Chapitre vignt-six
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As they left their apartment, Isra carried Sophie, her small, delicate hand clutching her mother's finger. The journey to work was a reflection of life in occupied Paris – a city burdened by a stifling sense of despair. Soldiers in crisp uniforms, their youth a stark contrast to the heaviness in their eyes, patrolled the streets with an air of arrogance that seemed to grow with each passing day.
Isra walked the familiar route to the tailoring shop, her steps measured, her head down. The city was a dangerous place for someone like her, an Algerian living in the heart of occupied France. She had learned to keep a low profile, to navigate the streets with caution, lest she draw unwanted attention from the occupying forces.
But today, as she passed by the same cafe where she had encountered the soldiers from yesterday evening, there was an unexpected sight that caught her by surprise. The young soldier who had intervened on that night, was seated at one of the tables, uniform crisp and appearance neat.
She had not expected to see him here, in this corner of her daily life. Nevertheless, she ventured on to work with Sophie. She didn't expect him to remember her either. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched and finally decided to peer over her shoulder. There, just inches away from her, he stood, his presence both startling and unsettling. How had he managed to catch up to her so quickly and with such stealth? His smile, though seemingly friendly, did little to quell the unease that tightened her chest.
For his part, he maintained the appearance of normalcy, as if their chance encounter was nothing out of the ordinary. "I'm glad to see that you're safe."
She wondered what had prompted him to seek her out once more, and why he had chosen this moment to do so. People would surely question why a German soldier was engaged in polite conversation with a woman such as herself.
Isra, her guard still firmly in place, regarded him with wariness and curiosity. "Why are you here?" she asked.
He sighed softly, his eyes briefly scanning the bustling streets of occupied Paris before returning to her. "I didn't want our last encounter to define our interactions," he admitted, his gaze meeting hers. "I wanted to make amends for the behaviour of my comrades that night. That's all."
Her brow furrowed as she considered his words. The memory of that night, with the drunken soldiers and the fear it had instilled in her, was still fresh in her mind. She couldn't deny the genuine remorse she saw in his eyes, but trust remained a fragile commodity in their uncertain world.
She chose not to reply to his attempts to make amends with words alone. Instead, she maintained her silence, her footsteps steady and resolute as she made her way to work. He continued to walk beside her, the sense of unease that had initially accompanied his presence gradually giving way to a more relaxed disposition. He even managed a small, friendly laugh as he noticed Sophie reaching out her hand again as if extending an olive branch of her own. Isra pushed her hand away. She couldn't afford to let Sophie get too close, not in a world where danger lurked around every corner.
"Your daughter seems to remember me," he remarked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Children have a way of remembering faces," she replied curtly.
He decided to shift the conversation, attempting to lighten the mood. "She is quite the charmer," he commented, his eyes returning to Sophie, who watched him with glee. "She resembles you. You're beautiful."
Isra felt a jolt of surprise at his compliment, her guard momentarily faltering. The unexpected praise caught her off guard, and she found herself momentarily at a loss for words.
Hans, sensing her reaction, quickly realized that his words had struck a chord. He hastened to apologize, his tone sincere. "I didn't mean to offend you. I only meant to say that you and your daughter share a striking resemblance."
Isra, still taken aback by the compliment, didn't respond.
Five minutes passed. They approached the vicinity of the shop, but he deliberately stopped short. Then, as if a thought had just occurred to him, Hans reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded papers. With a somewhat sheepish smile, he held them out towards Isra.
"I almost forgot," he said. "These are the papers they didn't return to you last night."
Her eyes widened in surprise as she reached out to accept the papers. She had assumed those documents were lost for good. "Thank you. I thought I would have to go through a lot of trouble to replace these."
"Not a problem. I'm glad I could help."
With a small, almost imperceptible smile, she made known her appreciation. "Well... I'll be going now."
"Wait, Isra."
Bewilderment crossed her expression. "How do you know my name?"
He flushed, realizing his mistake. "The papers. They had your name and your daughter's."
Right. How could she have forgotten that?
