I met a man in a Paris bar once who told me he was Rasputin. I couldn’t tell if he suffered from a mental disorder, or was drunk, but I imagine it was some combination of the two. I was drunk so I decided for the sake of conversation to be polite and believe him. I asked him “If you’re Rasputin, how did you escape from assassination at the hands of the Prince Felix Yusupov, the Grand Duke Dmitri Pavlovich, and the Anti-Semite Vladmir Purishkevich?” He took my beer outside and urinated into it.

I’ve been in Paris for two years now. I hate this city. I hate the people. I’d probably hate it even more if the Germans weren’t here shooting everybody who acted impolitely.

My only friend here is a petite girl in her early twenties named Johanna who works the counter at the bakery I go to. She is a tremendously stupid girl with an annoyingly sunny demeanor, though this was salvaged slightly by her aesthetic face and golden hair. She often wrote short stories or poems, which she would hand to me and ask me what I thought. I’d always tell her they were terrible and she’d cry and scream and tell me I’m ugly and that she never wants to speak to me again. Then I’d force her into a ten minute conversation about how the bread was prepared knowing that she would be fired if she didn’t comply. The next week she’d have another story for me to read.

Sometimes I think about making love to her, though I imagine having to look down at her tremendously stupid face during the act would be off putting. I also imagine that I would have to listen to her say stupid things for at least an hour beforehand. And if the act was consensual there would also be the risk of her continuing to say stupid things during it.

Once she followed me to the café I frequent. She brought me a rose and told me that I was the only person in all of France who ever cared about her. I stamped on it and told her she was tremendously stupid, where upon she ran off crying. I cannot remember why I did this, though I remember it made me smile at the time.

I was sent here two years ago by the SOE and ordered to completely assimilate into the local underworld. This mostly consists of attending small bars in the middle of nowhere and finding somebody drunk enough to declare “fuck the Germans!” Once I have met this person I convince them to fill out a small card with their personal details and contact information, where upon I transmit this data back to my HQ, who in turn passes it along to the resistance. I am not sure what the resistance needs with a list of all the drunks in Paris, but I have not yet received any complaints on my work. I spend the majority of my monthly SOE stipend on alcohol and prostitutes.

This past Sunday I queued in line for bakery goods and noticed that Johanna was happier than usual. She could hardly contain herself and shouted to me as soon as I was within earshot.

“I am dating a young German boy!”

“You are a tremendously stupid girl.” I began many of our conversations this way. “Have you not heard of the German defeat at Stalingrad? Before long the Allies will be here and you will be hanged for consorting with the enemy.”

“True love conquers all!” She proudly declared “Heydrich and I are a wonderful couple, he’s not like the other Germans.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I replied as I looked at her shoes and decided that they would make an excellent gift for my niece after she was hanged. I also rattled around in my head some way to convince her to take naked photographs of herself so I would have something to remember her by when she was dead, but I couldn’t think of a persuasive way to phrase it so I simply paid for my loaf and left.

My gimped leg kept me out of military conscription and mandatory work crews and thus made me of value to the SOE. But it also made me feel weak and ugly. Depression had lately overwhelmed me. Though I was only 28 I no longer felt like a young man. I didn’t have the passion or drive that I did in my youth. I spent all my time at bars or with prostitutes. And the German soldiers took all the good bars and good prostitutes.

Germans are not so much people as walking machines. I feel no more anger towards them than I do towards a type writer that breaks. It’s a rather open secret that they are in the process of engaging in mass murder, I was here for the Vel’ d’Hiv round up. Sometimes I want to tell Johanna that I’m only cruel to her because my mind is trying to grapple with the terrifying knowledge that I am powerless to do anything but watch while one of humanity’s greatest crimes unfolds before my eyes, but this feels like an excuse for my own actions. She’s also probably too stupid to understand.

Looking at my watch I noticed it was nearly 4 PM and I was feeling the sting of sobriety. I wished to find a prostitute who looked just like Johanna and hopefully pay extra for the privilege of hitting her. I headed to the ‘Blue Lantern’, the main bar for prostitutes for the general population. Arriving I was disappointed, though not surprised, to find no blonde women. Obviously the German soldiers kept them for themselves. I did however see a thin framed, wire haired brunette sitting at the end of the bar and smoking a cigarette. The look within her eyes seemed sunken and empty, as though she was left with just the shell of humanity but none of the spark. I was a veteran of the Battle of France, and yet the look in her eyes made me believe she had seen things more horrible than me. I could spot no prostitute more likely to engage in kinky sex acts with minimal complaining.

Sitting down next to her I began “I would like to buy you a drink and offer you a cigarette, though there is one other thing I would like to do between those two.” She looked over to me with indifference in her empty eyes before she dismissively said.

“I don’t think you can afford me you malodorous cripple. Leave me alone.” Hurt, I stared at her for a moment before I responded.

“You think you’re high class because you only go with German officers, but at least I’ve never accepted money to be violated by the devil.” Her eyes flashed showing the first spark of life. This was a red hot anger as she grabbed me by the hair and brought her mouth up to my ear, she hissed.

