the occasion.

Occasion. Marc scoffed. Calling it an occasion made it sound almost pleasant. It had been anything but. How Robert had escaped arrest, given his previous appointment in the French Army, he had no clue. Maybe because of their German name. But many able-bodied men hadn't been so lucky.

Marc had hidden behind the title of "student" with about a year left to go at the University. But they'd halted any form of classes. They'd set a curfew. They'd started rationing.

For two years, Marc had bided his time, staying a student in Paris with his head down. For two years, Marc had helped organize little pockets of resistance. Steal a few guns here, a few munitions from the factory there. Wire some radios. Robert had done the same while also offering defense training to any who asked.

Adélaïde had joined her classmates Marie, Juliette, Jean-Luc, Alaine, and of course Geneviève de Gaulle in creating a newspaper to run alongside Défense de la France. She'd been one of their greatest sources of news, their greatest sources of hope. The niece of the leader of the Free French, she carried weight with the young men and women in Paris, and indeed, in all France.

But then the worst day of his life had come. It wasn't the day the grey-clad Germans marched into his beloved Paris. But it was the day he had left them behind. He, and Robert, and Adélaïde. And they'd left behind more than a city.

They had caught her in the cross-fire. German bullets didn't discriminate, no matter who pulled the trigger. And Bernadette, a girl who had known very little of her German fatherland, had become the first piece to fall from the Klein family. Ironic, that a girl with blood from both sides found her own spilled by German and French alike.

The Germans had worn grey the day they marched in. She'd worn blue. She'd sunk down, sobbing near the piano Adélaïde loved so much, as the men who spoke their father language told them how to celebrate their arrival.

Marc remembered rushing to her side as she collapsed on the sidewalk. Her small hands which he had often held to help her dance as a child, slipped from his because of her own blood. Adélaïde had screamed, fallen at his side.

He remembered the comforting hand on his shoulder as the Germans tried to take Bernadette's lifeless body. Only that hand, Ida's hand, had stopped him from punching the first one straight in the mouth. He couldn't help Bernadette. She'd bled out, lost her life already to the war that had claimed their mother's country. But beside him, Marc still had a chance to keep Adélaïde safe.

The day had passed in a blur. The French police had taken Bernadette's unnaturally pale body away. He had held Adélaïde tight, hoping that she would feel safe in his arms as she had when they'd been little. Only later, when Robert had returned to their parents' apartments, blood on his hands did Marc realize he had sealed their fate.

He owed Ida everything. They all owed her everything. The girl he'd flirted with over a single park bench and pigeons, hair the color of autumn leaves and eyes as brown as his own hair, had saved them from Robert's stupidity. And she'd risked her life and her mission to do it.

They'd been picked up by an Agent Felix. He'd given no more information other than he knew Ida and came as a friend. He had the smile of one. Robert had taken a seat in the back immediately. But Marc could still remember the way Adélaïde's tears had stained her cheeks as she grappled with the thought of leaving. Leaving what, he had never asked her. Their dead sister? Their parents? Their lives? Their homes?

Marc sighed. All around him grew the warm grass of their Alpine home. That had been over a year ago. He leaned back, letting the sun hit his face. Adélaïde had been gone for a day already. The radio at his side sat silent, only interrupted with the occasional German buzz of normal reports. Italian filtered through as well, though that did little for them without Adélaïde.

The wind in the trees, a bit chilly where he sat in the shadows of the titanic Galibier, rustled the leaves and the grasses. Blue skies stretched endless above him. He watched the clouds float like cotton balls. Paradise, really.

Except the Alps weren't paradise. Not when she was somewhere out there risking her life. Not that he had a simple job, trying to keep his siblings in check while also sabotaging the Nazis where they could. The area around the Col du Galibier got more dangerous by the day. Marc had spoken to Robert and Adélaïde about moving closer to the coast, to re-establish themselves somewhere no one knew to look for them.

And Normandy was closer to England. Not that Ida would be there. He sighed. He had no idea where she was. And that, that was the biggest problem. As 1943 inched closer to 1944, he'd not heard from her, of her, anything.

The cry of a golden eagle echoed nearby. Marc closed his eyes. He breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to take in the steadily chilling air from the mountains. Then he released it with just as much care. She could take care of herself. She had to because he had to take care of his own family. He just hoped, prayed that somehow when the Nazis and Italians were driven from his country, that they'd find each other again and he could run his fingers through that hair that always reminded him of autumn.