"My name is Hans," he told her, standing up a bit straighter, though his cheeks were still blushing. "Hans Ziegler."
She glanced right and left, hoping nobody would notice her interaction with an enemy soldier. "Hans," she repeated his name and held Sophie closer. "Nice to... meet you..."
He grinned at the sound of his name falling from her lips, but she recoiled, anxious and afraid and unsure of what this was. "I must be going now. Thank you for returning my papers."
"Of course." His blush completely receded, and confidence strode in. "Have a wonderful day, Isra."
She hurriedly turned and walked away, heading inside the shop to start her day's work.
Like yesterday, he watched her go. But now, he couldn't stop smiling.
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Serving as a soldier had grown monotonous for Hans. He found himself relieved that he wasn't stationed at the frontlines of the war, but patrolling the city in search of Jews to persecute offered no reprieve; in fact, it might have been worse. His comrades, Friedrich and Kurt, however, appeared to revel in this grim game of cat and mouse. The trio had departed from Hotel Meurice after receiving their assignment. Raids and random checks had become routine, and today happened to be one of those dreaded days.
Their patrol had taken them through several arrondissements, yet they hadn't encountered any Jews. It was a grim task, knowing that those they sought would not be brazenly visible or openly admit their heritage. Most likely, the Jews they were searching for possessed forged documents, and Hans had seen many that were glaringly false. However, he couldn't bring himself to make any arrests, unwilling to add more suffering to an already cruel world. He was acutely aware of the horrors of the camps, and the death sentences they represented for those sent there. Friedrich and Kurt remained blissfully ignorant of these realities, having never witnessed the true extent of the atrocities committed by the very regime they served. Hans couldn't help but feel a deep sense of pity for them.
Today has been uneventful," Kurt grumbled, his gaze lazily scanning the streets for any signs of trouble. If none presented itself, he seemed ready to provoke it. "Where are all the damn Jews?" he exclaimed, his frustration evident.
"Perhaps they've fled," Friedrich replied with boredom dripping from his voice.
"Or they're hiding somewhere... Hm, they could be anywhere. Perhaps even on the street right now," Kurt suggested, pointing at an older man in black slacks and a knitted sweater who had a noticeable limp. "He looks awfully Jewish."
Hans quickly intervened, his voice firm. "Stop that," he ordered. "We cannot single out people from the street like that."
His rebuke hung in the air. Hans was hesitant to draw moral lines, even as the world around him grew darker with each passing day. He didn't want his fellow men to believe he was a sympathizer.
The trio continued their patrol through the Parisian streets, their boots echoing against the cobblestone paths.
"Fine, fine," Kurt muttered reluctantly, his desire for action temporarily thwarted. "But we can't just wander aimlessly either."
"We follow orders, but we don't need to create needless suffering."
Friedrich and Kurt grumbled in agreement, though their displeasure was evident. Hans was well aware that his reluctance to enforce more severe measures made him unpopular among his comrades, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon his principles.
He couldn't shake his thoughts of Isra as they continued their patrol. He found himself preoccupied with the notion of encountering her again later near the tailoring shop. Her face, both pretty and compassionate, had left an impression on him. He understood her fear, considering the challenging times they lived in, with her husband fighting in the war. Vulnerability was an unfortunate reality for many, and he couldn't hold her trepidation against her.
As he walked through the streets, Hans made a silent promise to himself. In a world marred by chaos and cruelty, if there was one person he could help, it would be her.
After an hour of patrolling, Hans, accompanied by Friedrich and Kurt, made their way back to their makeshift headquarters at Hotel Meurice. Like many similar sites in occupied Paris, it had been transformed from a once-elegant establishment into a hub of military operations. The hotel's grandeur had given way to pragmatic utility. Its opulent reception area was now a command center, adorned with maps, radios, and the hum of military personnel engaged in the bureaucratic machinery of war. Chandeliers that once glittered on now cast subdued light upon officers huddled around tables laden with documents and communiques.