“I would never fuck a German. And if you dare say something like that again I’ll cut your balls off, swine!”

She released me. We both sat in silence for a moment. I could see her heart pumping, anger still coursing through her veins. I ventured one last attempt.

“I fought at Sedan. The few friends I had before this war died there. The Germans left me a cripple. Let me buy you a drink and maybe for one night we can both forget about the fact that we’re miserable.” She looked back at me, and for the first time she smiled. It crept up her lips very slightly, and seemed almost unnatural. I could tell she hadn’t done it much lately.

“For a veteran I’ll cut my rate. Give me the drink back at your place.”

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After a vigorous seven-minute love making session we lay in my bed smoking. Her naked body was scarred and showed signs of malnourishment, but remained beautiful in how human it was. Everything about her was real in a way no woman who labored over her appearance could be. I wanted to marry her on the spot. As I looked over at her she looked back into my eyes and smiled once again. I wanted to know everything about her. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Marissa.” She responded, still smiling.

“Tell me, what did the Germans take away from you?” As I asked her this her smile disappeared at once. She looked away from me, silent, so I continued. “I know it might seem bleak, but they will be defeated before long. The war is going badly for them. The resistance is active. I know. We don’t have to sit here-” Immediately she wheeled around and grabbed me, with a frantic urgency she gasped.

“You know people in the resistance?!”

Trying to choose my words carefully but knowing that I was already in too deep I glumly mumbled. “I have a contact, yes.”

She shook me violently and her voice continued with its frantic pace. “You have to get me out of France! Every day here is a nightmare, I don’t think I can make it much longer!” I took a measured tone to try and calm her down.

“Everyone wants to get out of France, it isn’t exactly easy. We can survive here, we just have to be smart.” This only served in exciting her to the verge of hysterics.

“You don’t understand you idiot! My mother and my father and both my brothers were taken in Vel’ d’Hiv. I know in my heart what has happened to them. I’ve been living here under false papers for a year. They have my name on their fucking list though, they know my age, they know I’m hiding here! It’s only a matter of time before they find me. You have to help me! My parents died saving me and-!” She abruptly stopped and began sobbing violently. I put my arms around her in comfort, but my heart had sunken. I ventured the next question, already knowing the answer.

“You’re a…” I trailed off.

“Yes, I am a Jew.” She continued her sobs. I felt the Earth collapsing under me. Usually the worst news ever given to me by prostitutes concerned venereal disease. This by far took the cake. I looked within myself and hated the shred of morality that would force me to help her. I wished that I could just turn her out on my door and tell her that she could never come near me again. Then I reconsidered and wished that  I could pretend that I was willing to help her in order to get another round of free sex and then turn her out. Lord I wished I could do those things. I took a long pause before I lit another cigarette. How I hated the fact that I was genuine when I spoke my next words.

“You’d better spend the night here. I’ll send a message tomorrow morning and wait for instructions.”

The sex that followed was enjoyable, though I prefer the kind of sex that does not end with near certain odds of death.

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I woke early in the morning and after I made sure Marissa was still asleep I got out of bed and radioed a message to my HQ. I told them I had met a refugee with important intelligence information and asked them to send an agent to meet her in Lourdes and smuggle her across the Pyrenees Mountains into Spain. Within an hour I received word back. The agent would be waiting at the Lourdes train station between 1 and 2 PM tomorrow. He would be wearing a yellow tulip in his lapel and when she approached him she was to say “have you seen where my Irish Setter went?” if she was alone and “have you seen where my Corgi went?” if she was followed. She would then be given a paper telling her where to go, which she was to memorize and then destroy.

The last obstacle that remained was purchasing the train ticket. The Gestapo watched the railways closely, and I needed someone who had a good reason to be in Lourdes. I left a note telling Marissa that I’d be back and I headed to the bakery.

It was closed, but inside I spotted Johanna hunched over and mopping the floors. I rapped on the window and after looking up and seeing me she dropped her mop and ran to the door, flinging it open in excitement.

“How are you!?” She practically burst with excitement and happiness and I immediately remembered why I detested her.

“Worse now.” I responded.

“Haha, you’re so funny.” She continued beaming. “Do you want to read my short story? Heydrich told me it was really good.”

“I don’t need to read it to know that it’s garbage. And I’m sure Heydrich would say the same thing if he wasn’t having sex with you.” She stopped smiling and looked down sadly, which caused me to begin smiling. “I need you to buy a train ticket and tell them you’re visiting your grandmother in Lourdes.”

“Oh, okay.” Her tone was more measured now. “What for?”

“The widow of one of my war friends needs to travel there and she doesn’t want them asking questions about him. I’ll give you the money for the ticket, then you just need to go to the station and switch with her at the last minute.”

“Why does she want to go to Lourdes?” She asked inquisitively.

“Because it’s none of your business you stupid girl, will you do it or not?” I snapped.

“Well of course I will.” She replied. “I just think it’s silly that she wants to go to Lourdes. There’s no reason to be there besides those stupid mountains.” I stared at her silently, trying to figure out what gears were turning in her brain. I felt immediately nervous.