They reported their uneventful day to the Kommandant. As Hans entered the office, he found the Kommandant seated behind a large wooden desk, bathed in the dim glow of a desk lamp. The room itself was austere, with maps pinned to the walls and shelves lined with files. Hans approached, his military boots echoing softly against the cold, stone floor. He saluted smartly.
Kommandant Hofmann was a man of imposing stature and meticulously groomed appearance, exuded an aura of austere authority. His steel-gray hair was neatly combed, and his uniform, adorned with medals and insignias, was immaculate. His cold, piercing gaze seemed to penetrate the souls of those who stood before him, leaving an unsettling sense of dread in its wake.
But Hans wondered what type of man he had been before the war and whether he had a family that was waiting for him back home.
The Kommandant acknowledged him with a curt nod, his expression unyielding. "Report, Lieutenant."
"Reporting back, sir. Private Richter, Private Klein and I conducted thorough patrols through several arrondissements today. We encountered no Jews, and the day remained uneventful," he stated succinctly, presenting the situation with the clinical detachment required by the circumstances.
"Continue your efforts," he ordered, his voice as cold and relentless as a glacier. "We cannot afford complacency. The Reich demands that we root out any enemies of the state."
"Yes, sir. We will redouble our efforts."
The Kommandant's gaze remained fixed on Hans for a moment longer, as if searching for any hint of weakness. Satisfied, he finally nodded. "Dismissed, Lieutenant."
Hans saluted once more before swiftly exiting the office, discreetly making his out of the hotel. He wanted to go back to the street where the boutique was located, determined to linger and await Isra's arrival since the late afternoon was slowly transitioning into the evening.
As he traversed the sidewalk, he couldn't help but notice the reactions of the people around him. Some made way for him with a reverent nod, while others shrank back in fear, casting wary glances his way. It was a peculiar sensation, one that left a bitter taste in his mouth. He longed to reach out to these people, to convey that he was not their adversary and that he, too, was ensnared in the web of circumstances beyond his control. However, the constraints of his uniform and the obligations of his role bound him to silence.
Hans made a brief stop at a nearby bakery, using his limited funds to purchase a baguette. It was a small gesture, a simple peace offering he intended to share with Isra when he saw her. As he paid for the bread, he smiled at the thought of their impending encounter. The elderly woman at the counter handed him his change and the baguette, her demeanour brusque, and Hans quickly averted his gaze, not wishing to linger in the bakery any longer than necessary.
The journey to the shop took Hans a good twenty minutes, and during that time, he observed the neighbouring establishments closing their doors hastily, their proprietors eager to make it home before the curfew set in. Hans couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him as he stood on the sidewalk, his excitement palpable. He ran a hand through his hair, attempting to tidy his appearance in anticipation of their encounter. He paced back and forth, nervously checking the time. After what felt like an eternity, he finally heard Isra's voice bidding farewell to someone inside the shop, and soon enough, she emerged from the door with Sophie in tow.
Isra, initially preoccupied with adjusting Sophie's sweater, didn't notice Hans at first. She crouched down, attending to her daughter, and then lifted the little girl into her arms. As they began to walk, Hans made his presence known, deliberately positioning himself in her path. When she looked up and saw him, her expression registered surprise and mortification.
"You... what are you doing here?" she asked in shock, but then remembering who he was, that he was an enemy soldier, looked away and took a step back.
Hans cleared his throat, his voice tinged with an apologetic tone. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was hoping to see you again."
Isra's eyes darted around. "Me? Why? I... I shouldn't... I should be on my way—"
"I bought this for you," he said, holding out the baguette to her like a peace offering. "It's not much but I figure maybe you'd want it."
"No, I'm quite alright." She skirted around him and began the walk home.
"Food is scarce these days." He quickly caught up to her. "You'd be a fool not to take it."
She pressed Sophie closer to her chest, eyeing the baguette he held and that triumphant smile on his face. He had a point. She was in no place to reject a little extra food. "Alright. Thank you."
"I can hold it and walk you home."
"That's not necessary—"
"Come on now!" he said a little too loudly, garnering unwanted attention. "Let's be on our way."
Isra hesitated for only a moment, her eyes darting around nervously before she snatched the loaf from Hans's hand. "You shouldn't," she whispered urgently. "I don't want any trouble."
Hans seemed genuinely puzzled by her reaction. "Why would you be in trouble?"
Isra knew she was already on thin ice, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, conversing with a German soldier. Ignoring his question, she turned and started walking away with Sophie.
However, Hans refused to let her go, keeping pace right behind her. "Wait, Isra—"
"Hans," her voice took on a chilling and somewhat desperate tone, causing him to freeze in his tracks. "This war, this place, everything... it's not normal. I'm not... my husband is at war, and my city is occupied by your people, your army. We're not friends. We're not acquaintances. We're enemies. I appreciate your kindness these last few days, but please, remember that I live under the constant threat of death—for both my daughter and myself."
She walked off again. At least he didn't follow her.
He remained standing, looking like a wounded animal, until she vanished.
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At home, Isra could hardly think of much else other than her husband and Hans. She had been eagerly awaiting a letter from him to arrive any one of these days. She hoped he'd be home in time for Christmas and that he hadn't actually gone missing, though she knew that even if he did return, he'd only stay for a few days—which was hardly enough time. She missed his scent. She missed his touch. She missed his voice. She missed everything about Marcel. As insignificant and somewhat petty as it sounded, she also missed making love with him. It had been months and she was getting irritated. Still, nobody should think of such a thing during a war; it was unfair and privileged of her. She just had to put up with it.
And every so often, her thoughts drifted back to Hans—Hans who seemed to be a bit naïve, or just blatantly ignorant of their situation. A soldier and a woman; an immigrant woman, an Algerian woman. Ha! It was preposterous. She was lucky not to have been arrested yet and thrown in a camp.
As Isra removed her stockings and placed them in a drawer, Sophie's whimpers grew louder from her perch on the bed.
Isra sighed. There wasn't anything in particular that Sophie whined about—her tantrums were sporadic and once they began, nothing could soothe her. But Isra had a feeling that the bleakness surrounding them had attributed to her irritability.
"It's alright, darling. There's no need to cry now."
"Mama!" Sophie protested, her tiny voice ringing out, followed by a toss of the stuffed bear that Marcel had gifted her during his last visit.
Isra picked up the bear and held it out to Sophie, hoping to offer a small source of comfort. "Sweetheart, we'll see Papa again soon. He loves you very much."
Sophie's tearful eyes met her mother's, and it was as though she attempted to convey her feelings through the simple utterance of her favourite word, "Papa! Want Papa..."
"I know, love. I know. I want him as well."
She picked the little girl up and smoothed down her unruly curls, kissing her forehead.
She wanted to cry too—she wanted Marcel home. But he had to do his duty and she had to remain hopeful that he would return to her.
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The next day, Isra was standing in line to collect her rations. The line stretched down the street and around the block and it was as if every residence in the arrondissement was present, and they might as well have been. There were a few familiar faces Isra recognized, none of whom she had ever spoken to, but she had seen them here and there. Besides, in this political climate, people hardly had time to make conversation.
"Next!"
It was Isra's turn. Holding Sophie's hand tightly, she stepped up to the stand. Behind it stood a soldier, his armband showing the insignia that was displayed on all the flags flying over their once beautiful city. He looked older than Hans, in his thirties, with a stern face, thin lips, and blond hair.
She wasted no time showing him her ration coupon, her hand trembling as she handed it to him. He swiped it from her grasp, crumpled it, and tossed it into a pile of other coupons that had formed. Given how long the line was and the meagre quantity of food that was now available to them, she had learned to be grateful for whatever she could get. A stale loaf of bread, some old vegetables, four potatoes, and two cans of what appeared to be beans. She could have gone to the market and purchased some ingredients there, but the prices had been marked up by vendors who needed to survive and the quality was no different than what she received here.
"You old thief!"
Isra didn't turn her head. Everyone had grown accustomed to the beatings and violence handed down to those who tried to sneak some extra food into their baskets. Today, it was an older gentleman, already frail and weakened by age, now lying on the ground helplessly, gripping that extra potato in his hand. He curled into himself, moaning in agony as a young soldier's black boot continuously pounded into his side. Sophie whimpered. Isra lifted her into her arms, holding her basket in the other hand.