“Well thank you, meet her at the station one hour before curfew tonight. She’ll be wearing a blue dress with red lipstick, her name is Samantha.” I handed her the money and turned to leave but she stopped me with a question.

“I realize I’ve never asked, but what do you do for a living?” I had a strong sense in my mind that I should not say what I considered saying, but it forced its way through my mind and out of my mouth.

“I write short stories for a living.”

“Really!?” She asked excitedly.

“No, but I thought one of us should be able to say that, because it will certainly never be you. You could cover your short stories with naked pictures of yourself and you still wouldn’t sell any of them. They’re just that terrible. People will always hate you, and if anybody says otherwise they’re just pretending because they like looking at your dumb, useless, pretty face.” With that I turned and walked off, not looking back to see if she was crying.

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Back at my apartment I told Marissa all of the details she needed to know, from meeting Johanna to meeting the agent in Lourdes. She took all of it well, she seemed determined and brave. I knew I did not need to tell her of the risks or what would happen if she was caught. I gazed into her brown eyes and remembered again how I wanted to know everything about her. Speaking slowly I asked “what’s your name? Your real name, not the one it says on your papers.”

“Leah.” She replied. “Leah Berkowitz.”

“That’s a very beautiful name. Even more beautiful than Marissa.” She gripped my hands tightly and looked back into my eyes. She told me:

“I would like to know your name too, but I know that they will torture me if I am caught.”

“It does not matter at this point, you already know too much about me. If you are caught we die together.” She looked away ashamed. I gently turned her face back towards me. “My name is Jean-Pierre Gastalt. I do not care at all about the danger you have brought to me. I have never met a woman like you before. I would die a thousand times to even try and save you. You are the one speck of beauty I have found in this world of misery and sorrow.”

This was not entirely true, though it ensured that at my insistence we were able to have sex again before she left for the station. I began drinking alone. I cared for her, but I did not want to die. I knew her odds were 50% at best. You never knew which trains the Germans would stop for random ID checks. And even if she made it to Lourdes, crossing the Pyrenees was no easy task. I considered going out and finding another prostitute, but I realized that I loved her so much that it would be at least several days before I was able to be with another woman. Before passing out I made a mental note to never again ask any question of a prostitute that didn’t involve the words “for how much?”

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When I awoke the next morning several men were pacing around my room, speaking German. I saw my radio transmitter had been ripped out of my floor boards and placed on my reading table, and two Germans were inspecting it. There were five of them in my room and I could hear others in the hall way. Resistance would have been a waste and I was rather hung over, so I simply smiled up at them and asked them if they were here to fix the radio. “You know I called you guys weeks ago, the sound quality is way off. Goebbels sounds like some whiny, high pitched maniac.”

They told me I was under arrest.

______________________________________________________________________________

I sat glumly on my rigid cot in my surprisingly well furnished cell. When I first arrived I had briefly looked over the book shelf and considered diving into the Bible, which I had always meant to read cover to cover before I died. But seeing as that time was going to be no more than four hours from now I felt that I would be doing a disservice to the narrative if I rushed it. Instead I just sat.

It must have been several hours before I heard my German jailor approach. I shouted out to him in French “Hey buddy, I want to file an appeal to Hitler! I’ve been framed. Do you have his phone number or something? He’ll know me, I used to date Leni Riefenstahl.”

He chuckled before replying in broken French “You have a woman here to see you. I’ll let her in if that’s alright.”

I smiled and told him in very polite English “I hope your mother is raped by Russians.” He smiled back at me and walked off. I heard the metallic clatter of a cell door and saw the unmistakable silhouette of Johanna approaching from down the hall.

Shortly after my arrest I had numerous fantasies of beating and raping her, but now that I was faced with the inevitability of my own death this anger had subsided into a quiet numbness. Seeing her did not affect me in any particular way. As she approached the cell I could see that she was grappling with numerous emotions but was determined to stay strong. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction.

“You might not care that I’m going to be dead.” I told her “But you’re responsible for killing Samantha too. She was younger than you. Didn’t she deserve a chance at life?”

She looked down for a moment, hurt. But when she looked back up I could see that this had not phased her. She seemed determined to block out anything hurtful I might say. “No, Samantha is fine, I think. We switched at the train station and she got on alright. I don’t know what happened to her after that. I never told them about her.”

She was silent for a bit and I knew she was struggling to find the right words. I could tell this was a very important moment in both our lives. Her’s because she was finally confronting her demons and moving on from her past, mine because I was about to be put against a wall and shot by a bunch of Nazis.

Finally she began. “I think I’ll miss you. But I also think I’ll be okay without you. Heydrich is much nicer to me, he doesn’t make me feel sad all the time. He’s also very supportive of my writing.” I was silent so she continued. “I think maybe I’ll try and get a collection of my stories published after the war. I brought another one for you to read if you want to look over it and tell me it’s terrible so you’ll feel better.”

Her delicate hands pushed the chewed pages through my cell bars. I took it from her while being careful to avoid eye contact. I looked over it and looked back up at her and for the first time I decided not to lie to her. I looked right into her eyes, smiled sadly and said “It’s the best story I’ve ever read.”