The beating continued. Everybody was silent. The man's moans ceased, but he held on to the potato as if it were a trophy, a symbol of victory. Even at his better end, he had gotten his extra ration.
She feared she would meet her bitter end too—she was stopped by a soldier.
"Papers," he stated brusquely. No reasoning. Straight to the point.
Isra put Sophie down, using her unoccupied hand to reach into the pocket of her coat to retrieve her identity papers. The soldier snatched them from her.
He grumbled, unimpressed by what he read. "Married to a Frenchman."
She kept her lips pursed, praying for the encounter to end quickly so she could return home.
He handed her back the papers, making sure to bump into her as he left, causing the basket to fall from her hand and its contents to spill onto the sidewalk. The cans and potatoes rolled onto the main road, and a passing car ran over them.
There went her meagre rations.
Her face flushed hot with anger and with sadness. She wanted to cry. She wanted to shout. But what did it matter? Nobody spared her a glance.
Defeated, she took Sophie's hand, and they began the walk home. She might have to visit the market, after all.
"Mama, 'm hungry..." Sophie complained.
"Yes, yes, Sophie. When we get home, we can eat." Looking into her basket, there wasn't much left to eat. But she would have to make do. Maybe prepare some soup—that was all she could put together given their lack of ingredients. She didn't want to go to the market and call attention to herself.
The walk was thankfully quick. She saw two of her neighbours walk out of the building, baskets in hand, likely on their way to get their rations. Just as she was about to enter the building, a familiar figure stood out in her periphery.
Hans, tall and young and smiling as if they were old friends reuniting by chance, approached the steps to the building. He looked robust and full of vigour, skin glowing, hair neat, eyes ablaze—he must have had lots to eat as opposed to her. Resentment swelled up inside her. She tightened her hold on Sophie's hand.
"Isra, hello."
She remained silent, staring into her basket.
"Are you on your way to work?" he asked, undeterred by her silence.
Still, she refused to answer. It was her way of expressing defiance, of resisting authority.
Hans climbed up the steps until he stood in front of her, assessing her with curious eyes. "Are you alright?"
"Mama, 'm hungry!" Sophie shouted. A tantrum followed. She whined and cried and stomped her little feet.
Isra glanced up at Hans, still resentful, but also desperate. "She's just hungry," she muttered, trying to maintain her stern facade but failing to conceal the weariness in her voice. "I have to go."
He noticed the basket she held, its meagre contents, and inquired, "Was that all you received today?"
"Yes," she bit out, turning toward the entrance. She didn't want to be reminded of the soldier and the cans and the potatoes and the man who had been beaten to death.
"I thought there would be more," Hans said innocently and followed behind her, hovering, towering over her, suffocating her. "That's nothing, Isra. How will you feed yourself and Sophie?"
She halted and turned around to face him, causing him to collide with her.
Damn him. Damn them all. Damn the soldiers. Damn the papers. Damn the fucking country and all of Europe.
"I don't know, Hans! I don't! I had more, you know, before your soldier asked me for my papers and purposely pushed me and everything just fell and a car ran it over and now I have nothing for Sophie! You and your soldiers, your army, your damned army!" She caught sight of his armband, and it vexed her even more. "All of you. All of you have ruined everything. You took my husband and you've taken my food and you've taken my dignity too. Damn you, Hans!"
"I can buy you both something to eat. It's a small gesture, I know, but..."
"I shouldn't take anything from you," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "I shouldn't be having this conversation with you. I won't take anything from you or your army. I'd rather starve and die a slow death than eat from your hand."
She left him there on the landing of the steps and picked Sophie up, carrying her upstairs. She didn't wait for Hans' response—nothing he could have said would placate her anger. Nothing would give her back the cans and potatoes and her husband and her dignity. His armband—he was her enemy. It didn't matter that he smiled or that he'd saved her; he would always be her enemy.
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